University of Virginia Library

VII.
TO GETTYSBURG AND BACK AGAIN.

1. I.

“Ho! for the Valley!”

This was the somewhat dramatic exclamation of Major-General
J. E. B. Stuart, about the 24th of June, 1863, as he got into
the saddle at the little village of Rector's Cross-Roads, between
Middleburg and Upperville, and turned his horse's head westward
toward the Blue Ridge mountains.

If the worthy reader will return in memory to that epoch, and
recall the route which the gay cavalier speedily directed his
column over, the words above quoted will appear somewhat
mysterious. “The situation” at the moment may be described
in a very few words; for the full record, see the “historian of
the future.” After the crushing defeat of Chancellorsville,
General Hooker cut behind him the pontoons covered with pine
boughs, to deaden the noise of his artillery wheels in crossing,
and took up a strong position on the northern bank of the Rappahannock
to repulse the expected onslaught of his great adversary,
Lee. No such attack, however, was intended. Lee preferred
to manœuvre his opponent out of Virginia—it was the
more bloodless proceeding—and very soon the soldiers of the
army understood that “Lee was moving.”

A grand review of the cavalry was ordered, near Culpeper
Court-House, and General Fitz Lee politely sent an invitation to
General Hood to attend it, and “bring any of his friends.” A
day or two afterwards, Hood appeared with his great division,

announcing that these were all “his friends,” and he thought he
would bring them along. The review duly took place east of
the Court-House. The squadrons of cavalry charged—General
Stuart and his staff in front; cannon thundered in mimic conflict;
the sun shone; bright eyes flashed; and beneath the
Confederate banner, rippling on its lofty pole, the Commander-in-Chief
sat his iron-gray, looking on. Festivities at the Court-House
followed; the youngesters of the army had a gay dance
with the young ladies from the country round; and almost in
the midst of the revelry, as at Brussels on the night of Waterloo,
the thunder of artillery was heard from the direction of Fleetwood
Hill, near Brandy. In fact, Stuart had been assailed there
by the élite of the Federal infantry and cavalry, under some of
their ablest commanders—the object of the enemy being to ascertain,
by reconnoissance in force, what all the hubbub of the
review signified—and throughout the long June day, they threw
themselves, with desperate gallantry, against the Southern
horse—no infantry on our side taking part in the action. Colonel
Williams was killed; Captain Farley, of Stuart's staff, was
killed; Captain White, of the staff, too, was wounded; Colonel
Butler was wounded; General W. H. F. Lee was shot down at
the head of his charging column; and Stuart himself was more
than once completely surrounded. For three hours the battle
was “touch and go;” but thanks to the daring charges of Young
and Lee, the enemy were driven; they slowly and sullenly retired,
leaving the ground strewed with their dead, and at nightfall
were again beyond the Rappahannock.

The trumpet of battle had thus been sounded; action followed.
Lee put his columns in motion for Pennsylvania; Stuart advanced
with his cavalry to hold the country east of the Blue
Ridge, and guard the passes as the long column moved through;
and then commenced a war of the giants between the opposing
horse of the Federal and Confederate armies. It was a matter of
grave importance that Hooker should undo the designs of Lee;
and mighty efforts were made to burst through the cavalry
cordon, and strike the flank of the moving army. Stuart was,
however, in the way. On all the roads was his omnipresent

cavalry, under the daring Hampton, Fitz Lee, the gay and gallant
cavalier, and others as resolute. Everywhere the advance
of the enemy's cavalry was met and driven back, until about the
twentieth of June. Then a conclusive trial of strength took
place. A grand reconnoitring force, composed of a division of
infantry under General Birney, I believe, and several divisions
of cavalry, with full supports of artillery, was pushed forward
from Aldie; Stuart was assailed simultaneously along about
fifteen miles of front; and in spite of his most strenuous efforts,
he was forced slowly to fall back toward the Ridge. This was
one of the most stubborn conflicts of the war; and on every
hill, from the summit of every knoll, Stuart fought with artillery,
cavalry, and dismounted sharpshooters, doggedly struggling
to hold his ground. The attempt was vain. Behind the heavy
lines of Federal skirmishers advanced their dense columns of
cavalry; behind the cavalry were seen the bristling bayonets of
their infantry; from the right, the left, and the front, thundered
their excellently served artillery. Stuart was pushed from hill
to hill, the enemy came on mile after mile, and at Upperville a
great disaster seemed imminent. The Federal forces closed in
on front and flanks, made a desperate attack with the sabre,
and the result seemed about to be decided. Stuart was in the
very hottest of the press, sword in hand, determined evidently
to repulse the enemy or die, and his black feather was the mark
of a hundred pistol-balls—his rich uniform clearly indicating
his rank to the Federal troopers almost in contact with him.
This was the depressing situation of affairs—the centre driven,
and the column on the Bloomfield road falling rapidly back on
the left, thus exposing the main body to imminent danger of
being cut off, when the Deus ex machinâ appeared in the person
of Wade Hampton. That good cavalier saw the crisis, formed his
column under the heavy fire, and taking command in person,
went at them with the sabre, seareely firing a shot. The result
was that the Federal line was swept back, the élite of the
charging force put hors du combat by the edge of the sabre, and
the Southern column fell back toward Paris, in the mouth of
Ashby's Gap, without further difficulty.

The enemy had accomplished their object, and they had not
accomplished it. Stuart was forced to retire, but they had not
succeeded in penetrating to the Ridge. No doubt the presence of
infantry there was discovered or suspected, but otherwise the
great reconnoissance was unproductive of substantial results.

On the same night they retired. Stuart followed them at
dawn with his whole force; and by mid-day he was in possession
of Middleburg, several miles in advance of his position on the
day before.

Such was the quick work of these two days.

2. II.

It was about three days after these events that Stuart sprang
with a gay laugh to saddle, turned his horse's head westward,
and uttered that exclamation:

“Ho! for the Valley!”

