University of Virginia Library

STUARTS
“RIDE AROUND M'CLELLAN” IN JUNE, 1862.

1. I.

Who that went with Stuart on his famous “Ride around
McClellan” in the summer of 1862, just before the bloody
battles of the Chickahominy, will ever forget the fun, the frolic,
the romance—and the peril too—of that fine journey? Thinking
of the gay ride now, when a century seems to have swept
between that epoch and the present, I recall every particular,
live over every emotion. Once more I hear the ringing laugh of
Stuart, and see the keen flash of the blue eyes under the black
feather of the prince of cavaliers!

If the reader will follow me he shall see what took place on
this rapid ride, witness some incidents of this first and king of
raids. The record will be that of an eye-witness, and the personal
prominence of the writer must be excused as inseparable
from the narrative. I need not dwell upon the “situation” in
June, 1862. All the world knows that, at that time, McClellan
had advanced with his magnificent army of 156,000 men, to the
banks of the Chickahominy, and pushing across, had fought on
the last day of May the bloody but indecisive battle of the Seven
Pines. On the right it was a Confederate, on the left a Federal
success; and General McClellan drew back, marshalled his great
lines, darkening both the northern and southern banks of the
Chickahominy, and prepared for a more decisive blow at the
Confederate capital, whose spires were in sight. Before him,

however, lay the Southern army, commanded now by Lee, who
had succeeded Johnston, wounded in the fight of “Seven Pines.”
The moment was favourable for a heavy attack by Lee. Jackson
had just driven before him the combined forces of Shields
and Fremont, and on the bloody field of Port Republic ended
the great campaign of the Valley at one blow. The veterans of
his command could now be concentrated on the banks of the
Chickahominy against McClellan; a combined advance of the
forces under Lee and Jackson might save the capital. But how
should the attack be made? In council of war, General Stuart
told me he proposed an assault upon General McClellan's left
wing from the direction of James River, to cut him off from that
base. But this suggestion was not adopted; the defences were
regarded as too strong. It was considered a better plan to attack
the Federal army on the north bank of the Chickahominy, drive
it from its works, and try the issue in the fields around Cold
Harbour. The great point was to ascertain if this was practicable,
and especially to find what defences, if any, the enemy had
to guard the approach to their right wing. If these were slight,
the attack could be made with fair prospects of success. Jackson
could sweep around while Lee assailed the lines near Mechanicsville;
then one combined assault would probably defeat the
Federal force. To find the character of the enemy's works
beyond the stream—his positions and movements—General
Stuart was directed to take a portion of his cavalry, advance as
far as Old Church, if practicable, and then be guided by circumstances.
Such were the orders with which Stuart set out about
moonrise on the night, I think, of June 12, upon this dangerous
expedition.

As the young cavalier mounted his horse on that moonlight
night he was a gallant figure to look at. The gray coat buttoned
to the chin; the light French sabre balanced by the pistol in its
black holster; the cavalry boots above the knee, and the brown
hat with its black plume floating above the bearded features,
the brilliant eyes, and the huge moustache, which curled with
laughter at the slightest provocation—these made Stuart the perfect
picture of a gay cavalier, and the spirited horse he rode

seemed to feel that he carried one whose motto was to “do or
die.” I chanced to be his sole companion as he galloped over
the broad field near his headquarters, and the glance of the blue
eyes of Stuart at that moment was as brilliant as the lightning
itself.

