University of Virginia Library

A FIGHT, A DEAD MAN, AND A COFFIN.

AN INCIDENT OF 1864.

The incident about to be narrated occurred in November, 1864,
when Early with his 8,000 or 9,000 men had been compelled to
retire up the Valley before Sheridan, with his 30,000 or 40,000;
and when, in the excess of their satisfaction at this triumph of
the Federal arms, the Federal authorities conceived the design
of ferreting out and crushing in the same manner the band of
the celebrated bandit Mosby—which result once achieved by the
commander of the “Middle Department,” the whole of Northern
Virginia would be reduced under the sway of the Stars and Stripes.

To ferret out Colonel Mosby was a difficult task, however;
and to crush him had, up to this time, proved an undertaking
beyond the ability of the best partisans of the Federal army.
Not that they had not made numerous and determined attempts
to accomplish this cherished object. In fact, no pains had been
spared. Mosby had proved himself so dangerous a foe to wagon
trains, lines of communication, and foraging parties, that the
generals whose trains were destroyed, whose communications
were interrupted, and whose detached parties were captured, had
on many occasions sworn huge oaths to arrest his “depredations;”
and more than once the most skilful partisan officers, in
command of considerable bodies of picked men, had been sent
into the wilds of the Blue Ridge, or to “Mosby's Confederacy”—
that is to say, the county of Fauquier—to waylay and destroy
or capture this wily foe who had so long eluded them.

All had failed. Mosby refused to be captured or destroyed.
If a large force came against him, he retreated to his mountain

fastnesses—not a trace of his existence could be found. If the
force was small, he attacked and nearly always cut to pieces or
captured it. With his headquarters near Piedmont Station, on
the Manassas railroad, east of the Ridge, he knew by his scouts
of any movement; then couriers were seen going at full gallop
to summon the men, scattered among the mountain spurs, or
waiting at remote houses in the woods, to the previously specified
rendezvous—at Markham's, Upperville, Paris, Oak Grove,
or elsewhere; then Mosby set out; and he nearly always came
back with spoils—that is to say, arms, horses, and prisoners.

In November, 1864, this state of things had become intolerable.
Early had been forced to retire—that wolf with the sharp
claws; but Mosby, the veritable wildcat, still lingered in the
country as dangerous as ever. Immense indignation was experienced
by the enemy at this persistent defiance; and an additional
circumstance at this time came to add fuel to the flame
of the Federal displeasure. Hitherto, the Confederate partisan
had operated generally east of the Blue Ridge, between the
mountains and Manassas, guarding that whole country. With
the transfer of active hostilities, however, to the Valley, in the
summer and fall of 1864, he had turned his attention more especially
to that region. There were to be found the trains of
Hunter and Sheridan, the wandering parties of “Jesse Scouts,”
clad in gray, whom he delighted to encounter: in the Valley not
east of the Ridge was his most favourable field of operations—
and, above all, it was there that his services were chiefly needed
to protect the inhabitants from the depredations of these
detached parties which spread such terror amid the population.

To the Valley Mosby accordingly directed his attention, and
this region thenceforth became his main field of operations.
Scarce a day passed without an attack upon some wandering
party, upon some string of wagons, or upon the railroad by
which the Federal army was supplied. These stirring adventures
are the subject of a volume which will soon appear from
the accomplished Major Scott, of Fauquier. The object of
this chapter is to record the particulars of one of the fights

referred to, in which a small band of Confederates under Captain
Mountjoy, that accomplished partisan of Mosby's command,
suffered a reverse.

Were it within the scope of the present article to draw an
outline of the person and character of this brave gentleman—
Captain. Mountjoy—many readers, we are sure, would derive
pleasure from the perusal of our sketch. Never was a braver
heart than his—never a more refined and admirable breeding.
Gallant-looking, cool, courteous, with his calm sad face over-shadowed
by the drooping hat with its golden cord; wearing
sword and pistol like a trained cavalryman; not cast down by
reverses, not elated by success—a splendid type of the great
Mississippi race from which he sprung, and a gentleman “every
inch of him.” Mountjoy's was a face, a figure, and a bearing
which attracted the eyes of all who admire in men the evidences
of culture, resolution, and honour. But this is not the place to
record the virtues of that brave true heart, gone now with many
others to a land where war never comes. We proceed to record
the incident which we have referred to.

It occurred, as we have said, in November, 1864, and the
scene was a mansion perched upon a hill, with a background of
woods, between the little village of Millwood and the Shenandoah.
This house was well known to Mosby, well known to
Mountjoy, well known to many hundreds of Confederate soldiers,
who—God be thanked!—never left its door without food, without
receiving all that it was in the power of the family to give
them, and that without money and without price.

