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My friend, Lieutenant T—, is a beau garcon. He is tall,
comely, about nineteen, and calls a very illustrious personage
“Cousin Robert.” He wears a hat with a wide rim, and an
ebon feather “floating free” as becomes a cavalry officer; around
his waist a black leather belt holds his pistol; huge horseman's
boots reach above his knees, and afford him in his leisure moments
a very great resource in pulling them up.

Many idle hours have afflicted my friend lately in consequence
of the cessation of hostilities. He has spent his time chiefly in
whittling sticks, which proves an unfailing, though not exciting
resource to him. While whittling he talks, and he is a gay and
delightful companion; relating his adventures with a charming
nonchalance, and laughing “in the pauses.” Though still young,
he has had numerous experiences of a stirring character. In
Maryland, just before the battle of Sharpsburg, he was taken
prisoner, and had a private interview with General McClellan,
who had known some of his relations, and sent for him. The
General, he declares, was a very pleasant personage, and very
much of a gentleman; easy, bland, smiling; and asked “how
many brigades of cavalry. Stuart had.” Whereto my friend
replied evasively, when the General added, laughing:

“Oh, I merely asked to satisfy my private curiosity—not to
extract information.”

“Of course, General.”

“I have heard he had four brigades.”

“If you have heard that, of course it must be so, General.”

Laughter from General McClellan, and friendly termination

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of the interview. The General, he says, was “quite a gentleman,”
and ordered him to be released on his parole to return to
and remain in the county of Fauquier until he was exchanged.
Returned there; and was still at home when—McClellan's head
having fallen—Burnside came along, when he was arrested as a
suspicious character, and taken before the new commander,
Burnside, portly, polite, not at all stern—rather good-humoured.
T—gave an account of himself, and was released and sent
back to his home in Fauquier. Here he remained until a scouting
party of his friends came in, when he had himself captured
and returned to the army. He did not make this return journey
on foot. He was mounted, as became a cavalier—but on a white
mule. This white mule was not, however, a portion of his
patrimonial property of a movable character. He procured it
from a Northern friend in the following manner: he was wearily
walking along the road, and saw a “blue-bird” approach him,
mounted on the mule in question. He was unarmed, but so
was my friend—and the Lieutenant immediately, in a voice of
thunder, ordered him to get down and surrender. The blue-bird
obeyed, and the Lieutenant mounted—magnanimously permitting
his prisoner to go free, inasmuch as he had no means of
securing him. Having paroled him formally, he made haste out
of the line.

Such is the young Lieutenant who, having nothing to do,
whittles sticks.

He has a comrade whose name is Lieutenant H—. This
young gentleman is of about the same age, and his countenance
is comely and smooth. His manners are unusually soft and
mild, and he spends all his leisure in reading. He is familiar
with Shakspeare, and quotes that great bard, going through all
the attitudes, and astonishing the bystanders. Having mounted
my horse some days since to visit a young lady, I was suddenly
startled by the appearance of Lientenant H—, who, leaning
one hand on my knee, struck an attitude, and broke forth, “Tell
her she's the sun, and I the moon! Arise, fair sun, and shine
upon my night!” Having entrusted me with this commission,
my friend returned in silence to his literary pursuits. The

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Lieutenant is so mild and comely of face, that he has been declared
to be “like a girl.” But he is a man, and a dangerous one,
when after the blue-coats. He is devoted to these, and pays
them his respects upon all occasions. He is fond of reading,
but greatly prefers fighting. Happily married, and keeping
house with his helpmate, in camp, he is still impatient at the
idlesse of the times. Like his friend, Lieutenant T—, he is
longing for some movement, and sustains the dull days with
difficulty.

If the characters of my two friends are sufficiently indicated
by the above sketch, the reader will comprehend with what
pleasure they obtained permission in December last (1862) to go
on a romantic little scout into the lines of the enemy, beyond
the Rappahannock. Burnside was then getting ready to cross
at Fredericksburg, and his cavalry scouted daily along the north
bank of the river, up and down—so the commission of entering
King George was an exciting one, promising no little adventure.

But to procure information of the enemy's designs was only a
part of their orders—the most agreeable portion remains behind.
They were directed not only to spy out the land, and the position
of the foe, but also to escort a young lady, then in King
George county, through the enemy's lines into our own. As
the reader will imagine, this was far from disagreeable to the
chivalric young officers; and they made their preparations with
alacrity.

Leaving their swords behind, as calculated to impede their
movements when they entered the enemy's country, as they
must do, on foot, they took only pistol and carbine, and set out
for a point down the river.

The place which they chose for crossing was Port Royal, that
lovely little village which nestles down prettily, like a bird, in
the green fields—and here, leaving their horses at the house of
a friend, they were taken across in a canoe, by a sympathizing
boatman, and landed on the northern bank.

From that moment it was necessary to bring into play all the
keenness and ready faculties of the woodman and the scout.

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They were armed, as I have said, with pistol and carbine; but
these were of little use against the enemy, who, if encountered
at all, would outnumber and overpower them. Their only hopes
of success lay in eluding such scouting parties as they came
across, and “snaking it” to their destination and back again.

Soon after leaving the river their adventures commenced.
Avoiding the roads, and making their way through the woods,
they came all at once upon a large Federal camp, and passed so
near it that they could hear the words uttered by the soldiers,
but fortunately the darkness of the night prevented them from
being seen. Leaving the camp to the right, they continued
their way, walking all night, and giving a wide berth to such
picket fires as they saw glimmering near their route. They thus
reached in safety the house of a lady whom one of the party
knew, and where they were certain of food and rest. These
were now greatly needed by the young adventurers. Their
tramp had been exciting and prolonged, over very rough ground—
they had not tasted food since the preceding day—and the
whole night had been spent upon the road, or rather in the
woods, without rest or sleep.

Reaching the hospitable mansion about day break, they aroused
the lady, and informed her, in a few words, of their object.
“Up went the hushed amaze of hand and eye,” as the English
laureate says; but the worthy dame acted quickly. Without
stopping to parley she admitted them, closed the door, and had
an excellent breakfast prepared at once. Having done full
honour to the meal, the young men, worn out with fatigue and
want of sleep, went to bed, and slept several hours, quite oblivious
of the fact that they were far within the lines of the
enemy, and subject at any moment to be “caught napping.”

Rising at last, the first thing which they did was to look
around for something more to eat! It was ready on the table,
awaiting them, and they attacked the substantial viands as if
they had not eaten before for a month. Some excellent cider
accompanied the solids—and this, it appeared, was a present
from a young lady who, living close by, had been informed of
their presence, and thus manifested her sympathy.

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As they rose from the table, the young lady in question entered
the dining-room; and looking very attentively at Lieutenant
T—, said, smiling:

“I have your picture, sir!”

The young man was naturally astonished at the announcement,
as he had certainly never seen the young girl before; and
said, with a laugh, that she must be mistaken.

“No, indeed I am not,” was the smiling reply; “are you not
Lieutenant T—?”

“Yes, madam.”

“As I thought.”

And the explanation followed. The young lady had a cousin
who had gone to school with Lieutenant T—, and the two had
become great friends. When they parted, they had recourse to
a friendly means of remembering each other, very common with
young men—they had their daguerreotypes taken together, both
in the same picture, and each took one. The young lady's cousin
had presented his own to her; and thus as soon as she saw
Lieutenant T—, she recognised the original of the friend of
whom her cousinhad often spoken.

This romantic little incident was far from putting the young
adventurers in a bad humour with their enterprise. They tarried
at the house of the hospitable dame long enough to become excellent
friends with the pretty maiden, and to procure all the information
which the ladies could give them. Then, as soon as
the shades of evening drew on, they took up the line of march
again toward their destination—passing more Federal camps, but
running the gauntlet successfully between them all—and arriving
safely.

Disappointment awaited them here. The fair lady whom they
came to carry off to the “happy land of Dixie,” was not ready to
return with them. For some reason—doubtless a good one,
which I may have heard, but have now forgotten—she determined
to remain where she was; and the young men, having secured
valuable information of the number and positions of the enemy,
set out on their return.

They succeeded, after many adventures, in reaching the

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vicinity of the river again. To recross was the great difficulty—for
there was no longer a sympathizing friend near at hand with a
boat. In addition to this, the banks were at this point thoroughly
picketed, and they were in danger of being stopped by a musket-ball
if they even secured a canoe.

The attempt to cross was necessary to be made, however. It
was now night, and if they were detained on the north bank of
the Rappahannock until the next day, they would be in imminent
danger of capture.

They accordingly set to work. Necessity, the benign mother of
invention, pointed out two logs, lying in a sort of marsh, on the
edge of the stream; and these logs the young men proceeded to
lash together. Having no cords of any description, they used
their suspenders, and finally succeeded in launching the impromptu
raft upon the stream.

As it floated off, they found all at once that they were moving
into view of a sentinel posted upon the rising ground beyond
the swampy bottom; and every moment expected to be chal
lenged—the challenge to be succeeded by the whizzing of balls.

The enterprise terminated for the moment, differently, however.
The raft had been constructed without very profound science;
the suspenders gave way; and Lieutenant T—found himself
astraddle one log, and Lieutenant H—the other.

Grand tableau!—and the aforesaid “happy land of Dixie” as
far off as ever!

They were forced to return to the northern bank, which they
succeeded in doing with difficulty, and “as wet as drowned rats.”
It was necessary to scout along the stream, to find if possible
some better means of crossing. This river is difficult to pass—
General Burnside was, at the same moment, engaged in the same
task which absorbed the energies of the gay youths.

Ascending the bank, and flanking the picket, they plunged
into the wood, and struck down the river.

They were not to be so fortunate as before.

Seeing no picket-fires for a long way ahead, they ventured
into the road—but were suddenly startled by the tramp of cavalry
coming toward them from below.

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They leaped the ditch and brushwood fence, and were about to
scud across the field, when the troop was upon them, and discovered
the moving figures in the dim starlight.

“Halt!” came from the officer in command, as he drew up;
and seeing that their further progress would be arrested by a
shower of carbine balls, the young men threw themselves upon
the ground close beside the brush fence, trusting to the darkness
to hide them.

“I certainly saw men there,” said the officer.

“I don't think it was anything but cows,” said another voice.

“Send a man to see.”

And a trooper pushed across into the field, and rode up to the
truants, who, finding themselves discovered, put the best face
upon the matter.

They were conducted to the officer in command, who said:

“Who are you?”

“Third Indiana Cavalry,” responded Lieutenant T—,
promptly.

“What are you doing here, away from your regiment?”

“We were left behind, sick, sir,” was the reply, “and sent on
our horses with the baggage. We are now looking for the
camp.”

This was uttered in the most plausible manner imaginable, and
as the darkness hid the young man's Confederate uniform, there
was nothing suspicious about him to the eyes of the officer. The
two youths seemed to be what they represented themselves—
stragglers or sick, trying to rejoin their companies—and no
doubts appeared to rest upon the Federal Captain's mind.

He reprimanded them for dodging about, and proceeded on his
way—taking the precaution, however, of a good officer, of leaving
a mounted man in charge of them, with orders to conduct them
to the camp of the regiment to which he belonged, about half a
mile distant, and report to the Colonel.

The troop was soon out of sight, and the cavalry-man and his
prisoners proceeded slowly in the same direction; their conductor
holding a cocked pistol in his right hand.

The young men exchanged glances. Now or never was their

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opportunity. In fact, something more than loss of liberty was
involved in their capture. They had represented themselves as
members of the Third Indiana Cavalry; were within the Federal
lines; they were clearly reducible under the head of spies; and
in that character would have a short shrift and a stout rope for
their pains.

The camp was near, the time short, action was necessary.

To action they accordingly proceeded.

Lieutenant H—, as I have said, is young; has an engagingly
girlish expression of countenance, and his voice is as bland
and kindly as possible.

“You have a good horse, there, my friend,” said Lieutenant
H— mildly, and with an innocent smile.

“Yes, sir,” was the reply; “as good a horse as ever was
foaled in the State of York.”

“What stock is he?” continued Lieutenant H—, softly;
and he laid his hand on the rein as he spoke.

Before the cavalry-man could reply, Lieutenant H— made
a sudden clutch at the pistol which the trooper held; missed it,
and found the muzzle instantly thrust into his face.

It was quickly discharged, and again, and again; but strange
to say, not a single ball took effect.

Lieutenant H— retreated, and the trooper turned round
and rode at Lieutenant T—, who was armed with a carbine
which he had borrowed from me for the expedition.

As the trooper rode at him, he raised the weapon, took aim,
and fired. In narrating this portion of his adventures, the Lieutenant
says:

“I don't know whether I killed him, but he gurgled in his
throat, his horse whirled round and ran, and fifty yards off, he
fell from the saddle.”

To continue my narrative. The situation of the youths was
more critical than ever after the “suppression” of the trooper.
The company of cavalry were not far off; the firing had certainly
been heard, and a detachment would speedily be sent back to
inquire what had occasioned it, even if the riderless horse did
not announce fully all that had taken place. No time was to be

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lost, and the adventurous youths leaped the brush fence, ran
across the field, and took shelter in a pine thicket, through which
they continued to advance as before, down the river.

They did not observe any signs of pursuit, and after a weary
march, reached the vicinity of Port Conway.

One more incident occurred.

Toward daylight they found themselves near a country house
on the river bank. Half dead for want of food, for they had
eaten nothing since the forenoon of the preceding day, they ventured
to approach the building, and knocked at the door.

No reply came; no evidence that the place was inhabited.
They knocked again, and this time were more successful.

An upper window of the house was raised, the head of a lady
in coiffure de nuit thrust out, and a voice asked—

“Who is there?”

“Friends,” returned Lieutenant T—, at a venture; “we are
worn out with hunger and fatigue, and want a little bread and
rest.”

“The old story!” returned the voice; “I am tired of you
stragglers.”

“Stragglers!”

“Yes; there are thousands of you going about and plundering
people. You can't come in!”

And the head made a motion to retire.

My friend, Lieutenant T—, is an intelligent youth. He
understands readily, and an instant sufficed to make him comprehend
that he and his friend were refused admittance because
they were regarded as Yankees. There were no other “stragglers”
in that region; it was plain how the land lay in regard
to the fair lady's sentiments, and the result of these quick reflections
was the reply:

“We are not Yankees, we are Confederates!”

At these words the head all at once returned to the framework
of the window.

“Confederates!” exclaimed the head; “you are trying to
deceive me.”

“Indeed we are not!”

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“What are you doing over here?”

“We came across on a scout, and are now going back. We
were captured by a party of cavalry, but got away from them,
and are pushing down the river to find a place to cross.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Indeed we are.”

“What is your name?”

“Lieutenant T— T—.”

“What is the name of your home?”

“Kinloch.”

“What is your father's name?”

The young man gave it.

“Your mother's name?”

He gave that, also.

“You are my cousin!” said the lady, completely satisfied;
“wait and I will come down and let you in.”

Who will doubt about the clans of Virginia after that!

The good lady, who was really a relative of Lieutenant T—,
admitted them, gave them a warm welcome, and a hot breakfast;
had her best beds prepared for them; and as before, they
proved mighty trenchermen; after which they proceeded to sleep
like the seven champions of Christendom.

On the same afternoon they succeeded in procuring a canoe,
bade their good hostess farewell, and crossed the river, just in
time to hear the roar of the cannon at Fredericksburg. These
events had passed between the tenth and thirteenth days of
December.

I have used no colours of fancy in narrating the adventure;
my sketch is a simple statement of facts, which I hope will
amuse some of my readers.

Lieutenant T— related the incidents of the trip with cheerful
laughter, and wound up by saying, as he sat by the blazing
fire in my tent:

“I tell you, I am glad to get back here, Captain!”

p521-358

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I WAS sitting in my tent one day in the year 1863, idly gazing
over a newspaper, when my eye fell upon the following paragraph:

“Killed on the Blackwater.—We learn that Captain Edelin, of
the old First Maryland Regiment, but who recently joined the
Confederate forces in North Carolina, was killed a few days since
in a skirmish on the Blackwater.”

I laid down the paper containing this announcement, and
speedily found myself indulging in reverie.

“Thus fall,” I murmured, “from the rolls of mortality the
names we have known, uttered, been familiar with! The beings
with whom we are thrown, whose hands we touch, whose voices
we hear, who smile or frown as the spirit moves them, are to-morrow
beyond the stars. They are extinguished like the fitful
and wandering fires of evening—like those will-o'-wisps which
dance for an hour around the fields and then disappear in the
gathering darkness!”

This “Captain Edelin, of the old First Maryland Regiment,”
I had chanced to know. It was but a moment—his face passed
before me like a dream, never more to return; but reading that
paragraph announcing his death recalled him to me clearly as I
saw and talked with him one night on the outpost, long ago.

Captain Edelin once arrested me at my own request.

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Let me recall in detail, the incidents which led to this acquaintance
with him.

It was, I think, in December, 1861.

I was at that time Volunteer A. D. C. to General Stuart of the
cavalry, and was travelling from Leesburg to his headquarters,
which were on the Warrenton road, between Fairfax and Centreville.

I travelled in a light one-horse vehicle, an unusual mode of conveyance
for a soldier, but adopted for the convenience it afforded
me in transporting my blankets, clothes, sword, and other personal
effects, which would certainly have sunk a horseman fathoms
deep in the terrible mud of the region, there to remain like the
petrified Roman sentinel dug out from Pompeii.

The vehicle in question was drawn by a stout horse, who was
driven by a cheerful young African; and achieving an ultimate
triumph over the Gum Spring road, we debouched into the
Little River turnpike, and came past the “Double Toll-gate” to
the Frying Pan road.

Here the first picket halted me. But the Lieutenant of the
picket took an intelligent view of things, and suffered me to
continue the road to Centreville.

Toward that place, accordingly, I proceeded, over the beforementioned
“Frying Pan,” which, like the “Charles City road”
below Richmond, means anything you choose.

Night had fully set in by the time I reached Meacham's, a
mile from Centreville; and I then remembered for the first time
that general orders forbade the entrance of carriages of any
descriptioni into the camp.

This general order, in its special application to myself, was
disagreeable. In fact, it was wanton cruelty, and for the following
good reasons.

This reasoning appeared conclusive, but there was the inexorable
order; and some method of flanking Centreville must be
devised.

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The method presented itself in a road branching off to the left,
which I immediately turned into. A small house presented
itself, and inquiring the way, I was informed by a cheerful-looking
matron that the road in question was the very one which
“led to the turnpike.”

Never did Delphic oracle make a more truthful or a falser
announcement. It was the Warrenton turnpike which I desired
to reach by flanking Centreville, and cutting off the angle—and
lo! with a cheerful heart, I was journeying, as will be seen, toward
other regions!

The vehicle proceeded on its way without further pause,
merrily gliding along the forest road between dusky pine
thickets, the heart of the wandering soldier inspired by the vision
of an early supper.

The evening was mild for December—the heavens studded
with stars. Now that I had found the road, and would soon
arrive, the landscape became picturesque and attractive.

Lonely cavalrymen appeared and disappeared; scrutinizing
eyes reconnoitred the suspicious vehicle as it passed; noises of
stamping horses were heard in the depths of the thicket. But
accustomed to these sights and sounds, the adventurous traveller
in search of lodging and supper did not disquiet himself.

Mile after mile was thus traversed. Still the interminable road
through the pines stretched on and on. Its terminus seemed as
distant as the crack of doom.

Most mysterious of mysteries! The Warrenton turnpike did
not appear, though I knew it was but a mile or two through to it.
Where was it? Had it disappeared under the influence of some
enchantment? Had I dreamed that I knew the country thoroughly,
from having camped there so long, and had I never in reality
visited it? It so appeared; I was certainly travelling over a
road which I had never before traversed.

One resource remained—philosophy. To that I betook myself.
When a traveller of philosophic temperament finds that he
has lost his way, he is apt to argue the matter with cheerful logic
as follows:

1. The road I am following must lead somewhere.

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2. At that “somewhere,” which I am sure eventually to reach,
I shall find some person who will have the politeness to inform
me in what part of the globe I am.

Having recourse to this mode of reasoning, I proceeded through
the pines with a cheerful spirit, entered a large field through
which the road ran, and at the opposite extremity “stumbled on
a stationary voice.”

This voice uttered the familiar

“Halt! Who goes there?”

“Friend without the countersign.”

“Advance, friend!”

I jumped out and walked to the voice, which remained stationary.

“I am going to General Stuart's headquarters. Came from
Leesburg and have no countersign. This is a picket?”

“Yes.”

“Where is the officer of the picket?”

“At the fire yonder. I will go with you.”

“Then you are not the sentinel?”

“No; the serjeant.”

And the serjeant and myself walked amicably towards the
picket fire, which was burning under a large tree, just on the
side of the turnpike.

The turnpike! Alas!

But, as the novelists say, “let us not anticipate.”

At the picket fire I found half-a-dozen men, neatly dressed
in Confederate gray.

“Which is the officer of the picket?” I said to the Serjeant.

“The small man—Captain Edelin.”

As he spoke Captain Edelin advanced to the foreground of the
picture, and the ruddy firelight gave me, at a glance, an idea of
the worthy.

He was about five feet six inches high, with a supple figure—

[figure description] Page 337.[end figure description]

legs bent like those of a man who rides much—and a keen pair
of eyes, which roved restlessly. His boots reached to the knee;
an enormous sword clattered against them as he walked. The
worthy Captain Edelin was no bad representative of Captain
D'Artagnan, the hero of Dumas' “Three Guardsmen.”

When the Captain fixed his eyes upon me, he seemed to aim
at reading me through. When he questioned me he evidently
scrutinized my words carefully, and weighed each one.

