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Crossing to the south bank of the Potomac, Stuart established
his head-quarters at “The Bower,” an old mansion on the
Opequon.

The family at the ancient hall were Stuart's cherished friends,
and our appearance now, with the red flag floating and the
bugle sounding a gay salute as we ascended the hill, was hailed
with enthusiasm and rejoicing.

All at the “Bower,” loved Stuart; they love him to-day; and
will love him always.

His tents were pitched on a grassy knoll in the extensive
grounds, beneath some ancient oaks resembling those seen in
English parks. It was a charming spot. Through the openings
in the summer foliage you saw the old walls of the hall. At the
foot of the hill, the Opequon stole away, around the base of a firclad
precipice, its right bank lined with immense white-armed
sycamores. Beyond, extended a range of hills: and in the far
west, the North Mountain mingled its azure billows with the
blue of the summer sky.

Such was the beautiful landscape which greeted our eyes:
such the spot to which the winds of war had wafted us. Good
old “Bower,” and good days there! How well I remember you!
After the long, hard march, and the incessant fighting, it was
charming to settle down for a brief space in this paradise—to
listen idly to the murmur of the Opequon, or the voice of the
summer winds amid the foliage of the century oaks!

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The great tree on the grassy knoll, under which Stuart erected
his own tent, is called “Stuart's Oak” to this day. No axe will
ever harm it, I hope; gold could not purchase it; for tender
hearts cherish the gnarled trunk and huge boughs, as a souvenir
of the great soldier whom it sheltered in that summer of 1863.

So we were anchored for a little space, and enjoyed keenly the
repose of this summer nook on the Opequon. Soon the bugle
would sound again, and new storms would buffet us; meanwhile,
we laughed and sang, snatching the bloom of the peaceful hours,
inhaling the odors, listening to the birds, and idly dreaming.

For myself, I had more dreams than the rest of the gray people
there! The Bower was not a strange place to me. My brethren
of the staff used to laugh, and say that, wherever we went, in Virginia,
I found kins-people. I found near and dear ones at the old
house on the Opequon; and a hundred spots which recalled my
lost youth. Every object carried me back to the days that are
dead. The blue hills, the stream, the great oaks, and the hall
smiled on me. How familiar the portraits, and wide fireplaces,
and deers' antlers. The pictures of hawking scenes, with ladies
and gentlemen in the queerest costumes; the engravings of
famous race-horses, hanging between guns, bird-bags and fishing-rods
in the wide hall—these were not mere dead objects, but old
and long-loved acquaintances. I had known them in my childhood;
looked with delight upon them in my boyhood; now they
seemed to salute me, murmuring—“Welcome! you remember
us!”

Thus the hall, the grounds, the pictures, the most trifling object
brought back to me, in that summer of 1863, a hundred
memories of the years that had flown. Years of childhood and
youth, of mirth and joy, such as we felt before war had come to
harass us; when I swam in the Opequon, or roamed the hills,
looking into bright eyes, where life was so fresh and so young.
The “dew was on the blossom” then, the flower in the bud.
Now the bloom had passed away, and the dew dried up in the
hot war-atmosphere. It was a worn and weary soldier who
came back to the scenes of his youth.

Suddenly, as I mused thus, dreaming idly under the great oak
which sheltered me, I heard a voice from Stuart's tent, sending

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its sonorous music on the air. It was the great cavalier singing
lustily—

“The dew is on the blossom!”

At all hours of the day you could hear that gay voice. Stuart's
head-quarters were full of the most mirthful sounds and sights.
The knoll was alive with picturesque forms. The horses, tethered
to the boughs, champed their bits and pawed impatiently. The
bright saddle-blankets shone under the saddles covered with gay
decorations. Young officers with clanking sabres and rattling
spurs moved to and fro. In front of the head-quarters tent the
red battle-flag caught the sunshine in its dazzling folds.

Suddenly, a new charm is added to the picturesque scene.
Maiden figures advance over the grassy lawn; bright eyes glimmer;
glossy ringlets are lifted by the fingers of the wind; tinkling
laughter is heard;—and over all rings the wild sonorous music of
the bugle!

The days pass rapidly thus. The nights bring merriment, not
sleep. The general goes with his staff to the hospitable mansion,
and soon the great drawing-room is full of music and laughter.
The song, the dance, the rattling banjo follow. The long hours
flit by like a flock of summer birds, and Sweeney, our old friend
Sweeney, is the king of the revel.

For Sweeney rattles as before on his banjo; and the “Old Gray
Horse” flourishes still in imporishable youth! It is the same old
Sweeney, with his mild and deferential courtesy, his obliging
smile, his unapproachable skill in “picking on the string.” Listen!
his voice rings again as in the days of '61 and '62. He is
singing still “Oh Johnny Booker, help this nigger!” “Stephen,
come back, come back, Stephen!” “Out of the window I did sail!”
“Sweet Evelina,” and the grand, magnificent epic which advises
you to “Jine the Cavalry!”

Hagan listens to him yonder with a twinkle of the eye—Hagan
the black-bearded giant, the brave whose voice resembles thunder,
the devotee and factotum of Stuart, whom he loves. And
Sweeney rattles on. You laugh loud as you listen. The banjo
laughs louder than all, and the great apartment is full of uproar,
and mirth, and dance.

Then the couples sink back exhausted; a deep silence follows;

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Sweeney has made you laugh, and is now going to make you
sigh. Listen! You can scarcely believe that the singer is the
same person who has just been rattling through the “Old Gray
Horse.” Sweeney is no longer mirthful; his voice sighs instead
of laughing. He is singing his tender and exquisite “Faded
Flowers.” He is telling you in tones as soft as the sigh of the
wind in the great oaks, how

Alas! the cold, chilly winds of the coming winter will blow
over the grave of the prince of musicians! Sweeney, the pride
and charm of the cavalry head-quarters, is going to pass away,
and leave his comrades and his banjo forever!

