University of Virginia Library

VI.
A YOUNG VIRGINIAN AND HIS SPURS.

1. I.

There is a young gentleman in Virginia bearing a name so
illustrious that, if I were to give it, the most ardent opponents
of the “F. F. V.'s” would take a certain historic interest in what
I am going to relate. When I say that he is called Lieutenant
W—, you cannot possibly guess his name. But to the curious
incident with which I propose to amuse those readers who take
an interest in the veritable occurrences of the great struggle just
terminated.

On the ninth day of June, 1863, there took place at Fleetwood
Hill, near Brandy Station, in Culpeper, the greatest and most
desperate cavalry conflict of the war. Nearly twenty-five thousand
horsemen fought there “all a summer's day”—as when
Earl Percy met the Douglas in the glades of Chevy Chase—and
the combat was of unexampled fury. General Stuart, commanding
all the cavalry of General Lee's army, had held a grand
review some days before, in the extensive fields below the Court-House,
and a mimie battle had taken place, preceding the real
one. The horse artillery, posted on a hill, fired blank cartridges
as the cavalry charged the guns; the columns swept by a great
pole, from which the white Confederate flag waved proudly in
the wind. General Lee, with his grizzled beard and old gray
riding-cape, looked on, the centre of all eyes; bands played, the
artillery roared, the charging squadrons shook the ground, and

from the great crowd assembled to witness the imposing spectacle
shone the variegated dresses and bright eyes of beautiful
women, rejoicing in the heyday of the grand review.

But that roar of artillery in the mimic battle reached other
ears than those for which it was intended. There were some
friends of ours upon the opposite shore of the Rappahannock
who took even greater interest in the movements of General Lee
than the fair daughters of Virginia. The thunder of the artillery
was heard by them, and they at once conceived a burning curiosity
to know what all this firing meant. So, one bright morning
about dawn, they came across the river, about seventeen
thousand in number, to see what “Old Uncle Robert” was
about. Thereupon followed the hard fight of Fleetwood Hill.

A description of this long and desperate struggle is no portion
of the present subject. The Federal forces advanced in front,
on the right flank, on the left flank—everywhere. The battle
was thus fought, so to speak, “from the centre outwards.”
What the eye saw as Stuart rapidly fell back from the river and
concentrated his cavalry for the defence of Fleetwood Hill,
between him and Brandy, was a great and imposing spectacle of
squadrons charging in every portion of the field—men falling,
cut out of the saddle with the sabre; artillery roaring, carbines
cracking—a perfect hurly-burly of conflict.

Some day, perhaps, the present historian may give a page to
this hard battle, and speak of its “moving accidents;” of the
manner in which the cannoneers of the horse-artillery met and
repulsed a charge upon their guns with clubs and sponge-staffs;
how that gallant spirit, P. M. B. Young, of Georgia, met the
heavy flanking column attacking from the side of Stevensburg,
and swept it back with the sabre; how the brave William H. F.
Lee received the charge upon the left and fell in front of his
squadrons at the moment when the Federal forces broke; and
how Stuart, on fire with the heat of battle, was everywhere the
soul and guiding spirit of the desperate struggle.

At four in the evening the assault had been repulsed, and the
Federal cavalry were in hasty retreat across the river again.
Many prisoners remained in the hands of the Confederates, but

they had also lost not a few; for the fight had been so “mixed
up,” and so many small detachments of the Southern cavalry had
been cut off and surrounded in the mélée, that the captures were
considerable.

2. II.

Among those who were thus cut off and captured in this wild
struggle made up of dust, smoke, blood, and uproar, was Lieutenant
W—. His horse had mired in the swampy ground near
the Barbour House, and he was incontinently gobbled up by his
friends in the blue coats, and marched to the rear, that is to say,
across the Rappahannock. Lieutenant W—was an excellent
specimen of those brave youths of the Valley who gathered around
Jackson in the early months of the war, and in the hot fights
of the great campaigns against Banks and Fremont had borne
himself with courage and distinction. Wounded and captured
at Kernstown—I think it was—he had been exchanged, secured
a transfer to the cavalry, and was now again a prisoner.

He was conducted across the Rappahannock with the Confederate
prisoners captured during the day, and soon found himself
minus horse, pistol, and sabre—all of which had, of course, been
taken from him—in front of a bonfire on the north bank of the
river. Around this fire a crowd of Federal cavalry-men were
now assembled, discussing the events of the day, and many of
them entered into conversation with the prisoners, their late adversaries.
Licutenant W—was standing by the fire, no doubt
reflecting upon the curious “ups and downs” of that curious
trade called war, when all at once something familiar in the
voice of a young officer of the Federal force, who was not far
from him, attracted his attention. Looking at the officer closely,
he recognised in him an old friend of his who had formerly resided
in Baltimore; and going up to him, the young Virginian
made himself known.