Now, if the reader will permit, I beg to descend from the
lofty heights of historic summary to the level champaign of my
personal observations and adventures. From the heights alluded
to, you see a long distance, and distinguish the “important
events” in grand outline; but in the level you are greeted by
more of the colouring of what occurs. In this paper I design
recording some scenes and incidents as they passed before my
own eyes, rather than to sum up facts in “official” form. A
memoir rather than a history is intended; and as a human
being can only remember what he has seen and felt, the present
writer—even at the risk of being charged with egotism—is going
to confine himself, as closely as possible, to his own adventures
and impressions de voyage.

“Ho for the Valley!” was a truly delightful exclamation to
me. Bright eyes of various colours shone there by the Shenandoah
and Opequon; there were some voices whose music I had
not heard for a long time. The prospect now of seeing the eyes,
and hearing the voices, banished every other thought, even the
remembrance of that heavy misfortune of having had my military

satchel, with all I possessed in the way of a wardrobe, captured
by the enemy a few days before when they drove us from
the Cross-Roads. There could certainly be no doubt about the
General's meaning. He had turned his horse toward the Ridge.
“Ho! for the Valley!” indicated his intended line of march;
he, like myself, was going to see his good friends all in that land
of lands along the Shenandoah.

Alas! and whenever that pithy word is employed by a writer,
the reader knows what he has to expect. General Stuart had
scarcely got out of sight of the village, carolling a gay song as
he rode, when the disconsolate staff-officer beside him observed a
movement of the General's left rein; his horse cleared a fence;
and ten minutes afterwards he was riding rapidly castward, in a
direction precisely opposite to the Blue Ridge. The General had
practised a little ruse to blind the eyes of the Cross-Roads villagers
—was doubling on the track; he was going after General
Hooker, then in the vicinity of Manassas, and thence—whither?

We bivouacked by the roadside under some pines that night,
advanced before dawn, drove a detachment of the enemy from
Glasscock's Gap, in the Bull Run mountain, and pushed on to
cut off any force which lingered in the gorge of Thoroughfare Gap.
When cavalry undertake to cut off infantry, the process is exciting,
but not uniformly remunerative. It was the rear of Hancock's
corps which we struck not far from Haymarket; there,
passing rapidly toward Manassas, about eight hundred yards off,
were the long lines of wagons and artillery; and behind these
came on the dense blue masses of infantry, the sunshine lighting
up their burnished bayonets.

Stuart hastened forward his artillery; it opened instantly upon
the infantry, and the first shot crashed into a caisson, making the
horses rear and run; the infantry line bending backward as
though the projectile had struck it. This “good shot” highly
delighted the General, who turned round laughing, and called
attention to the accuracy of the fire. The individual addressed
laughed in response, but replied, “Look out, though; they are
going to enfilade you from that hill on the right, General.”
“Oh! I reckon not,” responded the General; but he had scarcely

spoken when a puff of white smoke rose from the wooded
knoll in question, and a shot screamed by, just grazing the top
of one of our caissons near the guns. This was followed by
another and another; the enemy were seen hastily forming
line, and advancing sharpshooters; whereupon Stuart ordered
back his guns, and dismounted cavalry to meet them.

A running fight; enemy merely holding their flank intact;
soon the line had passed on and disappeared; the cavalry saw
vanish safely all those tantalizing wagons filled with good, rich
forage, and who knew what beside. Stuart meanwhile had sent
off Mosby, with a party of picked men, to reconnoitre, and was
sleeping with his head upon an officer's breast—to the very
extreme discomfort of that personage, whose profound respect for
his sleepy military superior prevented him from changing his
position.

With night came rain, and the General and his staff were
invited to the handsome mansion of Dr.—, near Bucklands,
where all slept under cover but Stuart. Everywhere he insisted
on faring like his men; and I well remember the direction given
to his body-servant a few days before, to spread his blankets
under a tree on a black and stormy night with the rain descending
in torrents—the house in which he had established his headquarters
being only twenty paces from the tree. On this night
at Bucklands he repeated the ceremony, but a gay supper preceded
it.

That supper is one of the pleasant memories the present writer
has of the late war. How the good companions laughed and
devoured the viands of the hospitable host! How the beautiful
girls of the family stood with mock submission, servant-wise,
behind the chairs, and waited on the guests with their sweetest
smiles, until that reversal of all the laws of the universe became
a perfect comedy, and ended in an éclat of laughter! General
and staff waited in turn on the waiters; and when the tired
troopers fell asleep on the floor of the portico, it is certain that a
number of bright eyes shone in their dreams. Such is the
occasional comedy which lights up the tragedy of war.

The bugle sounded; we got into the saddle again; the columns

moved; and that evening we had passed around Manassas,
where Hooker's rear force still lingered, and were approaching
Fairfax Station through the great deserted camps near Wolf
Run Shoals. The advance pushed on through the wild and
desolate locality, swarming with abandoned cabins and army
débris; and soon we had reached the station, which is not far
from the Court-House.

Here took place a little incident, known afterwards among the
present writer's friends as the “Cherry-Pie Breakfast.” A brief
notice of this historic occurrence may entertain the reader.
Three members of the staff and a young courier left the column
to seek a blacksmith, whose services were needed; and the house
of this worthy was found about half a mile east of the station.
He was a friend of the gray, prompt and courteous, and soon
was busy at the hoofs of the horses; his good wife meanwhile
getting breakfast for the party. It was speedily served, and
consisted of every delicacy—bread of all descriptions, fresh butter,
yellow cream, sweetmeats, real coffee, then an extreme
luxury, and some cherry pies, which caused the wandering staff
officers to break forth into exclamations of rapture. A heavy
attack was made upon all, and our “bluebird” friends themselves,
fond as they are said to be of the edible, could not have
surpassed the devotion exhibited toward the cherry pies. At
the end of the repast one of the party, in the enthusiasm of the
moment, piled up several pieces of the pie, drew out his purse,
and determined to carry off the whole for future consumption;
whereat a friendly contest occurred between himself and the
excellent dame, who could not be induced to receive pay from
any member of the party for her entertainment. “She had
never charged a Confederate soldier a cent, and never meant to.”