Catching up with his column of about 1500 horsemen, and
two pieces of horse-artillery under Colonels William H. F. Lee,
Fitz Lee, and Will. T. Martin, of Mississippi—cavalier as brave
as ever drew sabre—Stuart pushed on northward as if going to
join Jackson, and reaching the vicinity of Taylorsville, near
Hanover Junction, went that night into bivonac. He embraced
the opportunity, after midnight, of riding with Colonel W. H.
F. Lee to “Hickory Hill,” the residence of Colonel Williams
Wickham—afterward General Wickham—who had been recently
wounded and paroled. Here he went to sleep in his
chair after talking with Colonel Wickham, narrowly escaped
capture from the enemy near, and returning before daylight,
advanced with his column straight upon Hanover Court-House.
Have you ever visited this picturesque spot, reader? We looked
upon it on that day of June—upon its old brick court-house,
where Patrick Henry made his famous speech against the persons,
its ancient tavern, its modest roofs, the whole surrounded
by the fertile fields waving with golden grain—all this we looked
at with unusual interest. For in this little bird's nest, lost as it
were in a sea of rippling wheat and waving foliage, some “Yankee
cavalry” had taken up their abode; their horses stood
ready saddled in the street, and this dark mass we now gazed at
furtively from behind a wooden knoll, in rear of which Stuart's
column was drawn up ready to move at the word. Before he
gave the signal, the General dispatched Colonel Fitz Lee round
to the right, to flank and cut off the party. But all at once the
scouts in front were descried by the enemy; shots resounded;
and seeing that his presence was discovered, Stuart gave the
word, and swept at a thundering gallop down the hill. The
startled “blue birds,” as we used to call our Northern friends,
did not wait; the squadron on picket at the court-house, numbering
some one hundred and fifty men, hastily got to horse—

[ILLUSTRATION]

“STUART'S RIDE AROUND McCLELLAN.—Page 177
The gay chase continued until we reached the Tottapotamoi.”

[Description: 521EAF. Illustration page, which depicts a group of soldiers on horseback stopping in front of a river that is lit up by the full moon.]

then presto! they disappear in a dense cloud of dust from which
echo some parting salutes from their carbines. Stuart pressed
on rapidly, took the road to Old Church, and near a place called
Hawes' Shop, in a thickly wooded spot, was suddenly charged
himself. It did not amount to much, and seemed rather an
attempt at reconnoissance. A Federal officer at the head of a
detachment came on at full gallop, very nearly ran into the head
of our column, and then seeing the dense mass of gray coats,
fired his pistol, wheeled short about, and went back at full speed,
with his detachment.

Stuart had given, in his ringing voice, the order: “Form
fours! draw sabre! charge!” and now the Confederate people
pursued at headlong speed, uttering shouts and yells sufficiently
loud to awaken the seven sleepers! The men were evidently
exhilarated by the chase, the enemy just keeping near enough
to make an occasional shot practicable. A considerable number
of the Federal cavalrymen were overtaken and captured, and
these proved to belong to the company in which Colonel Fitz
Lee had formerly been a lieutenant. I could not refrain from
laughter at the pleasure which “Colonel Fitz”—whose motto
should be “toujours gai”—seemed to take in inquiring after his
old cronies. “Was Brown alive? where was Jones? and was
Robinson sergeant still?” Colonel Fitz never stopped until he
found out everything. The prisoners laughed as they recognised
him. Altogether, reader, the interview was the most
friendly imaginable.

The gay chase continued until we reached the Tottapotamoi, a
sluggish stream, dragging its muddy waters slowly between
rush-clad banks, beneath drooping trees; and this was crossed
by a small rustic bridge. The line of the stream was entirely
undefended by works; the enemy's right wing was unprotected;
Stuart had accomplished the object of his expedition, and afterward
piloted Jackson over this very same road. But to continue
the narrative of his movements. The picket at the bridge
had been quickly driven in, and disappeared at a gallop, and on
the high ground beyond, Colonel W. H. F. Lee, who had taken
the front, encountered the enemy. The force appeared to be

