4. IV.
Stuart did not tarry. In war there is little time for gallant
words, and news had just reached us from the front 'hich
moved the column on like the sound of the bugle.
This news was, that 'hile we approached Rockville from the
south, a mighty train of nearly two hundred wagons—new,
fresh-painted, drawn each by six sleek mules, as became the
“Reserve Forage Train” of the Department at Washington—
had in like manner approached from the east, intent on collecting
forage. The rumour of the dread vicinity of the graybacks
had come to them, however, blown on the wind; the column of
wagons had instantly “counter-marched” in the opposite direction;
they ' whenow thundering at full gallop back toward
Washington, pursued by the advance guard.
Stuart's face flushed at the thought of capturing this splendid
prize; and shouting to a squadron to follow him, and the main
column to push on, he went at a swift gallop on the track of the
fleeing wagons.
Soon we came up with them, and then commenced an indescribably
grotesque scene. The immense train was seen covering
the road for miles. Every team in full gallop, every wagon
whirling onward, rebounding from rocks, and darting into the
air,—one crashing against another “with the noise of thunder”—
here one overturned, and lying with wheels upward, the mules
struggling and kicking in the harness; then one toppling over a
steep bank, and falling with a loud crash: others burning, others
still dashing for shelter to the woods,—the drivers cursing, yelling,
lashing, blaspheming, howling amid the bang of carbines,
the clatter of hoofs, and cries of “Halt! halt! halt!”
Stuart burst into laughter, and turning round, exclaimed:
“Did you ever see anything like that in all your life!” And I
certainly never had. The grotesque ruled; the mules seemed
wilder than the drivers. They had been cut by the score from
the overturned wagons, and now ran in every direction, kicking
up at every step, sending their shrill cries upon the air, and presenting
a spectacle so ludicrous that a huge burst of “Olympian
laughter” echoed from end to end of the turnpike.
Soon they were all stopped, captured, and driven to the rear
by the aforesaid cursing drivers, now sullen, or laughing like the
captors. All but those overturned. These were set on fire, and
soon there rose for miles along the road the red glare of flames,
and the dense smoke of the burning vehicles. They had been
pursued within sight of Washington, and I saw, I believe, the
dome of the capitol. That spectacle was exciting—and General
Stuart thought of pushing on to make a demonstration against
the defences. This, however, was given up; and between the
flames of the burning wagons we pushed back to Rockville,
through which the long line of captured vehicles, with their
sleek, rosetted mules, six to each, had already defiled, amid the
shouts of the inhabitants. Those thus “saved” were about one
hundred in number.
The column moved, and about ten that night reached Brookville,
where the atmosphere seemed Southern, like that of Rockville,
for a bevy of beautiful girls thronged forth with baskets of
cakes, and bread and meat, and huge pitchers of ice-water—penetrating
fearlessly the press of trampling hoofs and ministering
to the necessities of the rebels with undisguised satisfaction.
If the fair girl living in the handsome mansion below Mr.
Hamilton's, remembers still to whom she insisted upon presenting
nine cups of coffee with every delicacy, the rebel in question
begs to assure her of his continued gratitude for her kindness.
At Brookville some hundreds of prisoners—the greater part captured
by General Wickham in a boat at the Potomac—were
paroled and started for Washington, as an act of humanity.
At one o'clock in the morning Stuart mounted and moved on,
speedily falling asleep in the saddle, and tottering from side to
side. In this he was not alone; and I remember the laughable
spectacle of Major M—, sitting grave, erect, and motionless upon
his horse in front of a country store by the roadside, to which
the animal had made his way and halted. The Major seemed to
be waiting—for somebody, or something—meanwhile he was snoring.
Moving steadily on, the column approached Westminster,
and here Fitz Lee, who was in advance, found the enemy drawn
up in the street awaiting him. A charge quickly followed,
carbines banged, and the enemy gave way—but we left behind,
lying dead by the roadside, Lieutenants Murray and Gibson, two
of our best officers, shot dead in the skirmish. The enemy were
pursued at full gallop through the town, to their camp on the
heights to the west; the camp was taken with all its contents—and
the bugles of Fitz Lee, sounding on the wind from the
breezy upland, told that he had driven the Federal cavalry before
him. Westminster was ours.
Stuart took possession, but was not greeted with much cordiality.
Friends, and warm ones, met us, but they had a “hacked”
demeanour, and many of them spoke under their breath.
Westminster was evidently “Union,” but some families warmly
welcomed us—others scowled. The net results of the capture
of the place were—one old dismounted gun of the “Quaker”
order on a hill near the cavalry camp aforesaid, and a United
States flag taken from the vault of the Court-House, with the
names of the ladies who had made it worked across each star.
What became of this I do not know. We left the town that
night, bivouacked in the rain by the roadside, pushed on at
dawn, and were soon in Pennsylvania, where details were immediately
sent out to seize horses. These, as I saw them pass in
great numbers, were large, fat, sleek, and apparently excellent.
I was not long, however, in discovering that they were worthless
as riding-horses; one of the thin, wiry, rawboned Virginia horses,
half the weight of these Conestogas, would wear out a dozen.
One had “blood,” the other had not—and blood will tell.
We were enemies here, but woman, the angelic, still succoured
us; woman, without shoes or stockings often, and speaking
Dutch, but no less hospitable. One of them presented me with
coffee, bread spread with “apple-butter”—and smiles. I don't
think the Mynheers found the gray people very fierce and
bloody. The horses were appropriated; but beyond that nothing—the
very necks of the chickens went unwrung.