He was greeted with the utmost pleasure, and the youths
shook hands, laughing like boys at the odd meeting. If I were

a novelist instead of an historian, my dear reader, I would here
insert a lengthy dialogue between the friends; but not having
been present, I can only give you the bare outline of W—'s
adventure. From talk about old scenes, and things of the past,
the conversation glided to the present, and the young Virginian's
unlucky situation. Relying upon their former friendship, the
latter at once broached the subject of his escape.

“I wish I could help you,” was the reply' “but I see no
sort of chance of your getting away, W—.”

“I think I can get off in the dark.”

“Perhaps; but crossing the river is the difficulty. The bridge
is picketed.”

The young Virginian, nevertheless, determined to make the
attempt. From that moment he kept a close watch on the movements
of his captors. Having eaten their suppers, they now
addressed themselves to the task of counting, assorting, and
taking down the names of their prisoners. The latter were
drawn up in a line near the fire, and a Federal officer went along
the line, entering their names and regiments in his memorandum-book.
Lieutenant W—was near the head of the line, and
having given his name and regiment—the Twelth Virginia Cavalry—saw
the officer pass on. I have called him Lieutenant
W—, but the young man was at that time a private; and at
the announcement of his historic name the Federal soldiers began
to laugh, one of them saying “The Old Dominion must be hard
up when her aristocracy have to go in the ranks and wear a
jacket like that!” And he pointed to W—'s old, discoloured
cavalry jacket.

The young man was, however, not thinking of the jokes of his
captors; he was watching his opportunity to glide out of the
line. It soon came. The Federal soldiers were not looking at
him; the recording officer had passed around the fire, the light
of which thus shone for an instant in his eyes and dazzled him,
and Lieutenant W—saw his opportunity. The space outside
of the firelight was as gloomy as Eblis, and in a moment he had
stepped from his place, and was lost in the darkness. He glided
behind a tent, ran a few steps, and then paused to listen.

Had his movement been observed? Would they go over the
count again, to verify the record? Then one man would be found
missing; he would be at once pursued, recaptured, and rewarded
for his attempt to escape by painful or ignominious punishment.
He listened with all his ears; held his breath, and soon found
that he was not missed. The officer did not suspect the ruse
which had been played upon him; and the prisoners were
marched off under guard. Lieutenant W—saw them disppear
with profound satisfaction, and then all his energies were
bent to the hard task of getting out of the Federal camp and
crossing the river. The prospect looked sufficiently dispiriting.
He was in the centre of a city of tents, where he could not stir
a step without attracting attention; and even if he succeeded in
escaping the vigilance of the men and the quarter-guard, the
broad and deep current of the Rappahannock lay still in his
path—the single bridge heavily picketed. The young man did
not lose heart for a single moment, however, and, like a good
soldier, determined to “take the chances.”

The first thing was to conceal his identity from the men around
the fires. He accordingly took off his gray jacket, and rolling
it up, put it under his arm. His pantaloons were blue, and his
hat was of an indefinable colour, which might be either Confederate
or Federal. In his bosom, between his shirt and naked
breast, he concealed his spurs, which he had unbuckled and
hidden when he was captured. Having thus prepared himself,
Lieutenant W—walked boldly on, and lounged carelessly by
the fires. One of the men asked him what regiment he belonged
to, as if they observed something unfamiliar in his demeanour;
but his ready reply, giving the name of some Federal regiment,
entirely disarmed suspicion. So much cavalry had taken part in
the fight, and it had been so much scattered, that W—was
set down for one of the many stragglers; and walking by the
fires, and the quarter-guard, who stared at, but did not challenge
him, he gained the bank of the Rappahannock.

He had thus succeeded in his second attempt; but obstacle
number three threatened to be more serious. The river before
him was broad, deep, black, and cold. The bridge near by was

guarded; he heard the sentinel pacing to and fro, and a second
at the further extremity. What was to be done? Kill the sentinel
by suddenly attacking and seizing his weapon? That,
under other circumstances, might have been done; but there was
the other sentinel, who would at once give the alarm; then recapture,
and a “latter end worse than the first.” This plan was thus
out of the question. But one hope presented itself. The fugitive
could not swim the river; but if by any means he could climb up
to the floor of the bridge inside of the sentinel, he might, perhaps,
crawl along without being discovered, “flank” the sentinel beyond,
and so get back to his friends. Young, lithe, and determined,
Lieutenant W—speedily made a reconnoissance of the
abutments of the bridge to ascertain the possibility of executing
his project. To his great satisfaction he discovered a pipe running
from a tank above to the water below—for this was the
Orange and Alexandria Railroad bridge; and the rivets securing
the pipe to the masonry afforded him an excellent foothold in
climbing. Gliding beneath the sentinel in the darkness, he erept
into the shadow, grasped the pipe, and, with hands and knees,
climbed foot by foot up the abutment, until he had reached the
edge of the floor-way. His hands were torn and his knees lacerated,
but he had taken another step toward liberty.