about a regiment, and they were drawn up in line of battle in
the fields to receive our attack. It came without delay. Placing
himself at the head of his horsemen, Colonel Lee swept forward
at the pas de charge, and with shouts the two lines came
together. The shock was heavy, and the enemy—a portion of
the old United States Regulars, commanded by Captain Royal—
stood their ground bravely, meeting the attack with the sabre.
Swords clashed, pistols and carbines banged, yells, shouts, cheers
resounded; then the Federal line was seen to give back, and
take to headlong flight. They were pursued with ardour, and
the men were wild with this—to many of them—their first fight.
But soon after all joy disappeared from their faces, at sight of a
spectacle which greeted them. Captain Latanè, of the Essex
cavalry, had been mortally wounded in the charge, and as the
men of his company saw him lying bloody before them, many a
bearded face was wet with tears. The scene at his grave afterward
became the subject of Mr. Washington's picture, “The
Burial of Latanè;” and in his general order after the expedition,
Stuart called upon his command to take for their watchword in
the future “Avenge Latanè!” Captain Royal, the Federal commandant,
had also been badly wounded, and many of his force
killed. I remember passing a Dutch cavalryman who was
writhing with a bullet through the breast, and biting and tearing
up the ground. He called for water, and I directed a servant
at a house near by to bring him some. The last I saw of him,
a destitute cavalryman was taking off his spurs as he was dying.
War is a hard trade.

Fitz Lee immediately pressed on and burst into the camp
near Old Church, where large supplies of boots, pistols, liquors,
and other commodities were found. These were speedily appropriated
by the men, and the tents were set on fire amid loud
shouts. The spectacle was animating; but a report having
got abroad that one of the tents contained powder, the vicinity
thereof was evacuated in almost less than no time. We were
now at Old Church, where Stuart was to be guided in his further
movements by circumstances. I looked at him; he was evidently
reflecting. In a moment he turned round to me and said:

“Tell Fitz Lee to come along, I'm going to move on with my
column.” These words terminated my doubt, and I understood
in an instant that the General had decided on the bold and
hazardous plan of passing entirely round McClellan's army.

“I think the quicker we move now the better,” I said, with a
laugh.

“Right,” was Stuart's reply; “tell the column to move on at
a trot.”

So at a rapid trot the column moved.

2. II.

The gayest portion of the raid now began. From this
moment it was neck or nothing, do or die. We had one chance
of escape against ten of capture or destruction.

Stuart had decided upon his course with that rapidity, good
judgment, and decision, which were the real secrets of his splendid
efficiency as a leader of cavalry, in which capacity I believe
that he has never been surpassed, either in the late war or any
other. He was now in the very heart of the enemy's citadel,
with their enormous masses upon every side. He had driven in
their advanced force, passed within sight of the white tents of
General McClellan's headquarters, burned their camps, and ascertained
all that he wished. How was he to return? He could
not cross the Pamunkey, and make a circuit back; he had no
pontoons. He could not return over the route by which he had
advanced. As events afterward showed, the alarm had been
given, and an overpowering force of infantry, cavalry, and artillery
had been rapidly moved in that direction to intercept the
daring raider. Capture stared him in the face, on both of these
routes—across the Pamunkey, or back as he came; he must
find some other loophole of escape.

Such was the dangerous posture of affairs, and such was the
important problem which Stuart decided in five minutes. He
determined to make the complete circuit of McClellan's army;
and crossing the Chickahominy below Long Bridge, re-enter
the Confederate lines from Charles City. If on his way he

encountered cavalry he intended to fight it; if a heavy force of
infantry barred his way he would elude, or cut a path through it;
if driven to the wall and debarred from escape he did not mean
to surrender. A few days afterward I said to him:

“That was a tight place at the river, General. If the enemy
had come down on us, you would have been compelled to have
surrendered.”

“No,” was his reply; “one other course was left.”

“What was that?”

“To die game.”

And I know that such was his intention. When a commander
means to die game rather than surrender he is a dangerous
adversary.