All this was peaceful and pleasing; but all at once there was
a stir in the yard, and without securing the pie, we went out.
Lo! a gentleman in a blue coat and mounted was seen rapidly
approaching below the house, followed by others.

“Look out!” said Major V—; “there are the Yankees!”

“They are running by—they won't stop. What are you
going to do?” I said.

“I am going to put the bridle on my horse!”

And the Major bridled up and mounted rapidly.

“Well, I am going to wait to have the shoes put on mine.”

Idle and absurd intent! Even as I spoke, the party scattered,
Major V— galloping to the right, Major Mc— to
the left, with the courier. A single glance revealed the “situation.”
Another party of blue-coats were rushing at full gallop
toward the house from above. Shots suddenly resounded.
“Hi! hi! halt!” followed; and I had just time to mount and
pass at full speed across the front of the party, pursued by more
shots and “hi-hi's!” Admire, reader, the spectacle of the stampeded
staff officers! My friend in front resembled the worthy
Gilpin, with a pistol holster for the jug—his horse's tail “floating
free,” and every nail in the hind shoes of the animal visible
as he darted headlong toward the protecting woods! We
plunged through a swamp, jumped fences and fallen trees, and
reaching the forest-cover, penetrated a thicket, and stopped to
listen. The shouts died away; no sound of hoofs came, and
doubling back, we came again to the station to find the meaning
of everything. Stuart had been quietly waiting there for his
column, with the bridle out of his horse's mouth, in order that
the animal might champ some “Yankee oats,” when all at once a
scouting-party had come at full gallop from the direction of the
Court-House. Before he was aware of their approach, they
' whenearly upon him; he had just had time to escape by seizing
the halter and digging the spurs into his horse.

Then the scouting party, finding the size of the hornets'enest
into which they had leaped, turned their horses'eheads eastward,
bore down on the blacksmith's whither we had gone, interrupted
the “cherry-pie breakfast,” and vanished toward Sanxter's, chasing
Major V— until he came up with Munford. When our
probable capture was announced to General Stuart, and a squadron
requested for our recovery, I am sorry to say that the
General responded with a laugh, “Oh! they are too intelligent
to be caught!” and when the incident of the abandonment of
the cherry-pie was related to Stuart, he enjoyed it in a remarkable
degree!

Do you remember still, my dear companions, that good cherry-pie
breakfast, the chase which followed, and the laughter of
Stuart? That was a jovial trip we made across the border in
the good year 1863; and the days and nights were full of incident
and adventure. Do you find the present year, 1866, as
“gay and happy” as its predecessor? I do not.

3. III.

Our mishap above related was truly unfortunate. It gave the
advance-guard the start, and when we reached Fairfax Court-House,
they had rifled the public store-houses and sutlers' shops
of their entire contents.

It was impossible to forbear from laughing at the spectacle
'hich the cavalry column presented. Every man had on a
white straw hat, and a pair of snowy cotton gloves. Every
trooper carried before him upon the pommel of his saddle a bale
of smoking tobacco, or a drum of figs; every hand grasped a pile
of ginger-cakes, 'hich were rapidly disappearing. But hospitality
to the rear-guard was the order of the day. We did not
suffer. The mishaps of my comrades and myself had in some
manner become known, and we were greeted with shouts of
laughter, but with soldierly generosity too. Every hand proffered
a straw hat of the most elegant pattern, or a pair of gloves
as white as the driven snow. Every comrade held out his figs,
pressed on his cakes, or begged us to try his smoking tobacco—
'hich I am compelled to say was truly detestable.

Such was the gay scene at Fairfax Court-House when Stuart
entered the place.

The cavalry did not stop long. Soon the column was again
moving steadily towards the Potomac, intelligence having arrived
that General Hooker's main body had passed that river
at Leesburg. What would Stuart do—what route would he
now follow? There were few persons, if any, in the entire command,
'ho could reply to that question. Cross at Leesburg?
To merely follow up Hooker 'hile Hooker followed up Lee,

was very unlike Stuart. Strike across for the Blue Ridge, and
cross at Shepherdstown? That would lose an immense amount
of invaluable time and horse-flesh. Cross below Leesburg? That
seemed impossible with the artillery, and difficult even for
cavalry. The river was broad, deep, with a rocky and uneven
bed; and so confident were the enemy of the impossibility of our
crossing there, that not a picket watched the stream.

Stuart's design was soon developed. We reached at nightfall
an elevation not far from the Great Falls—the spot laid down
on the maps as Matildaville, or near it—Stuart riding with staff
and advance guard far in front. The latter pushed on—the rest
stopping—when all at once shots came from the front, and Stuart
called out cheerily to the staff: “Look out! Here they come!
Give it to them with pistols!” The bang of carbines followed:
a squadron hastened to the front, and opened fire; and in the
midst of it Stuart said, “Tell Hampton—you can follow his trail
—that Chambliss is up, and Fitz Lee coming.” The “trail” was
plain in the moonlight; I followed it; and reaching the Potomac
just above the Falls, found Hampton crossing.

The spectacle was picturesque. The broad river glittered in
the moon, and on the bright surface was seen the long, wavering
line of dark figures, moving “in single file;” the water washing
to and fro across the backs of the horses, 'hich kept their feet
with difficulty. The hardest portion of the task was crossing
the cannon of the horse-artillery. It seemed impossible to get
the limbers and caissons over without wetting, and so destroying
the ammunition; but the ready brain of Stuart found an expedient.
The boxes were quickly unpacked; every cavalry-man
took charge of a shell, case, or solid shot with the fixed cartridge;
and thus held well aloft, the precious freight was carried over
dry. Once on the other side, the shell-bearers deposited the
ammunition on the beach; it was repacked in the caissons, 'hich
had been dragged by the plunging horses over the rocky bed in
safety; the guns followed; the artillery was over!