You would say that the future throws its shadow on the
present. Sweeney's tones are so sweet and sorrowful, that many
eyes grow moist—like Rubini, he “has tears in his voice.” The
melting strains ascend and sigh through the old hall. When they
die away like a wind in the distance, the company remain silent,
plunged in sad and dreamy revery.

Suddenly Stuart starts up and exclaims:—

“Stop that, Sweeney! you will make everybody die of the
blues. Sing the `Old Gray Horse' again, or `Jine the Cavalry!”'

Sweeney smiles and obeys. Then, the gay song ended, he commences
a reel. The banjo laughs; his flying fingers race over
the strings; youths and maidens whirl from end to end of the
great room—on the walls the “old people” in ruffles and shortwaisted
dresses, look down smiling on their little descendants!

O gay summer nights on the banks of the Opequon! you have
flown, but linger still in memory!

In the autumn of 1867, I revisited the old hall where those
summer days of 1863 had passed in mirth and enjoyment; and
then I wandered away to the grassy knoll where “Stuart's oak”
still stands. The sight of the great tree brought back a whole
world of memories. Seated on one of its huge roots, beneath
the dome of foliage just touched by the finger of autumn, I

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seemed to see all the past rise up again and move before me, with
its gallant figures, its bright scenes, and brighter eyes. Alas!
those days were dust, and Stuart sang and laughed no more. The
grass was green again, and the birds were singing; but no martial
forms moved there, no battle-flag rippled, no voice was heard.
Stuart was dead;—his sword rusting under the dry leaves of
Hollywood, and his battle-flag was furled forever.

That hour under the old oak, in the autumn of 1867, was one
of the saddest that I have ever spent.

The hall was there as before; the clouds floated, the stream
murmured, the wind sighed in the great tree, as when Stuart's
tent shone under it. But the splendor had vanished, the laughter
was hushed—it was a company of ghosts that gathered around
me, and their faint voices sounded from another world!

But this is a book of incident, worthy reader. We have little
time for musing recollections. The halts are brief; the bugle is
sounding to horse; events drag us, and we are again in the
saddle.

Those gay hours on the Opequan were too agreeable to last.
The old hall was a sort of oasis in the desert of war only. We
paused for an instant; rested under the green trees; heard the
murmur of the waters—then the caravan moved, breasting the
arid wastes once more, and the coming simoom.

Stuart's head-quarters disappeared—we bade our kind friends
good-bye—and, mounting, set out for the Lowland, whither Lee's
column was then marching.

The short lull had been succeeded by new activity. Meade
was advancing along the east slope of the Blue Ridge to cut Lee
off from Richmond. But the adventure succeeded no better now
than in 1862. Meade failed, as McClellan had failed before him.

The army passed the Blue Ridge; drove back the force sent to

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assail them in flank as they moved; and descended to Culpeper,
from which they withdrew behind the Rapidan. Here Lee took
up his position, crowned the south bank with his artillery, and,
facing General Meade, occupying the north bank, rested.

Such had been the result of the great campaign, in its merely
military aspect.

Lee had invaded the North, delivered battle on the territory
of the enemy, suffered a repulse, retired, and was again occupying
nearly the same ground which he had occupied before the
advance. Moving backward and forward on the great chessboard
of war, the two adversaries seemed to have gained or lost nothing.
The one was not flushed with victory; the other was not
prostrated by defeat. Each went into camp, ceased active operations,
and prepared for the new conflict which was to take
place before the end of the year.

I shall record some incidents of that rapid and shifting campaign,
beginning and ending in the month of October; then I
pass on to the more important and exciting pages of my memoirs:
the mighty struggle between Lee and Grant.

To return for a moment to the cavalry. It held the front
along the Rapidan and Robertson rivers, from Madison Court-House
on the left, to Chancellorsville on the right. Stuart kept
his lynx-eye on all the fords of the two rivers, having his head-quarters
in the forks of the streams not far from their junction.

I should like to speak of the charming hours spent at the hospitable
mansion near which head-quarters had been established
The sun shone bright, at the house on the grassy hill, but not so
bright as the eyes which gave us friendly welcome. Years have
passed since that time—all things have changed—but neither time
or the new scenes will banish from some hearts the memory of
that beautiful face, and the music of that voice! We salute to-day
as we saluted in the past—health and happiness attend the fair
face and the kindly heart!

I saw much of Mohun in those days, and became in course of
time almost his intimate friend. He exhibited still a marked reserve
on the subject of his past life: but I thought I could see
that the ice was melting. Day by day he grew gayer—gradually
his cynicism seemed leaving him. Who was this singular man,

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and what was his past history? I often asked myself these
questions—he persisted in giving me no clue to the secret—but I
felt a presentiment that some day I should “pluck out the heart
of his mystery.”

So much, in passing, for my relations with Mohun. We had
begun to be friends, and the chance of war was going to throw
us together often. I had caught one or two glimpses of a past
full of “strange matters”—in the hours that were coming I was
to have every mystery revealed.

Meanwhile Lee was resting, but preparing for another blow.
His army was in the highest spirits. The camps buzzed, and
laughed, and were full of mirth. Gettysburg was forgotten, or
if remembered, it only served to inflame the troops, and inspire
them with a passionate desire to “try again.” In the blaze of a
new victory, the old defeat would disappear.

Such was the condition of things in the army of Northern
Virginia in the first days of October, 1863.

It soon became obvious that Lee had resolved to strike a blow
at his adversary.