From Old Church onward it was terra incognita. What force
of the enemy barred the road was a question of the utmost
interest, but adventure of some description might be safely
counted on. In about twenty-four hours I, for one, expected
either to be laughing with my friends within the Southern lines,
or dead, or captured. Which of these three results would follow,
seemed largely to depend upon the “chapter of accidents.” At
a steady trot now, with drawn sabres and carbines ready, the
cavalry, followed by the horse-artillery, which was not used during
the whole expedition, approached Tunstall's Station on the
York River railroad, the enemy's direct line of communication
with his base of supplies at the “White House.”

Everywhere the ride was crowded with incident. The scouting
and flanking parties constantly picked up stragglers, and
overhauled unsuspecting wagons filled with the most tempting
stores. In this manner a wagon, stocked with champagne
and every variety of wines, belonging to a General of the
Federal army, fell a prey to the thirsty gray-backs. Still they
pressed on. Every moment an attack was expected in front or
rear. Colonel Will. T. Martin commanded the latter. “Tell
Colonel Martin,” Stuart said to me, “to have his artillery ready,
and look out for an attack at any moment.” I had delivered
the message and was riding to the front again, when suddenly a
loud cry arose of “Yankees in the rear!” Every sabre flashed,

fours were formed, the men wheeled about, when all at once a
stunning roar of laughter ran along the line; it was a canard.
The column moved up again with its flanking parties well out.
The men composing the latter were, many of them, from the
region, and for the first time for months saw their mothers and
sisters. These went quite wild at sight of their sons and
brothers. They laughed and cried, and on the appearance of
the long gray column instead of the familiar blue coats of the
Federal cavalry, they clapped their hands and fell into ecstasies
of delight. One young lady was seen to throw her arms around
a brother she had not before met for a long time, bursting into
alternate sobs and laughter.

The column was now skirting the Pamunkey, and a detachment
hurried off to seize and burn two or three transports lying
in the river. Soon a dense cloud rose from them, the flames
soared up, and the column pushed on. Everywhere were seen
the traces of flight—for the alarm of “hornets in the hive” was
given. Wagons had turned over, and were abandoned—from
others the excellent army stores had been hastily thrown. This
writer got a fine red blanket, and an excellent pair of cavalry
pantaloons, for which he still owes the United States. Other
things lay about in tempting array, but we were approaching
Tunstall's, where the column would doubtless make a charge;
and to load down a weary horse was injudicious. The advance
guard was now in sight of the railroad. There was no question
about the affair before us. The column must cut through,
whatever force guarded the railroad; to reach the lower Chickahominy
the guard here must be overpowered. Now was the
time to use the artillery, and every effort was made to hurry it
forward. But alas! it had got into a tremendous mudhole,
and the wheels were buried to the axle. The horses were
lashed, and jumped, almost breaking the traces; the drivers
swore; the harness cracked—but the guns did not move.
“Gat! Lieutenant,” said a sergeant of Dutch origin to the brave
Lieutenant McGregor, “it can't be done. But just put that keg
on the gun, Lieutenant,” pointing, as he spoke, to a keg of whiskey
in an ambulance, the spoil of the Federal camp, “and tell the

men they can have it if they only pull through!” McGregor
laughed, and the keg was quickly perched on the gun. Then
took place an exhibition of herculean muscularity which would
have delighted Guy Livingston. With eyes fixed ardently upon
the keg, the powerful cannoneers waded into the mudhole up to
their knees, seized the wheels of gun and caisson loaded down
with ammunition, and just simply lifted the whole out, and put
them on firm ground. The piece whirled on—the keg had been
dismounted—the cannoneers revelled in the spoils they had
earned.

Tunstall's was now nearly in sight, and that good fellow
Captain Frayser, afterward Stuart's signal officer, came back
and reported one or two companies of infantry at the railroad.
Their commander had politely beckoned to him as he reconnoitred,
exclaiming in wheedling accents, full of Teutonic
blandishment, “Koom yay!” But this cordial invitation was
disregarded; Frayser galloped back and reported, and the ringing
voice of Stuart ordered “Form platoons! draw sabre!
charge!” At the word the sabres flashed, a thundering shout
arose, and sweeping on in column of platoons, the gray people
fell upon their blue adversaries, gobbling them up, almost without
a shot. It was here that my friend Major F—got the
hideous little wooden pipe he used to smoke afterward. He
had been smoking a meerschaum when the order to charge was
given; and in the rush of the horsemen, dropped and lost it.
He now wished to smoke, and seeing that the captain of the
Federal infantry had just filled his pipe, leaned down from the
saddle, and politely requested him to surrender it.