A day or two before the incident about to be related, Mountjoy
had gone with a considerable party of men, towards Charlestown;
had made an attack; secured numerous horses and prisoners;
and on this afternoon was returning towards Millwood—
only by the river road—to cross the Shenandoah at Berry's
ferry, and secure his captures. Mountjoy had but one fault as
an officer—rashness. On this occasion he was rash. As he
returned from his scout, and arrived opposite the different fords,
he permitted, first one, then another, then whole squads of his
men to cross to their homes east of the Ridge, so that on reaching

a point nearly opposite Millwood, he had with him only
fifteen men guarding the numerous horses and prisoners.

Then came the hostile fate—close on his heels. The attack
made by him upon the enemy down the river had greatly
enraged them. They had hastily mustered a considerable force
to pursue him and recapture the prisoners, and as he reached
Morgan's Lane, near the Tilthammer Mill, this party, about one
hundred in number, made a sudden and unexpected attack upon
him.

The force was too great to meet front to front, and the ground
so unfavourable for receiving their assault, that Mountjoy gave
the order for his men to save themselves, and they abandoned
the prisoners and horses, put spurs to their animals, and retreated
at fall gallop past the mill, across a little stream, and up the long
hill upon which was situated the mansion above referred to.
Behind them the one hundred Federal cavalrymen came on at
full gallop, calling upon them to halt, and firing volleys into
them as they retreated.

We beg now to introduce upon the scene the female dramatis
personœ of the incident—two young ladies who had hastened out
to the fence as soon as the firing began, and now witnessed the
whole. As they reached the fence, the fifteen men of Captain
Mountjoy appeared, mounting the steep road like lightning,
closely pursued by the Federal cavalry, whose dense masses
completely filled the narrow road. The scene at the moment
was sufficient to try the nerves of the young ladies. The clash
of hoofs, the crack of carbines, the loud cries of “halt! halt!!
halt!!!”—this tramping, shouting, banging, to say nothing of
the quick hiss of bullets filling the air, rendered the “place and
time” more stirring than agreeable to one consulting the dictates
of a prudent regard to his or her safety.

Nevertheless, the young ladies did not stir. They had half
mounted the board fence, and in this elevated position were
exposed to a close and dangerous fire; more than one bullet
burying itself in the wood close to their persons. But they did
not move—and this for a reason more creditable than mere
curiosity to witness the engagement, which may, however, have

counted for something. This attracted them, but they were
engaged in “doing good” too! It was of the last importance
that the men should know where they could cross the river.

“Where is the nearest ford?” they shouted.

“In the woods there!” was the reply of one of the young
ladies, pointing with her hand, and not moving.

“How can we reach it?”

“Through that gate.”

And waving her hand, the speaker directed the rest, amid a
storm of bullets burying themselves in the fence close beside
her.

The men went at full gallop towards the ford. Last of all
came Mountjoy—but Mountjoy, furious, foaming almost at the
mouth, on fire with indignation, and uttering oaths so frightful
that they terrified the young ladies much more than the balls, or
the Federal cavalry darting up the hill.

Let us here, in parenthesis, as it were, offer a proof of that
high-breeding we have claimed for Captain Mountjoy. A young
lady expressed afterwards her regret that so brave a gentleman
should have uttered an oath, and this came to his ears. He at
once called to see her and said gravely, in his calm, sad voice.
“I am sorry that I swore. I will try not to do so again, but I
was very angry that day, as the men might have whipped the
enemy in spite of their numbers, if I could only have gotten
them to make a stand, and this was before you.”

But that was when his blood was cool. At the moment when
he brought up the rear of the men, Mountjoy was raging.
Nevertheless he stopped in the very face of the enemy, besought
the young ladies to leave the fence where they were exposing
themselves to imminent danger, and then, still furious, he disappeared,
most of all enraged, as he afterwards explained, that this
stampede of his men and himself should have taken place in the
presence of the young ladies.

The partisan had scarcely disappeared in the woods, when the
enemy rushed up, and demanded which way the Confederates
had taken.

“I will not tell you!” was the reply of the youngest girl.

The trooper drew a pistol, and cocking it, levelled it at her
head.

“Which way?” he thundered.

The young lady shrunk from the muzzle, and said:

“How do I know?”

“Move on!” resounded from the lips of the officer in command,
and the column rushed by, nearly trampling upon the
ladies, who ran to the house.

Here a new incident greeted them, and one sufficiently tragic.
Before the door, sitting his horse, was a trooper, clad in blue
—and at sight of him the ladies shrunk back. A second glance
showed them that he was bleeding to death from a mortal
wound. The bullet had entered his side, traversed the body,
issued from the opposite side, inflicting a wound which rendered
death almost certain.

“Take me from my horse!” murmured the wounded man,
stretching out his arms and tottering.