Such a precaution was not unreasonable. The period was
critical, the time “dangerous.” Our generals entertained well
grounded fears that the enemy designed a flank movement on Centreville,
up this very road, either to attack Johnston and Beauregard's
left, or to cut off Evans at Leesburg, and destroy him
before succour could reach him. I was personally cognizant of
the fact that General Evans suspected such an attack, from conversation
with him in Leesburg, and was not surprised to find,
as I soon did, that the road over which the enemy must advance
to assail him was heavily picketed all along its extent in the
direction of Fairfax.

If this “situation” be comprehended by the reader, he will
not fail to understand why the Captain scrutinized me closely.
I was a stranger to him, had passed through the Confederate
lines, and was now far to the front. If I was in the Federal service
I had learned many things which would interest General
McClellan. Spies took precautions in accommodating their
dress and entire appearance to the rôle they were to play; and
why might I not be a friend of his Excellency President Lincoln,
wearing a Confederate uniform for the convenience of travelling?

So Captain Edelin scanned me with great attention, his eyes
trying to plunge to the bottom of my breast, and drag forth some
imaginary plot against the cause.

Being an old soldier of some months' standing, and experiencing
the pangs of hunger, I rapidly came to the point. Something
like the following dialogue passed between us:

“Captain Edelin, officer of the picket?” I inquired.

“Yes, sir,” returned the worthy, with a look which said, as
plainly as any words, “Who are you?”

[figure description] Page 338.[end figure description]

I responded to the mute appeal:

“I am Aide to General Stuart, and in search of his
headquarters. I have no countersign. I left Leesburg this
morning, and to-night lost my way. What road is that yonder?”

“The Little River turnpike.”

“The Little River turnpike?”

“Yes.”

Then it all flashed on my bewildered brain! I had missed
the road which cut off the angle at Centreville, had taken a
wrong one in the dark, and been travelling between the two turnpikes
towards Fairfax, until chance brought me out upon the
Little River road, not far from “Chantilly.”

I stood for a moment looking at the Captain with stupefaction,
and then began to laugh.

“Good!” I said. “I should like particularly to know how
I got here. I thought I knew the country thoroughly, and that
this was the Warrenton road.”

“Which way did you come?” asked the Captain, suspiciously.

“By the Frying Pan road. I intended to take the short cut
to the left of Centreville.”

“You have come three or four miles out of the way.”

“I see I have—pleasant. Well, it won't take me much
longer than daylight to arrive, I suppose, at this rate.”

The Captain seemed to relish this cheerful view of the subject,
and the ghost of a smile wandered over his face.

“How far is it to General Stuart's headquarters?” I asked;
“and which road do I take?”

“That's just what I can't tell you.”

“Well, there's no difficulty about going on, I suppose? Here
are my papers; look at them.”

And I handed them to him. He read them by the firelight,
and returning them, said:

“That's all right, Captain, but—sorry—orders—unless you
have the countersign—”

“The countersign! But you are going to give me that?”

The Captain shook his head.

[figure description] Page 339.[end figure description]

“Hang it, Captain, you don't mean to say you have the heart
to keep me here all night?”

“Orders must be obeyed—”

“Why, you are not really going to take possession of me? I
don't mind it for myself, as I have my blankets, and you will
give me some supper; but there's my horse without a mouthful
since morning.”

“That's bad; but—'

“You don't know me; I understand you. These papers, my
uniform, all may be got up for the occasion; still—”

“That's a fact; and you know orders are orders. On duty—
can't know anybody; and I'd like to see the man that can catch
Edelin asleep. My boys are just about the best trained fellows
you ever saw, and can see in the dark.”

“I have no doubt of it, Captain.”

“Just about the best company to be found.”

“I believe you.”

This cheerful acquiescence seemed to please the worthy.

“We're on picket here, and a mouse couldn't get through.”

“Exactly; and I wouldn't mind staying with you the least if
I had some supper.”

“Sorry you didn't come a little sooner; I could have given
you some.”

“See what I've missed; and after travelling all day, one gets
as hungry as a hawk. I'm afraid General Stuart's supper will
be eat up to the last mouthful.”

This seemed to affect the Captain. He had supped; I, his
brother soldier, had not.

“I'll tell you what,” he said, “I'll pass you through my
picket, but you can't get on to-night. Major Wheat's pickets
are every ten yards along the turnpike, and it would take you
all night to work your way.”

“Cheerful.”

“The best thing is to stay here.”

“I'd much rather get on.”

“But I can't even tell you the road to turn off on. I have no
one to send.”

[figure description] Page 340.[end figure description]

As he spoke an idea struck me.

“What regiment is yours, Captain?” I asked.

“The First Maryland—as fine a regiment—”

“Who's your Colonel?”

“Bradley Johnson.”

“Well, arrest me, and take me to him.”

The Captain laughed.

“That would be best,” he said. “The Colonel's head-quarters
are in a small house just across the field. I'll go with you.”

So we set out, the huge sword of the worthy clattering against
his tall boots as he strode along. On the way he related at considerable
length the exploits of his Maryland boys, and renewed
his assurances of sympathy with my supperless condition—lamenting
the disappearance of his own.

In fact, I may say with modest pride that I had conquered the
worthy captain. Eloquence had reaped its reward—had had
its “perfect work.” From frigid, the Captain had become lukewarm;
from lukewarm, quite a pleasant glow had diffused itself
through his conversation. Then his accents had become even
friendly: he had offered me a part of his Barmecide supper, and
proposed to pass me through his picket.

I remember very well his short figure as it moved beside me;
his gasconades d la D'Artagnan; and his huge sabre, bobbing as
he walked. The end of it trailed upon the ground—so short
was the Captain's stature, so mighty the length of his weapon.

He strode on rapidly, talking away; and we soon approached
a small house in the middle of the large field, through whose
window a light shone.

In this house Colonel Bradley Johnson had established his
headquarters.

The Captain knocked; was bidden to enter, and went in—I
following.

“A prisoner, Colonel,” said the Captain.

[figure description] Page 341.[end figure description]

“Ah!” said Colonel Bradley Johnson, who was lying on his
camp bed.

“At my own request, Colonel.”

And pulling off one of a huge pair of gauntlets, I stuck a
paper at him.

Colonel Johnson—than whom no braver soldier or more delightful
companion exists—glanced at the document, then at me,
and made me a bow.

“All right. From Leesburg, Captain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any news?”

“None at all. All quiet.”

“Are you going to General Stuart's headquarters to-night?”

“If I can find the road.”

“I really don't know it. I know where it is, but—”

“It will be necessary to send me, I suppose, Colonel?”

“Necessary?”

“I am a prisoner, you know, and I think General Stuart is in
command of the outpost.”

The Colonel began to laugh.

“That's true,” he said.

And turning round, he uttered the word—

“Courier.”

Now “courier” was evidently the designation of a gentleman
who at that moment was stretching himself luxuriously in one
corner of the room, drawing over his head a large white blanket,
with the air of a man who has finished his day's work, and is
about to retire to peaceful and virtuous slumber.

From several slight indications, it was obvious that the courier
had just returned after carrying a dispatch, and that he experienced
to its fullest extent the grateful sensation of having performed
all the duty that could be expected of him, and regarded
himself as legally and equitably entitled to at least six hours
sleep, in the fond embrace of his white blanket.

Alas for the mutability of mundane things!—the unstable
character of all human calculations!

Even as he dismounted, and took off his saddle for the night,

[figure description] Page 342.[end figure description]

Fate, in the person of the present writer, was on his track. As
he lay down, and wrapped himself luxuriously in that white
blanket, drawing a long breath, and extending his limbs with
Epicurean languor, the aforesaid Fate tapped him on the shoulder,
and bade him rise.

“Courier!”

And the head rose suddenly.

“Saddle up, and go with this gentleman to General Stuart's
headquarters.”

A deep sigh—almost a groan—a slowly rising figure rolling
up a white blanket, and this most unfortunate of couriers disappeared,
no doubt maligning the whole generation of wandering
aides-de-camp, and wishing that they had never been born.

With a friendly good-night to Colonel Johnson, whose hard
work in the field since that time has made his name familiar to
every one, and honourable to his State, I returned in company
with Edelin to the picket fire.

The courier disconsolately followed.

On the way I had further talk with Captain Edelin, and I
found him a jovial companion.

When I left him, we shook hands, and that is the first time
and the last time I ever saw “Captain Edelin of the old First
Maryland Regiment.” It was Monsieur D'Artagnan come to
life, as I have said; and I remembered very well the figure of
the Captain when I read that paragraph announcing his death.

He was a Baltimorean, and I have heard that his company was
made up in the following manner:

When the disturbances took place in Baltimore, in April,
1861, the leaders of the Southern party busied themselves in
organizing the crowds into something like a military body, and
for that purpose divided them into companies, aligning them
where they stood.

A company of about one hundred men was thus formed, and
the person who had counted it off said:

“Who will command this company?”

Two men stepped forward.

“I can drill them,” said the first.

[figure description] Page 343.[end figure description]

“I have been through the Mexican war. I can fight them,”
said the other.

The command was given to the latter, and this was Edelin.
When the war commenced, he marched his company out, and
joined the Southern army.

Poor Edelin! He did not know he was arresting his historian
that night on the outpost!

A few words will terminate my account of “How I was arrested.”
I have spoken of the courier supplied me by Colonel
Johnson, and this worthy certainly turned out the most remarkable
of guides. After leaving Captain Edelin's picket, I proceeded
along the turnpike toward Germantown—continuing thus
to follow, as I have said, the very road I had travelled over
when the first picket stopped me at the mouth of the “Frying
Pan.”

I had gone round two sides of a triangle and was quietly advancing
as I might have done over the same route!

There was this disagreeable difference, however, that the night
was now dark; that the pickets were numerous and on the alert;
that neither I nor the courier knew the precise point to turn off;
and that Wheat's “Tigers,” then on picket, had an eccentric idea
that everybody stirring late at night, at such a time, was a
Yankee, and to be fired upon instantly. This had occurred more
than once—they had shot at couriers—and as they had no fires
you never knew when a picket was near.

This was interesting, but not agreeable. To have a friendly
“Tiger” regret the mistake and be sorry for killing you is something,
but not affecting seriously the general result.

Such appeared to be the view taken by my friend the courier.
He was in a tremendous state of excitement. I was not composed
myself; but my disquiet was connected with the idea of
supper, which I feared would be over. A day's fasting had
made me ravenous, and I hurried my driver constantly.

[figure description] Page 344.[end figure description]

This proceeding filled my friend the courier with dire forebodings.
He several times rode back from his place some fifty
yards in advance to beg me pathetically to drive slower—he
could not hear the challenge if I drove so fast, and “they would
shoot!” This view I treated with scorn, and the result was,
that my guide was nearly beside himself with terror.

He besought me to be prudent; but as his idea of prudence
was to walk slowly along, listening with outstretched neck and
eager ears for the challenge of the pickets from the shadow of
the huge trees, and to shout out the countersign immediately
upon being halted, with a stentorian voice which could be heard
half a mile; as his further views connected with the proprieties
of the occasion seemed to impel him to hold long and confidential
conversations with the “Tigers,” to the effect that he and I
were, in the fullest sense of the term, “all right;” that I was
Aide to General Stuart; that I had come that day from Leesburg;
that I had lost my way; that I was not a suspicious character;
that he was in charge of me—as this method of proceeding, I say,
seemed to constitute the prudence which he urged upon me so
eloquently, I treated his remonstrances and arguments with rude
and hungry disregard.

Instead of waiting quietly while he palavered with the sentinels,
I broke the dialogue by the rough and impolite words to
the sentinel:

“Do you know the road which leads in to General Stuart's
headquarters?”

“No, sir.”

“Drive on!”

And again the vehicle rolled merrily along, producing a terrible
rattle as it went, and filling with dismay the affrighted courier,
who, I think, gave himself up for lost.

But I am dwelling at too great length upon my “guide, philosopher,
and friend,” the courier, and these subsequent details of
my journey. I have told how I was arrested—a few words will
end my sketch.

We soon reached the “Ox Hill Road,” and here some information
was obtained.

[figure description] Page 345.[end figure description]

A friendly and intelligent “Tiger,” with a strong Irish brogue,
declared that this was the route, and I proceeded over a horrible
road into the woods.

A mile brought me to camp fires and troops asleep—no answer
greeted my shout, and, getting out of the carriage, I went
through a sort of abattis of felled trees, and stirred up a sleeper
wrapped to the nose in his blanket.

“Which is the road to General Stuart's headquarters?” I asked.

“Don't know, sir.”

And the head disappeared under the blanket.

“What regiment is this?”

The nose re-appeared.

“Tigers.”

Then the blanket was wrapped around the peaceful Tiger,
who almost instantly began to snore.

A little further the road forked, and I took that one which
led toward a glimmering light. That light reached, my troubles
ended. It was the headquarters of Major Wheat, who poured
out his brave blood, in June, 1862, on the Chickahominy, and I
speedily received full directions. Ere long I reached Mellen's,
my destination, in time for supper, as well as a hearty welcome
from the best of friends and generals.

So ends my story, gentle reader. It cannot be called a “thrilling
narrative,” but is true, which is something after all in these
“costermonger times.”

At least, this is precisely “How I was arrested.”

p521-371

[figure description] Page 346.[end figure description]

Among the daring partisans of the war, few have rendered such
valuable services to the cause as Captain John S. Mosby.

His exploits would furnish material for a volume which would
resemble rather a romance than a true statement of actual occurrences.
He has been the chief actor in so many raids, encounters,
and adventures, that his memoirs, if he committed them to
paper, would be regarded as the efforts of fancy. Fortunately,
there is very little fancy about “official reports,” which deal with
naked facts and figures, and those reports of these occurrences
are on record.

It is only necessary to glance at the Captain to understand that he was cut out for a partisan leader. His figure is slight,
muscular, supple, and vigorous; his eye is keen, penetrating,
ever on the alert; he wears his sabre and pistol with the air of
a man who sleeps with them buckled around his waist; and
handles them habitually, almost unconsciously. The Captain is
a determined man in a charge, dangerous on a scout, hard to
outwit, and prone to “turn up” suddenly where he is least
expected, and bang away with pistol and carbine.

His knowledge of the enemy's character is extensive and profound;
his devices to deceive them are rarely unsuccessful.
Take in proof of this a trifling occurrence some time since, in the
neighbourhood of Warrenton. The enemy's cavalry, in strong
force, occupied a position in front of the command which Captain

[figure description] Page 347.[end figure description]

Mosby accompanied. Neither side had advanced, and, in the
lull which took place, the Captain performed the following
amusing little comedy: taking eight or ten men, he deployed
them as skirmishers in front of an entire brigade of the enemy,
and at a given signal from him, they advanced steadily, firing
their carbines as they did so, without further intermission than
the time necessarily spent in reloading. This manæuvre was
executed with such spirit and apparent design to attack in force
that the enemy were completely taken in. As the sharpshooters
advanced, led on gallantly by the Captain, who galloped about
cheering his imaginary squadrons, the enemy were seized with a
sudden panic, wavered, and gave way, thus presenting the comic
spectacle of an entire brigade retiring before a party of eight or
ten sharpshooters.

This is only one of a thousand affairs in which Captain Mosby
has figured, proving himself possessed of the genius of a true
partisan. If I could here relate these adventurous occurrences,
the reader would soon comprehend how steady the Captain's
nerve is, how ready his resources in an emergency, and how
daring his conception and execution. For the present, I must
content myself with one recent adventure, prefacing it with a
statement which will probably throw some light upon the
motives of the chief actor, and the feelings which impelled him
to undertake the expedition.

In the summer of 1862, Captain Mosby was sent from Hanover
Court-House on a mission to General Jackson, who was then
on the Upper Rapidan. He was the bearer of an oral communication,
and as the route was dangerous, had no papers about him
except a brief note to serve as a voucher for his identity and
reliability. With this note, the Captain proceeded on his journey,
and stopping at Beaver Dam Station on the Virginia Cenral
Railroad, to rest and feed his horse, was, while quietly sitting
on the platform at the depot, surprised and bagged by a detachment
of the enemy's cavalry.

Now, to be caught thus napping, in an unguarded moment, was
gall and wormwood to the brave Captain. He had deceived and
outwitted the enemy so often, and had escaped from their clutches

[figure description] Page 348.[end figure description]

so regularly up to that time, that to find himself surprised thus
filled him with internal rage. From that moment his sentiments
toward them increased in intensity. They had been all along
decidedly unfriendly—they were now bitter. They took him
away with them, searched him, appropriated his credentials, published
them as an item of interest in the Northern papers, and
immured the partisan in the Old Capitol.

In due course of time he was exchanged. He returned with a
handsome new satchel and increased affection for his friends
across the way. He laughed at his misfortunes, but set down
the account to the credit of the enemy, to be settled at a more
convenient opportunity.

Since that time the Captain has been regularly engaged in
squaring his account. He has gone to work with a thorough air
of business. Under an energy and perseverance so systematic
and undeviating the account has been gradually reduced, item
by item.

On the night of Sunday, the eighth of March, 1863, it may
fairly be considered that the account was discharged. To come
to the narrative of the event alluded to, and which it is the
design of this paper to describe:

Previous to the eighth of March Captain Mosby had put
himself to much trouble to discover the strength and positions of
the enemy in Fairfax county, with the design of making a raid
in that direction, if circumstances permitted. The information
brought to him was as follows: On the Little River turnpike at
Germantown, a mile or two distant from Fairfax, were three
regiments of the enemy's cavalry, commanded by Colonel
Wyndham, Acting Brigadier-General, with his headquarters at
the Court-House. Within a few hundred yards of the town
were two infantry regiments. In the vicinity of Fairfax Station,
about two miles off, an infantry brigade was encamped. And
at Centreville there was another infantry brigade, with cavalry
and artillery.

Thus the way to Fairfax Court-House, the point which the
Captain desired to reach, seemed completely blocked up with
troops of all arms—infantry, artillery, and cavalry. If he

[figure description] Page 349.[end figure description]

attempted to approach by the Little River turnpike, Colonel
Wyndham's troopers would meet him full in front. If he tried
the route by the Warrenton turnpike, a brigade of infantry,
with cavalry to pursue and artillery to thunder at him, was first
to be defeated. If he glided in along the railroad, the brigade at
Fairfax Station was in his track.

The “situation” would have appeared desperate to almost any
one, however adventurous, but danger and adventure had attractions
for Captain Mosby. If the peril was great and the probability
of success slender, all the greater would be the glory if
he succeeded. And the temptation was great. At Fairfax
Court-House, the general headquarters of that portion of the
army, Brigadier-General Stoughton and other officers of high
rank were then known to be, and if these could be captured,
great would be his triumph.

In spite of the enormous obstacles which presented themselves
in his path, Captain Mosby determined to undertake no less an
enterprise than entering the town, seizing the officers in their
beds, destroying the huge quantities of public stores, and bearing
off his prisoners in triumph.

The night of Sunday, March 8th, was chosen as favorable to
the expedition. The weather was terrible—the night as dark as
pitch—and it was raining steadily. With a detachment of
twenty-nine men Captain Mosby set out on his raid.

He made his approach from the direction of Aldie. Proceeding
down the Little River turnpike, the main route from the
Court-House to the mountains, he reached a point within about
three miles of Chantilly. Here, turning to the right, he crossed
the Frying Pan road about half-way between Centreville and the
turnpike, keeping in the woods, and leaving Centreville well to
the right. He was now advancing in the tringle which is made
by the Little River and Warrenton turnpikes and the Frying
Pan road. Those who are familiar with the country there will

[figure description] Page 350.[end figure description]

easily understand the object of this proceeding. By thus cutting
through the triangle, Captain Mosby avoided all pickets, scouting
parties, and the enemy generally, who would only keep a look-out
for intruders on the main roads.

Advancing in this manner through the woods, pierced with
devious and uncertain paths only, which the dense darkness
scarcely enabled them to follow, the partisan and his little band
finally struck into the Warrenton road, between Centreville and
Fairfax, at a point about midway between the two places. One
dauger had thus been successfully avoided—a challenge from
parties of cavalry on the Little River road, or discovery by the
force posted at Centreville. That place was now in their rear—
they had “snaked” around it and its warders; but the perils of
the enterprise had scarcely commenced. Fairfax Court-House
was still about four miles distant, and it was girdled with cavalry
and infantry. Every approach was guarded, and the attempt to
enter the place seemed desperate, but the Captain determined to
essay it.

Advancing resolutely, he came within a mile and a half of the
place, when he found the way barred by a heavy force. Directly
in his path were the infantry camps of which he had been notified,
and all advance was checked in that direction. The Captain
did not waver in his purpose, however. Making a detour to the
right, and leaving the enemy's camp far to his left, he struck into
the road leading from Fairfax southward to the railroad.

This avenue was guarded like the rest, but by a picket only;
and the Captain knew thoroughly how to deal with these. Before
the sleepy and unsuspicious pickets were aware of their danger,
they found pistols presented at their heads, with the option
of surrender or death presented to them. They surrendered
immediately, were taken in charge, and without further ceremony
Captain Mosby and his band entered the town.

From that moment the utmost silence, energy, and rapidity of
action were requisite. The Captain had designed reaching the
Court-House at midnight, but had been delayed two hours by
mistaking his road in the pitch darkness. It was now two o'clock
in the morning; and an hour and a half, at the very utmost, was

[figure description] Page 351.[end figure description]

left him to finish his business and escape before daylight. If
morning found him anywhere in that vicinity he knew that his
retreat would be cut off, and the whole party killed or captured—
and this would have spoiled the whole affair. He accordingly
made his dispositions rapidly, enjoined complete silence, and set
to work in earnest. The small band was divided into detachments,
with special duties assigned to each. Two or three of
these detachments were sent to the public stables which the fine
horses of the General and his staff officers occupied, with instructions
to carry them off without noise. Another party was sent to
Colonel Wyndham's headquarters to take him prisoner. Another
to Colonel Johnson's, with similar orders.