“I want to smoke!” growled the Federal captain.

“So do I,” retorted Major F—.

“This pipe is my property,” said the captain.

“Oh! what a mistake!” responded the major politely, as he
gently took the small affair and inserted it between his lips.
Anything more hideous than the carved head upon it I never
saw.

The men swarmed upon the railroad. Quick axes were
applied to the telegraph poles, which crashed down, and Redmond

Burke went in command of a detachment to burn a small
bridge on the railroad near. Suddenly in the midst of the
tumult was beard the shrill whistle of a train coming from the
direction of the Chickahominy. Stuart quickly drew up his
men in a line on the side of the road, and he had no sooner done
so than the train came slowly round a wooded bend, and bore
down. When within two hundred yards it was ordered to halt,
but the command was not obeyed. The engineer crowded on all
steam; the train rushed on, and then a thundering volley was
opened upon the “flats” containing officers and men. The
engineer was shot by Captain Farley, of Stuart's staff, and a
number of the soldiers were wounded. The rest threw themselves
upon their faces; the train rushed headlong by like some
frightened monster bent upon escape, and in an instant it had
disappeared.

Stuart then reflected for a single moment. The question was,
should he go back and attack the White House, where enormous
stores were piled up? It was tempting, and he afterwards told
me he could scarcely resist it. But a considerable force of infantry
was posted there; the firing had doubtless given them the
alarm; and the attempt was too hazardous. The best thing
for that gray column was to set their faces toward home, and
“keep moving,” well closed up both day and night, for the
lower Chickahominy. So Stuart pushed on. Beyond the railroad
appeared a world of wagons, loaded with grain and coffee—
standing in the road abandoned. Quick work was made of
them. They were all set on fire, and their contents destroyed.
From the horse-trough of one I rescued a small volume bearing
on the fly-leaf the name of a young lady of Williamsburg. I
think it was a volume of poems—poetic wagon-drivers!

These wagons were only the “vaunt couriers”—the advance
guard—of the main body. In a field beyond the stream thirty
acres were covered with them. They were all burned. The
roar of the soaring flames was like the sound of a forest on fire.
How they roared and crackled! The sky overhead, when night
had descended, was bloody-looking in the glare.

Meanwhile the main column had moved on, and I was riding

after it, when I heard the voice of Stuart in the darkness
exclaiming with strange agitation:

“Who is here?”

“I am,” I answered; and as he recognised my voice he exclaimed:

“Good! where is Rooney Lee?”

“I think he has moved on, General.”

“Do you know it?” came in the same agitated tone.

“No, but I believe it.”

“Will you swear to it? I must know! He may take the
wrong road, and the column will get separated!”

“I will ascertain if he is in front.”

“Well, do so; but take care—you will be captured!”

I told the General I would “gallop on for ever till I found
him,” but I had not gone two hundred yards in the darkness
when hoof-strokes in front were heard, and I ordered:

“Halt! who goes there?”

“Courier, from Colonel William Lee.”

“Is he in front?”

“About a mile, sir.”

“Good!” exclaimed the voice of Stuart, who had galloped up;
and I never heard in human accents such an expression of relief.
If the reader of this has ever commanded cavalry, moving at
night in an enemy's country, he will understand why Stuart
drew that long, deep breath, and uttered that brief word,
“Good!” Once separated from the main column and lost—
good-by then to Colonel Lee!

