58. LVIII
I AM CAPTURED.
The river was passed, Newmarket reached, and Jackson's
column swept on the Harrisonburg. His cavalry had destroyed
the bridge over the South Fork of the Shenandoah, leading into
the Luray Valley; his flank was thus safe still—and soon Harrisonburg
was reached.
Thence, without pausing, he pushed on toward Port Republic,
where, with his back to Brown's Gap, he could stand at bay, and
bid defiance both to Fremont and to Shields. But could he reach
that point? On the summit of the southern shoulder of the
Massinutton, which here subsides into the Valley, could be seen
the fluttering of our signal flags; and these said, “Shields is in
sight, and rapidly advancing toward Port Republic.”
All now depended upon the rapidity of Jackson's movements
and the resources of his strategy. Pressed in rear by the heavy
column under General Fremont, and with that under General
Shields rapidly advancing to intercept him, he was in a position
of very great peril; and I followed, with absorbing interest, the
movements of the great gladiator thus encircled by his dangerous
foes.
An untoward incident now occurred, however, which threatened
to prevent me from taking part in the coming struggle.
We were steadily falling back from Harrisonburg on Port Republic,
when the incident I refer to took place. General Fremont
was pressing closely on the rear-guard under Ashby, which was
incessantly engaged, and having by this time formed a strong
personal affection for the great cavalry commander, I was with
him whenever I could spare the time from my duties.
I often look back now to those days with a longing desire to
live them over again, and hear the friendly voice of the great
spirit which has passed away. It was a life all excitement and
romance which we lived at that epoch—days of fighting, of incident,
of adventure; nights of hasty slumber, in rude bivouac
under the forest trees, or of long, confidential talks by the
smouldering camp-fire; all day long the crack of carbines, and
the roar of artillery keeping back the enemy; and then, with the
great soldier who had moved in front of his cavalry, ever ready
to come to the sabre, those sad, memorial recollections which are
the luxury of friends, who exchange their memories as they fall
asleep after or on the eve of battle. Often now those days come
back to me—I seem to see his face and hear his voice—and peace,
amid friends and in the good old home, seems not so wholly
charming as I thought it would be, then. Peace hath her victories
and her laurels; but the flowers are not so fresh, nor tipped
with such fiery dew, as when they bloom amid the hot atmosphere
of war.
I wander from my theme—but those old times beguile me.
Again the winds of other days blow on my forehead, and I live
in the hours that are dead.
To come to the actual occurrences of that time—I was with
the cavalry rear-guard between Harrisonburg and Cross Keys,
some miles from Port Republic, at which point the infantry was
concentrating, when a dust, rising upon the flank, attracted my
attention, and I told Ashby that I would go and ascertain what
it meant.
“Take care, Surry,” was his reply; “the enemy are close
behind us, and you will be captured.”
“I reckon not.”
“Well, keep a good look-out. The Federal advance-guard is
commanded by Sir Percy Wyndham, an English officer, who has
sworn, I am informed, that he will `bag' me. I should be sorry
to have him catch one of my friends.”
“I defy him!”
And, with that spirit of pride which so often precedes a fall, I
put spur to my horse, and went at full speed in the direction of
the dust, following a narrow forest-road.
Unfortunately, Ashby's fears were speedily realized. I had
not gone a quarter of a mile, when a detachment of cavalry
flankers debouched quietly into the road behind me, and, levelling
their carbines, ordered me to surrender.
It was the coolest and most business-like affair I had ever
witnessed, reader. No ill-bred hurry—no excitement—no “violent
language,” or unpleasant collision. Within twenty steps of
me were twenty carbines, cocked and aimed at my breast—the
officer at the head of the men commanded, “Surrender, or you
are dead”—and, with bitterness in my heart, I surrendered.
“You are an officer, sir?” he said, riding up.
“I am.”
“What command?”
“The Confederate States Army.”
“Rather a considerable force in our front, Lieutenant,” said
the officer, who seemed to be something of a humorist; “send
the prisoner, under guard, to Colonel Wyndham.”
The lieutenant touched his hat—I remember he was a villianous-looking
fellow—and three men separated themselves from
the column and took charge of me.
“Kill him, if he tries to escape,” said the humorous officer.
The men cocked their carbines, and rested them across their
pommels; and, with this pleasing escort, I was conducted, by a
winding road through the woods, to a house near the main road,
which I had remembered passing on the preceding evening.
Here superbly equipped horses were seen tethered to the
boughs and fences—couriers went and came—and my escort
conducted me into the presence of Sir Percy Wyndham, commanding
the cavalry advance-guard of the Federal forces.