Taking six men with him, Captain Mosby, who proceeded
upon sure information, went straight to the headquarters of
Brigadier-General Stoughton.

The Captain entered his chamber without much ceremony, and
found him asleep in bed.

Making his way toward the bed, in the dark, the partisan
shook him suddenly by the shoulder.

“What is that?” growled the General.

“Get up quick, I want you,” responded the Captain.

“Do you know who I am?” cried the Brigadier, sitting up in
bed, with a scowl. “I will have you arrested, sir!”

“Do you know who I am?” retorted the Captain, shortly.

“Who are you?”

“Did you ever hear of Mosby?”

“Yes! Tell me, have you caught the—rascal!”

“No, but he has caught you!”

And the Captain chuckled.

“What does all this mean, sir!” cried the furious officer.

“It means, sir,” the Captain replied, “that Stuart's cavalry are
in possession of this place, and you are my prisoner. Get up and
come along, or you are a dead man!”

Bitter as was this order, the General was compelled to obey,
and the partisan mounted him, and placed him under guard.
His staff and escort were captured without difficulty, but two of

[figure description] Page 352.[end figure description]

the former, owing to the darkness and confusion, subsequently
made their escape.

Meanwhile the other detachments were at work. They entered
the stables, and led out fifty-eight very fine horses, with their
accoutrements, all belonging to officers, and took a number of
prisoners. Hundreds of horses were left, for fear of encumbering
the retreat.

The other parties were less successful. Colonel Wyndham had
gone down to Washington on the preceding day; but his A. A.
General and Aide-de-camp were made prisoners. Colonel Johnson
having received notice of the presence of the party, succeeded in
making his escape.

It was now about half-past three in the morning, and it behoved
Captain Mosby, unless he relished being killed or captured,
to effect his retreat. Time was barely left him to get out
of the lines of the enemy before daylight, and none was to be
lost.

He had intended to destroy the valuable quartermaster, commissary,
and sutler's stores in the place, but these were found to
be in the houses, which it would have been necessary to burn;
and even had the proceeding been advisable, time was wanting.
The band was encumbered by three times as many horses and
prisoners as it numbered men, and day was approaching. The
captain accordingly made his dispositions rapidly for retiring.

The prisoners, thirty-five in number, were as follows:

Brig.-Gen. E. H. Stoughton.

Baron R. Wordener, an Austrian, and Aide de-camp to Col.
Wyndham.

Capt. A. Barker, 5th New York Cavalry.

Col. Wyndham's A. A. General.

Thirty prisoners, chiefly of the 18th Pennsylvania and 1st
Ohio Cavalry, and the telegraph operator at the place.

These were placed upon the captured horses, and the band set
out in silence on their return.

Captain Mosby took the same road which had conducted him
into the Court-H use: that which led to Fairfax Station. But
this was only to deceive the enemy as to his line of retreat, if

[figure description] Page 353.[end figure description]

they attempted pursuit. He soon turned off, and pursued the
same road which he had followed in advancing, coming out on
the Warrenton turnpike, about a mile and a half from the
town. This time, finding no guards on the main road, he continued
to follow the turnpike until he came to the belt of woods
which crosses the road about half a mile from Centreville. At
this point of the march, one of the prisoners, Captain Barker,
no doubt counting on aid from the garrison, made a desperate
effort to effect his escape. He broke from his guards, dashed
out of the ranks, and tried hard to reach the fort. He was
stopped, however, by a shot from one of the party, and returned
again, yielding himself a prisoner.

Again turning to the right, the Captain proceeded on his way,
passing directly beneath the frowning fortifications. He passed
so near them that he distinctly saw the bristling muzzles of the
cannon in the embrasures, and was challenged by the sentinel
on the redoubt. Making no reply he pushed on rapidly, for the
day was dawning, and no time was to be lost; passed within a
hundred yards of the infantry pickets without molestation, swam
Cub Run, and again came out on the Warrenton turnpike at
Groveton.

He had passed through all his enemies, flanked Centreville,
was on the open road to the South: he was safe!

p521-379

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Yesterday I received a letter from my friend Lieutenant N.
Bumpo, Artillery Corps, P. A. C. S. To-day I have been
thinking of the career of this young gentleman from the outset
of the war.

“Representative men” are profitable subjects for reflection.
They embody in their single persons, the characteristics of whole
classes.

Bumpo is a representative man.

He represents the Virginia youth who would not stay at home,
in spite of every attempt to induce him to do so; who, shouldering
his musket, marched away to the wars; who has put his
life upon the hazard of the die a thousand times, and intends to
go on doing so to the end.

I propose to draw an outline of Lieutenant Bumpo. The
sketch shall be accurate; so accurate that he will be handed
down to future generations—even as he lived and moved during
the years of the great revolution. His grandchildren shall thus
know all about their at present prospective grandpa—and all his
descendants shall honour him. His portrait over the mantel-piece
shall be admiringly indicated, uno digito. The antique cut
of his uniform shall excite laughter. Bumpo will live in every
heart and memory!

He is now seventeen and a half. Tall for his age; gay, smiling;
fond of smoking, laughing, and “fun” generally. I have
said that he is an officer of the Artillery Corps, at present—but
he has been in the infantry and the cavalry.

[figure description] Page 355.[end figure description]

He was born in the Valley of Virginia, and spent his youth
in warring on partridges. His aim thus early became unerring.
When the war broke out it found him a boy of some fifteen and
a half—loving all mankind, except the sons of the famous “Pilgrim
Fathers.” Upon this subject Bumpo absorbed the views
of his ancestors.

April, 1861, arrived duly. Bumpo was in the ranks with a
rifle. Much remonstrance and entreaty saluted this proceeding,
but Private Bumpo, of the “—Rifles,” remained obstinate.

“Young?” Why he was FIFTEEN!

“The seed corn should be kept?” But suppose there was
no Southern soil to plant it in?

“A mere boy?”—Boy!!!

And Private Bumpo stalked off with his rifle on his shoulder—
outraged as Coriolanus, who, after having “fluttered the Volsces
in Corioli,” was greeted with the same opprobrious epithet.

Obstinacy is not a praiseworthy sentiment in youth, but I
think that young Bumpo was right. He would have died of
chagrin at home, with his comrades in the service; or his pride
and spirit of haute noblesse would have all departed. It was
better to run the risk of being killed.

So Bumpo marched.

He marched to Harper's Ferry—and thenceforth “Forward—
march!” was the motto of his youthful existence.

Hungry?—“Forward, march!”

Cold?—“Forward, march!”

Tired?—“Forward, march!”

Bumpo continued thenceforth to march. When not marching
he was fighting.

The officer who commanded his brigade was a certain Colonel
Jackson, afterwards known popularly as “Old Stonewall.” This
officer could not bear Yankees, and this tallied exactly with
Private Bumpo's views. He deeply sympathized with the sentiments
of his illustrious leader, and loaded and fired with
astonishing rapidity and animation. At “Falling Water” he “fought and fell back.” Thereafter he marched back and forth,
and was on the Potomac often. A slight historic anecdote

[figure description] Page 356.[end figure description]

remains of this period in the Bumpo annals. He was on picket
near the river bank with a friend of ours, when suddenly an old
woman, of hag-like, Macbeth-witch appearance, came in view on
the opposite bank, gesticulating violently to hidden observers
that yonder were the Rebels! The friend of our youth, in a
jocose spirit, fired, as he said, ahead of the old hag to frighten
her—or behind, to put a ball through her flying skirts—but
Bumpo upbraided him with his bloody real intentions. We regret
to say, however, that he afterwards retired behind a tree
and indulged in smothered laughter as the Macbeth-witch disappeared
with floating robes toward her den.

From the Valley, Private Bumpo proceeded rapidly to Manassas,
where he took part in the thickest of the fight, and was
bruised by a fragment of shell. Here he killed his first man.
His cousin, Carey—, fell at his side, and Bumpo saw the soldier
who shot him, not fifty yards off. He levelled his rifle, and
put a ball through his breast. He went down, and Bumpo says
with laughter, “I killed him!”

He was starved like all of us at Manassas, and returning to
the Valley continued to have short rations. He fought through
all the great campaigns there, and wore out many pairs of shoes
in the ranks of the Foot Cavalry. At Kernstown he had just
fired his gun, and as he exclaimed “By George! I got him that
time!” received a ball which tore his coat-sleeve to pieces, and
numbed his wrist considerably. He regards himself as fortunate,
however, and says Kernstown was as hot as any fight he has
seen. Thereafter, more marching. He had been back to the
Fairfax country, where I saw him two or three times—and now
traversed the Valley again. The Romney march, he says, was
a hard one; no blankets, no rations, no fire, but a plenty of
snow. I saw him on his return at Winchester, and compared
notes. The weather was bad, but Bumpo's spirits good. He
had held on to his musket, remaining a high private in the rear
rank.

Some of these days he will tell his grandchildren, if he lives,
all about the days when he followed Commissary Banks about,
and revelled in the contents of his wagons. Altogether they

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had a jovial time, in spite of snow and hunger and weariness.

The days hurried on, and Port Republic was fought. Private
Bumpo continued to carry his musket about. He had now seen
a good deal of Virginia—knew the Valley by heart—was acquainted
with the very trees and wayside stones upon the highways.
Riding with me since, he has recalled many tender
memories of these objects. Under that tree there, he lay down
to rest in the shade on a hot July day. On that stone he sat,
overcome with weariness, one afternoon of snowy December.
There's the road we fell back on! Yonder is the hollow where
we advanced! Consequent conclusion on the part of Private
Bumpo that he has graduated in the geography of that portion
of his native State.

The lowland invited him to visit its sandy roads, after Cross
Keys. The stones of the Valley were exchanged for the swampy
soil of the Chickahominy.

On the morning of the battle of Cold Harbour, I saw a brigade
in the pine woods as I passed, and inquiring what one it
was, found it was Bumpo's. I found the brave youth in charming
spirits as ever; and surrounded by his good comrades, lying
on the pine-tags, he told me many things in brief words.

Bumpo, like his brave companions, had the air of the true
soldier—cheerful, prone to jest, and ready for the fray. He was
clad in gray, or rather brown, for the sun had scorched his good
old uniform to a dingy hue—and the bright eyes of the young
gentleman looked at you from beneath an old drab-coloured hat.
Bumpo, I think, had an irrational admiration for that hat, and, I
remember, liked his black “Yankee” haversack. I had a fine
new, shiny one which I had purchased, at only fifteen times its
original cost, from a magnanimous shop-keeper of Richmond;
and this I offered to Bumpo. But he refused it—clinging to his
plainer and better one, but slenderly stocked with crackers.

Suddenly the drum rolled. Bumpo shouldered his musket.

“Fall in!”

And the brigade was on its march again.

Poor Colonel A—! I pressed your hand that day, for “the

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first time and the last time!” Your face was kind and smiling
as you told me you would always be glad to see me at your
camp—but four hours afterwards it was cold in death. The fatal
ball had pierced your breast, and your heart's blood dyed that
hard-fought field with its crimson.

Such are the experiences of a soldier.

The battle was already raging—the brigade rapidly approached.
They arrived in time—the order passed along the
line—the corps of General Jackson went in with colours flying.

“Yesterday was the most terrific fire of musketry I ever
heard.”

Such were the words of General Jackson an hour past midnight.

On that succeeding morning, I set out to find Corporal Bumpo—
for to this rank he had been promoted. I met General Jackson
on the way, his men cheering the hero, and ascertaining from
him the whereabouts of the brigade, proceeded thither.

Corporal Bumpo smiling and hungry—a cheerful sight. He
was occupied in stocking his old haversack with biscuits—excellent
ones. They had been sent to an officer of the command,
but he was killed; and his comrades divided them. Corporal
Bumpo had charged, with his company, at sundown, near the
enemy's battery, on their extreme right. A piece of shell had
bruised him, and a ball cut a breast button of his coat in two.
The under side remained, with the name of the manufacturer
still legibly stamped thereon. Magnanimous foes! They never
interfere with “business.” That button was an “advertising
medium”—and even in the heat of battle they respected it.

Corporal Bumpo ought to have preserved that jacket as a
memorial of other days, for the honours of age. But its faded
appearance caused him to throw it away, part company with a
good old friend. What matter if it was discoloured, Bumpo?
It had sheltered you for many months. You had lain down in
it on the pine-tags of the valley and the lowlands, in the days of
July, and the nights of January; on the grass and in the snow;
with a gay heart or a sad one, beating under it. I do not recognise
you, Corporal, in this wanton act—for do not all the

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members of the family adhere to old friends? The jacket may have
been sun-embrowned, but so is the face of an old comrade.
Lastly, it was not more brown than that historic coat which the
immortal Jackson wore—whereof the buttons have been taken
off by fairy hands instead of bullets.

After Cold Harbour, Corporal Bumpo began marching again
as usual. Tramping through the Chickahominy low-grounds,
he came with his company to Malvern Hill, and was treated
once more to that symphony—an old tune now—the roar of cannon.
The swamp air had made him deadly sick—him, the
mountain born—and, he says, he could scarcely stand up, and
was about to get into an ambulance. But well men were doing
so, and the soul of Bumpo revolted from the deed. He gripped
his musket with obstinate clutch, and stayed where he was—
shooting as often as possible. We chatted about the battle when
I rode to see him, in front of the gunboats, in Charles City; and,
though “poorly,” the Corporal was gay and smiling. He had
got something to eat, and his spirits had consequently risen.

“Fall in!” came as we were talking, and Bumpo marched.

Soon thereafter, I met the Corporal in the city of Richmond,
whither he had come on leave. I was passing through the
Capitol Square, when a friendly voice hailed me, and behold!
up hastened Bumpo! He was jacketless, but gay; possessor of
a single shirt, but superior to all the weaknesses of an absurd
civilization. We went to dine with some elegant lady friends,
and I offered the Corporal a black coat. He tried it on, surveyed
himself in the glass, and, taking it off, said, with cheerful
naiveté, that he believed he would “go so.” I applauded this
soldierly decision, and I know the fair dames liked the young
soldier all the better for it. I think they regarded his military
“undress” as more becoming than the finest broadcloth. The
balls of the enemy had respected that costume, and the lovely
girls, with the brave, true hearts, seemed to think that they ought
to, too.

I linger too long in these by-ways of the Corporeal biography,
but remember that I write for the gay youth's grandchildren.
They will not listen coldly to these little familiar details.

[figure description] Page 360.[end figure description]

From Richmond the Corporal marched northward again.
This time he was destined to traverse new regions. The Rapidan
invited him, and he proceeded thither, and, as usual, got into
a battle immediately. He says the enemy pressed hard at Cedar
mountain, but when Jackson appeared in front, they broke and
fled. The Corporal followed, and marched after them through
Culpeper; through the Rappahannock too; and to Manassas.
A hard fight there; two hard fights; and then with swollen and
bleeding feet, Bumpo succumbed to fate, and sought that haven
of rest for the weary soldier—a wagon not until he had his surgeon's
certificate, however; and with this in his pocket, the Corporal
went home to rest a while.

I think this tremendous tramp from Winchester to Manassas,
by way of Richmond, caused Corporal Bumpo to reflect. His
feet were swollen, and his mind absorbed. He determined to
try the cavalry. Succeeding, with difficulty, in procuring a
transfer, he entered a company of the Cavalry Division under
Major-General Stuart, whose dashing habits suited him; and no
sooner had he done so than his habitual luck attended him. On
the second day he was in a very pretty little charge near Aldie.
The Corporal—now private again—got ahead of his companions,
captured a good horse, and supplied himself, without cost to the
Confederate States, with a light, sharp, well balanced sabre.
Chancing to be in his vicinity I can testify to the gay ardour
with which the ex-Corporal went after his old adversaries, no
longer on foot, and even faster than at the familiar “double
quick.”

His captured horse was a good one; his sabre excellent. It
has drawn blood, as the following historic anecdote will show.
The ex-Corporal was travelling through Culpeper with two
mounted servants. He and his retinue were hungry; they could
purchase no food whatever. At every house short supplies—
none to be vended—very sorry, but could not furnish dinner.
The hour for that meal passed. Supper-time came. At many
houses supper was demanded, with like unsuccess. Then the
soul of Bumpo grew enraged—hunger rendered him lawless, inexorable.
He saw a pig on the road by a large and fine looking

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house; poor people living beside the road disclaimed ownership,
and declined selling. Impressment was necessary—and Bumpo,
with a single blow of his sabre, slaughtered the unoffending
shoat. Replacing his sword with dignity in its scabbard, he
indicated the prostrate animal with military brevity of point, and
rode on, apparently in deep reflection. The retinue followed
with a pig which they had found recently killed, upon the road—
and bivouacking for the night in the next woods he reached, with
the aid of some bread in his servants' haversacks, Bumpo made
an excellent supper.

This incident he related to me with immoral exultation. It is
known in the family as the “Engagement in Culpeper.”

Bumpo was greatly pleased with the cavalry, and learned fast.
He displayed an unerring instinct for discovering fields of new
corn for horse feed; was a great hand at fence rails for the
bivouac fire; and indulged in other improper proceedings which
indicated the old soldier, and free ranger of the fields and forests.
The “fortunes of war” gave me frequent opportunities of enjoying
the society of Bumpo at this time. We rode together many
scores of miles, with Augustus Cæsar, a coloured friend, behind;
and lived the merriest life imaginable.

Worthy Lieutenant of the C. S. Artiller, do you ever recall
those sunshiny days? Don't you remember how we laughed
and jested as we rode; how we talked the long hours away so
often; and related to each other a thousand stories? How we
bivouacked by night, and halted to rest by day, making excellent
fires, and once kindling the dry leaves into a conflagration
which we thought would bring over the enemy? Have you
forgotten that pleasant little mansion in the woods, where a
blazing fire and real coffee awaited us—where I purchased
“Consuelo,” and you, “The Monk's Revenge?” You were
Bumpo “by looks” and Bumpo “by character” that day, my
friend, for you feasted as though a famine were at hand! Then
the supper at Rudishill's, and the breakfast at Siegel's old headquarters.
The march by night, and the apparition of Rednose,
emissary of Bluebaker! Those days were rather gay—in spite
of wind and snow—were they not, Lieutenant Bumpo? You

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live easier now, perhaps, but when do you see tableaux like
Rednose in your journey? Rednose, superior to the Thane of
Cawdor, inasmuch as he was “not afeared!”

The Lieutenant will have to explain the above mysterious
allusion to his grand-children. I think he will laugh as he does
so, and that a small chirping chorus will join in.

The young soldier soon left the cavalry. He went to see a
kinsman, was elected lieutenant of artillery in a battery which
he had never seen, and on report of his merits only, and returned
with his certificate of election in his pocket. The old luck
attended him. In a fortnight or so he was in the battle of
Fredericksburg, where he kept up a thundering fire upon the
enemy—roaring at them all day with the utmost glee; and now
he has gone with his battery, in command of a section, with
plenty of brave cannoneers to work the pieces, to the low
grounds of North Carolina.

Such is the career of Bumpo, a brave and kindly youth, which
the letter received yesterday made me ponder upon.

Some portions of the epistle are characteristic:

“Last night I killed a shoat which kept eating my corn; and
made our two Toms scald it and cut it up, and this morning we
had a piece of it for breakfast. We call the other Tom `Long
Tom,' and Thomas `Augustus Cæsar!' ”

Bumpo! Bumpo! at your old tricks, I see. Shoat has always
been your weakness, you know, from the period of the famous
“Engagement in Culpeper,” where you slew one of these inoffensive
animals. But here, I confess, there are extenuating circumstances.
For a shoat to eat the corn of a lieutenant of a battery,
is a crime of the deepest and darkest dye, and in this case that
swift retribution which visited the deed, was consistent with both
law and equity.

The natural historian will be interested in the announcement
that he had killed a good many robins, but none were good, “as
they live altogether on a kind of berry called gall-berry, which
makes them bitter.” “Bears, deer, coons, and opossum” there
are; but the Lieutenant has killed none.

“The weather,” he adds, “is as warm here as any day in May

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in the valley. We are on a sort of island, bounded by dense swamp
on each side, and a river before and behind, with the bridges washed
away. We are throwing up fortifications, but I don't think we
will ever need them, as it is almost impossible for the Yankees to
find us here.”

Admire the impregnable position in which Lieutenant Bumpo
with two pieces of artillery, “commanding in the field,” awaits
the approach of his old friends. Dense swamps on his flanks,
and rivers without bridges in his front and rear, across which,
unless they come with pontoons, he can blaze away at them to
advantage! That he is certain to perform that ceremony if he
can, all who know him will cheerfully testify. If he falls it will
be beside his gun, like a soldier, and “dead on the field of
honour” shall be the young Virginian's epitaph.

But I do not believe he will fall. The supreme Ruler of all
things will guard the young soldier who has so faithfully performed
his duty to the land of his birth.

“I think,” he adds in his letter before me, “if luck does not
turn against us, we shall be recognised very soon. I don't care
how soon, but I am no more tired of it than I was twelve months
ago.”

Is not that the ring of the genuine metal? The stuff out of
which the good soldier is made? He is no more tired of it than
he was a year ago, and will cheerfully fight it out to the end.
Not “tired of it” when so many are “tired of it.” When such
numbers would be willing to compromise the quarrel—to abandon
the journey through the wilderness to Canaan—and return
a-hungered to the fleshpots of Egypt!

Such, in rapid outline, is the military career of my friend. I
said in the beginning that he was a “representative man.” Is
he not? I think that he represents a great and noble race to
the life—the true-hearted youths of the South. They have
come up from every State and neighbourhood; from the banks
of the Potomac and the borders of the Gulf. They laid down
the school-book to take up the musket. They forgot that they
were young, and remembered only that their soil was invaded.

