University of Virginia Library

IV.
HOW S— CAPTURED A FEDERAL COLONEL'S
HAT.

Another adventure of S—, the scout, will be here narrated.
He related it to me in my tent near Orange more than a year
ago; but the incidents come back, as do many things in
memory—living, breathing, real, as it were, in the sunshine of
to-day; not as mere shapes and recollections of the past.

In the summer of the good year 1863, S— went with two
or three companions on a little scout toward Warrenton.

Do you know the pretty town of Warrenton, good reader?
'Tis a delightful little place, full of elegant mansions, charming
people, and situated in a lovely country. Nowhere are the
eyes of youthful maidens bluer—au revoir bien-tôt, sweet stars
of my memory!—nowhere are truer hearts, or more open
hands. Here Farley, the famous partisan—one of the friends
I loved—used to scout at will, and when chased by his foes,
rein up his horse on the suburbs, and humorously fire in their
faces as they darted in pursuit of him; laughing quietly with
that low musical laugh of his, as his good horse (“Yankee
property” once) bore him away. Here a friend of mine afterwards—but
whither am I wandering? See the force of habit,
and the inveterate propensity to rove even on paper; the result
of life in the cavalry! I forget that another branch of the
service now claims my thoughts—that the blanket wrapped in
its “Yankee oil-cloth” is rarely strapped behind my saddle as
in the good old days when, following one illustrious for ever, I
knew not whither I was going, where I would stop, or what

greenwood tree would shelter me. Look! the red battle-flag
is floating in the wind; the column moves; will we sleep in
Virginia, Maryland, or Pennsylvania? We knew not, for the
cavalry are your true rovers of the greenwood; so I, who once
was a cavalry-man, rove still, even on paper.

I perceive I am growing dull. To return to S— and his
little scout near Warrenton in 1863. I cannot fail to interest
then, you see, my dear reader; for there is a certain species of
human interest in the adventures of those who deal in

which everybody experiences; and the relation of these sanguinary
adventures demands very little “style.” You tell
your plain story as plainly as possible; and behold! you secure
the luxury of luxuries, a satisfied reader.

S— had, as I have said, two or three companions with him;
and having slept in the woods near Warrenton, the party proceeded
toward Catlett's in search of adventures. There were
plenty of Federal camps there, and in the neighbourhood; and
our scout promised himself much amusement. Behold them
then, full of the spirit of fun, and intent on celebrating the
day by an exciting hunt which should result in the running
down, and killing or capturing of some of the blue people.

They reached the vicinity of the railroad without adventures,
and then proceeded carefully to reconnoitre for the camps
known to be in that vicinity. This search was soon rewarded.
Reaching the summit of a hill, where some trees concealed
them, but the view was unobscured, they perceived in the
valley beneath two extensive camps, one on the right, the
other on the left; the Federal soldiers lounging about in careless
security.

Here was S—'s game plain before him, and waiting as it
were to be trapped. Stragglers from Federal camps—adventurous
explorers of the surrounding country in search of butter,
eggs, or fowls—these were the favourite victims of the scout;
for from such he often obtained valuable information, excellent

horses and equipments, and the finest patterns of revolvers;
all “articles in his line.” To lie in wait for stragglers or
others was thus a very safe game; but on this occasion S—
had loftier views. He had two or three men with him, tried
and trusty comrades; and with an army of this size, he felt
himself able to operate in the open field; making up by dash
and audacity what he lacked in numbers.

Having thus arrived at the conclusion that he could effect
something important, the scout waited for his opportunity, and
this opportunity soon came.

All at once a cortege of cavalry was seen advancing along
the road in the valley from one camp in the direction of the
other; apparently the escort of some officer of distinction.
The party numbered at least twenty, and the ground was unfavourable
for a surprise; but S— was unable to resist the
temptation to attack them, and at least throw them and their
camps into confusion—your true scout and hunter of bluebirds
never experiencing greater pleasure than when he can alone,
or with two or three companions, frighten and startle “to
arms” a whole brigade or regiment of his enemies. S—
accordingly stole down the hill, as much under cover as possible,
until he reached the side of the road over which the officer
and his escort were approaching—then in a few words he explained
his design to the others, and awaited.

The Federal officer came on in profound security, no doubt
considering himself as safe as though at home in his own country;
when suddenly, with a yell that rang through the hills, S—
and his party darted from their place of concealment, and
charged full tilt upon the frightened escort, firing on them as
they charged.

The escort did not await the shock. Believing themselves
waylaid by “Rebel cavalry,” and doomed to certain destruction
if they remained, they turned their horses' heads and broke in
disorder, flying back to the camp from which they came, pursued
by S—'s men.

Their commander, a Colonel, acted with more courage. S—
had shot him through the arm, inflicting a dangerous wound;

but he attempted to draw his pistol and resist, calling all the
time to his cowardly escort to stand. S— immediately
closed in with him and attempted to kill him, but in this he
failed. The Colonel's horse set off at full speed in the direction
of the camp, toward which his rider had been going, and,
turning his own horse, S— followed, yelling and firing his
pistol as he went.

The chase was exciting; the situation altogether singular.
The camp of a whole brigade was directly in front, not four
hundred yards distant, and S— was on the heels of the
Colonel, who was already on the outskirts of the encampment.
The men ran from their tents in astonishment and dismay at
the firing, persuaded that a whole regiment of Confederate
cavalry was charging; and still the Colonel, like John Gilpin
of old, ran his race—not for “a thousand pounds,” but for a
more valuable stake, his life.

S— did not relax his gait or cease pursuit. Now they
were in the very camp; the Colonel still dashes on, and the
scout still follows on his track, firing as he goes. The Colonel
gesticulates violently, and shouts to the men:

“Shoot the d—d rascal! shoot him! There's only one of
them!”

S— laughs and bangs away still with his revolver.

The Colonel is in a frenzy of rage; his frightened horse
shies; the Colonel's hat drops, but the owner cannot stop to
regain it.

S— throws himself from the saddle, picks up the hat, and
again mounts, laughing.

But by this time the game was growing too dangerous. The
men had recovered from their astonishment and were running
to their guns. S— had no desire to receive a volley of musketry;
and, waving the captured hat with one hand, fired his
last barrel with the other at the Colonel, and then retreated at
a gallop, followed by a number of musket-balls, at which, however,
he only laughed.

He soon rejoined his men, who had pursued the escort into
the other camp; and then, as the whole place was buzzing like

a nest of hornets, they quietly disappeared and were soon lost
in the extensive woods, where pursuit was impossible.

What S— did with his hat I am unable to say; but,
doubtless, the heart of some “high Confederate” was charmed
by the offering, for mighty is the market price of all that comes
through the blockade.

If not thus disposed of, the trophy lies somewhere hidden
among the opima spolia of S—, to be shown some day as a
memorial of that gay adventure in the summer forests of Fauquier.