University of Virginia Library

I.
THE SCOUTS.

On the borders of Scotland, in the good old times, there was a
“Debatable land”—bone of contention between Pict and
Anglo-Saxon. In Virginia, lately, there was a similar region,
the subject of dispute between Federal and Southron. In
Scotland, the men-at-arms and barons fought along the banks
of the Tweed; in Virginia, “Mosby's men” and their blue
opponents contended on the banks of the Rappahannock.
Our “Debatable land” was, in fact, all that fine and beautiful
country lying between the Potomac and the last-named
river, over which the opposing armies of the North and the
South alternately advanced and retired.

This land was the home of the scout; the chosen field of the
ranger and the partisan. Mosby was king there: and his liegemen
lived as jovial lives as did the followers of Robin Hood in
Sherwood Forest, in the old days of Merry England.

But the romantic lives of Mosby and his men will not be
touched on here. The subject would become enthralling were
it to be more than alluded to—the pen would drag the hand
into a sketch, and not a short one, of that splendid ranger-life
amid the Fauquier forests, the heart of “Mosby's Confederacy.”
Not to-day can I delineate the lithe, keen partisan, with his
roving glance, his thin curling lip, his loose swaying belt containing
the brace of pistols ready loaded and capped. Some
abler hand must draw the chief of rangers, and relate his exploits—the
design of the present writer is to record some adventures

of “scout life,” which differs in many points from that
of the regular partisan, though not wholly.

The scout proper is “commanding in the field,” with no one
near to give him orders. He goes and comes at will, having
that about him which all pickets obey. He is “on detached
service;” and having procured certain information, reports to
the officer who has sent him, without intermediate ceremony.
Operating within the enemy's lines at all times, he depends for
success and safety on the quickness of his eye and hand—and
his reliance on these is great. He is silent in his movements,
low-toned in his speech, abstemious in his habits, and as untiring
on the track of the enemy as the Cuban blood-hound on
the trail of the fugitive. He sleeps rarely in houses, preferring
the woods; and always slumbers “with one eye open,” on the
look out for his enemy.

The scout has a thorough knowledge of the country, and is
even acquainted with “every hog path.” He travels in the
woods; and often in crossing a sandy highway dismounts, and
backs his horse across the road, to mislead the enemy, on the
watch for “guerillas,” as to the direction of his march. He
thus “flanks” their pickets, penetrates to their camps, reconnoitres
their number and position, and strives to pick up some
straggler whom he can pump for information. Thus lurking
and prowling around the enemy's camps, by night and day,
the scout never relaxes his exertions until he discovers what
he wishes. That discovery once made—of the strength, situation,
and probable designs of the enemy—the stealthy emissary
“snakes” back as he came; mounts his trusty steed in
the depth of the wood; and first listening attentively, sets out
on his return with his supply of valuable information.

If he cannot “flank” the enemy's pickets, he charges them.
If he cannot glide through, he fights through. If he meets a
straggling enemy or enemies not in too great number, he puts
his pistol to his or their heads, and brings him or them along—
pleasantly chatting with them as he goes along, but keeping
his eye and his pistol muzzle upon them.

When he relates his adventures, he does so with a laugh—

noting the humorous side of things. Indeed his life seems
chiefly attractive to him from that very humorous phase, and
he jests about his perils with a gay light spirit which is one of
the greatest charms of his society. He has extricated himself
from deadly peril safely, “fooled” his foe, and is chatting after
the occurrence with his friends by the camp fire. Could anything
be more satisfactory? So the scout plays over the comedy
for your entertainment; relates every incident in a spirit
of dry humour; rolls up in his blanket by the fire when he is
tired; and, before daylight, has disappeared on another expedition.

Thus toiling, watching, and fighting, enduring hardship, risking
liberty and life hourly, the scout passes his life. He is not
a paid spy—not a spy at all, for he goes uniformed and armed,
and the work is his reward. The trump of fame will never
sound for him. If he falls, it will be in the depths of some
forest, where his bones will moulder away undiscovered; if he
survives, he will return to obscurity as a rain-drop sinks into
the ocean and is seen no more.

That will be his fate; but while he is alive, he lives. He
loves his vocation, and gives to the cause what he possesses—a
piercing eye, a ready hand, and a daring soul. For his services,
often invaluable, and his risk of life night and day, he receives—when
he can get it—eleven dollars a month; and with
this, or with nothing, he is perfectly content. What he asks is
simply the liberty to rove; to hunt the enemy after the fashion
most agreeable to him; to have himself killed, if the killing
must take place, in single combat, with the pistol, rather than
in line of battle with the musket.

It results from this that the life of the scout is apt to be
crowded with adventure, contrast, and all that is picturesque.
Here to-day, away to-morrow; closeted with the commanding
general, while an orderly keeps off all intruders, and then disappearing
like a shadow on some secret mission; passing the
most obdurate pickets with a single word; silently appearing
in the houses of friends far behind the enemy's lines; reconnoitring
their camps, picking up stragglers, attacking them alone

or in company with others, upon all occasions—such are some
of the phases which the scout exhibits, such some of the occupations
of his stirring existence.

A few of these adventurous incidents are here recorded just
as I heard them from an accomplished scout of General Stuart.
They will be found sufficiently “romantic,” but I believe them
to be exactly true.

As such, they possess a value which no mere fiction could.