How to do so with advantage seemed a hard problem. Between
the opponents lay the Rapidan, which would be an ugly
obstacle in the path of an army retreating after defeat—and the
same considerations which deterred General Meade from attacking
Lee, operated to prevent a like movement on the part of his
adversary.

Thus an advance of the Southern army on the enemy's front
was far too hazardous to be thought of—and the only course
left was to assail their flank. This could either be done by crossing
lower down, and cutting the enemy off from the Rappahannock,
or crossing higher up, and cutting him off from Manassas.

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Lee determined on the latter—and in a bright morning early in
October the great movement began.

Leaving Fitz Lee's cavalry and a small force of infantry in the
works on the Rapidan fronting the enemy, General Lee put his
columns in motion for the upper fords.

The men hailed the movement with cheers of delight. As
they wound along, with glittering bayonets, through the hills
and across the river, you could easily see that the old army of
Northern Virginia was still in full feather—that Gettysburg had
not shaken it—and that Lee could count on it for new campaigns
and harder combats than any in the past.

The head of the column was directed toward Madison Court-House,
which would enable Lee either to advance directly upon
the enemy's flank by the Sperryville road, or continue his flank
movement, pass the Rappahannock, and cut off his opponent from
Washington.

The advance was an inspiring spectacle. The weather was
magnificent, and the crimson foliage of the wood rivalled the
tints of the red battle-flags, fluttering above the long glittering
hedge of bayonets.

Stuart's cavalry had moved out on the right flank to protect
the column from the observation of the enemy. The campaign of
October, 1863, had opened.

It was to be one of the briefest, but most adventurous movements
of the war. Deciding little, it was yet rich in incident
and dramatic scenes. A brilliant comedy, as it were—just tinged
with tragedy—was that rapid and shifting raid of Lee's whole
army, on Meade. Blood, jests, laughter, mourning—these were
strangely mingled, in the cavalry movements at least: and to
these I proceed.

From the heights, whence you see only the “great events,”
the movements of armies, and the decisive battles, let us now
descend into the lowland, good reader. I will lay before you
some incidents, not to be found in the “official reports;” and I
promise to carry you on rapidly!

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It was a magnificent morning of October.

Stuart leaped to saddle, and, preceded by his red flag rippling
gayly in the wind, set out from his head-quarters in the direction
of the mountains.

He was entering on his last great cavalry campaign—and it
was to be one of his most successful and splendid.

The great soldier, as he advanced that morning, was the beau
ideal of a cavalier. His black plume floated proudly; his sabre
rattled; his eyes danced with joy; his huge mustache curled
with laughter; his voice was gay, sonorous, full of enjoyment of
life, health, the grand autumn, and the adventurous and splendid
scenes which his imagination painted. On his brow he seemed
already to feel the breath of victory.

It was rather an immense war-machine, than a man which I
looked at on that morning of October, 1863. Grand physical
health, a perfectly fearless soul, the keenest thirst for action, a
stubborn dash which nothing could break down—all this could
be seen in the face and form of Stuart, as he advanced to take
command of his column that day.

On the next morning at daylight he had-struck the enemy.

Their outposts of cavalry, supported by infantry, were at
Thoroughfare Mountain, a small range above the little village of
James City. Here Stuart came suddenly upon them, and drove
in their pickets:—a moment afterward he was galloping forward
with the gayety of a huntsman after a fox.

A courier came to meet him from the advance guard, riding at
full gallop.

“Well!” said Stuart.

“A regiment of infantry, general.”

“Where?”

“Yonder in the gap.”

And he pointed to a gorge in the little mountain before us.

Stuart wheeled and beckoned to Gordon, the brave North

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Carolinian, who had made the stubborn charge at Barbee's, in
1862, when Pelham was attacked, front and rear, by the Federal
cavalry.

“We have flushed a regiment of infantry, Gordon. Can you
break them?”

“I think I can, general.”

The handsome face of the soldier glowed—his bright eyes
flashed.

“All right. Get ready, then, to attack in front. I will take
Young, and strike them at the same moment on the right flank!”

With which words Stuart went at a gallop and joined Young.

That gay and gallant Georgian was at the head of his column;
in his sparkling eyes, and the smile which showed the white
teeth under the black mustache, I saw the same expression of
reckless courage which I had noticed on the day of Fleetwood,
when the young Georgian broke the column on the hill.

Stuart explained his design in three words:—

“Are you ready?”

“All ready, general!”

And Young's sabre flashed from the scabbard.

At the same instant the crash of carbines in front, indicated
Gordon's charge.

Young darted to the head of his column.

“Charge!” he shouted.

And leading the column, he descended like a thunderbolt on
the enemy's flank.

As he did so, Gordon's men rushed with wild cheers into the
gorge. Shouts, carbine-shots, musket-shots, yells resounded. In
five minutes the Federal infantry, some three hundred in number,
were scattered in headlong flight, leaving the ground strewed
with new muskets, whose barrels shone like burnished silver.

“Good!” Stuart exclaimed, as long lines of prisoners appeared,
going to the rear, “a fair beginning, at least!”

And he rode on rapidly.

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The cavalry pressed forward without halting and reached the
hills above James City—a magniloquent name, but the “city”
was a small affair—a mere village nestling down amid an amphi-theatre
of hills.

On the opposite range we saw the enemy's cavalry drawn up;
and, as we afterward learned, commanded by General Kilpatrick.

They presented a handsome spectacle in the gay autumn sunshine;
but we did not attack them. Stuart's orders were to protect
the march of Ewell from observation; and this he accomplished
by simply holding the Federal cavalry at arm's-length.
So a demonstration only was made. Skirmishers advanced, and
engaged the enemy. The whole day thus passed in apparent
failure to drive the Federals.