At Hanovertown, in Pennsylvania, two or three days afterwards,
the cavalry did not by any means regret the trouble they
had been put to in carrying over that ammunition “dry shod.”

Breathed thundered with it from the heights, and with shell
after shell broke the heavy line advancing to the assault.
Never was thunder sweeter and more musical! But I anticipate.

The river was crossed; also the Chesapeake and Ohio canal,
by a narrow bridge; and the cavalry halted for brief rest—the
General and staff receiving open-handed hospitality from Mr.
—and his family; those guardian angels of the soldier, the
ladies, staying up all night to wait upon the weary gray-backs,
and give them food.

The column moved at dawn toward the “undiscovered land”
of Star-and-Stripe-dom, in a northern direction, toward Rockville.
It was not long before we came on the blue people.
“Bang! bang! bang!” indicated that the advance guard was
charging a picket; the shots ended; we pushed on, passing some
dead or wounded forms, bleeding by the grassy roadside; and
the town of Rockville came in sight. The present writer pushed
on after the advance guard, 'hich had galloped through, and
riding solus along a handsome street, came suddenly upon a
spectacle which was truly pleasing. This was a seminary for
young ladies, with open windows, open doors—and doors and
windows were full and running over with the fairest specimens
of the gentler sex that eye ever beheld. It was Sunday, and
the beautiful girls in their fresh gaily coloured dresses, low necks,
bare arms, and wildernesses of braids and curls, were “off duty”
for the moment, and burning with enthusiasm to welcome the
Southerner; for Rockville, in radical parlance, was a “vile secesh
hole.” Every eye flashed, every voice exclaimed; every rosy lip
laughed; every fair hand waved a handkerchief or a sheet of
music (smuggled) with crossed Confederate flags upon the cover.
The whole façade of the building was a tulip-bed of brilliant
colours, more brilliant eyes, and joy and welcome!

Pardon, friend, if you are of the “other faction,” this little
burst of enthusiasm, as I remember Rockville on that gay June
morning. Pleasant it is in the dull hours of to-day to recall
that scene; and the bright eyes flash once more, the laughter
again sounds!

As the present historian drew near, riding as aforesaid, ahead
of his commander, a beautiful girl of about sixteen rushed forth
from the portico, pirouetting and clapping her hands in an
ecstasy at the sight of the gray uniform, exclaiming, “Oh! here
is one of General Stuart's Aides!” and finished by pulling some
hair from the mane of my calm and philosophic old war-horse,
on the expressly stated ground that he was “a Secession horse!”
Then General Stuart approached with his column—gay, laughing,
his blue eyes under the black feather full of the joy of the
soldier; and a wild welcome greeted him. The scene was one
'hich beggars description, and it remains in my memory to-day
as clearly as though cut deep in “monumental alabaster.”
Sweet faces, with the beautiful welcoming eyes, and smiling
lips! an ex-rebel—he who writes this page—takes off his hat
and bows low to you, saluting you as the pearls of loveliness
and goodness!

4. IV.

Stuart did not tarry. In war there is little time for gallant
words, and news had just reached us from the front 'hich
moved the column on like the sound of the bugle.

This news was, that 'hile we approached Rockville from the
south, a mighty train of nearly two hundred wagons—new,
fresh-painted, drawn each by six sleek mules, as became the
“Reserve Forage Train” of the Department at Washington—
had in like manner approached from the east, intent on collecting
forage. The rumour of the dread vicinity of the graybacks
had come to them, however, blown on the wind; the column of
wagons had instantly “counter-marched” in the opposite direction;
they ' whenow thundering at full gallop back toward
Washington, pursued by the advance guard.

Stuart's face flushed at the thought of capturing this splendid
prize; and shouting to a squadron to follow him, and the main
column to push on, he went at a swift gallop on the track of the
fleeing wagons.

Soon we came up with them, and then commenced an indescribably

grotesque scene. The immense train was seen covering
the road for miles. Every team in full gallop, every wagon
whirling onward, rebounding from rocks, and darting into the
air,—one crashing against another “with the noise of thunder”—
here one overturned, and lying with wheels upward, the mules
struggling and kicking in the harness; then one toppling over a
steep bank, and falling with a loud crash: others burning, others
still dashing for shelter to the woods,—the drivers cursing, yelling,
lashing, blaspheming, howling amid the bang of carbines,
the clatter of hoofs, and cries of “Halt! halt! halt!”

Stuart burst into laughter, and turning round, exclaimed:
“Did you ever see anything like that in all your life!” And I
certainly never had. The grotesque ruled; the mules seemed
wilder than the drivers. They had been cut by the score from
the overturned wagons, and now ran in every direction, kicking
up at every step, sending their shrill cries upon the air, and presenting
a spectacle so ludicrous that a huge burst of “Olympian
laughter” echoed from end to end of the turnpike.

Soon they were all stopped, captured, and driven to the rear
by the aforesaid cursing drivers, now sullen, or laughing like the
captors. All but those overturned. These were set on fire, and
soon there rose for miles along the road the red glare of flames,
and the dense smoke of the burning vehicles. They had been
pursued within sight of Washington, and I saw, I believe, the
dome of the capitol. That spectacle was exciting—and General
Stuart thought of pushing on to make a demonstration against
the defences. This, however, was given up; and between the
flames of the burning wagons we pushed back to Rockville,
through which the long line of captured vehicles, with their
sleek, rosetted mules, six to each, had already defiled, amid the
shouts of the inhabitants. Those thus “saved” were about one
hundred in number.