What now remained to be done was to crawl along the narrow
edge of the parapet, under shadow of a species of low railing,
and crossing the bridge, pass around the other sentinel in some
manner, and escape. This, however, was the most doubtful, as it
was certainly the most dangerous portion of the adventure. The
bridge was very lofty, the ledge narrow, slippery, and unprotected
for he must move outside of the railing for fear of discovery; a single
false step would precipitate him into the river beneath. Even
if this, danger were avoided, there was the sentinel beyond, and a
picket, doubtless, beyond the sentinel. Lieutenant W—was
revolving in his mind these various circumstances, and had begun
to take a rather discouraging view of things, when his attention
was attracted by the sound of steps coming from the direction
of the Federal camp. A detachment of dismounted men were
evidently approaching the bridge, and in a few moments the

voice of the sentinel was heard giving the challenge. “Relief,”
was the reply; and then came, “Advance relief!” which was immediately
followed by the appearance of the relief-guard. The new
sentinel was relieved from his post, and took his place among the
guard, one of whom was posted, and the detachment was heard
tramping across the bridge to relieve in the same manner the other
sentinels. As they came on, tramp! tramp! like the statue of
the commander in “Don Giovanni,” the young Virginian conceived
an idea as bold as it was original. It was difficult to crawl
along the narrow ledge without falling into the black gulf below,
and it was questionable whether any friendly water-pipe would enable
him to “flank” the sentinel at the opposite extremity of the
bridge. Why not “fall in” in the darkness with the unsuspecting
detachment, pass through the guard beyond, and then take the
chances of making his escape? His resolution was at once taken;
and as the guard came opposite his place of concealment behind
the low wood-work of the railing, he crouched lower, waited until
they had passed, and then quietly stepping over the railing, fell in
behind. The movement had been undiscovered; he was now
advancing with measured step to “assist,” as the French say, at
relieving the “Old Guard” on the bridges—himself as honorary
member of the relief.

His ruse was crowned with complete success. He passed with
the detachment undiscovered to a point beyond the bridge; and
then stepping from the ranks—a manœuvre which the pitch
darkness rendered by no means difficult—he concealed himself
until the unsuspecting Federals disappeared. He then crawled on
his hands and knees, crouching close to the ground by another
picket which he saw upon the road, and reaching a point where
he believed himself beyond range, rose to his feet and commenced
moving. All at once he saw before him another picket-fire;
and not knowing whether it was that of friends or enemies,
he again crouched down and slowly approached the fire, crawling
upon his chest along the surface of the ground.

He had succeeded too well up to this time to risk anything;
and he accordingly continued to “snake along” toward the fire,
in order to discover, before making himself known, whether the

ground around it were friends or enemies. In this slow and
cautious manner he approached until he was within ten yards of
it; where, hidden behind a stump, he attentively reconnoitred.
The result was indecisive. He could not possibly succeed in
discovering whether the pickets were Federal or Confederate;
and in relating his adventure afterwards, Lieutenant W—
declared that his heart now throbbed with greater anxiety than
at any other time during the whole affair. He continued for
some time thus crouching behind the stump, and his doubt was
painful and protracted. At last it came to an end; he breathed
freely again. One of the men rose from the ground, yawned,
and said: “I don't believe there will be a Yankee on this side
of the river by the morning.”

Whereupon Lieutenant W—rose up, approached the fire,
and, with a laugh, made himself known, to the profound astonishment
and confusion of the sleepy pickets, who had thus
received a practical illustration of the ease with which an enemy
might approach and send a bullet through their hearts. They,
however, received Lieutenant W—with military hospitality,
gave him a portion of their rations, divided their blankets; and
overcome with fatigue, he lay down and slept until daylight.
Before sunrise he was at General Stuart's headquarters, and was
relating his curious adventure, to the huge amusement of the
laughing cavalier. He was without horse, arms, or other clothes
than those which he wore; but he was free, and he had his spurs,
carried throughout against his naked breast.

Such was the adventure of Lieutenant W—, and such the
means he used in making his escape. The narrative may appear
romantic, but I assure the reader that it is literally true.