44. XLIV.
A FEAT OF HORSEMANSHIP.
In falling back, Jackson left absolutely nothing behind for his
adversary. Every thing was removed, and the laughing infantry
greeted with jests and cheers an cnormous railway engine, which,
drawn by a long string of horses, moved on with the rest.
Jackson remained last, and his critical eyes peered in every
direction, to discover whether any thing had been forgotten.
“Is every thing removed, Major?” he said to his chief quartermaster,
Major Harman.
“Every thing, General.”
“No commissary stores whatever are left?”
“None, General.”
“And those broken cars at the dépôt?”
“They can not be moved.”
“Burn them, Major.”
“I will, at once, sir.”
“And the telegraph wire?”
“Is cut, sir.”
“But is it removed?”
“No, General.”
“Remove it, Major.”
Jackson then added: “Take your time. I am in no hurry to
leave Winchester.”[1]
Soon, the broken cars were burning, the wire was rolled up
and placed in wagons, and the work was complete.
“Very good,” said Jackson, when the report was brought to
him; and he sat down under a tree, and, folding his hands across
his breast, fell quietly asleep.
He had been up all night, and never was able to go without
sleep.
The steady approach of the firing now indicated that the enemy
were pressing Ashby closely, near the northern suburbs of the
town. I rode in that direction, and, reaching the rising ground
at the head of Loudoun street, where the remains of the old fort,
built by Major George Washington, about 1756, may still be seen,
encountered the cavalry, falling back in good order before the
Federal advance. The rear-guard, under personal command of
Ashby, who was mounted on a snow-white horse, was disputing
obstinately every foot of ground; the main column meanwhile
defiling through the streets, to form in line south of the
town.
I had just reached this point, when a sudden rush of the Federal
cavalry broke through the rear-guard, and before I knew it,
almost, I was by Ashby's side, in the midst of a squadron of
blue-coats, banging away with their pistols, and slashing with
their sabres. The sweep of Ashby's weapon was magnificent,
and he seemed to launch himself from the saddle at every blow.
Never had I seen more imperial horsemanship. He and his
splendid animal seemed one, and it is impossible to describe his
face. It was on fire—the eyes blazed—he looked happy.
I had no time to bestow upon him more than a glance, however.
A sabre-cut nearly unseated me, and the blue cordon was
all around us, when a determined charge from one of Ashby's
squadrons drove back the enemy, and he chased them two hundred
yards north of the place.
“Rather close quarters, Major,” said Ashby, whose face glowed
hotly. “I don't like to be `crowded.' ”
And, placing himself at the head of his men, he waved his
sword, and cried in a clear, calm voice, strikingly in contrast
with his irate appearance:
“Follow me!”
Those clear accents seemed to thrill the men. They responded
with a wild cheer; and, driving his white horse to furious speed,
Ashby burst upon the Federal line like a tornado.
Before that furious onslaught, so sudden and desperate, the
enemy's cavalry gave way. Ashby was in front of his line, cutting
right and left with the sabre; and when, a few minutes afterward,
he came back, his white horse dancing on all four feet, as
the nervous hand reined him in amid a shower of balls, his face
was calmer: for the moment he seemed satisfied.
He continued to retire slowly, and reached the suburbs of the
town. The enemy did not at once move forward. The Confederate
cavalry passed through, and it was not until I reached the
southern suburbs that I missed Ashby.
Turning, I saw him seated on his white horse in the middle of
Loudoun street, looking quietly at the Federal cavalry and infantry
pouring into the place. It is impossible to conceive any thing
more calmly indifferent than his attitude. He seemed to have
taken his place there to witness some peaceful pageant, and to
regard the advance of the Federal masses, now nearly in contact
with him, with languid curiosity.
All at once, some shots were fired at him, but he took no notice
of them. This seemed to enrage the enemy, and a detachment
charged him at full gallop, firing as they came.
Ashby waved his hat around his head, uttered a cheer, and
then, drawing his revolver, galloped off, firing as he went.
He had nearly reached the suburbs, when suddenly I saw two
Federal cavalrymen issue from a side street, and post themselves
in the middle of the street to intercept him. I rode rapidly forward
to warn him of his danger; but it was not necessary. He
turned, saw them, and charged the two men, with a glow of unmistakable
pleasure upon his features. One fell, shot through
the heart; then, his barrels being all emptied, he seized the
second by the throat.
I then witnessed one of those spectacles which are supposed to
be confined to romances. Borne on at a furious speed upon his
powerful white horse, Ashby dragged his adversary clear out of
the saddle, never relaxed his clutch, and in a moment was beyond
pursuit, still dragging his prisoner by the side of his horse.[2]
A cheer rose from his men as Ashby released the prisoner, and
coolly looked to the disposition of his command. His face was
again calm; the sad expression had come back; and when he
said, “Well, Major, they are laughing at us yonder, I suppose,
[ILLUSTRATION]
ASHBY'S FEAT OF HORSEMANSHIP.—p. 164.
[Description: 519EAF. Illustration page, which depicts Ashby grabbing a prisoner off of his horse while both men are still riding.]
by this time,” his voice was as sweet and gentle as when speaking
of his dead brother.