The column moved, and about ten that night reached Brookville,
where the atmosphere seemed Southern, like that of Rockville,
for a bevy of beautiful girls thronged forth with baskets of
cakes, and bread and meat, and huge pitchers of ice-water—penetrating
fearlessly the press of trampling hoofs and ministering

to the necessities of the rebels with undisguised satisfaction.
If the fair girl living in the handsome mansion below Mr.
Hamilton's, remembers still to whom she insisted upon presenting
nine cups of coffee with every delicacy, the rebel in question
begs to assure her of his continued gratitude for her kindness.
At Brookville some hundreds of prisoners—the greater part captured
by General Wickham in a boat at the Potomac—were
paroled and started for Washington, as an act of humanity.

At one o'clock in the morning Stuart mounted and moved on,
speedily falling asleep in the saddle, and tottering from side to
side. In this he was not alone; and I remember the laughable
spectacle of Major M—, sitting grave, erect, and motionless upon
his horse in front of a country store by the roadside, to which
the animal had made his way and halted. The Major seemed to
be waiting—for somebody, or something—meanwhile he was snoring.
Moving steadily on, the column approached Westminster,
and here Fitz Lee, who was in advance, found the enemy drawn
up in the street awaiting him. A charge quickly followed,
carbines banged, and the enemy gave way—but we left behind,
lying dead by the roadside, Lieutenants Murray and Gibson, two
of our best officers, shot dead in the skirmish. The enemy were
pursued at full gallop through the town, to their camp on the
heights to the west; the camp was taken with all its contents—and
the bugles of Fitz Lee, sounding on the wind from the
breezy upland, told that he had driven the Federal cavalry before
him. Westminster was ours.

Stuart took possession, but was not greeted with much cordiality.
Friends, and warm ones, met us, but they had a “hacked”
demeanour, and many of them spoke under their breath.
Westminster was evidently “Union,” but some families warmly
welcomed us—others scowled. The net results of the capture
of the place were—one old dismounted gun of the “Quaker”
order on a hill near the cavalry camp aforesaid, and a United
States flag taken from the vault of the Court-House, with the
names of the ladies who had made it worked across each star.
What became of this I do not know. We left the town that
night, bivouacked in the rain by the roadside, pushed on at

dawn, and were soon in Pennsylvania, where details were immediately
sent out to seize horses. These, as I saw them pass in
great numbers, were large, fat, sleek, and apparently excellent.
I was not long, however, in discovering that they were worthless
as riding-horses; one of the thin, wiry, rawboned Virginia horses,
half the weight of these Conestogas, would wear out a dozen.
One had “blood,” the other had not—and blood will tell.

We were enemies here, but woman, the angelic, still succoured
us; woman, without shoes or stockings often, and speaking
Dutch, but no less hospitable. One of them presented me with
coffee, bread spread with “apple-butter”—and smiles. I don't
think the Mynheers found the gray people very fierce and
bloody. The horses were appropriated; but beyond that nothing—the
very necks of the chickens went unwrung.

The column was in high glee thus far, and the men were
rapidly receiving “remounts.” No enemy approached—your
old soldier never very bitterly laments that circumstance; but
all at once as we approached Hanovertown, we stirred up the
hornets. Chambliss—that brave soul who afterwards fell heroically
fighting in Charles City—at the head of the Ninth Virginia
drove in their pickets; and he had just swept on down the
heights toward the town, whose steeples shone before us
nestling beneath the mountain, when Stuart in person rode up
rapidly.

“Well, General,” I said, “Chambliss has driven them, and is
going right on.”

“Good!” was Stuart's reply. “Tell him to push on and
occupy the town, but not to pursue them too far.”

These words were impressed upon my memory by the sequel,
which laughably but very disagreeably reversed the General's
expectations. Hastening down the declivity with the order for
Chambliss, I found him advancing rapidly in column of fours to
charge the enemy, who were drawn up in the outskirts of the
town. Before he could issue the order it was rendered somewhat
nugatory by the blue people in front. We had supposed
their force to be small, but it was now seen to be heavy. They
swarmed everywhere, right, left, and front; rapidly formed line

of battle, and delivering a sharp volley at short range in
the faces of the Confederates, made a gallant and headlong
charge.

The result made it unnecessary to warn the men not to “pursue
too far.” They met the charge sabre to sabre; a hot conflict
ensued, but the enemy pressing on with unbroken front in heavy
force, the Ninth fell back in good order to the higher ground in
their rear, keeping off the assailants at the edge of the sabre.
The road over which they made this “retrograde” was narrow,
and the mêlée of trampling hoofs, shouts, and sabre-cuts, was more
exciting than amusing. Men fell all around before the fire of
the excellent Spencer rifles of the enemy; and while gallantly
rallying the men, Captain John Lee was shot through the arm.
To add to the disagreeable character of the situation, I now
observed General Stuart in person, and unattended, coming
across the field to the right at full gallop, pursued by a detachment
of cavalry who fired on him as they came, and as I reached
his side his face was stormy, his voice irate.

“Have the artillery put in position yonder on the road; tell
it to open!” was his brief order.

And in a few minutes it was hurried forward, and opened
fire. Returning to the field in which I had left the General, I
found him the second time “falling back” before a hotter pursuit
than the first. The Federal cavalry-men, about a company,
were nigh upon him as he galloped across the field; shots
whistled; orders to halt resounded; but it may be understood
that it was inconvenient to comply. We went on headlong,
leaped a tremendous ravine with the enemy almost in contact,
and following a friendly lane where the rails were down, reached
the slope where the artillery had just opened its thunders.

This checked the enemy's further advance, and Hampton having
opened on the right, things settled down somewhat. We
had evidently waked up a real hornets' nest, however. Long
columns of blue cavalry were seen defiling down the mountain,
and advancing to the front, and a heavy force was observed
closing in on the left. All at once the edge of the town swarmed
with blue figures; a heavy line was seen advancing, and soon

this line pushed on with cheers, to charge the artillery on the
heights.