Pushing on by large hospitals which were not interfered with,
we reached at midnight the three or four houses known as Tallcysville;
and here a halt was ordered to rest men and horses, and
permit the artillery to come up. This pause was fatal to a sutler's
store from which the owners had fled. It was remorselessly
ransacked and the edibles consumed. This historian ate in succession
flgs, beef-tongue, pickle, candy, tomato catsup, preserves,
lemons, cakes, sausages, molasses, crackers, and canned
meats. In presence of these attractive commodities the spirits
of many rose. Those who in the morning had made me laugh

by saying, “General Stuart is going to get his command
destroyed—this movement is mad,” now regarded Stuart as the
first of men; the raid as a feat of splendour and judieious daring
which could not fail in terminating successfully. Such is the
difference in the views of the military machine, unfed and fed.

3. III.

In an hour the column moved again. Meanwhile a little incident
had happened which still makes me laugh. There was a
lady living some miles off in the enemy's line whom I wished
to visit, but I could not obtain the General's consent. “It is
certain capture,” he said; “send her a note by some citizen, say
Dr. H—; he lives near here.” This I determined to do, and
set off at a gallop through the moonlight for the house, some
half a mile distant, looking out for the scouting parties which
were probably prowling on our flanks. Reaching the lonely
house, outside the pickets, I dismounted, knocked at the front
door, then the back, but received no answer. All at once, however,
a dark figure was seen gliding beneath the trees, and this
figure cautiously approached. I recognised the Doctor, and
called to him, whereupon he quickly approached, and said, “I
thought you were a Yankee!” and greeting me cordially, led
the way into the house. Here I wrote my note and entrusted it
to him for delivery—taking one from him to his wife, within our
lines. In half an hour I rode away, but before doing so asked
for some water, which was brought from the well by a sleepy,
sullen, and insolent negro. This incident was fruitful of woes to
Dr. H—! A month or two afterwards I met him looking as
thin and white as a ghost.

“What is the matter?” I said.

“The matter is,” he replied, with a melancholy laugh, “that I
have been starving for three weeks in Fortress Monroe on your
account. Do you remember that servant who brought you the
water that night on Stuart's raid?”

“Perfectly.”

“Well, the very next day he went over to the Yankee picket

and told them that I had entertained Confederate officers, and
given you all information which enabled you to get off safely.
In consequence I was arrested, carried to Old Point, and am
just out!”

I rejoined the column at Talleysville just as it began to move
on the road to Forge Bridge. The highway lay before us, white
in the unclouded splendour of the moon. The critical moment
was yet to come. Our safety was to turn apparently on a throw
of the dice, rattled in the hand of Chance. The exhaustion of
the march now began to tell on the men. Whole companies
went to sleep in the saddle, and Stuart himself was no exception.
He had thrown one knee over the pommel of his saddle, folded
his arms, dropped the bridle, and—chin on breast, his plumed
hat drooping over his forehead—was sound asleep. His surefooted
horse moved steadily, but the form of the General tottered
from side to side, and for miles I held him erect by the
arm. The column thus moved on during the remainder of the
night, the wary advance guard encountering no enemies and
giving no alarm. At the first streak of dawn the Chickahominy
was in sight, and Stuart was spurring forward to the ford.

It was impassable! The heavy rains had so swollen the
waters that the crossing was utterly impracticable! Here we
were within a few miles of McClellan's army, with an enraged
enemy rushing on our track to make us rue the day we had
“circumvented” them, and inflicted on them such injury and
insult; here we were with a swollen and impassable stream
directly in our front—the angry waters roaring around the half-submerged
trunks of the trees—and expecting every instant to
hear the crack of carbines from the rear-guard indicating the
enemy's approach! The “situation” was not pleasing. I certainly
thought that the enemy would be upon us in about an
hour, and death or capture would be the sure alternative. This
view was general. I found that cool and resolute officer, Colonel
William H. F. Lee, on the river's bank. He had just attempted
to swim the river, and nearly drowned his horse among the
tangled roots and snags. I said to him:

“What do you think of the situation, Colonel?”