They were born in all classes of the social body. The humble

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child of toil stood beside the young heir of an ancient line, and
they lived and fared alike. One sentiment inspired them in
common, and made them brethren—love for their country and
hatred of her enemies. Their faces were beardless, but the stubborn
resolution of full manhood dwelt in every bosom. They
fought beside their elders, and no worse, often better. No hardships
made them quail. They were cheerful and high-spirited,
marching to battle with a gay and chivalric courage, which was
beautiful and inspiring to behold.

When they survived the bloody contest they laughed gaily,
like children, around the camp fire at night. When they fell
they died bravely, like true sons of the South.

I have seen them lying dead upon many battle-fields; with
bosoms torn and bloody, but faces composed and tranquil. Fate
had done her worst, and the young lives had ended; but not
vainly has this precious blood been poured out on the land.
From that sacred soil shall spring up courage, honour, love of
country, knightly faith, and truth—glory, above all, for the noble
land, whose very children fought and died for her!

So ends my outline sketch of the good companion of many
hours.

Send him back soon, O Carolina, to his motherland Virginia,
smiling, hearty, “gay and happy,” as he left her borders!

Ainsi soit-il!

p521-390

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Camp Quattlebum Rifles, Army of Northern Virginia,
December 10, 1863.

When I left home, my dear boys, I promised to write to you
whenever an opportunity occurred, and give you some of my
views and opinions.

I have an opportunity to-morrow to send you this; and as the
characters of great men are valuable guides to growing boys
who are shaping their own, I will take this occasion to tell you
something about the famous Commander of the Army of Northern
Virginia, General Lee.

I will first describe his appearance; for I have always observed
that when we know how a great man looks, we take far
more interest in his sayings and doings, for we have an accurate
idea of the sort of person who is talking or acting. I remember
reading once that Cæsar, the celebrated Roman General, was
a dandy in his youth—a sort of “fine gentleman” about Rome;
and had lost all his hair, which he regretted greatl, and tried to
conceal with the laurel crown he wore. Also, that when he
conquered Gaul he was thin and pale, had frequent fainting
fits, and yet was so resolute and determined that while he was
riding on horseback, over mountains and through rivers, he
would dictate dispatches to as many as seven secretaries at a

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time, who were carried in litters at his side. I also remember
reading how the Emperor Napoleon looked, and all about his
old gray overcoat, his cocked hat, his habit of taking snuff from
his waistcoat pocket, and his dark eyes, set in the swarthy face,
and looking at you so keenly as he spoke to you. I was greatly
helped, too, in my idea of General Washington—whom General
Lee, to my thinking, greatly resembles—by finding that he was
tall, muscular, and carried his head erect, repulsing with a simple
look all meddling or impertinence, and impressing upon all
around him, by his grave and noble manner, a conviction of the
lofty elements of his soul. Knowing these facts about Cæsar,
Napoleon, and Washington, I noticed that I had a much better
understanding of their careers, and indeed seemed to see them
when they performed any celebrated action which was related
in their biographies.

General Lee is now so justly famous that, although posterity
will be sure to find out all about him, my grandchildren (if I
have any) will be glad to hear how he appeared to the eyes of
Corporal Shabrach, their grandfather, one of the humble soldiers
of his army.

I have seen the General frequently, and he once spoke to me,
so I can describe him accurately. He has passed middle age, and
his hair is of an iron gray. He wears a beard and moustache,
which are also gray, and give him a highly venerable appearance.
He has been, and still is, an unusually handsome man,
and would attract attention in a crowd from his face alone.
Exposure to sun and wind has made his complexion of a ruddy,
healthy tint, and from beneath his black felt hat a pair of eyes
look at you with a clear, honest intentness, which gives you
thorough confidence both in the ability and truthfulness of their
owner. I have always observed that you can tell the character
of a man by his eyes, and I would be willing to stake my farm
and all I am worth upon the statement that there never was a
person with such eyes as General Lee's who was not an honest
man. As to his stature, it is tall, and his body is well knit.
You would say he was strong and could bear much fatigue,
without being heavy or robust. His bearing is erect, and when

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his head bends forward, as it sometimes does, it appears to stoop
under the weight of some great scheme he is concocting. His
dress is very simple, consisting generally of an old gray coat,
dark-blue pantaloons, a riding cape of the same colour; boots
worn outside, and a black hat. Sometimes a large dark overcoat
is worn over all. He seldom carries a sword. He rides fine
horses, and is my model of an old Virginia Cavalier, who would
rather be torn to pieces by shell and canister than give up any
of his rights.

If I was asked to describe General Lee's ordinary appearance
and attitude, either in the saddle, in front of the line-of-battle, or
standing with his field-glass in his hand, reconnoitring the
enemy keenly from beneath the gray eyebrows, I should say, in
words I have met with in some book, that his attitude was one
of supreme invincible repose. Here you see a man whom no
anxieties can flurry, no reverses dismay. I have seen him thus
a dozen times, on important occasions; and that, if nothing else,
convinces me that he is, in the foundations of his character, a very
great man. No man in public affairs now, to my thinking at
least, is so fine a representative and so truthful a type of the great
Virginia race of old times.

As to his character, everybody has had an opportunity of
forming an opinion upon the subject—at least of his military
character. Some persons, I know—Captain Quattlebum for
instance, who is a man of no great brains himself, however, confidentially
speaking—say that Lee is not a great general, and
compares him to Napoleon, who, they say, won greater victories,
and followed them up to better results. Such comparisons, to
my thinking, are foolish. I am no great scholar, but I have read
enough about Napoleon's times to know that they were very
different from General Lee's. He, I mean Napoleon, was at the
head of a French army, completely disciplined, and bent on
“glory.” They wanted their general to fight on every occasion,
and win more “glory.” If he didn't go on winning “glory” he
was not the man for them. The consequence was that Napoleon,
who was quite as fond of “glory” as his men, fought battles
whenever he could get at the enemy, and as his armies were

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thoroughly disciplined, with splendid equipments, and plenty
of provisions and ammunition, he was able to follow up his successes,
as he did at Marengo and Austerlitz, and get the full
benefit of them. Lee is in a very different situation from Napoleon.
This is an army of volunteers, who did not come into the
field to gain “glory,” but to keep the Yankees from coming
further South. They have no disposition to rebel and get rid
of General Lee if he does not feed them on a dish of “glory”
every few weeks. They are not as well organized as they ought
to be, and are badly equipped, provisioned, and ammunitioned.
With such an army it is unreasonable to expect General Lee to
fight as often and as desperately as Napoleon did, or to follow
up his victories. He takes the view, I suppose, that he is Commander-in-Chief
of the Confederate States in the field; that
“glory” is a secondary matter; that worrying out the enemy is
the best tactics for us, with our smaller number and superior
material; and that no risks ought to be run with our army,
which, once destroyed by an unlucky step, could not be replaced.
Altogether, for the reasons stated above, I think General Lee is a
better soldier for the place he occupies than Napoleon would be.

I can look back to many occasions where I think a different
course from that which he pursued would have been better, but
I do not, on that account, mean to say that he was wrong. I
think he was right. My dear boys, there is no man so wise as
he who explains what ought to have been done, after the event.
It is like the progress of science. A child, in the year 1864,
knows ten thousand things that the wisest philosopher of 1764
knew nothing about. So a boy may be able to understand that
this or that would have been better, from what he now knows,
when our wisest generals, from want of information at the time,
could not. It is a solemn thing to be in command of an army
which cannot be renewed, if once destroyed; especially when
that army is the only breakwater against the torrent attempting
to sweep us away.

I have, on all occasions, expressed these opinions of General
Lee, and I intend to go on expressing them, with many others
like them, and if anybody thinks I do so from interested

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motives they are welcome to their opinion. It is not likely that
the Commander-in-Chief will ever know whether Fifth Corporal
Shabrach likes or dislikes him—whether he admires him, or the
contrary. I am glad of that. I consider myself just as good as
General Lee as long as I am honest and a good soldier, doing
my duty to the country in the upright, brave, and independent
attitude of a free Virginian; and let me tell you that the General
would be the first to acknowledge it. My dear boys, there
is nobody so simple and unassuming as a gentleman, and I tell
you again that General Lee is not only a gentleman, but a great
man, and Corporal Shabrach takes off his hat and salutes him,
whether noticed by the General or not. It is his duty to salute
him, and he performs that duty without expecting to be promoted
to Fourth Corporal for it.

I will therefore say of General Lee that, to my thinking, his
character bears the most striking and surprising resemblance to
that of General Washington. When I say this, you will know
my opinion of him, for I have always taught my boys to revere
the name of the Father of his Country. In saying this about
General Lee, I do not mean any empty compliment. It is very
easy to talk about a “second Washington” without meaning
much, but I mean what I say. I read Marshall's Life of the
General some years since, and I remember taking notice of the
fact that Washington appeared to be the tallest and strongest of
all the great men around him. I did not see that he excelled
each one of them in every particular. On the contrary, there was
Patrick Henry; he could make a better speech. There was
Jefferson; he could write a better “State paper.” And there
was Alexander Hamilton, who was a much better hand at figures,
and the hocus-pocus of currency and “finance.” (I wish we had
him now, if we could make him a States' Rights man.) But
Washington, to my thinking, was a much greater man than
Henry, or Jefferson, or Hamilton. He was wiser. In the balance
and harmony of his faculties he excelled them all, and
when it came to his moral nature they were nowhere at all!
In reading his life, I remember thinking that he was the fairest
man I ever heard of. His very soul seemed to revolt against

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injustice to the meanest creature that crawled; and he appeared
to be too proud to use the power he wielded to crush those who
had made him their enemy by their own wrong-doing. Although
he was a man of violent temper, he had it under perfect
control, and he seems to have gone through life with the view
of having carved on his tombstone: “Here lies a man who
never did intentional injustice to a human creature.” Now anybody
that knows General Lee knows that this is just like him.
For my part, I am just as sure as I can be of anything, that if
one of his Major-Generals tried to oppress the humble Fifth Corporal
Shabrach, he would put the Major-General under arrest,
and make him answer for his despotism. If you will look at
the way General Washington fought, also, you will find a great
resemblance to General Lee's tactics. The enemy had then, as
now, to be worried out—to be evaded by falling back when the
ammunition or rations gave out—to be harassed by partisans,
and defeated at one point to balance their success at another.
The account current was cast up at the end of each year, the
balance struck, and preparations made to open a new account for
the next year, and the next!

That's the way we are fighting this war, and that is General
Lee's plan, I think, as it was Washington's.

All this army has pretty much the same opinion of General
Lee that I have, and is glad that it is commanded by one whom
it both respects and loves. There is no doubt about the General's
popularity with the army, and its confidence in him. The
men call him “Uncle Robert,” and are proud of his notice. I
told you that he once spoke to your father, who is nothing but
Fifth Corporal, and you will be proud when I tell you that little
Willie's letter, the first he ever wrote me, was the cause. I was
sitting on a stump by the roadside reading it with a delight that
showed itself, I suppose, in my countenance, when, hearing
horses' hoofs near me, I raised my head and saw General Lee, in
his old riding-cape, with several members of his staff. I rose
quickly to my feet and made the military salute—two fingers to
the hat—when what was my surprise to see the General stop
with all his staff. His hand went to his hat in return for my

[figure description] Page 371.[end figure description]

salute, and looking at me with his clear eyes, he said in a grave,
friendly voice:

“I suppose that is a letter from your wife, is it not, my
friend?”

It was a proud moment for Corporal Shabrach, I assure you,
my children, to be called “my friend” by old Uncle Robert.
But somehow, he didn't make me feel as if he was condescending.
It was just as if he had said: “Shabrach, my friend, we are both
good patriots, fighting for our country, and because I am Commander-in-Chief
that is no reason why I should not respect an
honest Fifth Corporal, and take an interest in him and his domestic
matters.” His voice seemed to say all that, and thinking he
was in no hurry that morning, I replied:

“No, General; I have no wife now, although I have had two
in my time, the last one having been a great trial to me, owing
to her temper, which was a hard thing to stand.”

The General smiled at this, and said with a sort of grave
humour that made his eyes twinkle:

“Well, my friend, you appear to be too well advanced in life
to have a sweetheart, although” (I saw him look at the chevrons
on my sleeve) “all the Corporals I ever knew have been gallant.”

“It is not from a sweetheart, General,” I replied; “after Mrs.
Shabrach the Second died, I determined to remain unmarried.
My little boy, Willie, wrote it; he is only six years old, but is
anxious to grow up and be one of General Lee's soldiers.”

“That is a brave boy,” returned the General; “but I hope
the war will not last so long. You must give him my love, and
tell him to fight for his country if he is ever called upon. Good
day, my friend.”

And saluting me, the General rode on. He often stops to
speak to the soldiers in that way; and I mention this little incident,
my children, to show you how kindly he is in his temper,
and how much he loves a quiet joke, with all his grave air, and
the anxieties that must rest on him as Commander-in-Chief of
the army.

I have always despised people that looked up with a mean
worship to great men, but I see nothing wrong or unmanly

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in regarding with a sort of veneration—a mixture of affection
and respect—this noble old cavalier, who seems to have stepped
out of the past into the present, to show us what sort of men
Virginia can still produce. As for myself, I never look at him
without thinking: “It is good for you to be alive to let the
youths of 1863 see what their fathers and grandfathers were in
the great old days.” The sight of the erect form, the iron-gray
hair and beard, the honest eyes, and the stately figure, takes me
back to the days when Washington, and Randolph, and Pendleton,
used to figure on the stage, and which my father told me all
about in my youth. Long may the old hero live to lead us, and
let no base hand ever dare to sully the glories of our well
beloved General—the “noblest Roman of them all,” the pink of
chivalry and honour. May health and happiness attend him!

Camp Quattlebum Rifles, A. N. V.,
January 25, 1864.

When you come out of Richmond, my dear boys, you have
to get a passport. As you have never yet travelled from home,
I will explain what a passport is. It is a paper (always brown)
which is signed by somebody or his clerk, and which induces a
melancholy-looking soldier at the cars, with a musket and fixed
bayonet, to let you go back from the horrors of Richmond to
the delights of camp.

As without this brown paper (for unless the paper is brown
the passport is not good) you cannot get back home—that is to
camp, the soldier's home—there is, of course, a great crowd of
applicants always at the office where the papers are delivered. I
was recently in Richmond, having been sent there on business

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connected with the Quartermaster's Department of our regiment,
and I will describe for your instruction the passport office, and
the way you get a passport.

I thought at first I would not need one, because my orders
were approved by several high officers, and last by Major Taylor,
Adjutant-General of the army, “by command of General
Lee,” and nobody had demanded any other evidence of my right
to travel before I reached Richmond. “Uncle Robert” will not
allow his provost-marshals at Orange or Gordonsville to deny his
sign-manual, and I was under the mistaken impression that I
could enjoy the luxury of taking back a lot of shoes and blankets
to the Quattlebum Rifles, without getting a permit on brown
paper from some Major or Captain in Richmond. I accordingly
went to the cars, and on presenting my orders to the melancholy
young man with the musket and bayonet, posted there, found
his musket drop across the door. When I asked him what that
meant, he shook his head and said I had “no passport.” I
called his attention again to my orders, but he remained immovable,
muttering in a dreary sort of way, “You must get a passport.”

“Why, here are the names of a Brigadier and Major-General.”

“You must get a passport.”

“Here is Major Taylor's signature, by command of General
Lee.”

“You must get a passport.”

“From whom?”

“Captain—,” I forget who, “at the passport office.”

This appeared to be such a good joke that I began to laugh,
at which the sentinel looked very much astonished, and evidently
had his doubts of my sanity. I went back and at once
looked up the “passport office.” I found that it was in a long
wooden building, on a broad street, in the upper part of the city,
and when I reached the place I found a large crowd assembled
at the door. This door was about two feet wide, and one at a
time only could enter—the way being barred by a fierce-looking
sentinel who kept his musket with fixed bayonet. I observed
that everything was “fixed bayonet” in Richmond, directly

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across the door. This ferocious individual let in one at a time,
and as each one entered the crowd behind him, which was as
tightly packed together as a parcel of herrings in a barrel,
surged forward with a sort of rush, only to be driven back by
the sentinel, who scowled at them pretty much as a farmer does
at a parcel of lazy negroes who have neglected their work and
incurred the penalty of the lash. As fast as the passports were
granted, those who got them passed out at another door; a
second sentinel, with musket and fixed bayonet also, bade defiance
to the crowd.

Well, after working my way through the mass, and remaining
jammed in it for over an hour, my turn came, and with a slow
and reluctant motion, the sentinel, who had been eyeing me for
some time with a sullen and insolent look, raised his musket and
allowed me to enter. His eye continued to be fixed on me, as
if I had come to pick some one's pocket, but I did not heed him,
my curiosity being too much excited by the scene before me.
A row of applicants were separated from a row of clerks in
black coats, by a tall railing with a sort of counter on top, and
the clerks were bullying the applicants. That is the only word
I can use to describe it. I am not mistaken about this. Here
were very respectable looking citizens, officers of the army, fine
looking private soldiers, and all were being bullied. “Why do
they bully people at the passport office?” you will probably ask,
boys. I don't know, but I have always observed that small “official”
people always treat the world at large with a sort of air of
defiance, as if “outsiders” had no right to be coming there to
demand anything of them; and the strange thing is, that everybody
submits to it as a matter of course.

Well, there were a large number of persons who wanted passports,
and only a few clerks were ready to wait on them. A
considerable number of well dressed young men who would
make excellent privates—they were so stout and well fed—sat
around the warm stove reading newspapers and chatting. I
wondered that they did not help, but was afterwards informed
that this was not “their hour,” and they had nothing to do with
the establishment until “their hour” arrived.

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At last my turn came round, and I presented my orders to a
clerk, who looked first at the paper, then at me, pretty much as
a cashier in a bank would do if he suspected that a draft presented
to him was a forgery. Then the official again studied the paper,
and said in the tone of a Lieutenant-General commanding:

“What is your name?”

“It is on my orders,” I said.

“I asked your name,” snapped the official.

“Solomon Shabrach.”

“What rank?”

“Fifth Corporal.”

“What regiment?”

“Quattlebum Rifles.”

“Hum! don't know any such regiment. What army?”

“General Lee's.”

“What did you visit Richmond for?”

“On public business.”

“I asked you what you came to Richmond for!” growled the
clerk, with the air of a man who is going to say next, “Sentinel,
arrest this man, and bear him off to the deepest dungeon
of Castle Thunder.”

“My friend,” I said mildly, for I am growing too old to have
my temper ruffled by every youngster, “the paper you hold in
your hand is my orders, endorsed by my various military superiors.
That paper will show you that I am Corporal Shabrach,
of the Quattlebum Rifles, — Virginia regiment,—'s brigade,—'
s division—'s corps, Army of Northern Virginia.
You will also see from it that I am in Richmond to take charge
of Quartermaster's stores, and return with them to camp `without
unnecessary delay.' I have obtained the stores, which are
shoes and blankets, and I want to obey my order and take them
to the company. If you are unwilling to give me the necessary
passport to do so, give me back my orders, and I will go to
General Winder, who is the commanding officer here, I believe,
and ask him if there is any objection to my returning with my
shoes and blankets to the army.”

At the name of General Winder a growl ran along the table,

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and in about a minute I had my passport handed me without
further discussion. It was a permit to go to Orange Court-house,
Corporal Shabrach binding himself on honour not to communicate
any intelligence (for publication) which, if known to
the enemy, would be prejudicial to the Confederate States; also
signing an oath on the back of the paper, by which he further
solemnly swore that he would yield true faith and allegiance to
the aforesaid Confederate States. This was on brown paper—
and I then knew that I could get out of Richmond without trouble.
The sentinel at the other door raised his musket, scowled
at me, and let me pass; and at the cars, the melancholy sentinel
there, too, did likewise. I observed that he read my pass
upside down, with deep attention; but I think he relied upon
the fact that the paper was brown, as a conclusive proof of its
genuineness.

I have thus described, my dear boys, the manner in which you
procure a passport in Richmond. Why is the public thus annoyed?
I really can't tell you. Everybody has to get one;
and even if Mrs. Shabrach (the second) was alive she would have
to sign that oath of true allegiance if she wanted to get on the
cars. I shall only add that I think the clerk who put her under
cross-examination would soon grow tired of the ceremony. Her
tongue was not a pleasant one; but she is now at rest.

I must now say good-by, my dear boys.

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That band in the Pines again! It is always playing, and
intruding on my reveries as I sit here in my tent, after work,
and muse. Did I say intruding? A word both discourteous
and unjust; for the music brings me pleasant thoughts and
memories. May you live a thousand years, O brave musicians,
and the unborn generations listen to your grand crescendos and
sad cadences!

That music brings back some I heard many years ago, on the
Capitol square, in Richmond. From a platform rising between
the Capitol and City-Hall this music played, and it was listened
to by youth and maiden, under the great moon, with rapture.
O summer nights! O happy hours of years long gone into the
dust! Will you never come back—never? And something
like a ghostly echo answered, “never!” That band is hushed;
the musicians have departed; the instruments are hung up in
the halls of oblivion; but still it plays in memory these good
old tunes of “Far Away in Tennessee,” “The Corn Top's Ripe,”
and “The Dear Virginia Bride.” O flitting figures in the moonlight
of old years, return! Ring, clarionet, though the drooping
foliage of the elms, and drum, roar on! The summer night
comes back, and the fairy face, like an exile's dream of home in
a foreign land.

But that band is not still; the musicians are not dead; they
live to-day, and blow away as before, for they roll the drum
and sound the bugle for the First Virginia Regiment of the

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Army of Northern Virginia. I heard them afterwards, on two
occasions, when the music was charming, and the recollection of
the scenes amid which it sounded interests me. The second time
I heard the brave musicians was at Fairfax Court-house, in
1861—or was it in 1761? A century seems to have rolled
away since then.