A single incident marked the day. Stuart had taken his position,
with his staff and couriers, on a hill. Here, with his battle-flag
floating, he watched the skirmishers,—and then gradually,
the whole party, stretched on the grass, began to doze.

They were to have a rude waking. I was lying, holding my
bridle, half asleep, when an earthquake seemed to open beneath
me. A crash like thunder accompanied it. I rose quickly, covered
with dust. A glance explained the whole. The enemy had
directed a gun upon the tempting group over which the flag
rose, and the percussion-shell had fallen and burst in our midst.

Strangest of all, no one was hurt.

Stuart laughed, and mounted his horse.

“A good shot!” he said, “look at Surry's hat!” which, on
examination, I found covered half an inch deep with earth.

In fact, the shell had burst within three feet of my head—was
a “line shot,” and with a little more elevation, would have just
reached me. Then, exit Surry! in a most unmilitary manner, by
the bursting of a percussion-shell.

At nightfall the enemy was still in position, and Stuart had
not advanced.

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We spent the night at a farm-house, and were in the saddle
again at dawn.

The hills opposite were deserted. The enemy had retreated.
Stuart pushed on their track down the Sperryville road, passed
the village of Griffinsburg, and near Stonehouse Mountain came
on, and pushed them rapidly back on Culpeper Court-House.

All at once quick firing was heard on our right.

“What is that?” Stuart asked.

“An infantry regiment, general!” said Weller, one of our
couriers, galloping quickly up.

The words acted upon Stuart like the blow of a sword. A wild
excitement seemed to seize him.

“Bring up a squadron!” he shouted—for we were riding ahead
without support; “bring up the cavalry! I am going to charge!
Bring me a squadron!”

And drawing his sword, Stuart rushed at full gallop, alone and
unattended, toward the Federal infantry, whose gun-barrels were
seen glittering in the woods.

Never had I seen him more excited. He was plainly on fire
with the idea of capturing the whole party.

The staff scattered to summon the cavalry, and soon a company
came on at full gallop. It was the “Jefferson Company,”
under that brave officer, Captain George Baylor.

“Charge, and cut them down!” shouted Stuart, his drawn
sword flashing as he forced his horse over fallen trees and the
debris of the great deserted camp.

A fine spectacle followed. As the Federal infantry double-quicked
up a slope, Baylor charged.

As his men darted upon them, they suddenly halted, came to a
front-face, and the long line of gun-barrels fell, as though they
were parts of some glittering war-machine.

The muzzles spouted flame, and the cavalry received the fire at
thirty yards.

It seemed to check them, but it did not. They had come to an
impassable ditch. In another moment, the infantry broke, every
man for himself, and making a detour, the cavalry pursued, and
captured large numbers.

For the second time Stuart had charged infantry and broken

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them. Pushing on now through the great deserted camps of
Stonehouse Mountain, he descended upon Culpeper.

The enemy's cavalry retreated, made a stand on the hills
beyond, with their artillery; and seemed to have resolved to
retreat no farther.

Suddenly the thunder of artillery came up from the Rapidan.
I was sitting my horse near Stuart and Gordon. They were both
laughing—indeed, Stuart seemed laughing throughout the campaign.

“That is Fitz Lee!” he said; “he has crossed and driven
them.”

And turning round,—

“I wish you would go to General Lee, Surry—you will find
him toward Griffinsburg—and tell him we are driving the enemy,
and Fitz Lee seems to be coming up.”

I saluted, and left the two generals laughing as before.

In half an hour I had found General Lee. He was in camp on
the Sperryville road, and was talking to Ewell.

It was a singular contrast. Lee, robust, ruddy, erect, with his
large frank eye—Ewell, slight, emaciated, pale, with small piercing
eyes, and limping on his crutch.

“Thank you, colonel,” General Lee said, with his grave but
charming courtesy; “tell General Stuart to continue to press
them back toward the river.”

And turning to Ewell:—

“You had better move on with your command, general,” he
said, in his measured voice.

Ewell bowed and turned to obey—I returned to Stuart.

He was pushing the Federal cavalry “from pillar to post.”
Driven back from the hill, where they had planted their artillery,
they had retreated on Brandy; Stuart had followed like a
fate; Gordon, sent round to the left, struck their right flank
with his old sabreurs; Fitz Lee, coming up on the right, thundered
down on their left—and in the woods around Brandy took
place one of those cavalry combats which, as my friends, the
novelists say, “must be seen to be appreciated!” If the reader
will imagine, in the dusk of evening, a grand hurly-burly made
up of smoke, dust, blood, yells, clashing swords, banging

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carbines, thundering cannon, and wild cheers, he will have a faint
idea of that “little affair” at Brandy.

A queer circumstance made this fight irresistibly comic.

Fitz Lee had repulsed Buford on the Rapidan; followed him
on his retreat, harassing him at every step—when, just as Buford
reached Brandy, with Fitz Lee at his heels, Kilpatrick descended
on Fitz Lee's rear by the Sperryville road, and Stuart
thundered down on his!

Thus Fitz Lee was pursuing Buford; Kilpatrick, Fitz Lee; and
Stuart, Kilpatrick! It was a grand and comic jumble—except
that it came very near being any thing but comic to that joyous
cavalier, “General Fitz,” as we called him—caught as he was
between Generals Buford and Kilpatrick!

General Fitz was the man for a “tight place,” however—and
“his people,” as he called his cavalry, soon cut through to Stuart.

It was a tough and heavy fight.

“Old Jeb cut off more than he could chaw, that time!” said a
veteran afterward, in describing the fight. And at one time it
seemed that the enemy were going to hold their ground.

