47. XLVII.
THE OFFICER WHOM ASHBY HAD WOUNDED.
I was riding by General Jackson, when he suddenly reined in
his horse, and for a moment seemed lost in reflection.
“I do not like to leave my wounded,” he said, “and my dead
unburied.”
He looked toward Winchester, and added, turning all at once
to me:
“I wish you would attend to this, Major.”
“I any way you indicate, General.”
“Well, suppose you try if they will let you remain under a flag
of truce. General Shields may consent to it. You can appeal to
our friends among the citizens to do what I cannot.”
I saluted, and was going.
“Stay, I will give you your credentials.”
And, tearing a sheet from his note-book, he wrote in pencil:
“General:—The bearer, Major Surry, of my staff, is sent to
superintend the burial of my dead in the action yesterday, and
look after the wounded. I have the honor to request that he
may be permitted to pass your lines for that purpose. He will
give any parole you require.
“Very respectfully, your obedient servant,
“T. J. Jackson,
Maj.-Gen'l Com'd'g C. S. Forces.”
“I think that will answer, Major.”
“Any further instructions, General?”
“None. I rely upon your good judgment and discretion.”
He held out his hand, gave mine a friendly grasp, and,
adding, “I shall expect you back soon,” rode on toward Strasburg.
I turned my horse's head toward Winchester, and rode through
the dim light in the direction of the enemy, whose camp-fires
were glimmering upon the hills in front.
Ere long I encountered the dark masses of Ashby's cavalry,
drawn up across the road in line of battle to cover the rear of
the retreating army. Their commander was in the saddle, on
the turnpike, listening for any movement.
“Well, Major,” he said, in his gentle voice, “this is rather an
ugly business, but we gave them a good hard fight.”
“Yes—it is a pity we could not have held our ground a little
longer.”
“I see you read my dispatch.”
“Yes.”
“Shields would have fallen back in a few minutes. I know
this to be so.”[1]
“Well, he is going, instead, to follow us up; but I don't expect
to be with you this time.”
“Why?”
“I am sent back—if I can get through the Federal line.”
And I explained my orders.
“It is day,” was Ashby's reply, as he looked up; “you can
go to their picket without danger. I will pass you through my
own.”
And he rode with me through his own picket, until we were
in sight of that of the enemy, where, with a grasp of the hand,
we parted.
Waving a white handkerchief, I approached the Federal picket,
and was halted by the vedette, who passed the word to his officer.
I explained my object to the officer, who was a very courteous
person, and, not to weary the reader with the various personages
whom I was carried before in succession, was conducted to a
house some miles in the rear. Here I found General Shields
lying upon a sofa, with his arm in a bandage.
“Major Surry, I believe,” was his formal greeting.
“Yes, General.”
“From General Jackson?”
I bowed.
“Your object in coming into my lines is to superintend the
burial of your dead, and the care of the wounded?”
I bowed again.
“If not contrary to your views, I would be glad to secure that
permission, General.”
He evidently hesitated, but at last said:
“Well, I shall grant General Jackson's request, sir, though the
whole affair is irregular. One of my staff will accompany and
assist you.”
And he sent an orderly for the officer.
“Were you in the action yesterday, Major?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It was a hot affair. I confess I should like to know, as a
matter of pure curiosity, what numbers you had engaged.”
I began to laugh.
“Oh! that would not interest you, General.”
“I see you refuse to tell me. I asked from pure curiosity,
and only wished to know if I was right in estimating the force at
fifteen thousand.”
To this I made no reply.
“General Jackson is a hard fighter,” he continued; “and General
Ashby, of your cavalry, handles mine rather roughly. I am
indebted to him for this wound.”
Here the staff officer who had been sent for entered and
saluted the General, who instructed him to ride with me to the
battle-field, and render me any assistance, returning with me in
the evening to his head-quarters.
“Major Surry will not be allowed to communicate with any
one,” he added, “except upon the subject of his mission.”
I bowed, and was leaving the room, when the General said:
“By the by, Major, what did General Jackson think of yesterday's
fight? Does he acknowledge himself fairly whipped?”
The temptation was irresistible to fire a parting shot:
“He has some curious ideas about the action, General.”
“What are they?”
“He believes, among other things, that, if he had held his
ground a little longer, you would have retreated from the field.”
“Ah! ah!”
“And even that you had actually issued the order for your
line to fall back.”
The General uttered a constrained laugh.
“What could have put such an absurd idea in anybody's head,
Major? But I am detaining you.”
As he spoke, the sound of firing came from the front—the
long roll of the opposing batteries.
“I must go there,” muttered the General, as I left the apartment.
Accompanied by my elegantly dressed companion, a young
officer of the staff, I now rode toward the scene of the late
action—the firing in front growing heavier, but gradually receding
as we went along.