In 1761 the present writer must have been a youth, and
appears to remember that a fair face was beside him on that
moonlit portico at Fairfax, while the band of the First Virginia
played the “Mocking Bird,” from the camp across the mills.
The scene is clear in memory to-day, as then to the material eye:
the moonlight sleeping on the roofs of the village; the distant
woods, dimly seen on the horizon; the musing figure in the
shadow; and the music making the air magical with melody,
to die away in the balmy breeze of the summer night. To-day
the Federal forces occupy, the village, and their bands play
“Yankee Doodle,” or “The Star-Spangled Banner.” No more
does the good old band of the First Virginia play there, telling
you to listen to the “Mocking Bird,” and Colonel Wyndham's
bugles ring in place of Stuart's!

The third occasion when the performance of this band impressed
me was in August, 1861, when through the camps at
Centreville ran a rumour, blown upon the wind, which rumour
taking to itself a voice, said—

“The Prince is coming!”

All at once there appeared upon the summit of the hill, west of
Centreville, a common back, which stopped not far from where
I was standing, and around this vehicle there gathered in a few
moments quite a crowd of idlers and sightseers. Then the door
was opened; from the carriage descended three or four persons,
and these gentlemen walked out on the hill from which a view
of the battle-field of Manassas in the distance was obtained.

One of these gentlemen was Prince Jerome Bonaparte, all
knew; but which was the Prince? Half-a-dozen officers in
foreign uniform had ridden with the carriage, and one of these
officers was so splendidly clad that he seemed to be the personage
in question.

[figure description] Page 379.[end figure description]

“I suppose that is the Prince,” I said to a friend beside me.

“No, you are mistaken.”

“Which is, then?”

“Look around in the crowd, and see if you cannot tell him
from the family likeness.”

Following this suggestion, my gaze all at once was arrested
by a plainly clad person in the midst of the cortège—a farmer
apparently, for he wore a brown linen coat and common straw
hat, with nothing whatever to indicate the soldier or dignitary
in his appearance. But his dress disappeared from view and
was speedily forgotten; the face absorbed attention from the
first moment; that face was the most startling reproduction of
Napoleon's—the first Emperor's. There was no possibility of
making a mistake in this—every one who was familiar with
the portraits of Napoleon recognised the prince at a glance.
He was taller and more portly than the “Man of Destiny;” but
the family resemblance in feature and expression was absolutely
perfect. I needed no one to say “This is a Bonaparte.” The
blood of the Corsican was there for all to recognise; this was a
branch of that tree whose boughs had nearly overspread a continent.

Soon afterwards the forces then at Centreville were drawn up
for review—the infantry ranged across the valley east and west;
the artillery and cavalry disposed on the flanks of the brigades.
Thus formed in line of battle, the forces were reviewed by the
French Prince, by whose side rode Beauregard. Then the cortège
stopped; an aide left it at full gallop—soon the order which he
carried was understood by all. The First Virginia regiment was
seen in motion, and advancing; reaching the centre of the field,
it went through all the evolutions of infantry for the Prince's
inspection; and while the movements were going on, the band
of the regiment—that same old band!—played the “Mocking
Bird,” and all the well known tunes, impressing itself upon the
memory of everybody present, as an inseparable “feature” of
the occasion!

It was not Napoleon I. who reviewed the forces of Beauregard
at Centreville; but it was a human being astonishingly

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like him. And if Prince Jerome ever sees this page, and is led
to recall what he looked upon that day, I think he will remember
the band of the First Virginia, playing the “Mocking Bird”
and the “Happy Land of Dixie.”

Fairfax, Centreville, Leesburg! Seldom does the present
writer recall the first two names without remembering the third;
and here it was—at Leesburg—that a band of the enemy's made
a profound impression upon his nerves. The band in question
performed across the Potomac, and belonged to the forces under
General Banks, who had not yet encountered the terrible Stonewall
Jackson, or even met with that disastrous repulse at Ball's
Bluff. He was camped opposite Leesburg, and from the hill
which we occupied could be heard the orders of the Federal
officers at drill, together with the roar of their brass band playing
“Yankee Doodle” or “Hail Columbia.” To the patriotic heart
those airs may be inspiring, but it cannot be said with truth that
they posses a high degree of sweetness or melody. So it happened
that after listening for some weeks from the grassy slope
above “Big Spring” to this band, the present writer grew desperate,
and was filled with an unchristian desire to slay the
musicians, and so end their performances. Columbia was hailed
at morning, noon, and night; Yankee Doodle became a real personage
and walked through one's dreams—those horrible brass
instruments became a thorn in the flesh, a torture to the soul,
an inexpressible jar and discord.

So, something like joy filled the heart of this writer when the
order came to march to a point lower down the river. The column
moved; the point was reached; the tents were pitched—then
suddenly came “the unkindest cut of all.” The very same band
struck up across the river, playing “Hail Columbia” with
energy, in apparent honour of our presence opposite. When we
had moved, it had moved; when we halted, it halted—there was
the wretched invention of Satan playing away as before with
enormous ardour, and evidently rejoicing in its power over us.
The musicians played at every guard-mounting and drill; the
drums rolled at tattoo and reveillé; the bugles rang clearly
through the air of evening; and the friends of General Banks

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seemed to be having the jolliest time imaginable. That miserable
band continued to play its “patriotic airs” until everybody
grew completely accustomed to it. It was even made useful by
the sergeant of a company, I heard. He had no watch, and
economically used the tattoo and reveillé of the enemy's drums
to regulate his roll-call, and “lights out.”

I thought to speak only of the good old band of the First Virginia;
but have spoken too of its rival over the Potomac. A
word still of the band in the pine wood yonder, which plays,
and plays, with splendid and rejoiceful ardour. It is loud,
inspiring, moving, but it is not gay; and I ask myself the
question, Why? Alas! it is the ear that listens, not the music,
which makes mirthful or the reverse these animated strains.
The years bring many changes, and we—alas! we change cum
illis! Once on a time the sound of music was like laughter;
now it seems to sigh. Does it sigh for the good companions
gone, or only for lost youth, with the flower of the pea, and the
roses that will never bloom more? O martial music, in your
cadences are many memories—and memory is not always gay
and mirthful! So, cease your long-drawn, splendid battle
anthem!—play, instead, some “passionate ballad, gallant and
gay”—or better still, and old Virginia reel, such as the soldiers of
the army used to hear before they lived in tents. Unlike the
great Luria, we long to see some “women in the camp”—or if
not in person, at least in imagination!

Has some spirit of the air flashed to the brave musicians what
I wish? Do they feel as I do? The gayest reel of all the reels
since time was born, comes dancing on the wind, and every
thought but mirth is banished. Gay reel, play on! Bright
carnival of the years that have flown, come back—come back,
with the smiling lips and the rose-red cheeks, with the braided
hair and the glimmer of mischievous eyes!

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In every army there is a Corps d'Élite which bears the heaviest
brunt of battle, and carries off the chief glories of the conflict.
In the forces of Cæsar it was the “Tenth Legion” which that
“foremost man of all this world” took personal command of,
and led into action, when the moment for the last struggle came.
In the royal troops of Louis XIV., fighting against Marlborough,
it was the Garde Français who were called upon when “do or
die” was the word, and men were needed who with hats off
would call on their enemies to deliver the first fire, and then
close in, resolved to conquer or leave their dead bodies on the
field. In the Grand Armée of Napoleon it was the Vieux
Garde which the Emperor depended upon to retrieve the fortunes
of the most desperate conflicts, and carry forward the
Imperial Eagles to victory.

In the Army of Northern Virginia there is a corps, which,
without prejudice to their noble commander, may be said to
represent the Tenth Legion of Cæsar, the French Guard of
Louis, and the Old Guard of Napoleon. This is the Old Stonewall
Brigade of Jackson.

The Old Stonewall Brigade! What a host of thoughts, memories,
and emotions, do those simple words incite! The very mention
of the famous band is like the bugle note that sounds “to
arms!” These veterans have fought and bled and conquered
on so many battle-fields that memory grows weary almost of
recalling their achievements. Gathering around Jackson in the
old days of 1861, when Patterson confronted Johnston in the
Valley of the Shenandoah—when Stuart was a simple Colonel,

[figure description] Page 383.[end figure description]

and Ashby only a Captain—they held in check an enemy
twenty times their number, and were moulded by their great
commander into that Spartan phalaux which no Federal bayonet
could break. They were boys and old men; the heirs of
ancient names, who had lived in luxury from childhood, and the
humblest of the unlettered sons of toil; students and ploughmen,
rosy-cheeked urehins and grizzled seniors, old and young,
rich and poor; but all were comrades, trained, united, fighting
for a common end, and looking with supreme confidence to the
man in the dingy gray uniform, with the keen eyes glittering
under the yellow gray cap, who at Manassas was to win for
himself and them that immortal name of “Stonewall,” cut now
with a pen of iron on the imperishable shaft of history.

It was the Shenandoah Valley which more than all other
regions gave the corps its distinctive character and material;
that lovely land which these boys fought over so often afterwards,
charging upon many battle-fields with that fire and resolution
which come only to the hearts of men fighting within
sight of their homes. Jackson called to them; they came from
around Winchester, and Millwood, and Charlestown; from valley
and mountain; they fell into line, their leader took command,
and then commenced their long career of toil and glory; their
wonderful marches over thousands of miles; their incessant combats
against odds that seemed overpowering; their contempt
of all that makes the soldier faint-hearted, of snow and rain, and
cold and heat, and hunger and thirst, and marching that wears
down the strongest frames, making the most determined energies
yield. Many dropped by the way, but few failed Jackson.
The soul of their leader seemed to have entered every breast;
and thus in thorough rapport with that will of iron, they seemed
to have discovered the secret of achieving impossibilities. To
meet the enemy was to drive him before them, it seemed—so
obstinately did the eagles of victory continue to perch upon the
old battle flag. The men of the Old Stonewall Brigade marched
on, and fought, and triumphed, like was machines which felt no
need of rest, food, or sleep. On the advance to Romney they
marched—many of them without shoes—over roads so slippery

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with ice that men were falling and guns going off all along the
line, and at night lay down without blankets or food upon the
snow, to be up and moving again at dawn. When Shields and
Fremont were closing in on Jackson's rear, they marched in one
day from Harper's Ferry to Strasburg, nearly fifty miles. On
the advance in August, 1862, to the Second Manassas, they
passed over nearly forty miles, almost without a moment's rest;
and as Jackson rode along the line which was still moving on
“briskly and without stragglers,” no orders could prevent them
from bursting forth into tumultuous cheers at the sight of him.
He had marched them nearly to death, to reach a position where
they were to sustain the whole weight of Pope's army hurled
against them—they were weary unto death, and staggering—but
they made the forests of Fauquier resound with that electric
shout which said, “We are ready!”

Such has been the work of the Old Brigade—not their glory;
that is searcely here alluded to—but their hard, unknown toil to
carry out their chief's orders. “March!” has been the order
of their going. The very rapidity of their marches separates
them from all soldier comforts—often from their very blankets,
however cold the weather; and any other troops but these and
their Southern comrades would long since have mutinied, and
demanded bread and rest. But the shadow of disaffection never
flitted over forehead in that command. Whatever discontent
may be felt at times at the want of attention on the part of subordinate
officers to their necessities, the “long roll” has only to
be beaten—they have only to see the man in the old faded uniform
appear, and hunger, cold, fatigue, are forgotten. The Old
Brigade is ready—“Here!” is the answer to the roll-call, all
along the line: and though the eye is dull from want of food
and rest, the arm is strong and the bayonet is sharp and bright.

That leader in the faded uniform is their idol. Anecdote,
song, story—in all he is sung or celebrated. The verses professing
to have been “found upon the body of a serjeant of the
Old Stonewall Brigade at Winchester,” are known to all—the
picture they contain of the men around the camp fire—the
Shenandoah flowing near, the “burly Blue Ridge” echoing to

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their strains—and the appearance of the “Blue Light Elder”
calling on his men to pray with him:

Here is the rough music of the singer as he proceeds with his
strain, and recalls the hard conflict of the second Manassas, when
Longstreet was at Thoroughfare, Jackson at Groveton:

Lastly, hear how the singer at the camp fire, in sight of the
firs of the Blue Ridge and the waters of the Shenandoah, indulges
in a wild outburst in honour of his chief:

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These words may sound extravagant, but defeat has met the
enemy so persistently wherever Jackson has delivered battle at
the head of the Old Brigade and their brave comrades, that the
song is not so unreasonable as it may appear. And here let me
beg that those “brave comrades” of the Old Brigade will not
suppose that I am oblivious of their own glory, their undying
courage, and that fame they have won, greater than Greek or
Roman. They fought as the men I am writing of, did—with a
nerve as splendid, and a patriotism as pure and unfaltering as
ever characterized human beings. It is only that I am speaking
now of my comrades of the Shenandoah Valley, who fought
and fell beneath the good old flag, and thinking of those dear
dead ones, and the corps in which they won their deathless
names, I am led to speak of them and it only.

Of these, and the Old Brigade, I am never weary thinking,
writing, or telling: of the campaigns of the Valley; the great
flank movement on the Chickahominy; the advance upon Manassas
in the rear of Pope; the stern, hard combat on the left wing
of the army at the battle of Sharpsburg; all their toils, their
sufferings, their glories. Their path has been strewed all over
with battles; incredible have been the marches of the “Foot
Cavalry;” incessant their conflicts. Death has mowed down
whole ranks of them; the thinned line tells the story of their
losses; but the war-worn veterans still confront the enemy. The
comrades of those noble souls who have thus poured out their
hearts' blood, hold their memory sacred. They laughed with
them in the peaceful years of boyhood, by the Shenandoah, in
the fields around Millwood, in Jefferson, or amid the Alleghanies;
then they fought beside them, in Virginia, in Maryland,
wherever the flag was borne; they loved them, mourn them,
every name is written on their hearts, whether officer or private,
and is ineffaceable. Their own time may come, to-day or to-morrow;
but they feel, one and all, that if they fall they will
give their hearts' blood to a noble cause, and that if they survive,
the memory of past toils and glories will be sweet.

Those survivors may be pardoned if they tell their children,
when the war is ended, that they fought under Jackson, in the

[figure description] Page 387.[end figure description]

“Old Stonewall Brigade.” They may be pardoned even if they
boast of their exploits, their wonderful marches, their constant
and desperate combats, the skill and nerve which snatched victory
from the jaws of defeat, and, even when they were retiring
before overwhelming numbers, made it truly better that the foe
had “ne'er been born” than meet their bayonet charge.

In speaking of this veteran legion, “praise is virtue.” Their
history is blazoned all over with glory. They are “happy names,
beloved children”—the favourites of fame, if not of fortune. In
their dingy uniforms, lying stretched beneath the pines, or by
the roadside, they are the mark of many eyes which see them
not, the absorbing thought in the breast of beauty, and the idols
of the popular heart. In line before the enemy, with their bristling
bayonets, they are the life-guard of their dear old mother,
Virginia.

The heart that does not thrill at sight of the worn veterans, is
cold indeed. To him who writes, they present a spectacle noble
and heroic; and their old tattered, ball-pierced flag is the sacred
ensign of liberty.

Their history and all about them is familiar to me. I have
seen them going into action—after fighting four battles in five
days—with the regularity and well dressed front of holiday
soldiers on parade. There was no straggling, no lagging; every
man stood to his work, and advanced with the steady tramp of
the true soldier. The ranks were thin, and the faces travel-worn;
but the old flag floated in the winds of the Potomac as defiantly
as on the banks of the Shenandoah. That bullet-torn ensign
might have been written all over, on both sides, with the names
of battles, and the list have then been incomplete. Manassas,
Winchester, Kernstown, Front Royal, Port Republic, Cold Harbour,
Malvern Hill, Slaughter Mountain, Bristow Station, Grove—
Ox Hill, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, were to follow. And
these were but the larger names upon the roll of their glory.
The numberless engagements of minor character are omitted;
but in these I have mentioned they appear to the world, and
sufficiently vindicate their claim to the title of heroes.

I seemed to see those names upon their flag as the old brigade

[figure description] Page 388.[end figure description]

advanced that day, and my whole heart went to greet them, as
it had gone forth to meet and greet the brave youth whom I spoke
to just before the battle, by the roadside, where he lay faint and
weak but resolute and smiling.*

Whatever be the issue of the conflict, these brave spirits will
be honoured, and held dear by all who love real truth and
worth and courage. Wherever they sleep—amid the Alleghaneys,
or by the Potomac, in the fields of Maryland, or the valleys
and lowlands of Virginia—they are holy. Those I knew the best
and loved most of all, sleep now or will slumber soon beneath
the weeping willow of the Old Chapel graveyard in the Valley.
There let them rest amid tears, but laurel-crowned. They sleep,
but are not dead, for they are immortal.

p521-414

[figure description] Page 389.[end figure description]

Sad but pleasing are the memories of the past! Gay and grotesque
as well as sorrowful and sombre, are the recollections of
the “old soldiers” who, in the months of 1861, marched to the
rolling drum of Beauregard!

At that time the present writer was a Sergeant of Artillery, to
which high rank he had been promoted from the position of
private: and the remembrance of those days when he was uniformly
spoken to as “Sergeant” is by no means unpleasing.
The contrary is the fact. In those “callow days” the war was a
mere frolic—the dark hours were yet unborn, when all the sky
was over-shadowed, the land full of desolation—in the radiant
sunshine of the moment it was the amusing and grotesque phase
of the situation that impressed us, not the tragic.

The post of Sergeant may not be regarded as a very lofty one,
compared with that of field or general officers, but it has its advantages
and its dignity. The Sergeant of Artillery is “Chief
of Piece”—that is to say, he commands a gun, and gun-detachment:
and from the peculiar organization of the artillery, his
rank assimilates itself to that of Captain in an infantry regiment.
He supervises his gun, his detachment, his horse picket, and is
responsible for all. He is treated by the officer in command with
due consideration and respect. A horse is supplied to him. He
is, to all intents and purposes, a commissioned officer.

But the purpose of the writer is not to compose an essay upon
military rank. From the Sergeant let us pass to the detachment

[figure description] Page 390.[end figure description]

which he commanded. They were a gay and jovial set—those
young gentlemen of the “Third Detachment”—for they were for
the most part youths of gentle nurture and liberal education,
who had volunteered at the first note of the bugle. They fought
hard to the end of the war, but in camp they were not energetic.
Guard duty and horse-grooming were abominable in their eyes;
and the only pursuits to which I ever saw them apply themselves
with activity and energy were visiting young ladies, and smoking
pipes. From this it may be understood that they were bad
material for “common soldiers,” in the European acceptation of
the term; and their “Chief” was accustomed to appeal rather to
their sense of propriety than the fear of military punishment.
The appeal was perfectly successful. When off duty, he magnanimously
permitted them to do what they chose; signed all
their passports without looking at them; and found them the
most orderly and manageable of soldiers. They obeyed his orders
when on duty, with energy and precision: were ready with
the gun at any alarm before all the rest, the commanding officer
was once pleased to say; and treated their Chief with a kindness
and consideration mingled, which he still remembers with true
pleasure.

The battery was known as the “Revolutionary Ducks.” This
sobriquet requires explanation, and that explanation is here
given. When John Brown, the celebrated Harper's Ferry
“Martyr,” made his onslaught, everything throughout Virginia
was in commotion. It was said that the “Martyr” and his band
were only the advance guard of an army coming from Ohio. At
this intelligence the battery—then being organized in Richmond
by the brave George W. Randolph, afterwards General, and Secretary
of War—rushed quickly to arms: that is, to some old
muskets in the armory, their artillery armament not having been
obtained as yet. Then commanded by the General to be, they
set out joyously for Harper's Ferry, intent on heading off the
army from Ohio. In due time they landed from the boat in
Washington, were greeted by a curious and laughing crowd,
and from the crowd was heard a voice exclaiming, “Here's your
Revolutionary Ducks!” The person who had uttered this

[figure description] Page 391.[end figure description]

severe criticism of the ununiformed and somewhat travel-worn
warriors was soon discovered to be an irreverent hackman; but
the nick-name made the youthful soldiers laugh—they accepted
it. They were thenceforth known to all their friends and acquaintances
as the “Revolutionary Ducks.”

The Revolutionnaires marched to Manassas at the end of May,
1861, and a few days after their arrival one of the South Carolinians
camped there, asked me if I had “seen the little General,”
meaning General Beauregard, who had just assumed command. The little General visited the battery, and soon dispatched it with
his advance-force under Bonham to Fairfax Court-House, where it
remained camped on a grassy slope until the middle of July,
when it came away with unseemly haste. In fact, a column of
about fifty-five thousand blue-coats were after it; and the “Third
Detachment,” with their gun, had a narrow escape. They were
posted, solus, near the village of Germantown, with the trees cut
down, four hundred and thirty yards by measurement, in front
to afford range for the fire. Here they awaited with cheerfulness
the advance of the small Federal force, until a horseman galloped
up with, “Gentlemen! the enemy are upon you,” which was
speedily followed by the appearance of blue uniforms in the wood
in front. The infantry supports were already double-quicking
to the rear. The odds of fifty-five thousand against twenty-five
was too great for the “Third;” and they accordingly limbered
to the rear, retiring with more haste than dignity. A friend had
seen the huge blue column passing from Flint Hill toward Germantown,
and had exclaimed with tragic pathos that the present
historian was “gone.” He was truly “gone” when the enemy
arrived—gone from that redoubt and destined to be hungry and
outflanked at Centreville.

