University of Virginia Library

1. I.

Of all human faculties, surely the most curious is the memory.
Capricious, whimsical, illogical, acting ever in accordance with
its own wild will, it loses so many “important events” to retain
the veriest trifles in its deathless clutch! Ask a soldier who
has fought all day long in some world-losing battle, what he remembers
most vividly, and he will tell you that he has well-nigh
forgotten the most desperate charges, but recalls with perfect
distinctness the joy he experienced in swallowing a mouthful of
water from the canteen on the body of a dead enemy.

A trifling incident of the second battle of Manassas remains
in my memory more vividly than the hardest fighting of the
whole day, and I never recall the incident in question without
thinking, too, of De Quincey's singular paper, “A Vision of
Sudden Death.” The reader is probably familiar with the article
to which I refer—a very curious one, and not the least admirable
of those strange leaves, full of thought and fancy, which
the “Opium Eater” scattered among the readers of the last
generation. He was riding on the roof of a stage-coach, when
the vehicle commenced the descent of a very steep hill. Soon
it began moving with mad velocity, the horses became unmanageable,
and it was obvious that if it came in collision with
anything, either it or the object which it struck would be
dashed in pieces. All at once, there appeared in front, on the

narrow road, a light carriage, in which were seated a young man
and a girl. They either did not realize their danger, or were
powerless to avoid it; and on swept the heavy stage, with its
load of passengers, its piled-up baggage, and its maddened
horses—rushing straight down on the frail vehicle with which it
soon came in collision. It was at the moment when the light
little affair was dashed to pieces, the stage rolling with a wild
crash over the boy and girl, that De Quincey saw in their awestruck
faces that singular expression which he has described by
the phrase, “A Vision of Sudden Death.”

It requires some courage to intrude upon the literary domain
of that great master, the “Opium Eater,” and the comparison
will prove dangerous; but a reader here and there may be interested
in a vision of sudden death which I myself once saw in a
human eye. On the occasion in question, a young, weak-minded,
and timid person was instantaneously confronted, without
premonition or suspicion of his danger, with the abrupt
prospect of an ignominious death; and I think the great English
writer would have considered my incident more stirring than
his own.

It was on the morning of August 31, 1862, on the Warrenton
road, in a little skirt of pines, near Cub Run bridge, between
Manassas and Centreville. General Pope, who previously had
“only seen the backs of his enemies,” had been cut to pieces.
The battle-ground which had witnessed the defeat of Scott and
McDowell on the 21st of July, 1861, had now again been swept by
the bloody besom of war; and the Federal forces were once more
in full retreat upon Washington. The infantry of the Southern
army were starved, broken down, utterly exhausted, when they
went into that battle, but they carried everything before them;
and the enemy had disappeared, thundering with their artillery
to cover their retreat. The rest of the work must be done by
the cavalry; and to the work in question the great cavalier
Stuart addressed himself with the energy, dash, and vigour of his
character. The scene, as we went on, was curious. Pushing
across the battle-field—we had slept at “Fairview,” the Conrad
House on the maps—we saw upon every side the reeking traces

of the bloody conflict; and as the column went on across Bull
Run, following the enemy on their main line of retreat over the
road from Stonebridge to Centreville, the evidences of “demoralization”
and defeat crowded still more vividly upon the eye.
Guns, haversacks, oil-cloths, knapsacks, abandoned cannon and
broken-down wagons and ambulances,—all the debris of an
army, defeated and hastening to find shelter behind its works—
attracted the attention now, as in July, 1861, when the first “On
to Richmond” was so unfortunate. Prisoners were picked up
on all sides as the cavalry pushed on; their horses, if they were
mounted, were taken possession of; their sabres, guns, and pistols
appropriated with the ease and rapidity of long practice;
and the prisoners were sent in long strings under one or two
mounted men, as a guard, to the rear.

As we approached Cub Run bridge, over which the rear-guard
of the Federal army had just retired, we found by the roadside
a small wooden house used as a temporary hospital. It was full
of dead and wounded; and I remember that the “Hospital steward”
who attended the Federal wounded was an imposing personage.
Portly, bland, “dignified,” elegantly dressed, he was as
splendid as a major-general; nay, far more so than any gray
major-general of the present writer's acquaintance. Our tall and
finely-clad friend yielded up his surplus ambulances with grace
ful ease, asked for further orders; and when soon his own friends
from across Cub Run began to shell the place, philosophically
took his stand behind the frail mansion and “awaited further
developments” with the air of a man who was resigned to the
fortunes of war. Philosophic steward of the portly person! if
you see this page it will bring back to you that lively scene when
the present writer conversed with you and found you so composed
and “equal to the occasion,” even amid the shell and
bullets!

But I am expending too much attention upon my friend the
surgeon, who “held the position” there with such philosophic
coolness. The cavalry, headed by General Stuart, pushed on,
and we were now nearly at Cub Run bridge. The main body
of the enemy had reached Centreville during the preceding

night, and we could see their white tents in the distance;
but a strong rear-guard of cavalry and artillery had been left
near the bridge, and as we now advanced, mounted skirmishers
from the Federal side forded the stream, and very gallantly came
to meet us. On our side, sharpshooters were promptly deployed
—then came the bang of carbines—then Stuart's Horse Artillery
galloped up, under Pelham, and a “rear-guard affair” began.
Stuart formed his column for a charge, and had just begun to
move, when the Federal skirmishers were seen retiring; a dense
smoke rose from Cub Run bridge, and suddenly the enemy's
artillery on a knoll beyond opened their grim mouths. The first
shot they fired was admirable. It fell plump into a squadron
of cavalry—between the files as they were ranged side by side
in column of twos—and although it burst into a hundred pieces,
did not wound man or horse. The Horse Artillery under Pelham
replied to the fire of the opposing guns; an animated artillery
duel commenced, and the ordinary routine began.