University of Virginia Library

3. III.

What was the appearance and character of the actual individual?
What manner of personages were “Mosby and his
men,” as they really lived, and moved, and had their being in
the forests and on the hills of Fauquier, in Virginia, in the years
1863 and 1864? If the reader will accompany me, I will conduct
him to this beautiful region swept by the mountain winds,
and will introduce him—remember, the date is 1864—to a plain
and unassuming personage clad in gray, with three stars upon
his coat-collar, and two pistols in his belt.

He is slender, gaunt, and active in figure; his feet are small,
and cased in cavalry boots, with brass spurs; and the revolvers
in his belt are worn with an air of “business” which is unmistakable.
The face of this person is tanned, beardless, youthful-looking,
and pleasant. He has white and regular teeth, which
his habitual smile reveals. His piercing eyes flash out from
beneath his brown hat, with its golden cord, and he reins in his
horse with the ease of a practised rider. A plain soldier, low
and slight of stature, ready to talk, to laugh, to ride, to oblige
you in any way—such was Mosby, in outward appearance.
Nature had given no sign but the restless, roving, flashing eye,
that there was much worth considering beneath. The eye did
not convey a false expression. The commonplace exterior of
the partisan concealed one of the most active, daring, and penetrating
minds of an epoch fruitful in such. Mosby was born to
be a partisan leader, and as such was probably greater than any
other who took part in the late war. He had by nature all the
qualities which make the accomplished ranger; nothing could

daunt him; his activity of mind and body—call it, if you choose,
restless, eternal love of movement—was something wonderful;
and that untiring energy which is the secret of half the great
successes of history, drove him incessantly to plan, to scheme, to
conceive, and to execute. He could not rest when there was
anything to do, and scouted for his amusement, charging pickets
solus by way of sport. On dark and rainy nights, when other
men aim at being comfortably housed, Mosby liked to be moving
with a detachment of his men to surprise and attack some
Federal camp, or to “run in” some picket, and occasion consternation,
if not inflict injury.

The peculiar feature of his command was that the men occupied
no stated camp, and, in fact, were never kept together
except on an expedition. They were scattered throughout the
country, especially among the small farm-houses in the spurs of
the Blue Ridge; and here they lived the merriest lives imaginable.
They were subjected to none of the hardships and privations
of regular soldiers. Their horses were in comfortable
stables, or ranged freely over excellent pastures; the men lived
with the families, slept in beds, and had nothing to do with
“rations” of hard bread and bacon. Milk, butter, and all the
household luxuries of peace were at their command; and not
until their chief summoned them did they buckle on their arms
and get to horse. While they were thus living on the fat of the
land, Mosby was perhaps scouting off on his private account,
somewhere down toward Manassas, Alexandria, or Leesburg.
If his excursions revealed an opening for successful operations,
he sent off a well mounted courier, who travelled rapidly to the
first nest of rangers; thence a fresh courier carried the summons
elsewhere; and in a few hours twenty, thirty, or fifty men,
excellently mounted, made their appearance at the prescribed
rendezvous. The man who disregarded or evaded the second
summons to a raid was summarily dealt with; he received a note
for delivery to General Stuart, and on reaching the cavalry headquarters
was directed to return to the company in the regular
service from which he had been transferred. This seldom happened,
however. The men were all anxious to go upon raids,

to share the rich spoils, and were prompt at the rendezvous.
Once assembled, the rangers fell into column, Mosby said
“Come on,” and the party set forward upon the appointed
task—to surprise some camp, capture an army train, or ambush
some detached party of Federal cavalry out on a foraging expedition.

Such a life is attractive to the imagination, and the men came
to have a passion for it. But it is a dangerous service. It may
with propriety be regarded as a trial of wits between the opposing
commanders. The great praise of Mosby was, that his
superior skill, activity, and good judgment gave him almost
uninterrupted success, and invariably saved him from capture.
An attack upon Colonel Cole, of the Maryland cavalry, near
Loudon Heights, in the winter of 1863-64, was his only serious
failure; and that appears to have resulted from a disobedience
of his orders. He had here some valuable officers and men
killed. He was several times wounded, but never taken. On
the last occasion, in 1864, he was shot through the window of a
house in Fauquier, but managed to stagger into a darkened
room, tear off his stars, the badges of his rank, and counterfeit
a person mortally wounded. His assailants left him dying, as
they supposed, without discovering his identity; and when they
did discover it and hurried back, he had been removed beyond
reach of peril. After his wounds he always reappeared paler
and thinner, but more active and untiring than ever. They
only seemed to exasperate him, and make him more dangerous
to trains, scouting parties, and detached camps than before.