The Revolutionnaires had but an insignificant part in the great
battle of Manassas. The “little General” intended them to bear
the brunt, and placed them in the centre at Mitchell's Ford. From
this position they saw the splendid spectacle of the Federal
Cavalry dividing right and left to unmask the artillery which
speedily opened hotly—but beyond this shelling they were not
assailed. Caissons blew up all around, and trees crashed down;

[figure description] Page 392.[end figure description]

but the blue infantry did not charge the breastworks. Then
Beauregard resolved to advance himself with the Revolutionnaires
and Bonham straight on Centreville, and sent the order—
but it never arrived. Thus the “Third” was cheated of the
glory which they would have won in this great movement; and
despite the shells which burst for four days in the trenches, they
are not entitled to inscribe “Manassas” on their flag.

Two days after the battle they were ordered to advance with
General Bonham to Vienna. All obeyed but the “Third,” which
being seized with a violent desire to go to Alexandria instead of
Vienna, gave the rest the slip, joined Colonel Jeb Stuart's column
of cavalry and infantry, going toward Fairfax, and never stopped
until they reached that village, wherein they had made a
number of most charming friends. They made their reëntrance
amid waving handkerchiefs from the friends alluded to, and
cheering joyously—but were speedily desired to explain their presence
in the column of Colonel Stuart, who thus found himself in
command of a surplus gun, of which he knew nothing. The present
writer at once repaired to the Colonel's headquarters, which
consisted of a red blanket spread under an oak, explained the
wishes of the “Third,” and begged permission to accompany
him to Washington. The young Colonel smiled: he was evidently
pleased. We should go, he declared—he required artillery,
and would have it. The “Chief” received this reply with extreme
satisfaction; put his gun in battery to rake the approach
from Annandale; and was just retiring to his blanket, with the
luxury of a good conscience, when an order came from General
Bonham to repair with the gun, before morning, to Vienna! The
General ranked the Colonel: more still, the gun was a part of the
General's command. With heavy hearts the “Third” set out
through the darkness for the village to which they were ordered.

As the writer is not composing a log-book of his voyages
through those early seas, he will only say that at Vienna the
Revolutionnaires saw for the first time the enemy's balloons hovering
above the woods; turned out more than once, with ardour,
when Bonham's pickets fired into Stuart's; and smoked their
pipes with an assiduity that was worthy of high commendation.

[figure description] Page 393.[end figure description]

Soon the order came to move; they hung their knapsacks with
energy upon the guns, for the horses to pull, and thus returned
to Centreville, where they were ordered to join the hard-fighting
Colonel Evans at Leesburg.

At the name of Leesburg, every heart of the “Noble Third”
still beating, will beat faster. Leesburg! Paradise of the youthfull
warrior! dear still to the heart of him who writes, and to all
his brave companions! Land of excellent edibles, and beautiful
maidens! of eggs and romance, of good dinners and lovely
faces! No sooner had the ardent cannoneers reached camp, and
pitched their tents, than they hastened into Leesburg to “spy
out the land.” The reconnoissance was eminently satisfactory.
The report brought back by the scouts thus thrown forward, represented
the place as occupied in force by an enemy of the most
attractive description—and from that time to the period of their
abrupt departure, the brave young artillerists were engaged in
continuous skirmishes with their fair faces, not seldom to their
own discomfiture.

When the “Third” with another detachment went to camp at
Big Spring, in a beautiful grove, they applied themselves to the
military duties above specified with astonishing ardor. The
number of horses which required shoeing at the blacksmith's in
town was incredible; and such was their anxiety to rush to
combat, that the young soldiers surreptitiously knocked shoes
from the horses' feet, to be “ordered to the front,” toward the
foe.

The Revolutionnaires had a little skirmish about this time with
the Federal force at White's Ferry, and the “Third” had the satisfaction
of setting a house or barn on fire with shell, and bursting
others in the midst of a blue regiment. These exploits were
performed with a loss of one man only, wounded by sharpshooters;
the “Third” having dodged the rest of the enemy's bullets
with entire success. They were highly pleased with the result
of the combat, and soon afterwards were called to new fields of
glory. This time the locality was at Loudoun Heights, opposite
Harper's Ferry; and having dragged their gun up the rugged
mountain road with great difficulty, they opened from the

[figure description] Page 394.[end figure description]

summit at the moment when the brave Ashby charged. The result
was cheering. Ashby sent word that the shells were falling
among his own troops, but directed the fire to proceed—it was
admirable: and thus encouraged, the “Third” continued at their
post until the enemy's batteries on Maryland Heights had gotten
our range, and their rifle shell began to tear the ground near by.
Concluding that the distance was too great to render a reply
necessary, the “Third” came away soon after this—but the order
to retire had been previously given, and the piece did not move
off at a faster gait than a rapid trot—it might have been a gallop.

This little affair was in October, and on our return to Leesburg
the enemy were preparing to cross and attack us. General Evans
put on the road to Edwards' Ferry all the guns, with the exception
of the “Third,” which was sent with the Eighth Virginia
regiment to repel an assault from General McCall, who was approaching
Goose Creek, on our right, with a Division, and twelve
pieces of artillery. The “Third” undertook this with alacrity,
and remained in position at the “Burnt Bridge” with ardour,
hoping that the enemy would have the temerity to approach.
He did not do so, and at mid-day General Evans sent down for
the regiment and the gun, and ordered them at “double-quick”
and “trot-march” to the vicinity of Ball's Bluff. The regiment—
the Eighth Virginia—was ordered to “drive the enemy from
those woods,” and the “Third” was directed to open fire, “when
the Eighth fell back.” Owing to the circumstance that the
Eighth never fell back, this order was not carried out, and the
Revolutionnaires in general had no part in one of the most desperate
and gallant battles of the whole war. For the second
time they were held in reserve, in a great combat, and they
chafed at it: but the enemy in Leesburg remained to be conquered,
and after the battle, they immediately commenced attending
to the deficiency of horseshoes as before.

These raids upon the territory of the foe were now made from
their camp at “Fort Evans,” on the hill. Fort Evans was on
the top of a commanding eminence. Looking northward, you
beheld the winding Potomac, and on the upland beyond, were
seen the tents of the enemy, and their watch-fires at night—their

[figure description] Page 395.[end figure description]

tattoo and reveille being heard distinctly, and affording an economical
measurement of time to their foes. East, south, and
west, was a beautiful country of field, and forest, and meadow,
and hill—and Leesburg rose with its white houses and spires, in
the midst of it, about a mile away.

Thus the Revolutionnaires had around them all the elements
of comfort. An enemy to reconnoitre through spy-glasses, across
the river, and another enemy in the town to keep up a brisk assault
upon. Many “solitary horsemen” were seen at sunset and
other hours, dotting the road which led to the borough;—and
these returned in various moods, as “the day” had been adverse
or triumphal for them. They delivered battle with astonishing
regularity, and looked after the shoeing of the artillery horses
with an efficiency which reflected the highest credit on the
corps.

In the performance of this duty the “Third” was not behind
its companions—indeed took the lead. To smoke pipes and attack
the enemy in Leesburg were the chosen occupations of the
“Third.” To dress in full costume for battle—with white collar,
and dress uniform—seemed indeed the chief happiness of
these ardent young warriors: and then they lost no time in advancing
upon the foe. When circumstances compelled them to
remain inactive at Fort Evans for a day or days, they grew melancholy
and depressed. Their pipes still sent up white clouds of
smoke—but the ashes were strewed upon their heads.

“Fort Evans” was not an inspiring locality. The view was
superb; but the wind always blowing there, nearly removed the
hair from the head, and the mud was of incredible depth and
tenacity. In addition to this, Fort Evans got all the rain and
snow. But these were provided against. A distinguished trait
of the Revolutionnaires was a strong propensity for making themselves
comfortable; and they soon discovered that, in winter at
least, tents were vanity and vexation of body. From the realization
of the want, there was only a step to the resolution to
supply it. They cut down trees, and hauled the logs; tore
down deserted houses, and brought away the plank; carried off
old stoves, and war-worn tables, and then set to work. A log

[figure description] Page 396.[end figure description]

hut rose suddenly—the abode of the “Brigand of the Cliff,”
who was a most excellent companion and uncommonly jovial
for a bandit—many plank cabins were grouped near it, stoves
were set up, log chimneys built, and the bold Revolutionnaires
were in winter quarters.

Fort Evans was in process of construction anew, under the
supervision of General D. H. Hill—and the workmen were encouraged
by the presence and approval of the “Third” and
their companions. They rarely failed to visit it several times a
day; and generously instructed General Hill's engineer how to
lay it out without charge. They did not mind the deep mud,
and perseveringly remained for hours, looking on while the infantry
“detail” worked. Personne, one of the “Third,” superintended
the filling and revetting—and it was whispered around
that the General had assured him that “This work would remain
to speak of him.” At this the worthy Personne is said to have
smiled as only he could smile. He no doubt does so still.

In these virtuous and useful occupations—mingled with much
smoking, and close attention to horsehoes—the hours and days
sped away, there near Leesburg, in the fall and winter of the
good year 1861. Posted on the far Potomac there, to guard the
frontier, the “Third” and their companions had a large amount
of time upon their hands which it was necessary to dispose of.
Sometimes the enemy opposite amused them—as when they ran
a gun down to the river, and in a spirit of careless enjoyment,
knocked a hole with a round shot in the gable end of the abode
of the “Brigand of the Cliff.” But these lively moments were
the exception. The days generally passed by without incident;
and when debarred from visiting Leesburg, the Revolutionnaires
visited each other.

Among gentlemen so well-bred as themselves there was no
neglect of the amenities of life. You never entered a cabin, but
the owner rose and offered you the best seat. You never got
up to depart, but you were feelingly interrogated as to the occasion
of your “hurry,” and exhorted to remain. If boxes came
from home, their contents were magnanimously distributed;
when anybody got leave of absence, which was exceedingly

[figure description] Page 397.[end figure description]

seldom, his return was greeted with acclamations—perhaps because
the transaction was a good precedent. Lounging was the
habitual amusement, except when they aroused themselves to
contend with the enemy—at Leesburg. The town was their
favourite arena for combat. They delighted to visit, and early
established a dining acquaintance there—selecting those houses
where, between the courses, they could gaze into fair eyes, and
“tempt their fate.” When they returned after these expeditions
in search of horseshoes, they revelled in descriptions of ham
and turkey and dessert—making ration-beef tougher, and camp
flat-cake more like lead than ever. On the main street of Leesburg,
near Pickett's tavern, the “Third” especially congregated.
They wore the snowiest shirt bosoms, the bluest gray jackets,
and the reddest cuffs imaginable. Thus armed to the teeth, and
clad for war and conquest, they would separate in search of
young ladies, and return at evening with the most glowing accounts
of their adventures.

A glance at the headquarters of the “Third,” and a brief
notice of one of those worthies, may prove of interest to the descendants
of these doughty Revolutionnaires.

They dwelt in three or four cabins of considerable size, constructed
of plank—the middle and largest one being the headquarters
of their commander. These cabins were warmed by
old stoves, obtained on the Rob Roy principle from deserted
houses; and were fitted up with berths, popularly known as
“bunks,” filled with straw. The space above the cornice afforded
an excellent shelf for clothes, which were then economically
washed whenever it rained—but the great feature of the headquarter
mansion was the crevice at the summit of the roof.
This permitted the smoke to escape without difficulty, and on
windy nights when others were suffering, ventilated the apartment
superbly. Nor did the advantages stop there. The crevice
was no mere crack, but an honest opening; and when a

[figure description] Page 398.[end figure description]

snow-storm came on, the snow entered without difficulty, driving
downward, and enveloping the sleepers in its close white mantle.
As the warmth which snow communicates to a sleeper is well
known, this circumstance will be duly appreciated.

From the headquarters let us pass to the inhabitants. The
“Third,” as I have said, were a gay and social set, and possessed
of many peculiarities, which their “Chief,” sitting apart with a
borrowed volume (from Leesburg) in his hand, was accustomed
to watch with a covert smile. A marked feature of the young
warriors was their devotion to the habit of eating. Rations
were ample and excellent then, but they did not satisfy the
youths. They foraged persistently: brought back eggs, butter,
pies, every delicacy; and these they as persistently consumed.
They always ate butter all day long, toasting slices of bread
upon the roaring stove with a perseverance that was truly admirable.
The announcement of dinner by the polite mulatto
who officiated as cook, was uniformly received with rapture;
and the appearance of a “box from home” supplied the fortunate
possessor with the largest and most affectionate circle of
visiting friends.

Among the “characters” of the detachment, Corporal Personne,
my gunner—he who superintended the construction of
the breastworks—occupied a prominent place. He was tall and
gaunt, with a portentous moustache; had the imposing air of a
Field-Marshal on parade, and a fund of odd humour that was
inexhaustible. To hear Personne laugh was to experience an
irresistible desire to do likewise; to listen while he talked was
better than to attend a theatrical performance. Personne rarely
relaxed into that commonplace deportment which characterizes
the great mass of dull humanity. He could not have been dull
even if he had tried, and his very melancholy was humorous.
In his tone of voice and hearing he was sui generis—“whole in
himself and due to none.” All his utterances were solemn and
impressive; his air deeply serious—when he laughed he seemed
to do so under protest. He generally went away after laughing;
no doubt to mourn over his levity in private. One of
Personne's peculiarities was a very great fondness for cant

[figure description] Page 399.[end figure description]

phrases, and odd turns of expression. These afforded him undisguised
delight, and he handled them with the air of a master.
He was never known to ask for smoking tobacco in any other
words than, “Produce the damned invention!” which he uttered
with a truly terrific scowl, and an accent of wrath which was
calculated to strike terrour to the stoutest heart. A form of
logic in which he evidently reposed the fullest faith was, “An
ought's an ought—a figure's a figure—therefore you owe me a
dollar and a half;” and another mysterious phrase, “Speak to
me, Gimlet,” was a fund of unending emjoyment to him. His
comparison of distance was, “As far as a blue-winged pigeon
can fly in six months;” his measure of cold was, “Cold enough
to freeze the brass ears on a tin monkey;” his favourite oath,
“Now, by the gods who dwell on high Olympus!” and his
desire for a furlough was uniformly urged upon the ground that
he wished to “go home and see his first wife's relations.”

Personne was thus the victim of a depraved taste for slang,
but he was a scholar and a gentleman—a travelled man and a
very elegant writer. When the war broke out he was residing
in New York; but at the call of Virginia, his native State, he
had left all the delights of Broadway and the opera; abandoned
bright waiscoats, gay neckties, and fine boots, to put on the
regulation gray, and go campaigning with the Revolutionnaires.
The contrast was great, but Personne did not grumble; he
adapted himself to his new sphere with the air of a philospher.
It was only at long intervals that he spoke of his travels—only
occasionally that he broke forth with some opera air heard at the
Academy of Music, and now hummed with great taste and delicacy.
He supplied the stage action to these musical airs, but
his powers in that department were defective. The performance,
it is sufficient to say, would have done honour to a—windmill.

To witness Personne in the character of “Sergeant of the
Guard” was a superb spectacle. The stern and resolute air
with which he marshalled his guard; the hoarse and solemn
tones in which he called the roll; the fierce determination with
which he took command, and marched them to their post, was

[figure description] Page 400.[end figure description]

enough to “tickle the ribs of death.” Once having posted them,
Personne returned as solemnly to his quarters, from which soon
afterwards would be heard his low guttural laugh. The great
tableau, however, was Personne in Leesburg, mounted. He
was a study at such moments, and attracted general attention.
He sat sternly erect upon his horse, never indulged in a smile
even, and had the air of a Field-Marshal at the head of an army.
It was only when he entered the presence of the ladies that his
brows unbent, his features relaxed. With these he was a very
great favourite, and he cultivated their regard in a manner
which exhibited a profound knowledge of human nature. A
proof of this assertion is here given. One day Personne, with a
friend of his, went forth on a foraging expedition, rations running
low, and appetite rising. But the neighbourhood had
been ransacked by a whole brigade, and by what device could
they operate uon the female heart? Personne found the device
he wished, and proceeded to execute it, having first drilled his
friend in the part assigned him. Before them was a modest
mansion; through the window were seen the faces of young
ladies; the friends entered the yard, bowed politely, and lay
down upon the grass. Then the following dialogue took place
in the hearing of the ladies:

Personne, carelessly.—“A charming day, my friend; hum—
what were you saying?”

Friend, with deference.—“I was saying, Mr. Personne, that the
remarkable feature in the present war is the rank and character
of the men who have embarked in it—on the Southern side—as
privates. Take yourself, for instance. You belong to one of the
first families of Mississippi; you have three or four plantations:
you are worth very nearly half a million of dollars—and here
you are, serving in the ranks as a private soldier.”

Personne, with an air of careless grandeur.—“No matter! no
matter! The cause is everything. My estates must take care
of themselves for the present, and I expect to live hard and fight
hard, and starve—as we are doing to-day, my friend. When
the war is over, things will be different. I intend to enjoy myself,
to live in luxury—above all, to marry some charming

[figure description] Page 401.[end figure description]

creature—and I am now looking out for one to suit me. I do
not ask riches, my friend; a plain country girl would please
me best—one who is warm-hearted and kind to the soldier!”

A few moments afterwards a smiling face appeared at the
door; a pair of female lips said, “Walk in, gentlemen;” and
starting from a deep reverie into which he had fallen, Personne
rose, bowed, and accepted the invitation, bowing low again
as he entered, with his lofty air of Field-Marshal. Is it necessary
to continue the narrative, to say that Personne and his friend
nearly produced a famine, and when they retired had their
haversacks filled with every delicacy? It was only when well
beyond earshot that he laughed his low laugh, and exclaimed
with solemn earnestness, “Now by the gods that dwell on high
Olympus!—we are in luck to-day!”

Such was Personne, the pride of the “Third,” the object of
the admiring affection and regard of all the Revolutionnaires!
The writer designed drawing more than one additional portrait of
odd characters in his old detachment, but the figure of Personne
has pushed all others from the canvas—the brush moves in the
air. That canvas, it may be, perchance, is already too extensive;
not every one will find in these familiar recollections of the
“Third” that interest which the writer does; and terrible is the
crime of producing yawns! Do you think you never wearied
anybody, my dear reader, with your recollections? Do you fancy
that your past amuses others as it amuses you? But, for fear this
mass of logic will rebound upon the head of him who sets it
in motion, the “Annals of the Third” are here concluded.

As he closes up those Annals, and sets forward on his way,
the writer waves his hat in friendly farewell, salutes each one,
and calls out, “Good-by, Personne!—good-by, warriors of the
`Noble Third!'—all health and happiness attend you in the
coming years!—and never call your old commander anything
but `Sergeant!' ”

p521-427

Scene.—Banks of the Rappahannock, in the winter of 1862-3; a
camp fire blazing under an oak, and Captain Blunderbus conversing
with a Staff Officer on inspection duty—the picket stationed
near, and opposite the enemy.

[figure description] Page 402.[end figure description]

Blunderbus loquitur.—“This is pleasant—picketing always
is. Uncommonly dark, however—the night black but comely,
and that frosty moon yonder trying to shine, and dance on the
ripples of the river! Don't you think it would look better if
you saw it from the porch at home, with Mary or Fanny by
your side?

“Picturesque, but not warm. Pile on the rails, my boy; never
mind the expense. The Confederacy pays—or don't pay—for
all the fences; and nothing warms the feet, expands the soul,
and makes the spirits cheerful like a good rail-fire. I was reading
in an old paper, the other day, some poetry-writing which they
said was found on the body of one of Stonewall's sergeants at
Winchester—a song he called `Jackson's Way.' He tells his
comrades to `pile on the rails,' and says,


“ `No matter if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring light!'
Sensible—and speaking of canteens, is there anything in yours,
my boy? Nothing. Such is fate!

“I was born unlucky, and always will be so. Now a drop of
brandy would not have been bad to-night; or say a mouthful

[figure description] Page 403.[end figure description]

of whiskey, or a little apple or peach-brandy, gin, madeira,
sherry, claret, or even bottled porter, crab-cider or champagne!
Any of these would have communicated a charm to existence,
which—wanting them—it lacks.

“But let us be content with what we have, and accept all fortunes
as they come! If ever you hear people say that Blunderbus
is a mere trooper, old fellow—that he cares for nothing but
eating and drinking, and sleeping—just tell 'em you heard him
express that fine sentiment, and they will think better of him.
You see I'm a philosopher, like yourself, and I don't let trifles
get the better of me. The soul superior to misfortune is a noble
spectacle, and warms the heart of the beholder like generous
wine. I wish I had some.

“I think, however, I prefer this water. Now that I observe it,
it is excellent—with a body to it, a flavour, a sweetness, and
stimulating effect which I never noticed before. And then our
fire! Just look at it! You're an old hand at rails, I'll be willing
to bet—for you fix 'em on the fire with the art of a master.
What a glorious sight to see! How it warms the soul!

“I observe that the Yankee pickets over yonder have a miserable
fire—made of green wood, doubtless, and smouldering. I
was looking at them just now through my glass, and I am glad
to say one of the blue-coats was slapping his arms violently
against his breast to keep up the circulation. Pleasant; for if
anything can increase the comfort of a fire like this, it is the
consciousness that our friends over the way are shivering by
one that won't burn.

“I believe I will smoke. Nothing assists intellectual conversation
like a pipe. Help yourself. You will find that pouch—
Yankee plunder from Manassas last August—full of the real
article, and the best you ever smoked. It is real, pure Lynchburg—
brown, free from stems, and perfumed with the native
aroma of the weed. Smoke, guest of mine! That brand is
warranted to drive off all blue-devils—to wrap the soul in Elysian
dreams of real Java coffee, English boots, French wines, and no
blockade. There are men, I am told, who don't smoke. I pity'
em! How do they sustain existence, or talk or think? All

[figure description] Page 404.[end figure description]

real philosophers use the magical weed; and I always thought
Raleigh, when I used to read about him, the most sensible man
of his time, because he smoked. I have no doubt Shakespeare
carried a pipe about, and wrote his plays with it in his mouth.