Breathed replied by opening upon them with shell and canister.
The first shell burst in the line; the second near the first;
and the third made it waver. A more rapid fire succeeded;
everything depended upon these few moments, and then the line
was seen slowly retiring. At the same instant intelligence came
that the force on the left was Fitz Lee, who had come in on
that flank; and the continuous thunder of Hampton on the
right showed plainly that in that direction all was well. This
advance of the Federal sharpshooters was one of the finest sights
I ever beheld; and at one moment I thought Breathed's guns
would never leave that field of tall rye where they were vomiting
fire and smoke—under the command of this gallant Major
at least. Whether this historian also would succeed in retiring
without capture seemed equally doubtful, as he had mounted a
huge Conestoga—fat, sleek, elephantine, and unwieldy—a philosophic
animal who stood unmoved by the cannon, never blinking
at the discharges, and appeared superior to all the excitements
of the moment. Breathed's fire, however, repulsed the
charge; and as night drew on, Stuart set his column in motion—
the wagons in the centre—toward Jefferson. One ludicrous
scene at that moment I perfectly remember. A fat Dutchman
who had been lounging about, and reconnoitring the strength,
etc., of the Confederate force, was regarded as too well informed
to be left behind with the enemy; and this worthy was accordingly
requested to “come along” on the back of a huge Conestoga.
This request he treated with calm disregard, when a
cavalry-man made a tremendous blow at him, which caused him
to mount in hot haste, with only a halter to guide his elephant.
He had no sooner done so than the Conestoga ran off, descended
the slope at full speed, bounded elephant-wise over an enormous
ditch—and it was only by clinging close with knees and hands
that the Dutchman kept his seat. Altogether, the spectacle was
one to tickle the ribs of death. The last I saw of the captive,
he was in the very centre of the cavalry column, which was
moving at a trot, and he was swept on with it; passing away

for ever from the eyes of this historian, who knows not what
became of him thereafter.

The sun began to decline now, and we rode, rode, rode—the
long train of wagons strung out to infinity, it seemed. At dark
the little village of Jefferson was reached—of which metropolis
I recall but one souvenir. This was a pretty Dutch girl, who
seemed not at all hostile to the gray people, and who willingly
prepared me an excellent supper of hot bread, milk, coffee, and
eggs fried temptingly with bacon. She could not speak English
—she could only look amiable, smile, and murmur unintelligible
words in an unknown language. I am sorry to say, that I do not
recall the supper with a satisfaction as unalloyed. I was sent
by the General to pass somebody through his pickets, and on my
return discovered that I was the victim of a cruel misfortune.
The young hostess had placed my supper on a table in a small
apartment, in which a side door opened on the street; through
this some felonious personage had entered—hot bread, milk,
coffee, eggs, and ham, had vanished down some hungry cavalryman's
throat.

Mounting despondingly, I followed the column, which had
again begun to move, and soon reached the village of New
Salem.

5. V.

It was nearly midnight when we arrived at this small village;
and, to continue my own personal recollections, the village
tavern appeared to present a favourable opportunity to redeem
my misfortune at Jefferson.

It was proposed, accordingly, to the General that he should
stop there and procure some coffee, of which he was very fond—
and as he acceded to this cheerfully, I applied to the burly landlord,
who responded encouragingly. In a quarter of an hour the
coffee was ready; also some excellent ale; also some bread and
the inseparable “apple butter,” or “spreading,” as the Pennsylvanians
call this edible. When General Stuart had emptied his

coffee-cup—which always put the stout cavalier in a gay humour
—he laughed, mounted his horse, and said to me:

“By the by, suppose you stay here until Hampton comes
along; I am going on with Fitz Lee. Tell Hampton to move
on steadily on the road to Dover, and show him the way.”

With these words, the General rode away on the track of
General Fitz Lee, and the present writer was left solus, to “hold
the position alone” at Salem. This position, it speedily appeared,
was not wholly desirable. The advance division under
Lee had pushed on several miles ahead—there was not a single
cavalryman beside myself in Salem—and Hampton was several
miles behind. To add to the charms of the “situation,” there
were a number of extremely cut-throat looking individuals of the
“other faction” lounging about the porch, eyeing the lonely
Confederate askance, and calculating apparently the chance of
“suppressing” him without danger—and the individual in this
disagreeable situation was nearly dead for want of sleep.

There appeared, however, to be very little real hostility—such
as I imagine would have been exhibited by the inhabitants of a
Southern village had an officer of the U. S. army been left
behind under similar circumstances. Doubtless the hangers-on
were impressed with the conviction that in case the wandering
staff-officer did not rejoin his command, General Stuart would
return to look for him, torch in hand, when the village of New
Salem would make its exit in a bonfire. The portly landlord,
especially, appeared to be a real philosopher; and when asked
the meaning of a distant noise, replied with a laugh, “Some of
your people tearing up the railroad, I guess!”

In spite of the worthy's strong coffee and the unpleasing expression
of eye in the crowd around, I was just dropping asleep
in my chair on the porch, when the clatter of hoofs resounded,
and the voice of General Hampton was heard in the darkness,
asking if there was any one there to direct him. This sound
aroused me, and in a few moments I was riding with the brave
cavalier at the head of his column toward Dover. Toward dawn
General Hampton halted, and I asked if he was going to stop.

“Yes, for a little while—I am perishing for sleep.”

And with these words the General proceeded to a haystack
near the road, pulled down some of the hay, wrapped himself in
his cape, and in a few minutes was fast asleep—his companion
exactly imitating him.

At daylight we reached the straggling little village of Dover,
where more prisoners were paroled; thence proceeded through
a fine country towards Carlisle; at Dillstown procured dinner
from the landlord of the principal tavern, a philosophic Mr. Miller,
whose walls were covered with pictures of black trotters in
skeleton conveyances, making rapid time; and at night reached
Carlisle, which General Stuart immediately summoned to surrender
by flag of truce.

The reply to this was a flat refusal from General Smith; and
soon a Whitworth gun in the town opened, and the Southern
guns replied. This continued for an hour or two, when the U. S.
barracks were fired, and the light fell magnificently upon the
spires of the city, presenting an exquisite spectacle.