The young girls ran to him.

“Who are you—one of the Yankees?” they exclaimed.

“Oh, no!” was the faint reply. “I am one of Mountjoy's
men. Tell him, when you see him, that I said, `Captain, this
is the first time I have gone out with you, and the last!' ”

As they assisted him from the saddle, he murmured:

“My name is William Armistead Braxton. I have a wife
and three little children living in Hanover—you must let them
know—”

Then the poor fellow fainted; and the young ladies were
compelled to carry him in their arms into the house, where he
was laid upon a couch, writhing in great agony.

They had then time to look at him, and saw before them a
young man of gallant countenance, elegant figure—in every outline
of his person betraying the gentleman born and bred. They
afterwards discovered that he had just joined Mosby, and that,
as he had stated, this was his first scout. Poor fellow! it was
also his last.

The scene which followed has more than once been described
to the present writer, and it made a dolorous impression on his

heart. The wounded man lay upon the couch, struggling against
death, writhing with his great agony, and bleeding so profusely
that the couch was saturated with his blood. Even in that
moment, however, the instincts of gentle breeding betrayed
themselves in the murmured words:

“My spurs will—tear the cover—lay me—on the floor.”

This, of course, was not complied with, and the young ladies
busied themselves attempting to bind up his wound.

While one was thus engaged, another hastened to unbuckle
his belt, in order to secure his pistol. This was necessary, as
the Federal cavalry was already trampling in front of the house,
and shouting to the inmates.

Unable to undo the belt, the young lady quickly drew the
pistol from its holster, secreted it in a closet, and turning round,
saw that in this moment the dying man had rolled from the
couch upon the floor, where he was exclaiming: “Lord Jesus,
have pity upon me!”

She hastened back to him, and at the same instant the house
was literally crowded suddenly with Federal soldiers, who burst
open the doors, tore the ornaments from the mantelpiece, broke
everything which they could lay their hands upon, and exhibited
violent rage at the escape of the Confederates.

Those men were in gray. We neglected to state that fact.
Mountjoy's men were in blue. Thus the opponents had swapped
uniforms—the blue being gray, and the gray blue. This fact
caused the capture of the wounded man's pistol. The young
lady who had secreted it was kneeling by him, holding his hand
—or rather he had caught her own, as wounded men will, and
tightly held it—when a tall and very brutal-looking-trooper,
bending over the prostrate figure, saw the empty holster.

“Where is his pistol?” he thundered in a ferocious tone.

“What pistol?” said the young lady, firmly, and returning
the brutal gaze without flinching.

“His pistol!—you have hidden it! Where is it? — give it
up.”

And he pushed the wounded man with his foot, nearly turning
him over.

“You'll not get it from me!” exclaimed the young lady, looking
boldly at him, every drop of her woman's blood aroused
inflamed, and defiant at this cruel act.

“Give me the pistol!—or—”

And he drew his own, pointing it at her.

“I've not got it!”

Here the voice of a diminutive negro girl, who had seen the
weapon secreted, and who took the Federal trooper in his gray
coat for a Confederate, was heard exclaiming—

“La! Miss—, 'tis in the closet, where you put it!”

And in an instant the man had rushed thither and secured it.

The house was now filled with men, rushing from top to bottom
of it, and breaking to pieces every object upon which they
could lay their hands. In the house at the time was Captain
—, a wounded officer of artillery, and Lieutenant—, a staff
officer, who had been surprised, and was now secreted in a
closet. Captain—'s room was visited, but he was not molested;
Lieutenant—was so skilfully concealed in his closet,
against which a bed was thrust, that he was not discovered.

Smashed crockery, shattered parlour ornaments, followed
spoons, knives, forks, shawls, blankets, books, daguerreotypes—
these and many other movables speedily appeared in dwindling
perspective; then they vanished.

Thus theft, insult, and outrage had their veritable carnival—
but the young ladies did not heed it. They were absorbed by
the painful spectacle of the wounded gentleman, who, stretched
upon the floor of the dining-room below, seemed about to draw
his last breath. He still held the hand of the young lady who
had removed his pistol; to this he clung with an unrelaxing
clutch; and the sight of her tearful face, as she knelt beside him,
seemed to afford him the only satisfaction of which he was capable.

“Pray for me!” he murmured, clinging to her hand and
groaning; “pray for me, but pray to yourself!”

“Oh, yes!” was the reply, and the wounded man sank back,
moaning, amid the crowd of jeering troopers trampling around
his “fallen head!”

To these an honourable exception speedily revealed himself.

This was a young Federal officer, who came to the side of the
wounded man, gazed first at him, then at the young lady, and
then knelt down beside them.

The glazing eyes of the wounded man looked out from his
haggard face.

“Who are you?” he muttered.