“I'll trouble you to hand me that chunk when you are done
with it. Thank you. Now the summit glows; the mysterious
depths are illumined. All right; I am lit.

“This is soothing; all care departs when you smoke a good
pipe. Existence assumes a smiling and bright aspect; all things
are rose-coloured. I find my spirits rising, my sympathies expanding,
even until they embrace the whole Yankee nation.
This is an excellent root I am leaning my back against—I never
knew a rocking-chair more agreeable. Our fire is magnificent;
and observe the picturesque effect of the enemy's blaze reflected
in the stream!

“The enemy! Who knows if that is fair? Perhaps that
good fellow over there, who was slapping his arms, I am sorry
to say, just now, by way of restoring the circulation and keeping
himself warm, came here to fight us against his will! Honest
fellows! who blames them? They are unfortunate, and I sympathize
with them. I observe that the fire over yonder, which
our friends have kindled, burns feebly, and doubtless is fed with
green wood. We could spare them a few rails, eh? But then
to communicate with them is against orders.

“I believe they come down here from pure curiosity, and
rather like to be taken prisoner. But it takes a good deal to
feed them. We want all our provisions. Often I have been
nearly starved, and I assure you starving is a disagreeable process.
I have tried it several times, and I can tell you where I
first experienced the sensation in full force. At Manassas, in
July, 1861.

“I was in the artillery then, and had command of a gun,
which gun was attached to a battery, which battery was a part
of General Bonham's brigade. Now General Bonham commanded
the advance force of Beauregard's army, and was stationed
at the village of Fairfax. Well, we had a gay time at
Fairfax in those early months of the war, playing at soldiering,

[figure description] Page 405.[end figure description]

and laughing at the enemy for not advancing. The red cuffs of
the artillery, the yellow of the cavalry, and the blue of the infantry,
were all popular in the eyes of the village beauties, and
rarely did anything of a melancholy character interfere with our
pleasures. Sometimes a cavalry-man would be shot on picket—
as we may be to-night, old fellow; and I remember once a
noble boy of the `Black Horse,' or Radford's regiment, was
brought back dead, wrapped in an oil-cloth which his sister had
taken from her piano and given him to sleep on. Poor thing!
she must have cried when she heard of that; but there has been
a good deal of crying during the present war.

“Kick that rail-end up. It makes me melancholy to see a fire
dying down. Well, we had a pleasant time in the small village
of Fairfax, until one July day my gun was ordered to a breastwork
not far off, and I heard that the `Grand Army' was
coming. Now I was thinking about the Commissary department
when I heard this news, for we had had nothing to cat for
a day nearly; but I went to work, finishing the embrasure for
my piece. Bags marked `The Confederate States' were filled
with sand and piled up skilfully; trees obstructing the range
were chopped down rapidly; and then, stepping off the ground
from the earthwork to the woods from which the enemy would
issue, I had the pleasure of perceiving that the foe would be
compelled to pass over at least four hundred and thirty yards
before reaching me with the bayonet. Now in four hundred
and thirty yards you can fire, before an enemy gets up to you,
about one round of solid shot, and two rounds of canister—say
three of canister. I depended, therefore, upon three rounds of
canister to drive back the Grand Army, and undertook it with
alacrity. I continued hungry, however, and grew hungrier as
night fell, on the 16th July.

“At daylight I was waked by guns in front, and found myself
hungrier than ever. At sunrise a gentleman on a white
horse passed by at a gallop, with the cheerful words: `Gentlemen,
the enemy are upon you!' and the cannoneers were ranged
at the gun, with the infantry support disposed upon the flanks.
All was ready, the piece loaded, the lanyard-hook passed

[figure description] Page 406.[end figure description]

through the ring of the primer, and the sharpshooters of the
enemy had appeared on the edge of the woods, when they sent
us an order to retire. We accordingly retired, and continued to
retire until we reached Centreville, halting on the hill there.
We were posted in battery there, and lay down—very hungry.
A cracker I had borrowed did not allay hunger; and had a
dozen Yankees been drawn up between me and a hot supper, I
should have charged them with the spirit of Winkelreid, when
he swept the Austrian spears in his embrace, and `made a gap
for liberty.'

“We did not fight there, however; we were only carrying out
General Beauregard's plan for drawing on the enemy to Bull
Run, where he was ready for them. At midnight we limbered
up, the infantry and cavalry began to move, blue and red signal
rockets were thrown up, and the little army slowly retired before
the enemy, reaching the southern bank of Bull Run at daylight.
The Federals were close upon our heels, and about ten o'clock
commenced the first fight there, the `battle of the 18th.'

“Now when I arrived at Bull Run, I was hungry enough to
eat a wolf. I lay down on the wet ground, and thought of various
appetizing bills of fare. Visions of roast beef, coffee, juleps,
and other Elysian things rose before my starving eyes; and the
first guns of the enemy, crashing their round shot through the
trees overhead, scarcely attracted my attention. I grew hungrier
and hungrier—things had grown to a desperate pitch, when—beautiful
even in the eyes of memory!—an African appeared from our
wagons in the rear with hot coffee, and broiled bacon, and flat-cake,
yet hot from the oven! At the same moment a friend, who had
stolen off to the wagons, made an imperceptible gesture, and indicating
his tin canteen, gave me an inquiring look. In the service
this pantomime always expresses a willingness to drink your
health and pass the bottle. I so understood it—and retiring from
the crowd, swallowed a mouthful of the liquid. It was excellent
whiskey, and my faintness from hunger and exhaustion made
the effect magical. New life and strength filled my frame—and
turning round, I was saluted by an excellent breakfast held out
to me by the venerable old African cook!

[figure description] Page 407.[end figure description]

“Ye gods! how that breakfast tasted! The animal from
which that ham was cut must surely have been fattened on ambrosia;
and the hot, black coffee was a tin cup full of nectar in
disguise! When I had finished that meal I was a man again.
I had been in a dangerous mood before—my patriotism had
cooled, my convictions were shaken. I had doubted of the Republic,
and thought the Confederacy in the wrong, perhaps. But
now all was changed. From that moment I was a true Southerner
again, and my opinions had the genuine ring of the true
Southern metal. I went into the battle with a joyous soul—
burning with love of my native land, and resolved to conquer or
die!

“I wish I could get at that bill of fare to-night. Hunger sours
the temper—men grow unamiable under it. Hand me that carbine—
it is not more than four hundred yards to the picket
across yonder, and I'll bet you I can put a bullet through that
bluebird nodding over the fire. Against orders, do you say?
Well, so it is; but my fingers are itching to get at that carbine.

“I'll trouble you to stick my pipe in the hot ashes by you, my
friend. I am fixed here so comfortably with my back against
this tree, that I hate the idea of getting up. You see I get lazy
when I begin to smoke, old fellow; and I think about so many
things, that I don't like to break my reflections by moving. I
have seen a good deal in this war, and I wish I was a writer to
set it down on paper. You see if I don't, I am certain to forget
everything, unless I live to eighty—and then when the youngsters,
grandchildren, and all that (if I have any, which I doubt),
gather around me, with mouths open, I will be certain to make
myself out a tremendous warrior, which will be a lie; for Blunderbus
is only an old Captain of Cavalry, good at few things but
picketing. Besides, all the real colours of the war would be lost,
things would be twisted and ruined; if I could set 'em down now
in a book, the world would know exactly how the truth was.
Oh, that Blunderbus was an author!

“I have my doubts about the figure we will cut when the
black-coats, who don't see the war, commence writing about us
Just think what a mess they will make, old fellow! They will

[figure description] Page 408.[end figure description]

be worse than Yankee Cavalry slashing right and left—much
ink will be shed, but will the thing be history? I doubt it.
You see, the books will be too elegant and dignified; war is a
rough, bloody trade, but they will gild it over like a lookingglass
frame. I shouldn't wonder if they made me, Blunderbus,
the old bear, a perfect `carpet knight'—all airs, and graces,
and attractions. If they do, they will write a tremendous lie, old
fellow! The way to paint me is rough, dirty, bearded, and hungry,
and always growling at the Yankees. Especially hungry—
the fact is, I am really wolfish to-night; and I see that blue rascal
over yonder gnawing his ratious and raising a black bottle to
his lips! Wretch!—the thing is intolerable; give me the carbine—
I'll stop him!—cursed order that keeps me from stopping
his amusement—the villain! Who can keep his temper under
trials like this, Sergeant?”

Sergeant of pickets advancing.—“Here, Captain.”

Blunderbus, scowling.—“Are all the men present? Call the
roll—if any are missing—”

(The Sergeant calls the roll and returns to the fire.)

Sergeant.—“All present but Tim Tickler, Captain.”

Blunderbus, enraged.—“Where is Tickler—the wretched
Tickler?”

Tickler, hastening up.—“Here, Captain—present, Captain.”

Blunderbus, wrathful.—“So you are absent at roll-call! So
you shirk your duty on picket! Sergeant, put this man to-morrow
in a barrel shirt; on the next offence, buck him!
What are you standing there for, villain?”

Tickler, producing a canteen.—“I don't bear malice, I don't,
Captain. I just went to the house yonder, thinking the night
was cold—for a few minutes only, Captain, being just relieved
from post—to get a little bit to eat, and a drop of drink. Prime
applejack, Captain; taste it, barrel shirt or no.”

(Tickler extends the canteen, which Blunderbus takes, offers his
friend, and drinks from.)

Tickler, offering ham and bread.—“And here's a little prog,
Captain.”

Blunderbus, calling to the Sergeant, who retires with Tickler.—

[figure description] Page 409.[end figure description]

“Remit Private Tickler's punishment, Sergeant; under the circumstances
he is excusable.”

Staff Officer.—“Ha, ha!”

Blunderbus, smiling.—“You may laugh, my friend; but
applejack like that is no laughing matter. What expands the
soul like meat, bread, and drink? Do you think me capable of
punishing that honest fellow? Never! My feelings are too
amiable. I could hug the whole world at the present moment,
even the Yanks yonder. Poor fellows! I fear their fire is
dying down, and they will freeze; suppose we call across and
invite them to come and warm by our fire? They are not such
bad fellows after all, my dear friend; and Blunderbus will answer
for their peaceful propensities. Nothing could tempt them
to fire upon us—they are enemies alone from the force of circumstances!”

(A stick rolls from the fire, and the carbine lying near is discharged.
The enemy start to arms, and a shower of bullets whistles
round, one from a long-range Spencer rifle striking Blunderbus on
the buckle of his sword belt, and knocking him literally heels over
head.)

Blunderbus, rising in a tremendous rage.—“Attention! fire
on 'em! Exterminate 'em! Give it to the rascals hot and
heavy, boys! Go it! Fire! (Bang! bang! bang! bang!)
Pour it into 'em! Another round! That's the thing! I saw
one fall! Hoop! give 'em another, boys! Hand me a carbine!”

Staff Officer, from his post behind the oak.—“Ha! ha! You
are a philosopher, my dear Blunderbus, and a real peace missionary—
but the `force of circumstances' alters cases, eh?”

Blunderrus, sardonically.—“I rather think it does.”

(Staff Officer mounts, and continues his rounds, the fire having
ceased, leaving Blunderbus swearing and rubbing the spot where he
was struck.)

Staff Officer, moving on.—“Good-night!”

Blunderbus, in the distance.—“Good-night! Curse 'em.”

p521-435

[figure description] Page 410.[end figure description]

Captain Darrell comes to see me sometimes; and as we are old
companions in arms, we have a good many things to talk about.

The Captain is a pleasant associate; mild in his manners, and
apparently much too amiable to hurt a fly. He is a terrible man
after the enemy, however, and exhibits in partisan warfare the
faculties of a great genius. His caution, his skill, his “combinations,”
are masterly;—his élan in a charge or a skirmish is
superb. Then only is the worthy Captain in his native element,
and he rises to the height of the occasion without effort or difficulty.

I am going to give some of his experiences in the service—to
record some of his scouts and performances. Every hero should
have his portrait first drawn, however;—here is the Captain's:

He is not yet thirty, and is of medium height and thickness.
His frame is strongly knit, and his arm muscular. His countenance
is a pleasant one; his expression mild; black hair, black
moustache, black eyebrows, black eyes. He wears a dark surtout,
cavalry boots, and a hat with a black feather. Around his
waist he carries habitually a pistol belt with a revolver in it. In
the field he adds a carbine or short rifle, and a sabre. His pistol
and sabre were once the enemy's property—they are the spoil
of his bow and spear.

[figure description] Page 411.[end figure description]

I am going to let the Captain speak for himself. He is not
given to talk about his experiences without provocation, and the
reader must carefully guard against the injustice of supposing
him a trumpeter of his own performances. He is wholly ignorant
of the fact that I am writing about him; and all that I shall
record was drawn from him by adroit prompting and questions.
Averse to talk at first, and to make himself the centre of attention
among my visitors, he soon grew animated, and his ordinary
somewhat listless demeanor was replaced by ardour and enthusiasm.

I had asked how many of the enemy he had killed in his career.

“I don't know,” he replied; “I never counted them—a good
many.”

“A dozen?”

“Oh, yes. I can remember six officers. I never counted the
men.”

“Where did you kill your first officer?”

The Captain reflected—musing.

“Let me see,” he said; “yes, at Upton's Hill, just by Upton's
house.”

“Tell me all about it?”

The Captain smiled, and yawned.

“Well,” he said, “it was in the fall of '61, I think, or it might
have been late summer.”

And leaning back, clasping his hands around his knees, he
thus commenced. I give the narrative, as I design giving others,
as nearly as possible in the words of the Captain:

“It was in the fall of that year, I think, when General Stuart
was below Fairfax, and the enemy occupied Munson's, Upton's,
Hall's, and Mason's Hills. Our troops were at Falls Church,
about two miles from Upton's Hill, and the enemy had pickets all
along in front. I was then scouting around on my own responsibility,
and used to go from one place to another, and get a shot
at them whenever I could. The First South Carolina boys had
often told me that I would get killed or wounded, and be taken
and hung as a bushwhacker or spy; but I was not afraid, as I
had determined never to be taken alive.

[figure description] Page 412.[end figure description]

“At the time I speak of, we used to send three or four companies
down to Falls Church on picket, to stay some days, and
then they would be relieved by other companies. As I knew the
whole country--every road and picket-post—the officers used to
come to me and get me to go with them, and show them the
neighbourhood. General Longstreet, whose brigade was then in
front, gave me a letter, which was my credential, and I posted all
the pickets at the right places regularly.

“One day it occurred to me that I could take and hold
Upton's Hill, if I had the right sort of men; and I offered, if
they would give me a detail, to attempt it. Major Skinner, of
the First Virginia, was officer of the day, and he agreed; and
Captain Simpson, of the Seventeenth Virginia, offered me as
many men as I required. I though I would only take a small
scouting party first, however, and I picked out four men whom
I knew. My intention was to creep up, make a sudden rush on
the picket on Upton's Hill, and capture it, and hold the hill
until the enemy advanced; if I was not reinforced I would retire
again. Well, I got the men, all good fellows for that sort of
work, and we set out about nine o'clock at night on our expedition.
The night was very dark, and you could not see the road
before you; but I knew every foot of the ground, and had no
difficulty on that score. We stopped at a house on the way,
where we found two negroes; but they could give me no information,
and I pushed on in silence toward Upton's house, where
the Yankee picket was always stationed.

“Just in front of the house there is a tree, you may have
noticed, which we could see easily from Taylor's Hill, where our
picket was—about eight hundred yards off—and the men used
to fire at each other, though I never did, as it was too far. Now
I knew that if the enemy occupied the hill that night, their
picket would be at this tree; and I accordingly made a circuit
and crept up toward it, to reconnoitre, leaving the men a short
distance behind. I got near the tree, which I could see indistinctly,
but observed nothing in the shape of a picket. To find
if any was really there, I picked up a stone to throw at a fence;
for I knew if there were any Yankees there, that as soon as they

[figure description] Page 413.[end figure description]

heard it strike, they would jump up and exclaim, `Hello!
didn't you hear something, Tom, or Dick! What was that?'
They would naturally be startled, and would in some manner
betray their presence.

“Well, I threw the stone, and it struck the fence, bouncing
off and making a tremendous noise. There was no reply; the
silence remained entirely unbroken, and I was satisfied that there
was no picket at that particular spot, at least. I therefore
advanced boldly, and reached the tree, making a signal to the
men to come up. The enemy had evidently been at the spot
only a short time before. There were the remains of a picket
fire, and a quantity of green corn lying about, taken from the
field before the house, which was about two hundred yards off,
and on the tree was hanging a canteen. I took it and put it
on, and then cautiously approached the house, supposing that
the Yankee pickets had gone in to sleep. Upton was then in
the Yankee Congress, and his house was vacant, and I supposed
the enemy used it as a place of shelter.

“I walked noiselessly around the house, but could see no sign
of any one. I thought I would try the same game as before,
and found a stone, which I threw against the side of the house.
Bang! it went, but no one replied; and I was then pretty sure
that I had everything in my own hands. We knocked at the
door, and a sleepy voice said something—probably a negro's—
but we could not get in, though we tried to prise the door
open.

“I had thus got possession of the hill, and the next thing was
to hold it. I reflected for a moment, and then sent two of the
men back to Captain Simpson, with a message to the effect that
I had obtained possession of the place without resistance, and
that if he would send me fifteen men, I would stay there, engaging
the enemy if they tried to recapture it. The men started
off, but lost their way in the darkness—they were some of those
town boys not used to scouting—and only one arrived at last;
the other went away round the whole line of the enemy, but got
back safely next day.

“I was thus left with only two men; and one of these I

[figure description] Page 414.[end figure description]

posted as a vedette at the house, while I returned with the other,
whose name was Jackson, to the tree by the gate, where the
picket fire had been.

“It was now near day, and I began to be very anxious for the
appearance of the fifteen men. The messengers had had abundance
of time to go and return, but no men! I knew the programme
of the enemy now perfectly well. They were very
nervous at that time, and were always afraid of being `cut off,'
as they called it, and every night would leave their place on the
hill, retiring to the woods down in the rear to prevent being
`cut off' by scouting parties in the dark. When day returned,
they would resume their position at the picket tree.

“I knew, therefore, that everything depended upon getting my
reinforcement promptly, or it would be too late. I could not
hold the hill with one man against them all, and I didn't like the
thought of slinking off as I came, and making nothing by the
expedition. So I listened anxiously for sounds from the direction
of Falls Church, expecting every moment to hear the footsteps of
the men. I could hear nothing, however, and for the reason I
have given—that my messenger arrived so late. Capt. Simpson,
as he told me afterwards, promptly ordered out the detail I asked
for; but they did not arrive in time.

“All this time I was listening attentively in the opposite
direction, too. I knew that if my men did not come, the enemy
would at the first streak of daylight, and I did not wish to be
caught. I determined to `fire and fall back,' if I could not fight
them—and the night was so still that I could hear the slightest
sound made by a man long before he approached me. My plan
had been all arranged, counting on the arrival of the fifteen men,
and it was to place them in a cut of the road near the house—and
as the enemy came up, make the men rest their guns on the
bank, and pour a sudden fire into the flank of the column. I
knew this would rout them completely—and everything was
arranged to carry out the plan—but, as I said, the men did not
come. If I held the hill I would have to do so with two instead
of fifteen.

“Everything turned out as I expected. Just at the first blush

[figure description] Page 415.[end figure description]

of day, while everything was yet hazy and indistinct, I heard the
enemy—tramp! tramp! tramp!—coming up the hill. The man
watching the house was two hundred yards off; and Jackson and
myself were, as I have said, at the gate near the tree, hid in the
tall corn. He was armed with a Minié musket, and I had the
same weapon, with a six-shooter besides.

“I leaned on the fence, crouching down and listening. The
tramp of the Yankees came nearer, and, in the dim light, I could
see a company of them, with an officer at their head, approaching.
When they were about ten yards off, and I could make them out
perfectly distinet, I whispered, `Now, Jackson!' and, resting
my gun on the fence, I took deliberate aim at the officer, and
fired, striking him in the breast. I then dropped my gun, and
poured into them the fire of all the barrels of my revolver, killing
a Sergeant, and wounding three men.

“Although badly wounded, the Lieutenant in command stood
gallantly, and shouted to the men, who had for the most part
broken, and were running:

“ `Halt there! Fire on the scoundrels! Halt, I say! Fire on
them!'

“Some of them turned, and I heard the click of the locks as
the guns were cocked.

“ `Look out, Jackson!' I whispered, and I crouched down
behind the fence. At the same moment a hot volley came tearing
through the tall corn, and cutting the blades over our heads.
I knew it would not do to let them discover that there were only
two men in front; so, having no more loads in my pistol, I thundered
out as though addressing a company who had fired without
orders:

“ `Steady, men! steady there, I tell you! Hold your fire!
Steady! Dress to the right!'

“This completely took them in, and made them believe that
they were ambushed by a large force. In spite of all the Lieutenant
could do, they broke and ran down the hill, leaving one
man—the Sergeant—dead behind them.

“The Lieutenant was carried off by some of the men, and taken
to a house not far from the spot. I was there soon afterwards,

p521-441 [figure description] Page 416.[end figure description]

and they told me he was shot in the left breast, just above the
heart, and died of the wound.

“That was the first officer I ever killed, and the whole of the
story.

“Knowing that the enemy would soon return with a heavy
force to dislodge me, and that nothing was to be gained by remaining
there longer without reinforcements, I called to the
man at the house, and took up the line of march back to Falls
Church.

“If they had sent me the men, I could have held the hill; but,
as I told you, the messengers I sent got lost.”