Fleetwood, beyond, was lined with bayonets, and every knoll
was crowned with cannon: when night fell, however, the whole
force had retreated and crossed the Rappahannock, leaving the
ground strewed with their dead and wounded.

In the dusky woods near Brandy, Stuart sat his horse, looking
toward the Rappahannock, and laughing still. He was talking with
brave Fitz Lee, whose stout figure, flowing beard, and eyes twinkling
with humor, were plain in the starlight. I shall show you
that gallant figure more than once in this volume, reader. You
had but to look at him to see that he was the bravest of soldiers,
and the best of comrades.

So night fell on a victory. Stuart had driven the enemy at
every step. He had charged their infantry, cavalry, and artillery,
routing all,—and he was once more in sight of Fleetwood Hill,
where he had defeated them in the preceding June.

Singular current of war! It used to bear us onward; but be
taken with a sudden fancy to flow back to the old spots! See
Manassas, Fredericksburg, Cold Harbor, Chancellorsville!

Fleetwood takes its place with them—twice bloody and

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memorable. In sight of it took place two of Stuart's hardest combats—
and both were victories.

By sunrise Stuart was pushing rapidly up the bank of the Rappahannock
toward Warrenton Springs.

Meade had retreated from Culpeper, and was falling back
rapidly. Lee was pressing on to cut him off in the vicinity of
Auburn.

A hot fight took place at Jeffersonton, a little village beyond
Hazel River; and here the enemy fought from house to house, but
finally retreated.

Stuart followed, and came up with their rear retreating over
the bridge at Warrenton Springs.

On the northern bank the Federal sharp-shooters were posted
in double line.

Stuart turned, and saw, not far from him, the Jefferson Company
who had charged so gallantly at Stonehouse Mountain. A
movement of his hand, and they were charging over the bridge.

Suddenly they recoiled. The head files had stopped, — the
horses rearing. The flooring in the centre of the bridge had
been torn up—it was impossible to cross.

The men wheeled and came back under a hot fire of sharp-shooters.
Stuart's face was fiery.

“To the ford!” he shouted.

And placing himself in front of the men, sword in hand, he led
them through the ford, in face of a heavy fire, charged up the
opposite slope, and the Federal skirmishers scattered in wild
flight.

The Twelfth Virginia Cavalry followed them, and they were
cut down or captured.

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As the column moved on, Stuart galloped along the line toward
the front.

He had just faced death with these men, and at sight of him
they raised a cheer.

“Hurrah for old Jeb!” rose in a shout from the column.

Stuart turned: his face glowed: rising in his stirrups, he took
off his hat and exclaimed:—

“Bully for the old Twelfth!”

The words were unclassic, it may be, reader, but they raised a
storm.

“I felt like I could die for old Jeb after that,” one of the men
said to me.

Stuart disappeared, followed by tumultuous cheers, and his column
continued to advance upon Warrenton ahead of the army.

He had ridden on for a quarter of an hour, when he turned to
me, and said:—

“I am getting uneasy about things at Culpeper. I wish you
would ride back to Rosser, who is there with two hundred men,
and tell him to call on Young, if he is pushed.”

I turned my horse.

“You know where Young is?”

“On the Sperryville road.”

“Exactly—Rosser can count on him. I am going on toward
Warrenton.”

And the general and myself parted, riding in opposite directions.

I returned toward Hazel River; passed that stream, and the
long rows of army wagons; and as the sun was sinking, drew
near Culpeper.

As I pressed on, I heard the long thunder of cannon coming up
from the direction of Brandy.

What could that sound mean? Had the enemy again advanced
and assailed the small force of cavalry there?

Going on now at full speed, I heard the cannon steadily approaching
Culpeper Court-House. All at once, as I drew near
the village, I heard a tremendous clatter in the streets; a column
of cavalry was advancing to the front—soon the crack of carbines
was heard beyond the town.

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A short ride brought me to the field, and all was explained.
Colonel Rosser had been attacked by a whole corps of Federal
infantry, and two divisions of cavalry—while his own force was
about two hundred men, and a single gun.

He had offered an obstinate resistance, however, fallen back
slowly, and when about to be driven into the town, Young had
come to his aid.

Then followed one of the gayest comedies of the war. Young
was the author of it. You laugh sometimes still, do you not,
old comrade, at the trick you played our friends on that October
evening?

Young threw himself into the fight with the true cavalry élan.
Dismounting his whole brigade, he opened a rapid fire on the
advancing enemy; and this obstinate resistance evidently produced
a marked effect upon their imaginations. They had been
advancing—they now paused. They had been full of audacity,
and now seemed fearful of some trap. It was evident that they
suspected the presence of a heavy force of infantry—and night
having descended, they halted.

This was the signal for the fifth act of the comedy. Young
kindled camp-fires along two miles of front; brought up his brass
band and played “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” and “Dixie.” It was
obvious to the enemy that at least a corps of Lee's infantry was
there in their front, ready to renew the action at dawn!

The finale was comic—I shared the blankets of the gallant
Georgian that night—when we rose the enemy's whole force had
disappeared.

Such had been the result of the ruse, and I always regarded
the affair as one of the gayest incidents of the war.

When I left the brave Young, he was laughing in triumph.

If your eye meets this page, old comrade, it may give you another
laugh—and laughter is something in this dull epoch, is it
not?

But whether you laugh or sigh, and wherever you may be,
health and happiness attend you!

In the afternoon, I was at Warrenton.

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I found the general moving toward Auburn, on a reconnoissance.

Meade had been delayed much by uncertainty as to his adversary's
designs—had scarcely advanced beyond the Rappahannock—
and the object of Stuart was to discover his position and
intentions.