“Well, Captain,” was the reply, in the speaker's habitual tone
of cheerful courtesy, “I think we are caught.”

The men evidently shared this sentiment. The scene upon
the river's bank was curious, and under other circumstances
would have been laughable. The men lay about in every attitude,
half-overcome with sleep, but holding their bridles, and
ready to mount at the first alarm. Others sat their horses
asleep, with drooping shoulders. Some gnawed crackers; others
ate figs, or smoked, or yawned. Things looked “blue,” and
that colour was figuratively spread over every countenance.
When this writer assumed a gay expression of countenance,
laughed, and told the men it was “all right,” they looked at him
as same men regard a lunatic! The general conviction evidently
was that “all right” was the very last phrase by which to
describe the situation.

There was only one man who never desponded, or bated one
“jot or tittle of the heart of hope.” That was Stuart. I had
never been with him in a tight place before, but from that moment
I felt convinced that he was one of those men who rise
under pressure. He was aroused, strung for the hard struggle
before him, and resolute to do or die; but he was not excited. All
I noticed in his bearing to attract attention was a peculiar fashion
of twisting his beard, certain proof with him of surrounding
peril. Otherwise he was cool and looked dangerous. He
said a few words to Colonel Lee, found the ford impassable, and
then ordering his column to move on, galloped down the stream
to a spot where an old bridge had formerly stood. Reaching
this point, a strong rear-guard was thrown out, the artillery
placed in position, and Stuart set to work vigorously to
rebuild the bridge, determined to bring out his guns or die
trying.

The bridge had been destroyed, but the stone abutments remained
some thirty or forty feet only apart, for the river here ran
deep and narrow between steep banks. Between these stone sentinels,
facing each other, was an “aching void” which it was necessary
to fill. Stuart gave his personal superintendence to the work,
he and his staff labouring with the men. A skiff was procured;

this was affixed by a rope to a tree, in the mid-current just
above the abutments, and thus a movable pier was secured in
the middle of the stream. An old barn was then hastily torn
to pieces and robbed of its timbers; these were stretched down
to the boat, and up to the opposite abutment, and a foot-bridge
was thus ready. Large numbers of the men immediately unsaddled
their horses, took their equipments over, and then
returning, drove or rode their horses into the stream, and swam
them over. In this manner a considerable number crossed; but
the process was much too slow. There, besides, was the artillery,
which Stuart had no intention of leaving. A regular
bridge must be built without a moment's delay, and to this
work Stuart now applied himself with ardour.

Heavier blows resounded from the old barn; huge timbers
approached, borne on brawny shoulders, and descending into the
boat anchored in the middle of the stream, the men lifted them
across. They were just long enough; the ends rested on the
abutments, and immediately thick planks were hurried forward
and laid crosswise, forming a secure footway for the cavalry and
artillery horses. Standing in the boat beneath, Stuart worked
with the men, and as the planks thundered down, and the
bridge steadily advanced, the gay voice of the General was
heard humming a song. He was singing carelessly, although at
every instant an overpowering force of the enemy was looked
for, and a heavy attack upon the disordered cavalry.

At last the bridge was finished; the artillery crossed amid
hurrahs from the men, and then Stuart slowly moved his cavalry
across the shaky footway. A little beyond was another arm of
the river, which was, however, fordable, as I ascertained and
reported to the General; the water just deep enough to swim a
small horse; and through this, as through the interminable
sloughs of the swamp beyond, the head of the column moved.
The prisoners, who were numerous, had been marched over in
advance of everything, and these were now mounted on mules,
of which several hundred had been cut from the captured
wagons and brought along. They were started under an escort
across the ford, and into the swamp beyond. Here, mounted

often two on a mule, they had a disagreeable time; the mules
constantly falling in the treacherous mud-holes, and rolling their
riders in the ooze. When a third swamp appeared before them,
one of the Federal prisoners exclaimed, with tremendous indignation,
“How many d—d Chicken-hominies are there, I wonder,
in this infernal country!”

