94. XCIV.
FALLING BACK WITH STUART.
We spent the beautiful month of October in the Valley.
What is it makes these sad memorial days so charming?
What influence descends upon the heart and brings back all the
years that are dead—their smiles and laughter, all their happy
faces, the mirth and revelry, and joy? Not the fairest May that
ever shone, with budding leaves and flowers and grasses, moves
me like those slowly gliding hours, which take the golden
splendor of the woods, the azure of the sky, the glitter of the
sunshine for their drapery, and, filling heart and memory with
the dear dead faces, it may be, of friends long gone into the dust,
serenely lead us to the “days that are no more.”
Is this life of dreams among the fading glories of the rich
October woods “unprofitable?” Profit!—forever profit! What
is real in this world except your reveries and dreams, O friendly
reader? What secret of happiness is greater than to follow
your illusions? Life is so short and dull that there is little in it
worth our notice, save its illusions!—so cold and sad that I, for
my part, wonder we are not all dreamers!
But the narrative of Surry halts by the way. Marchons! To
horse and away, whatever reveries beckon!—whatever dreams
enchain us!
Still, as we pass, let us cast a lingering glance, O kindly reader,
on the gorgeous tints of autumn all along the wooded shores of
the Opequon and the Shenandoah, gliding, with a musical murmur,
to the bosom of the Potomac; on the old hall yonder, with
its gay back-ground of many-colored foliage; and upon the
smiling fields, over which the “Yankee cavalry” will soon be
sweeping.
A parting glance at the fair panorama—a pressure of the hand
exchanged with all the kind good friends who have made the
days so pleasant—and then “to horse!” For General McClellan
is moving; his great adversary is hastening to intercept him
on the Rappahannock; the days of idleness and “sweet do-nothing”
yield to day and night marches, and the shock of
battle.
At the end of October, Jackson followed Longstreet, and approached
the little village of Millwood. Stuart had already
crossed the Blue Ridge, to guard the gaps, as the army moved—
and I accompanied him, by Jackson's permission, to capture, if
possible, a better horse than that of my Dutch prisoner.
From that moment it was fighting, fighting, fighting! We
charged a heavy picket at Mountsville, and dispersed or captured
the whole party of about seventy-five. Then the column pushed
on to Aldie.
As we mounted the hill—bang! bang! And, driving on, the
head of the column, Fitz Lee's brigade, ran into Buford's cavalry,
about five thousand in number.
This was a species of hornet's nest, which buzzed in a manner
more exciting than agreeable. Stuart fell back with his small
force to the hill above, and, receiving intelligence that another
column was closing in on his rear, opened with his horse artillery
upon the enemy, and quietly withdrew, by a friendly cross-road,
to the town of Middleburg.
At Mountsville, the officer commanding the picket, from the
First Rhode Island, was wounded, and his watch taken in charge
by a staff-officer. Months afterward it was returned to him by
the hands of Captain Stone, a Federal prisoner.[1]
So we marched into Middleburg, where a bevy of fair girls
came forth to meet the gallant Stuart, in a state of crazy joy at
seeing the gray-coats, and the black feather of their favorite
chieftain. Did the bold lips press some rosy cheeks without
having them withdrawn? If so, will anybody blame the
maidens? Not I.
Thereafter, still fighting, fighting, fighting! At Mountsville,
at Union, at Bloomfield, at Upperville—everywhere fighting.
Here Colonel Wickham, that gallant cavalier, ever leading his
men in the charge, was wounded; and, more than once, the
guns of Pelham were in imminent danger of capture.
I admired now, more than ever, the splendid genius for artillery
which this mere boy possessed. There is a genius for every
thing—Pelham's was to fight artillery. He was born for that,
and found his proper sphere in command of Stuart's guns.
With what unyielding obstinacy he fought! with a nerve and
courage how gay and splendid! No part of the ground escaped
his eagle eye—no ruse could deceive him. He fought with the
ardor of a boy and the stubborn obstinacy of gray hairs. Rushing
his guns into position upon every hill, there he staid until
the enemy were almost at the muzzles and were closing in upon
his flanks. Then, hastily limbering up and retiring, under a
storm of bullets, he took position on the next elevation, and
poured his canister into the advancing columns as before.
Stuart slowly retired before the enemy, fighting at every step,
until he reached the high ground below Paris. Here Pelham
posted his artillery on the slope of the mountain, at sunset, and
before these frowning war-dogs the enemy halted.
Meanwhile the whole command, except a trifling rear-guard,
had moved toward Piedmont, to guard the trains then falling
back.
You see, my dear reader, I am not writing a series of “romantic
incidents,” for I have introduced a wagon-train, the antipodes
of romance. But this mention of the cavalry-train recalls
one of those “trifles” which, I have warned you, I remember
more vividly than all else.
Stuart and his staff retired at nightfall to the little village of
Paris, where, after partaking of an excellent supper, we all
came to a halt before the old wooden tavern, facing the main
street, at the eastern terminus thereof. The house was bare
and deserted, but a fire was speedily kindled in the fireplace,
and pipes were produced by the staff.
The General was stretched upon a bench, and seemed in the
depths of despair.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“Well, a blunder has occurred in the movement of my column
toward Piedmont, and my trains are in great danger.”
“That's enough to make any one blue, I confess, General.”
“As indigo,” was the reply, in the tone of a man who has
lost his last friend. And the General sank back, knitting his
brows.
As he did so, something was said which produced a laugh—
and, to my great surprise, Stuart joined in it heartily.
“You are very gay for a man who has the blues,” I said.
“Well, the fact is, Major,” was his gay reply, “I am so blue
to-night, that I have to laugh to keep up my spirits, you see!”[2]
And, throwing himself back, the General laughed again,
yawned, and immediately fell asleep. My own eyelids were just
drooping, when a cavalry-man rode up and waked the party.
“Well, what news?” asked Stuart, yawning.
“Major Wooldridge says the enemy are advancing, General,
and that you had better get away from here.”
The General indulged in another yawn, stretched his limbs,
and buckled on his sabre.[3]
“I believe I will go and see old Stonewall,” he said.
The staff were soon ready; and mounting our horses, we
turned their heads toward Ashby's Gap.
We had scarcely emerged from the little village, and began the
ascent of the mountain road which leads through the Gap, when
rapid firing came from the rear, and then the clatter of hoofs
was heard upon the street of the village.
“They are crowding Wooldridge,” said the General, “but he
is one of my best officers, and will take care of himself. Come
on, Major, we are losing time.”
And we pushed our horses into a rapid trot, which soon
brought us to the river. Fording at the spot which I so well
remembered on my hard ride from Manassas to Winchester in
July, 1861, we went on to Millwood, and found General Jackson
in his tent, under the trees of a forest near, reading his Bible,
from which he looked up with a smile of pleasure as Stuart entered.
[4]
Before daylight Stuart was again in the saddle and travelling
rapidly toward Front Royal, to cross at the first gap he found
unoccupied by the enemy, and take command of his column. I
was with him.