That was the work always assigned to the “Eyes and Ears”
of the army—Stuart's cavalry; and the stout cavalier, now at the
head of his column, was on for the railroad, along which the enemy
must retreat.

Another comedy was to follow—which came near being a
tragedy.

Stuart steadily advanced, and about sunset had passed Auburn,
when, as he was riding at the head of his column, a messenger
rode up hastily from Gordon, holding the rear.

“Well!” said Stuart.

“The enemy are in your rear, general!”

“Impossible!”

“General Gordon sent me to say so.”

Stuart turned and galloped back. Gordon came to meet him.

“The Yankee army are in our rear, general,” said Gordon.
“Come, and I will show you.”

And riding to an eminence he pointed out across the fields, in
the gathering gloom, long lines of infantry and artillery moving
toward Manassas.

Stuart gazed at them keenly. As he sat looking toward them,
a staff officer from the front came up rapidly.

“Well, captain!”

“The enemy are in front, general.”

“Infantry?”

“Yes, with artillery.”

Stuart looked at Gordon.

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“A real trap,” he said coolly, knitting his brows.

“Have they seen you, Gordon?” he asked.

“I think not, general.”

“Well, so far all is well. There is nothing to do but to lay low,
and take the chances of getting out.”

Stuart's voice was never cooler. He looked quietly at the huge
column cutting off his retreat.

“A splendid chance to attack them!” he all at once exclaimed.

And tearing a leaf out of his dispatch-book, he wrote a hasty
note to General Lee. I afterward knew what it contained.
Stuart described his situation, and proposed that Rodes, then near
Warrenton, should attack at dawn—when he would open with his
artillery, charge with his horsemen, and cut his way out.

“A good man in blue uniform now, Gordon.”

Gordon sent off an aid, and the man soon appeared. From
top to toe he was of irreproachable blue; and he listened keenly
to his instructions.

Five minutes afterward he had dismounted, given his horse to
a comrade, and was stealing on foot through the thicket toward
the Federal column. A moment afterward he had mingled with
their column and disappeared.

Other messengers, also in Federal uniform, were dispatched:
the whole force of cavalry was massed, and concealed in the
woods: then darkness descended; and the long night of anxiety
began.

The situation was not agreeable. Stuart was caught in a veritable
trap. On both sides—in his rear and his front—were passing
heavy corps of Federal infantry; their numerous artillery;
and their long-drawn columns of cavalry. Discovery was destruction;
the only hope was that the enemy would not suspect our
proximity. If we were once known to be lurking there, good-bye
to Stuart and his men!

So the long night commenced. The hours passed on, and still
we were not discovered. It seemed miraculous that some noise
did not betray Stuart's hiding-place; but an Unseen Eye seemed
to watch over him, and an Unseen Hand to guard him.

More than once the neigh of a horse rang out on the air of
night; and two or three times the discordant bray of a mule

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attached to the artillery startled the silence of the woods. But these
sounds were unheeded. They evidently attracted no attention
from the enemy.

Leaning down in their saddles, the men, half overcome by sleep,
but afraid of a rough waking, passed sleepless hours, looking for
the dawn.

Stuart was never cooler. On his horse, at the head of his men,
he betrayed no emotion. You would not have known, except for
his subdued tones when speaking to some one, that he and his
command were in a veritable “tight place.” Cool and resolute,
he was equal to any event. Certain capture or destruction of his
whole force was imminent.

Thus the night glided away. We had not been discovered.
Over the trees was seen the yellow streak of dawn.

I looked round. The men's faces were haggard from want of
sleep. But they evidently felt perfect confidence in Stuart.

He hastened to justify it.

No sooner had light come than he placed his artillery in position.
As it grew and broadened, the enemy were seen just on a
hill in front of us, busily cooking their breakfasts.

Suddenly a single cannon sent its long thunder, dull and reverberating,
through the woods, from the direction of Warrenton.

Stuart rose erect in his saddle, and looked in the direction of
the sound, his eyes glowing.

Another followed; then another; then a long, continuous bellow
of artillery, making the hills echo.

There was no longer any doubt about the fate of the messengers.
Lee had received the dispatches; Rodes had opened on
the Federal columns, attacking as that good soldier knew how to
attack.

Stuart darted to his guns. On his countenance was a grim
smile.

“Attention!” he exclaimed.

The cannoneers ran to their posts, a cheer rose, the next instant
the guns spouted flame; shell after shell in rapid succession
screamed through the woods—and bursting in the midst of the
blue groups, threw them into the wildest disorder.

Stuart did not allow the panic to subside. His sharp-shooters

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opened at the same instant a determined fire; the great cavalier
went at full speed to the head of his column:—then rushing like
an avalanche, troopers and artillery, charged the column in front,
burst through, trampling it as he went, and at a gallop the gray
horsemen, with guns following, broke out; and were again
free.

Stuart was out of the trap. From one of the “tightest places”
that a commander was ever in he had extricated his whole command.

Once in safety, he turned like a wild boar on his enemies. In
ten minutes his artillery had taken a new position—its thunders
had opened—its roar told the army, that his feather still floated,
his star was still in the ascendant.

Such was that queer affair of Auburn. Few more curious incidents
occurred in the war.

A brave officer of the infantry had accompanied us as an
amateur.

“I've got enough of the cavalry,” he said, laughing; “I am
going back to the infantry. It is safer!”

Stuart came back laughing from his adventure.

The army hailed his reappearance with joy and cheers.

They had already split the air with shouts in honor of the
cavalry, on that evening at Warrenton Springs, when Stuart
charged through the ford.