The rear-guard, under Colonel W. H. F. Lee, had mean while
moved down steadily from the high ground, and defiled across
the bridge. The hoofs clattered on the hasty structure, the
head of the column was turned toward the ford beyond, the last
squadron had just passed, and the bridge was being destroyed,
when shots resounded on the opposite bank of the stream, and
Colonel Rush thundered down with his “lancers” to the bank.
He was exactly ten minutes too late. Stuart was over with his
artillery, and the swollen stream barred the way, even if Colonel
Rush thought it prudent to “knock up against” the one thousand
five hundred crack cavalry of Stuart. His men banged
away at Colonel Lee, and a parting salute whizzed through the
trees as the gray column slowly disappeared.

A lady of New Kent afterwards told me that Colonel Rush
stopped at her house on his return, looking weary, broken down,
and out of humour. When she asked him if he had “caught
Stuart,” he replied, “No, he has gone in at the back door. I
only saw his rear-guard as it passed the swamp.”

4. IV.

Stuart had thus eluded his pursuers, and was over the Chickahominy
in the hospitable county of Charles City. The gentlemen
of the county, we afterwards heard, had been electrified by
the rumour that “Stuart was down at the river trying to get
across,” and had built a hasty bridge for us lower down. We
were over, however, and reaching Mr. C—'s, the General and
his staff lay down on a carpet spread on the grass in the June
sunshine, and went to sleep. This was Sunday. I had not
slept since Friday night, except by suatches in the saddle,

and in going on to Richmond afterwards fell asleep every few
minutes on horseback.

Two hours of slumber, however, made Stuart as fresh as a
lark; and having eaten Mr. C—very nearly out of house and
home, we pushed on all day. At night the column stopped,
and I thought the General would stop too; but he said, “I am
going to Richmond to-night; would you like to ride with me?”
I was obliged to decline; my horse was worn out. Stuart set out
by himself, rode all night, and before daylight had passed over
the thirty miles. An hour afterwards General Lee and the
President knew the result of his expedition. The cavalry
returned on the same day, moving slowly in front of the gunboats,
which fired upon them; but no harm was done. Richmond
was reached; and amid an ovation from delighted friends
we all went to sleep.

Such was Stuart's ride around McClellan's army in those
summer days of 1862. The men who went with him look back
to it as the most romantic and adventurous incident of the war.
It was not indeed so much a military expedition as a raid of
romance—a “scout” of Stuart's with fifteen hundred horsemen!
It was the conception of a bold and brilliant mind, and the
execution was as fearless. “That was the most dangerous of all
my expeditions,” the General said to me long afterwards; “if I
had not succeeded in crossing the Chickahominy, I would have
been ruined, as there was no way of getting out.” The Emperor
Napoleon, a good soldier, took this view of it; when tracing out
on the map Stuart's route from Taylorsville by Old Church to
the lower Chickahominy, he characterized the movement as that
of a cavalry officer of the first distinction. This criticism was
only just, and the raid will live in history for three reasons:

1. It taught the enemy “the trick,” and showed them the
meaning of the words “cavalry raid.” What General Kilpatrick,
Sheridan, and others afterwards effected, was the work of the
pupil following the master.

2. It was on a magnificent arena, to which the eyes of the
whole world were attracted at the time; and,

3. In consequence of the information which Stuart furnished,

Gen. Lee, a fortnight afterwards, attacked and defeated General
McClellan.

These circumstances give a very great interest to all the incidents
of the movement. I hope the reader has not been wearied
by my minute record of them. To the old soldiers of Stuart
there is a melancholy pleasure in recalling the gay scenes amid
which he moved, the exploits which he performed, the hard work
he did. He is gone; but even in memory it is something to
again follow his feather.