Meanwhile, the men were falling asleep around the guns, and
the present writer slept very soundly within ten feet of a battery
hotly firing. Major R—leaned against a fence within a few
paces of a howitzer in process of rapid discharge, and in that upright
position “forgot his troubles.” The best example, however,
was one which General Stuart mentioned. He saw a man climb
a fence, put one leg over, and in that position drop asleep!

Any further assault upon Carlisle was stopped by a very simple
circumstance. General Lee sent for the cavalry. He had
recalled Early from York; moved with his main column east of
the South Mountain, toward the village of Gettysburg; and
Stuart was wanted. In fact, during the afternoon of our advance
to Carlisle—the first of July—the artillery fire of the “first
day's fight” was heard, and referring to Lloyd's map, I supposed
it to be at Gettysburg, a place of which I had no knowledge.
How unexpected was the concentration of the great opposing
forces there, will appear from General Stuart's reply, “I reckon
not,” when the firing was spoken of as “near Gettysburg.” No
one then anticipated a battle there—Generals Lee and Meade
almost as little as the rest.

In spite of the broken-down condition of his command, Stuart
moved at once—and whole columns went to sleep in the saddle.
Pennsylvania had so far proved to us a veritable “Land of
Drowsy head!”

This night march was the most severe I ever experienced. The
long succession of sleepless nights had prostrated the strongest,
and General Stuart and his staff moving without escort on the
Willstown road, passed over mile after mile asleep in the saddle.
At dawn, the General dismounted in a clump of trees by the
roadside; said, “I am going to sleep two hours;” and wrapping
himself in his cape simply leaned against a tree and was immediately
asleep. Everybody imitated him, and I was awakened by
the voice of one of the couriers, who informed me that “the
General was gone.” Such was the fact—Stuart had risen punctually
at the end of the two hours, stretched himself, mounted,
and ridden on solus, a wandering Major General in the heart of
Pennsylvania! In the afternoon the cavalry were at Gettysburg.

6. VI.

General Stuart arrived with his cavalry on the evening of the
“second day's fight” at Gettysburg, and took position on the
left of Ewell, whose command composed the left wing of the
army.

All Stuart's energies were now bent to acquire an accurate
idea of the ground, and hold the left against the enemy's horse,
who were active and enterprising. In reconnoitring their position
on the railroad, he was suddenly fired upon at close quarters—the
bullets passing in dangerous proximity—and having
thus satisfied himself of the enemy's whereabouts, the General
returned to his impromptu headquarters, namely a tree on the
side of the Heidelburg road, about a mile from the town. Meanwhile
we had learned the particulars of the two hard fights—A.
P. Hill's on the evening of the first of July; and Longstreet's
on the second, when he made that desperate flank attack on the

enemy's left at Round Top. It is easy to see, now, that this assault
was the turning point of the tremendous struggle. For
thirty minutes the issue hung suspended in the balances, and
there is some truth in the rhetorical flourish of a Northern verse-writer,
to the effect that “the century reeled,” when Longstreet
paused on the brow of the hill. Had he gained possession of the
Round Top, General Meade's line would have been taken in
flank and reverse; he would doubtless have been forced to fall
back to another position; this would have been undertaken under
the fire of the Southern cannon and muskets; and once in motion
it is doubtful if the U. S. army could have been brought up
to a new struggle. If not, Baltimore and Washington would
speedily have been occupied by the Southern forces—the result
of which would probably have been peace.

But this is a long digression from the cavalry operations. The
“third day” dawned; Stuart took post with his cavalry on the
extreme right and rear of the Federal forces—and the thunder
opened. We could only hear the battle, not see it. The Federal
cavalry kept us quite busy. It was handled here with skill
and gallantry—the heavy lines were seen to form, the officers
galloping up and down; three measured cheers were given by
the men, apparently by formal military order, they were so
regular; then the bugle sounded, and the blue horsemen came
on shaking the ground with their trampling hoofs. The struggle
was bitter and determined, but brief. For a moment the air was
full of flashing sabres and pistol smoke, and a wild uproar
deafened the ears; then the Federal horse gave back, pursued
by their opponents. We lost many good men, however; among
the rest, General Hampton was shot in the side, and nearly cut
out of the saddle by a sabre stroke. Ten minutes before I had
conversed with the noble South Carolinian, and he was full of
life, strength, and animation. Now he was slowly being borne to
the rear in his ambulance, bleeding from his dangerous wounds.
General Stuart had a narrow escape in this charge, his pistol
hung in his holster, and as he was trying to draw it, he received
the fire of barrel after barrel from a Federal cavalryman within
ten paces of him, but fortunately sustained no injury.

Having failed in this charge the enemy did not attempt
another; the lines remained facing each other, and skirmishing,
while the long thunder of the artillery beyond, indicated the
hotter struggle of Cemetery Hill. Pickett's Virginians, we afterwards
knew, were making their “wild charge” at that moment:
advancing into that gulf of fire from which so few were to return;
Kemper was being shot down; Armistead was falling as
he leaped his horse over the Federal breastworks—the fate of
Gettysburg was being decided.

Night settled down, and still ignorant of the result, Stuart
rode along the whole front where the sharpshooters were still
firing. In the yard of a house there was a dead man lying, I
remember, in a curious position—as men killed in battle often
do—and another blue sharpshooter, who had been summoned
to advance and surrender, was staggering up with his face all
bloody. Such are the trifles which cling to the memory.

Returning through the darkness towards the Heidelburg road,
an amusing discussion took place upon a somewhat interesting
point.

“General,” said one of the staff, “we are travelling in the
wrong direction—this road will lead you straight into the
enemy's lines.”

“No,” was Stuart's reply, “look at the stars.”

“Well, yonder is the North Star.”

“You are certainly mistaken.”

“I am sure I am not.”

“And I am sure you are! However, we can easily decide.”