“Hurrah for Stuart!” was now the exclamation everywhere.
And let me add that the stout cavalier keenly enjoyed his popularity.
He was brave and fond of glory—approbation delighted
him. In his ears, praise, sympathy, admiration, sounded sweet.

General Lee continued to press forward, but the golden moment
for intercepting Meade had fled.

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He had not been cut off in Culpeper; he had not been cut off
at Warrenton; he was not going to be cut off at Bristoe, near
Manassas.

Hill had been sent in that direction to intercept the enemy's
retreat, but on the afternoon succeeding the adventure of Stuart,
an ugly blow was dealt him on the banks of Deep Run.

He came up with the enemy's rear guard under their brave
General Warren; assailed it in front of an embankment furiously,
and suffered a heavy repulse.

General Cooke was shot down at the head of his men; the
brigade was nearly cut to pieces; and Warren retreated across
Deep Run, in grim triumph, carrying off several pieces of Hill's
artillery.

It was a grievous blow, and affected the brave Hill deeply.
General Lee was no less melancholy; it is said that he was both
gloomy and restive. It was reported, I know not upon what
authority, that when he and General Hill were riding over the
field, and Hill essayed to explain the unfortunate affair, the commander-in-chief
shook his head, and said in grave tones:—

“Say no more, general—have these poor dead soldiers buried.”

From the hill above Bristoe, General Lee, accompanied by
Stuart, looked out in the direction of Manassas. Not a blue coat
was to be seen. Meade had made good his retreat. Everywhere
he had eluded the blows of his great adversary—and in
parting from him, finally, at Bristoe, had left blood in his footsteps—
the blood of some of Lee's best soldiers.

It is said that General Meade made this retreat under protest—
and that he was everywhere looking for a position to fight.
A Northern correspondent described how, sitting with him by
the camp-fire, General Meade had said:—

“It was like pulling out my-eye teeth not to have had a fight!”

Did he say that? Then he was out-generalled.

But he had succeeded in retreating safely. He was behind the
works of Centreville: Lee had stopped the pursuit.

There was nothing more, indeed, to be done. Lee must retire,
or attack the enemy behind their earth-works. That was not
very promising, and he fell back toward his old camps, on the
Rapidan.

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Nothing prevented the cavalry, however, from “feeling” the
enemy in their new position; and Stuart rapidly advanced to Bull
Run, across which Fitz Lee drove the Federal horsemen.

A raid toward their rear, by Stuart, followed. He moved toward
Groveton; deflected to the left, and crossed the Catharpin
in a violent storm; advanced next day toward Frying-Pan; then
striking the Second Corps of Meade, and throwing it into confusion,
by producing the impression that his force was Lee's whole
army, he quietly retired by the way he had come.

His disappearance revealed all. The enemy perceived that the
attack was only a “cavalry raid,” and were seized with immense
indignation. A picked division was sent out in pursuit of the
daring raiders—and this force of horsemen, about three thousand
in number, hurried across Bull Run to punish Stuart.

They were commanded by the ardent General Kilpatrick:—
what followed is known as the “Buckland Races.”

Such is a rapid summary of the cavalry operations succeeding
the action of Bristoe.

Those readers who cry out for “movement! movement!” are
respectfully requested to observe that I have passed over much
ground, and many events in a few paragraphs:—and yet I might
have dwelt on more than one scene which, possibly, might have
interested the worthy reader.

There was the gallant figure of General Fitz Lee, at the head
of his horsemen, advancing to charge what he supposed to be the
enemy's artillery near Bristoe, and singing as he went, in the
gayest voice:—

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There was the charge over the barricade near Yates's Ford,
where a strange figure mingled just at dusk with the staff, and
when arrested as he was edging away in the dark, coolly announced
that he belonged to the “First Maine Cavalry.”

There was the march toward Chantilly, amid the drenching
storm, when Stuart rode along laughing and shouting his camp
songs, with the rain descending in torrents from his heavy brown
beard.

There was the splendid advance on the day succeeding,
through the rich autumn forest, of all the colors of the rainbow.

Then the fight at Frying-Pan; arousing the hornets' nest
there, and the feat performed by Colonel Surry, in carrying off
through the fire of the sharp-shooters, on the pommel of his saddle,
a beautiful girl who declared that she was “not at all
afraid!”

These and many other scenes come back to memory as I sit
here at Eagle's Nest. But were I to describe all I witnessed
during the war, I should never cease writing. All these must
be passed over—my canvas is limited, and I have so many
figures to draw, so many pictures to paint, that every square
inch is valuable.

That is the vice of “memoirs,” reader. The memory is an
immense receptacle—it holds every thing, and often trifles take
the prominent place, instead of great events. You are interested
in those trifles, when they are part of your own experience; but
perhaps, they bore your listener and make him yawn—a terrible
catastrophe!

So I pass to some real and bona fide “events.” Sabres are
going to clash now, and some figures whom the reader I hope
has not forgotten are going to ride for the prize in the famous
Buckland Races!

Stuart had fallen back, and had reached the vicinity of Buckland.

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There was a bright light in his blue eyes, a meaning smile on
his mustached lip, which in due time I was going to understand.

Kilpatrick was following him. From the rear guard came the
crack of skirmishers. It seemed hard to understand, but the
fact was perfectly evident, that Stuart was retreating.

I had fallen out of the column, and was riding with Tom Herbert.
Have you forgotten that worthy, my dear reader? Has
the roar of Gettysburg driven him quite from your memory? I
hope not. I have not mentioned him for a long time, so many
things have diverted me—but we had ridden together, slept
together, fought together, and starved together! Tom had come
to be one of my best friends, in fact, and his charming good
humor beguiled many a weary march. To hear him laugh was
real enjoyment; and when he would suddenly burst forth with,


“Oh look at the riggings
On Billy Barlo—o—o—ow!”
the sternest faces relaxed, the sourest personages could not but
laugh.