The great secret of his success was undoubtedly his unbounded
energy and enterprise. General Stuart came finally to repose
unlimited confidence in his resources, and relied implicitly upon
him. The writer recalls an instance of this in June, 1863.
General Stuart was then near Middleburg, watching the United
States army—then about to move toward Pennsylvania—but
could get no accurate information from his scouts. Silent, puzzled,
and doubtful, the General walked up and down, knitting
his brows and reflecting, when the lithe figure of Mosby appeared,
and Stuart uttered an exclamation of relief and satisfaction.

They were speedily in private consultation, and Mosby
only came out again to mount his quick gray mare and set out,
in a heavy storm, for the Federal camps. On the next day he
returned with information which put the entire cavalry in motion.
He had penetrated General Hooker's camps, ascertained
everything, and safely returned. This had been done in his
gray uniform, with his pistols at his belt—and I believe it was
on this occasion that he gave a characteristic evidence of his
coolness. He had captured a Federal cavalry-man, and they
were riding on together, when suddenly they struck a column of
the enemy's cavalry passing. Mosby drew his oil-cloth around
him, cocked his pistol, and said to his companion, “If you make
any sign or utter a word to have me captured, I will blow your
brains out, and trust to the speed of my horse to escape. Keep
quiet, and we will ride on without troubling anybody.” His
prisoner took the hint, believing doubtless that it was better to
be a prisoner than a dead man; and after riding along carelessly
for some distance, as though he were one of the column, Mosby
gradually edged off, and got away safely with his prisoner.

But the subject beguiles us too far. The hundreds of adventures
in which Mosby bore his part must be left for that extended
record which will some day be made. My chief object in this
brief paper has been to anticipate the sanguinary historians of
the “Lieutenant Colonel—” order; to show that Colonel
Mosby was no black-browed ruffian, but a plain, unassuming
officer of partisans, who gained his widely-extended reputation
by that activity and energy which only men of military ability
possess. This information in regard to the man is intended, as
I have said, for Northern readers of fairness and candour; for
that class who would not willingly do injustice even to an adversary.
In Virginia, Mosby is perfectly well known, and it would
be unnecessary to argue here that the person who enjoyed the
respect and confidence of Lee, Stuart, and Jackson, was worthy
of it. Mosby was regarded by the people of Virginia in his
true light as a man of great courage, decision, and energy, who
embarked like others in a revolution whose principles and
objects he fully approved. In the hard struggle he fought

bravely, exposed his person without stint, and overcame his
opponents by superior military ability. To stigmatize him as a
ruffian because he was a partisan is to throw obloquy upon the
memory of Marion, Sumter, and Harry Lee, of the old Revolution.
As long as war lasts, surprise of an enemy will continue
to be a part of military tactics; the destruction of his trains,
munitions, stores, and communications, a legitimate object of
endeavour. This Mosby did with great success, and he had no
other object in view. The charge that he fought for plunder is
singularly unjust. The writer of this is able to state of his own
knowledge that Colonel Mosby rarely appropriated anything to
his own use, unless it were arms, a saddle, or a captured horse,
when his own was worn out; and to-day, the man who captured
millions in stores and money is poorer than when he
entered upon the struggle.

This paper, written without the knowledge of Colonel Mosby,
who is merely an acquaintance of the writer, and intended as a
simple delineation of the man, has, in some manner, assumed the
form of an apology for the partisan and his career. He needs
none, and can await without fear that verdict of history which
the late President of the United States justly declared “could
not be avoided.” In the pages which chronicle the great struggle
of 1862, 1863, and 1864, Colonel Mosby will appear in his
true character as the bold partisan, the daring leader of cavalry,
the untiring, never-resting adversary of the Federal forces invading
Virginia. The burly-ruffian view of him will not bear
inspection; and if there are any who cannot erase from their
minds this fanciful figure of a cold, coarse, heartless adventurer,
I would beg them to dwell for a moment upon a picture which
the Richmond correspondent of a Northern journal drew the
other day.

On a summer morning a solitary man was seen beside the
grave of Stuart, in Hollywood Cemetery, near Richmond. The
dew was on the grass, the birds sang overhead, the green hillock
at the man's feet was all that remained of the daring leader of
the Southern cavalry, who, after all his toils, his battles, and the
shocks of desperate encounters, had come here to rest in peace.

Beside this unmarked grave the solitary mourner remained long,
pondering and remembering. Finally he plucked a wild flower,
dropped it upon the grave, and with tears in his eyes, left the
place.

This lonely mourner at the grave of Stuart was Mosby.