And the General drew from his pocket a small portable compass
which he had carried with him on the prairies of the West,
when in the U.S. army. The compass overthrew the General,
and vindicated the good judgment of the staff officer. Laughter
followed; the direction of march was changed; a wide ditch
leaped; and we gained the Heidelburg road—the staff pushing
on intent on sleep, a single courier being left with the General.
The sequel was amusing. The General went to sleep in the
saddle: the courier rode on: and the General's horse not recognising
headquarters in the dark, quietly walked on by, and

nearly carried Major-General Stuart into the cavalry pickets of
the enemy.

These minute details will, I fear, prove less interesting to the
reader than to him who recalls them. The length of the narrative
dictates, for the future, a more rapid summary. The third
day's fight decided the event of Gettysburg, and General Lee fell
back toward the Potomac, not very hotly pursued. Nothing
is more erroneous than the idea that the Southern army was
“demoralized” by the result of the bloody actions of these three
memorable days. Their nerve was unshaken, their confidence
in Lee and themselves unimpaired. Longstreet said truly that
he desired nothing better than for General Meade to attack his
position—that his men would have given the Federal troops a
reception such as they had given Pickett. The stubborn resolution
of the Army of Northern Virginia was thus unbroken—but
the game was played for the time. The army was moving back,
slow and defiant, to the Potomac.

The cavalry protected its flanks and rear, fighting in the
passes of South Mountain, and holding obstinately the ridge in
front of Boonsboro, while General Lee formed his line to cover
the crossing at Falling Waters and Williamsport. Here, near
Boonsboro, Stuart did some of his hardest fighting, and successfully
held his ground, crowning every knoll with the guns
of his horse artillery. When the infantry was in position, the
cavalry retired, and took position on the flanks—the two armies
faced each other, and a battle seemed imminent—when one
morning General Meade discovered that General Lee was on the
south bank of the Potomac.

It is said that the Federal commander designed attacking Lee
that day, against the opinion of his officers. What would have
been the result? That is a difficult question. A humble soldier
of the Southern army may, however, be permitted to say that a
rout of the army of Northern Virginia, under Lee, never seemed
to him possible. Nor was it ever routed. It was starved, and it
surrendered.

General Lee was thus over with his army, where provisions
and ammunition were obtainable; and the opposing forces

rested. Then General Meade advanced, his great adversary
made a corresponding movement, and about the first of August
the cavalry were once more posted in Culpeper.

In about six weeks they had marched many hundreds of
miles; fought a number of battles; lost about one-third of their
force by death in action, or disabling wounds; and were again
on the war-harried banks of the Rappahannock.

7. VII.

A few words will terminate this sketch of the summer campaign
of 1863.

Of this great ride with the cavalry through Pennsylvania, the
present writer has preserved recollections rather amusing and
grotesque, than sad or tragic. The anxiety expressed by a fat
lady of Dutch origin, to secure a blue postage stamp with the
head of President Davis upon it, a gentleman whom she evidently
expected to find endued with horns and tail en Diable; the
manner in which an exceedingly pretty damsel in a town
through which the army was retreating, turned her back upon
the writer, as he smiled respectfully upon catching her eye;
turned her back, tossed her head, and “looked daggers;” the
air of hauteur and outraged feeling with which another refused
to lend a coffee-pot, not even melting at the offender's low bow,
and “I will not insist, madam”—these return to memory and
make the recollection of those times more amusing than disagreeable.
We were sore then, but time obliterates pain, and
heals nearly every wound. There were harsh emotions, painful
scenes, and bitter hostility; but there were some of the amenities
of war too; among which I recall the obliging manner in which
Major P—, of the United States cavalry, enabled me to gratify
some lady friends in Virginia.

The Major was brought in to the headquarters—or bivouac,
rather—in a grassy yard near Hagerstown, during the absence
of General Stuart, and whilst the present writer was in command.

I found him very much of a gentleman; laughed at his
description of the manner in which he was captured—“Your
men snapped a carbine at me, and then `halted' me!”—and
simply took his parole not to attempt escape, after which we lay
down and slept on the grass, the major sharing my blankets.
On the next morning we were perfectly intimate; and hearing
me express a wish to secure some “greenbacks” for the purchase
of small articles in Hagerstown, where Confederate money
would not pass, the major politely pulled out his purse, declaring
that he would exchange dollar for dollar “as he only wished to
have enough of money to buy cigars in Richmond.” The
comedy of the scene which ensued lay in the mutual anxiety
of Major P— and the present writer, lest each should wrong
the other. Each was afraid he would get the advantage of his
companion, and the polite speeches delivered on the occasion
were truly admirable. An equitable arrangement was finally
made. I came into possession of about forty dollars in Federal
money, and with this bought out nearly the whole stock of lace,
ribands, and handkerchiefs of a milliner's store, to the extreme
but suppressed amusement of the young lady behind the counter,
who disinterestedly gave her advice in the selection. With
this big bundle on the pommel of his saddle, the present writer
made his exit from the State of Maryland!

Such, in rapid and discursive, outline, was the march of the
cavalry “to Gettysburg and back again,” in that last year but
one of the great civil war. Scores of miles were passed over,
while the weary cavalry-man who writes this, slept in the saddle.
So, it is no wonder Pennsylvania appears to him to-day
like a land seen in a dream! Gettysburg was, however, a rough
waking, and over that far locality where the fate of the struggle
was decided, a lurid cloud seems to hang, its edges steeped in
blood. “Gettysburg! Gettysburg!” That murmur comes to
the lips of many whose dear ones sleep their last sleep under the
sod there; but this souvenir is sad. Let me remember rather
the gay laugh of Stuart; the voices of Fitz Lee, Hampton, and
their noble comrades; the fun, the frolic, and the adventure of

the long journey, when so much mirth lit up the dark horizon
zon of war.

It is a hard and brutal business, the trade of war; but the
odd, grotesque, and bizarre mix everywhere with the tears and
the blood. All were mingled in this heavy work of the bustling
year 1863.