“I am Lieutenant Cole,” was the reply, in a sad and pitying
voice; “I am sorry to see you so dangerously wounded.”

“Yes—I am—dying.”

“If you have any affairs to arrange, my poor friend, you had
better do so,” said Lieutenant Cole; “and I will try and attend
to them for you.”

“No—the ladies here—will—”

There he paused with a hoarse groan.

“You are about to die,” said the Lieutenant; “there is no
hope. I am a Christian, and I will pray for you.”

As he spoke he closed his eyes, and remaining on his knees,
silent and motionless, was evidently offering up a prayer for the
dying man, who continued to writhe and toss, in his great
agony.

There are men whom we regret, but are proud to have for
our enemies; this man was one of them.

When he rose his expression was grave; he threw a last glance
at the sufferer, and then disappeared. His fate was sad, and
seemed an injustice to so brave a gentleman. On the very next
day he was captured by a party of Confederates, and while
being conducted across the Blue Ridge thought that he discovered
an opportunity to escape. Drawing his pistol, which by some
negligence had been left upon his person, he fired upon his
guard. The bullet missed its aim—and the guard firing in turn,
blew out Lieutenant Cole's brains.[1]

At nightfall the Federal troopers had torn the house to pieces,
taken all which they could not destroy, and had vanished.
Mountjoy had succeeded in getting off with his men. At six
o'clock on the next morning poor Braxton breathed his last, still
holding the hand of the young lady, which seemed to be all by
which he had clung to life.

Then a strange and unexpected difficulty arose. It is safe to
say that the young ladies of New York or Philadelphia, at that
moment buried in slumbers in their happy homes, surrounded
by every comfort—it is safe to say that they would have found
it difficult then—will find it difficult now—to conceive even the
great dilemma which their young rebel “sisters” were called upon
to face. The death of a friend would have been sad to the
young New Yorker or Philadelphian, but at least they would have
seen his body deposited in a rosewood coffin; the head would
have rested on its satin cushion; lace handkerchiefs raised to
streaming eyes, in the long procession of brilliant equipages, would
have been soothing to his friends, as indicating the general grief.

Here, in that good or bad year 1864, on the border, things
were different. There were no equipages—no lace handkerchiefs—no
satin, and rosewood, and silver—not even a coffin.
In the midst of their grief for the loss of that brave soldier of
one of the old Virginia families, their connexions, the young
Confederate girls were met by this sudden obstacle—by this
gross, material question, this brutal difficulty—where shall a
coffin for the dead be procured? There lay the dead body
pale, cold, terrible—how bury it as Christians bury their dead?

They did not cry or complain, but courageously set to work.
Beside themselves, there were in the house two young cousins
now, who had hastened to the place, Phil—and George—,
at that time mere boys. These went to the mill, past which
Mountjoy had retreated, and painfully raising upon their shoulders
some broad and heavy planks lying there, bore them up the
hill to the house. Then, accompanied by the youngest of the
girls, they went to an old saw-mill near the river, gathered
together a number of rails from old timber there, returned, and
began their lugubrious work.

The details of their employment were as sombre as the employment
itself. The dead body was first to be measured; and this
was courageously undertaken by the youngest girl, who, placing
one end of a cord upon the dead man's forehead, measured to
his feet. The length was thus determined, and the boys set to
work, assisted by the girl, sawing, hammering, and nailing
together the rude box which was to contain all that remained of
the poor youth.

The work absorbed them throughout the short November day,
and only at nightfall was it finished. Then the fear seized upon
them that they had made the coffin too long; that the corpse
would not lie securely in it, and move when carried. A singular
means of testing the length of the coffin was suddenly hit upon.
The eldest of the young ladies, who had been watching the corpse
during the work, now approached, and without shrinking, lay
at full length in the coffin, which was then found to be amply
large. Then the body was deposited in it—the pious toil had
been accomplished.

Was not that painfully in contrast with the decent city
`arrangements,” which take from the mourner all the gross
details—permitting his grief to hover serenely in the region of
sentiment? This rude pine coffin differed from the rosewood;
the funeral cortège which ere long appeared, differed, too, from
the long line of shining carriages.

It consisted of three hundred horsemen, silent, muffled, and
armed to the teeth, for the enemy were close by in heavy force.
They appeared, without notice, about three hours past midnight,
and at the head of them, we believe, was Mountjoy.

The body, still in its rude coffin, was lifted into a vehicle;
some hasty words were exchanged with the young ladies, for a
large force of the enemy was near Millwood within sight, a
mile or two across the fields; then the shadowy procession of
horsemen moved; their measured hoof-strokes resounded, gradually
dying away; the corpse was borne through the river.
ascended the mountain—and at sunrise the dead man was sleeping
in the soil of Fauquier.