Brave and honest fop! Where are you to-day, mon garçon! I
wish I could see you and hear you sing again!

But I am prosing. Riding beside Tom, I was looking down
and thinking of a certain young lady, when an exclamation from
my companion made me raise my head.

“By George! there's the house, old fellow!”

“The house?”

“Of the famous supper.”

“So it is!”

“And my inamorata, Surry! I wonder if she is still there?”

“Inamorata? What is her other name?”

Tom laughed, and began to sing in his gayest voice,

“That is answer enough,” I said, laughing.

“Suppose we go and see if they are still alive,” Tom said, blushing;
“ten minutes will take us to the house.”

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In fact, I saw across the fields, embowered in foliage, the hospitable
mansion in which we had eaten the famous supper, on
the route to Pennsylvania.

“It is risky,” I said, hesitating.

“But pleasing,” retorted Tom, with a laugh.

And I saw, from his flushed face, that he had set his heart on
the visit.

That conquered me. I never could refuse Tom Herbert any
thing; and we were soon cantering toward the house.

Leaving our horses in a little grove, near the mansion, in order
that they might not attract the attention of any of the enemy's
vedettes, we hastened up the steps.

As we reached the door, it opened, and Miss Katy Dare, the
heroine of Tom's dreams, very nearly precipitated herself into
our arms.

“Oh, I am so glad to see you!” she exclaimed, with her auburn
ringlets dancing, her eyes sparkling,—and taking care to look
at me as she uttered the words.

Then a whole bevy of young ladies hastened out to welcome
us.

Where had we been? Why were we going back? Could General
Stuart intend to leave them in the Yankee lines again? Oh,
no! he could not! He could not have the heart to! Was he
coming to see them? Oh, the sight of gray uniforms was
HEAVENLY!!!

And the young damsels positively overwnelmed me with exclamations
and interrogatories. Eyes danced, lips smiled, cheeks
glowed—they hung around me, and seemed wild with enthusiasm
and delight.

Around me, I say—for Tom and Miss Katy had accidentally
strolled into a conservatory near at hand. A glass door gave
access to it, and they had “gone to examine the flowers,” the
young ladies said, with rapturous smiles and little nods.

Meanwhile, “the wants of the soldiers” were by no means
forgotten. Busy hands brought in china, silver, and snowy napkins.
On the table the waiter was soon deposited, containing a
splendid, miraculous array of edibles, and these were flanked by
decanters containing excellent home-made wine.

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This consumed half an hour—but at last the repast was ready,
and one of the young ladies hastened toward the conservatory,
uttering a discreet little “ahem!” which made her companions
laugh.

In an instant Tom made his appearance with a decided color
in his cheeks; and Miss Katy—well, Miss Katy's face was the
color of a peony, or a carnation.

Shall I reveal to you, gentle reader, what Tom told me long
afterward? He had advanced and been repulsed—had attacked
and been “scattered.” Pardon the slang of the army, and
admire the expeditious operations of the gentlemen of the
cavalry!

Tom was blushing, but laughing too. He was game, if he was
unfortunate. He did not even decline the material enjoyment of
lunch, and having led in the young Miss Katy, with a charmingly
foppish air, took his seat at the table, which promised so much
pleasure of another description.

The fates frowned on us. Tom was unlucky that day, and I
was drawn into the vortex of bad fortune.

Suddenly a clatter of hoofs came from the grass plat in front
of the house; the rattle of sabres from a company of cavalry followed;
and the young ladies had just time to thrust us into the
conservatory, when the door opened, and an officer in blue uniform,
accompanied by a lady, entered the apartment.

I recognized the new-comers at a glance. They were Darke,
and the gray woman.

There was no mistaking that powerful figure, of low stature,
but herculean proportions; that gloomy and phlegmatic face,
half-covered with the black beard; and the eye glancing warily,
but with a reckless fire in them, from beneath the heavy eyebrows.

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The woman wore an elegant gray riding habit—gray seemed a
favorite with her. Her cheeks were as white as ever, and her lips
as red. Her bearing was perfectly composed, and she advanced,
with the long riding skirt thrown over her arm, walking with
exquisite grace.

All this I could easily see. The glass door of the conservatory
had been left ajar in the hurry of our retreat, and from behind
the lemon-trees and flower-bushes, we could see into the apartment
without difficulty.

There was evidently little danger of our discovery. The new-comers
had plainly entered the house with no design to search it.
Darke advanced into the apartment; made the ladies a bow,
which more than ever convinced me that he had been familiar
with good society; and requested food for the lady. She had
tasted none for many hours, and was faint. He would not ask it
for himself, inasmuch as he was an enemy.

He bowed again as he spoke, and was silent.

The young ladies had listened coldly. As he finished, they
pointed to the waiter, and without speaking, they left the apartment.

Darke was left alone with the woman in gray. She seemed to
have regarded ceremony as unnecessary. Going to the table, she
had already helped herself, and for some moments devoured,
rather than ate, the food before her.

Then she rose, and went and took her seat in a rocking-chair
near the fire. Darke remained erect, gazing at her, in silence.

The lady rocked to and fro, pushed back her dark hair with
the snowy hand, and looking at her companion, began to laugh.

“You are not hungry?” she said.

“No,” was his reply.

“And to think that a romantic young creature like myself
should be!”

“It was natural. I hoped that you would have given up this
fancy of accompanying me. You can not stand the fatigue.”

“I can stand it easily,” she said. “When we have a cherished
object, weariness does not count.”

“A cherished object! What is yours?”

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