The column was in high glee thus far, and the men were
rapidly receiving “remounts.” No enemy approached—your
old soldier never very bitterly laments that circumstance; but
all at once as we approached Hanovertown, we stirred up the
hornets. Chambliss—that brave soul who afterwards fell heroically
fighting in Charles City—at the head of the Ninth Virginia
drove in their pickets; and he had just swept on down the
heights toward the town, whose steeples shone before us
nestling beneath the mountain, when Stuart in person rode up
rapidly.
“Well, General,” I said, “Chambliss has driven them, and is
going right on.”
“Good!” was Stuart's reply. “Tell him to push on and
occupy the town, but not to pursue them too far.”
These words were impressed upon my memory by the sequel,
which laughably but very disagreeably reversed the General's
expectations. Hastening down the declivity with the order for
Chambliss, I found him advancing rapidly in column of fours to
charge the enemy, who were drawn up in the outskirts of the
town. Before he could issue the order it was rendered somewhat
nugatory by the blue people in front. We had supposed
their force to be small, but it was now seen to be heavy. They
swarmed everywhere, right, left, and front; rapidly formed line
of battle, and delivering a sharp volley at short range in
the faces of the Confederates, made a gallant and headlong
charge.
The result made it unnecessary to warn the men not to “pursue
too far.” They met the charge sabre to sabre; a hot conflict
ensued, but the enemy pressing on with unbroken front in heavy
force, the Ninth fell back in good order to the higher ground in
their rear, keeping off the assailants at the edge of the sabre.
The road over which they made this “retrograde” was narrow,
and the mêlée of trampling hoofs, shouts, and sabre-cuts, was more
exciting than amusing. Men fell all around before the fire of
the excellent Spencer rifles of the enemy; and while gallantly
rallying the men, Captain John Lee was shot through the arm.
To add to the disagreeable character of the situation, I now
observed General Stuart in person, and unattended, coming
across the field to the right at full gallop, pursued by a detachment
of cavalry who fired on him as they came, and as I reached
his side his face was stormy, his voice irate.
“Have the artillery put in position yonder on the road; tell
it to open!” was his brief order.
And in a few minutes it was hurried forward, and opened
fire. Returning to the field in which I had left the General, I
found him the second time “falling back” before a hotter pursuit
than the first. The Federal cavalry-men, about a company,
were nigh upon him as he galloped across the field; shots
whistled; orders to halt resounded; but it may be understood
that it was inconvenient to comply. We went on headlong,
leaped a tremendous ravine with the enemy almost in contact,
and following a friendly lane where the rails were down, reached
the slope where the artillery had just opened its thunders.
This checked the enemy's further advance, and Hampton having
opened on the right, things settled down somewhat. We
had evidently waked up a real hornets' nest, however. Long
columns of blue cavalry were seen defiling down the mountain,
and advancing to the front, and a heavy force was observed
closing in on the left. All at once the edge of the town swarmed
with blue figures; a heavy line was seen advancing, and soon
this line pushed on with cheers, to charge the artillery on the
heights.
Breathed replied by opening upon them with shell and canister.
The first shell burst in the line; the second near the first;
and the third made it waver. A more rapid fire succeeded;
everything depended upon these few moments, and then the line
was seen slowly retiring. At the same instant intelligence came
that the force on the left was Fitz Lee, who had come in on
that flank; and the continuous thunder of Hampton on the
right showed plainly that in that direction all was well. This
advance of the Federal sharpshooters was one of the finest sights
I ever beheld; and at one moment I thought Breathed's guns
would never leave that field of tall rye where they were vomiting
fire and smoke—under the command of this gallant Major
at least. Whether this historian also would succeed in retiring
without capture seemed equally doubtful, as he had mounted a
huge Conestoga—fat, sleek, elephantine, and unwieldy—a philosophic
animal who stood unmoved by the cannon, never blinking
at the discharges, and appeared superior to all the excitements
of the moment. Breathed's fire, however, repulsed the
charge; and as night drew on, Stuart set his column in motion—
the wagons in the centre—toward Jefferson. One ludicrous
scene at that moment I perfectly remember. A fat Dutchman
who had been lounging about, and reconnoitring the strength,
etc., of the Confederate force, was regarded as too well informed
to be left behind with the enemy; and this worthy was accordingly
requested to “come along” on the back of a huge Conestoga.
This request he treated with calm disregard, when a
cavalry-man made a tremendous blow at him, which caused him
to mount in hot haste, with only a halter to guide his elephant.
He had no sooner done so than the Conestoga ran off, descended
the slope at full speed, bounded elephant-wise over an enormous
ditch—and it was only by clinging close with knees and hands
that the Dutchman kept his seat. Altogether, the spectacle was
one to tickle the ribs of death. The last I saw of the captive,
he was in the very centre of the cavalry column, which was
moving at a trot, and he was swept on with it; passing away
for ever from the eyes of this historian, who knows not what
became of him thereafter.
The sun began to decline now, and we rode, rode, rode—the
long train of wagons strung out to infinity, it seemed. At dark
the little village of Jefferson was reached—of which metropolis
I recall but one souvenir. This was a pretty Dutch girl, who
seemed not at all hostile to the gray people, and who willingly
prepared me an excellent supper of hot bread, milk, coffee, and
eggs fried temptingly with bacon. She could not speak English
—she could only look amiable, smile, and murmur unintelligible
words in an unknown language. I am sorry to say, that I do not
recall the supper with a satisfaction as unalloyed. I was sent
by the General to pass somebody through his pickets, and on my
return discovered that I was the victim of a cruel misfortune.
The young hostess had placed my supper on a table in a small
apartment, in which a side door opened on the street; through
this some felonious personage had entered—hot bread, milk,
coffee, eggs, and ham, had vanished down some hungry cavalryman's
throat.
Mounting despondingly, I followed the column, which had
again begun to move, and soon reached the village of New
Salem.