I have continued to extract from Captain Darrell, at various
times, accounts of his life and adventures. A day or two since
we were talking about the earlier scenes of the war, and the
half-forgotten incidents which occurred before our eyes at the
time. To my surprise, I found that we had often been near each
other—that he had slept once by the battery to which I was attached;
and that, doubtless, I had seen, without noticing him,
however. The memories of the Captain were not without interest;
and following my theory that the traits and details of this
period should be collected now, I proceed to let the Captain
relate his adventures:

“I was in Bonham's command at Manassas before Beauregard
came there, and my regiment went along toward Centreville on
the very day the Federals took possession of Alexandria. We
stayed at Centreville some time, and then advanced to Fairfax.
Here I commenced scouting around, and kept at it until the
enemy made their advance on the 16th of July. They came in
heavy columns on the Flint Hill road, and Bonham fell back
quietly with only a few shots from his artillery. The men were

[figure description] Page 417.[end figure description]

all in the breastworks, hot for a fight, which they all expected;
but they were marched out and back on the road to Centreville.

“I was out on the road to the left of Germantown with a
companion when their column appeared, and we were cut off.
We struck into the woods, made a circuit, and came out again
on a high hill above Germantown, on the turnpike, from which
we could see them rushing into Fairfax. They seemed to overflow
it in a minute, and we could hear their yells as they entered—
thinking the whole Rebel army had fled before them.
They were soon at Germantown, and burned most of the houses,
hurrying on in pursuit of Bonham toward Centreville. I
thought it best to get away from there as soon as possible, so I
went on through the woods, and arrived at Centreville about the
time you all ran your guns up on the hill there, to cover the
retreat. There I saw General Bonham, whom I knew very well,
and I told him I believed I would go out and scout around, to
try and find what the enemy were about. He said he would be
glad if I would do so, and I started off toward the Frying Pan
road, and heard them moving in every direction. I tramped
around for a long time, to try and make something out; but
finding I could not, I returned to Centreville. The army was
gone! and the enemy were pressing in just as I arrived. I
thought I was certainly gone; but I avoided them in the dark,
and pushed on toward Bull Run.

“I reached the high land just above the stream in an hour or
two, and remember meeting Captain, now Lieutenant-Colonel
Langhorne, whose company was on the side of the road, a part
of the rear-guard. I entered into conversation with him, and
he asked me to what command I was attached. I told him I
was an independent, scouting around on my own responsibility;
and he invited me to stay with him. So, after eating some of
his supper, I laid down on his blankets and went to sleep.

“I woke early, and went on toward Bull Run. As I was
going along, I saw a man on horseback ride across the field, and
remember looking at him and taking him for one of our own
men. I was stooping and picking blackberries at the time, and
took no particular notice of him, or I might have killed him,

[figure description] Page 418.[end figure description]

and got his horse and accoutrements, which I needed very much
at the time. I allowed him to pass me; and when he got near
the small house on the hill, he called out to three or four soldiers
posted there:

“`Where is General McDowell?'

“`General who?' was the reply.

“`General McDowell!' he repeated. `Make haste! I am
looking for him!'

“`Halt! halt!' came from the soldiers, who caught up and
cocked their guns. The Yankee saw his mistake too late. He
wheeled his horse round, and dug the spurs into him, but at
that minute our men fired on him, and he fell to the ground,
dead.

“He proved to be General McDowell's quartermaster—I heard
his name, but forget it now. He had seven hundred and sixtyodd
dollars on his person, I was told.

“After that I went on toward Blackburn's Ford, and found
our men drawn up there in line of battle on the south bank.
Soon after I got over General Longstreet rode down, smoking a
cigar, and I heard the enemy coming.

“`Who will volunteer to go across and observe their movements?'
asked Longstreet.

“`I will, General,' said Captain Marye, of Alexandria.

“`Go on, then, Captain,' said Longstreet. `Hurrah for the
Alexandria Guards!'

“`The Alexandria Rifles, General,' said Captain Marye, turning
round, and bowing.

“`Hurrah for the Rifles, then!' said Longstreet; and Marye
advanced across the Run with his company.

“It was soon after this, I think, that the artillery fight commenced
between our batteries and those of the Federals. Ours
were in the plain there, on the slope of a little rising ground, and
the enemy's were near the house, on the other side, with all the
position on us. Our batteries were fought beautifully, and I remember
how excited we all were, watching the shells passing over
us—we could see them. When some of our horses were killed
we all felt deeply for the artillery; but it was pushed forward,

[figure description] Page 419.[end figure description]

and got out of range for the moment. The Yankees soon fell
back, and we stayed there, waiting for them to renew the attack.
The men were terribly excited, and fired at everything over the
Run, whether it was an enemy or not. Some fresh regiments
came down, and they were sitting with their guns up, expecting
every minute to begin, and eager for the enemy to approach.
They would fire in the air, or at anything they saw; and sometimes
whole companies would rise up, and blaze away right into
the opposite bank.

“This made me mad. I was as sick as I could be, with the
measles breaking out all over me, and was going about with my
face red and swollen, my shirt-bosom open, and my head feeling
curiously. The men noticed me as I was rambling around, and
seemed anxious to know who I was. I mixed with them, but
said nothing until they began to throw away their ammunition,
firing into the wood; when I halloed at them, and told them to
stop that.

“`There are no Yankees there,' I shouted to them; `don't be
wasting your cartridges in that way, men!'

“But they took no notice of me, except one or two, who asked
me where I was from. I told them I was from South Carolina,
and then they went on firing. The thing looked so ridiculous
to me that I began to laugh, and just at that moment a whole
company blazed away into the pines across the run. I jumped
up, clapped my hands, and shouted enthusiastically;

“`That was a glorious volley, men!—perfectly glorious! You
are the boys! and that fire would have killed at least three thou
sand Yankees—if there were any within three or four miles of
you!'

“They laughed at this, and just as they stopped a shell came
from the enemy and cut off the top of a large tree under which
I was standing. It crashed down, and a big limb struck me on
the side of the head and knocked me over. Another piece, I
heard, broke the back of a man in one of the companies. When
they saw me knocked down they all laughed worse than ever,
and shouted out:

“`Look out, South Carolina! Take care of yourself!'

[figure description] Page 420.[end figure description]

“I thought I would move on. After that I got so sick that
I could not keep up, so I went along toward Mitchell's Ford
above, and fell in with some friends of General Bonham's staff.
His headquarters were just in rear of our batteries there, and
they pitched me a small tent—the only one put up—and I lay
down, not minding the heavy cannonading, I was so sick. I stayed
there until the 21st, when I could stand it no longer, and determined
to get up and strike for the battle-field on our left. I went
in that direction and fell in with a young cousin of mine, Edward
Farley, who had come down from the University of Virginia to
see the fun. We went along together, and I got on the field
just when Evans, and Bee, and Bartow were fighting to the left
of the Stone bridge. I was so weak that I could hardly stand
up; and my cousin advised me to take a drink of whiskey, as he
had some along with him. I did not wish to do so at first, but
he persuaded me that it would be best for me; and I poured out
a tin cup half full of the whiskey and swallowed it. I had never
taken a drink before in my life—and I have never taken one
since. I was so weak and exhausted, and my stomach was so
empty, that it made me as tight as anything! I went charging
around, half out of my senses, and tried to make the men stand
to the work. They were falling back, however, when all at once
Beauregard came galloping up, and rode up and down the line,
making the men a speech, and urging them not to give up their
firesides and altars to the foe. They answered with shouts all
along the line, and soon afterwards charged, and drove the enemy
back toward Sudley. After that the battle was a rout. Our
cavalry came down at a gallop, and the enemy took to flight.

“I staggered on after them, and saw them running. I ran on
too, firing at them, until I got nearly to Centreville. I was then
obliged to stop and sit down, with my back to a tree, on the
roadside, as I was too sick and weak to proceed. The effect of
the liquor had worn off, and I remained there half dozing, until
I heard cavalry coming along. It was Captain Powell's cavalry,
from Alexandria—one of the first companies organized—and
as they swept by me at a gallop, I shouted:

“`Go it, boys! Give it to `em.'

[figure description] Page 421.[end figure description]

“They passed on, and as soon as I was strong enough I got
up, and went towards a house near by, to get something to eat.
They did not want to let me in, but I had my pistol, and told
them that I was sick, and could go no further, and I intended to
come in whether or no. I accordingly entered, and among a
crowd there found Edward, who had been separated from me in
the battle, and followed on as I had.

“I lay down on a sofa, and sent out for something to eat,
which I soon got. I then went to sleep, and when I woke next
morning was a great deal better. I left the house, took the road
to Fairfax, and never stopped until I got to the Chain Bridge, on
the Potomac, where I proposed to Captain Powell to cross and
capture the pickets on the other side. That's all I saw of the
battle of Manassas.”

I shall conclude my article with one other adventure of
the worthy Captain. We had been discussing the highly interesting
subject of saddles, the merits of the “McClellan,” the
desirability of a good new one of that pattern, and the criminal
negligence of those who had passed by whole piles of
them and never secured one, when the Captain said he had a
very fine one which had “belonged to the gamest Yankee he
ever saw.” There was something in that phrase which I have
quoted, strongly suggestive of some belle aventure, and I therefore
made an assault upon the Captain to compel him to relate
the incident.

He did so, as usual, after repeated urgings; and here
is the narrative as nearly as possible in the words of the
narrator:

“I got the saddle when we were advancing after the battle of
Cedar Run, last August. I went with a part of the command
to which I was attached, down the road which leads from Culpeper
to Kelley's Ford, on the Rappahannock. Just before you
get to the river there are two gates, within a short distance of
each other, which you have to pass through. There is a fence on
the right side of the road, and another gate in that, opening into
a field. On the left there is no fence—open field and a high hill.

“Well, I took two men and went scouting down that way,

[figure description] Page 422.[end figure description]

and came to the first gate. I opened it, and rode through, but
before the men could follow it shut to. All at once I saw in
front of me three Yankees on foot—two privates and a sergeant,
as I soon found. The sergeant was carrying a bucket.

“As soon as I saw them I called to them to surrender.

“`Throw down your arms!' I called out, pointing my pistol
at them, `or you are dead men!'

“The privates threw down their muskets, but the sergeant
drew a pistol and was about to fire on me, when I covered him
with my pistol, and said:

“`Now, you just fire, you scoundrel, and I'll kill you!'

“He hesitated for a moment, but finally lowered his pistol,
and said he would not have surrendered to one man if I had not
taken him at a disadvantage. I turned over the prisoners, and
went on. As I moved on, Mosby and Hardeman Stuart came
by, and pushed on to the high hill on the left, to reconnoitre. I
had not gone far before I saw three Yankee cavalry in the field
to the right, riding straight down towards us, evidently intending
to pass through the gate in the fence. I had my two men with
me, and as I wanted to overpower the Yankees, I beckoned to
Mosby and Hardeman, who were in sight, and they came riding
down. We then opened the gate, and all five of us pushed
towards the three Yankees, who, instead of running, as I expected,
drew up in line to receive our charge—the rascals! We
galloped at them, and they held their fire until we got within
five yards of them, when bang! bang! bang! went their revolvers
at us. We replied, and in a minute were right in the middle
of them with the sabre, ordering them to surrender.

“They obeyed, and I thought the fight was over, when suddenly
one of the scoundrels put his pistol right in my face and
fired—so close that the powder burned my ear; here is the mark
still. As he fired he dashed off, and two of our men pushed to
cut him off from the gate. I was mad enough, as you may
understand; and I rode at him, full speed. When he saw himself
thus surrounded, he lowered his sabre which he had drawn,
and called out that he would surrender. I rode up to him, and
shook my fist at him, gritting my teeth

[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]

HOW DARREL WAS CAPTURED.—Page 423. [figure description] Illustration page, which depicts the capture of Darrel. He is astride his horse, swinging his sword down towards a Union soldier, even though he is surrounded on all sides by Union soldiers on foot and horseback.[end figure description]

p521-450

[figure description] Page 423.[end figure description]

“`You scoundrel!' I exclaimed. `You black-hearted villain!
to fire on me after surrendering! I am almost tempted to
blow your brains out with my pistol!'

“He made no reply; and telling the men to take charge of
him I turned to ride back. I had not gone ten steps before I
heard a sudden cry behind me, and looking hastily round, I saw
one of the men falling from the saddle, with one arm thrown up,
as if to ward off a blow. He had tried to do so, but failed.
The infernal scoundrel of a Yankee had, after surrender, suddenly
cut the man over the head with his sabre, and running
against the other, nearly knocked him from his horse!

“Instead of running, the rascal then turned his attention to
me, and made a wipe at me as his horse darted by, which just
grazed my head. He might perhaps have got off if he had
tried, then; but he came at me again, riding right down with his
sabre ready.

“I saw my chance, then, and just as he was driving at me, I
levelled my pistol and fired. The ball struck him just under
the left ear, and passed entirely through his head.

“He fell from his saddle, and I caught his horse, which was
a very fine one. That was the gamest Yankee I ever fought
with, and his saddle was a first-rate one—a bran new `McClellan;'
and if you want one I will give it to you, as I have as
many as I want.”

So terminated the Captain's story of the “gamest Yankee.”
It may interest those who like the clash of sabres and the crack
of fire-arms—on paper.

Among the most interesting narratives which I extracted, by
adroit urging, from my friend Captain Darrell, was that of the
hard fight which he had at Langly, and his capture. Let me
here again, in justice to the Captain, guard the reader from

[figure description] Page 424.[end figure description]

supposing that these relations were volunteered by the hero of them.
Such was by no means the case. It was only after skilful man
œuvring and repeated urging that the worthy was induced—
with many preliminary protests, accompanied by a determined
twisting of his mustache—to enter on the subject of his adventures.

This explanation is due to him. Nothing is more perilous
than what is called egotism. When a man sits down to narrate
his own performances, or when he relates them orally to a
circle of listeners, the instinctive feeling of the reader or the listener
is prone to be one of doubt. Human nature is so curiously
constituted that whatever even appears egotistical is offensive;
and the revenge which men take for being silenced or eclipsed,
is to question the truth of what the egotist utters. So sure is
this proclivity to underrate what throws us into the shadow, that
Bulwer, in one of those books in which he shows so much keen
observation of the world, makes the company rejoice when a
profound talker has left the room, and think far more highly of
Mr. Pelham, the exquisite, who only said, “Good!” and “Very
true!” as others talked. If Captain Paul Jones talked for two
hours steadily, all about his adventures, he would have many
persons to declare him a bore, and doubt whether he ever fought
the Serapis. If Marion spoke of swamp-encounters all through
an evening, there would be many to question whether he ever
mounted steed. Such is human nature.

The reader will please observe, therefore, that Captain Darrell
did not volunteer these statements. Instead of being an egotist,
and an incessant talker, he is really the most retiring and silent
of men. You may be with him for a month, and during the
whole of that time he will not once refer to any event of his
experience. He will talk with you quietly, upon this or that
subject, but never about his own exploits. I cannot too often
repeat, in justice to the Captain, that the narratives here given
were extracted from him by the process of direct interrogation.
Having the present highly praiseworthy end in view—that of
putting upon record some singular chapters of the war—I attacked
him, and drew forth his recollections, as water is drawn from a

[figure description] Page 425.[end figure description]

well, by working at the windlass. The adventures came out in
reply to my questions, and solely to gratify an evident curiosity
to hear them. If I give them to the reader, he will act with
great ingratitude in attributing either egotism or gasconade to
the worthy Captain.

With these few words of caution to the reader, I proceed to
let the Captain tell how he was captured.

“It is a long story,” he said, “but you have managed to set
me talking, and I suppose I may as well go on. My capture was
an accident—it ought never to have occurred. The way of it
was this:

“It took place about November, 1861; and at that time I was
scouting around, trying to find some opening to `go in.' When
one place got too hot for me, I went to another. I would work
around for some time, up by Dranesville; then near Vienna
and Falls Church; and then by Annandale, down to Occoquon.
The South Carolina boys—you know I came on with them—
used to tell me that I would certainly get caught; that I was
too rash and reckless; and they would not go with me any
more. But that was unjust. That has been said of me a
hundred times; but there is no man more cautions than I am.

“I had a scout on hand, and I got a man to go with me, whose
name was Carper. Also Frank Decaradeux, First Lieutenant of
Company G, 7th South Carolina—a noble fellow, who was killed
at Charleston in the fight lately. At Dranesville we got another
named Coleman, who is dead, too, I believe, poor fellow—and set
out on the scout.

“The enemy were then at Langly, with their pickets in front,
and we heard that they were going to make an expedition toward
Dranesville, where we had a picket post. Our intention
was to waylay the party, whatever its strength, and attack it
from the woods on the side of the road; then, during the confusion,
to make our escape in the thicket, if necessary. I was at
that time in first-rate spritis—hot for a fight—and I knew I could
depend upon my companions, especially Frank Decaradeux. So
we set out toward Langly, and when within a mile or so of their
pickets, took post in the woods where the road suddenly

[figure description] Page 426.[end figure description]

descended between high banks, and gave us an excellent opportunity to
ambush them as they approached.

“Well, we waited there two or three hours, and there was no
sign of an enemy. Then as night had come we concluded to
give it up for that day, and go across to a house which I knew
of, and get supper and lodging. We went there accordingly, and
had a good supper, telling the old man to have us a hot cup of
coffee at daylight, when we were going to try again. Soon after
day we left him in high spirits, and made for the main road
again. We had just come near, in the field, when I saw the head
of a column of Federal Cavalry, coming from the direction of
Dranesville. They had passed us in the night! At Dranesville
they had caught our pickets—Whitton and Hildebrand—and
about thirteen citizens, whom they were now carrying back to
Langly.

“My first thought was to get to the big pines where we had been
on the evening before; but this was impossible. The enemy were
so close upon us that if we started to run they would certainly
see us—and the pines were more than half a mile off. The only
thing I thought of was to take advantage of a rise in the ground,
cross the road, and get in some pine bushes—short second growth
about as high as a man—where I determined to open fire upon
them. We accordingly ran across as hard as we could, and passing
by a small house, a Mrs. Follen's, got in the bushes. The
enemy were coming on quickly and we held a council of war.

“`I'll tell you what, boys, it won't do for us to let them get by
without doing them some damage. They have been up there
robbing and plundering, and I for one intend to fire into them,
and die if necessary. But we can get off. They will think we
are a heavy force sent to ambush them; and in the confusion we
can get into the big pines below, where they never can catch us.'

“Decaradeux said he would stand by me, and the others did
too, at last—but they looked very pale. We looked carefully to
our arms and saw that all was right. We had guns, or carbines,
except Decaradeux, who carried a short revolving rifle, which had
got clogged up with the spermaceti on the cartridges. He worked
at it, and got it in order, however, and said he was ready.

[figure description] Page 427.[end figure description]

“The cavalry had now got within twenty yards of us, and at
the head of the column rode General Bayard, then Colonel, with
some staff officers: the prisoners were in the rear. As they
came within ten or fifteen yards I arose and said, `Now, boys!'
and we gave them a volley which threw them into tremendous
confusion. Whitton told me afterwards that the men trembled
in their very boots, and turned their horses to run—thinking
they were ambushed by the rebel army. Bayard shouted,
`Steady! steady, men!' and pushed forward—he was a brave
fellow—and I was ready for him. As he got within five yards
of me I fired and tore his coat skirt all to pieces—killing his
horse, which fell upon him. As he fell, some of the officers
whose horses had run on by, to the front, came galloping back;
and seeing one in uniform with straps, I fired and shot him
through the body, killing him.

“We might have got off in the confusion had it not been for
Mrs. Follen, who cried, `Oh! they are only four men!' Poor
thing, I suppose she was frightened. The enemy, as soon as they
heard this, rallied, and threw dismounted men into the bushes
after us; it seemed to me that they were down and in the pines
in one minute. Frank Decaradeux had been shot through the
right hand, and Coleman through the side. No time was to be
lost, and we made a break for the big pines, where I expected to
be able to escape. We could not reach them—the flankers
coming in and cutting us off—and soon found that we were
surrounded. I got separated from the rest, and was running
around trying to find an opening to escape, but they were all
around me. I could hear their howls as they closed in.

“`Here's the First Pennsylvania! Bully for us, boys! We
are the boys! We'll give 'em h—l!'

“It was like a pack of wolves. I had fired all my loads, and
stopped under a sapling to reload. I remember my feelings at
that moment perfectly. I never was so miserable in all my life
before. I had that feeling of desperation which you can imagine
a dog has when he is run into a corner, and glares up and snaps
at you. My hand did not tremble a particle, however, as I was
loading my revolver. I had a small flask, and I put in the

[figure description] Page 428.[end figure description]

proper amount of powder and rammed the balls home, and then
got up from the ground. Half-a-dozen of the enemy were
closing right around me, and as soon as they saw me they fired,
and I returned it. I could not find an opening to get out—I
was surrounded upon every side, and I didn't know what to do.
Every moment they were popping at me, only a few yards off,
as I doubled about, and I had eight balls in my clothes and the
cape of my coat, and one in my cap. At last I got into an open
space, towards the road, and saw a gap in the fence which one
cavalryman was watching.

“`Now is my chance,' I thought.

“And I made a rush straight at him. I had kept one load in
my pistol, and if I killed him, as I thought I could easily, I could
get his horse and then good-by to them! As I ran towards him
he raised his carbine and fired at me, but I did not mind that.
I was up to him in a minute, and put my pistol straight at his
breast and shot him out of the saddle. He fell, and I was just
about to catch the rein, when—I scarcely remember, but Hildebrand
told me, the cavalrymen rode me down, one of the men
striking me across the head with the barrel of his carbine. But
I think the hoof of the horse must have struck me as he jumped
over me—my left side was all bruised and bloody.

“When I came to my senses I was lying on my face, and the
first words I heard were, I remember perfectly:

“`Dead as hell, by—!'

“I raised my head a little, and finding I was not dead, they
collared me, and made me stand up, hustling me about from side
to side, and jabbering in every language. I got tired of being
held in this way, and clutched a carbine from one of them,
intending to club it, and hit right and left, but they got it away
from me. I remember there was one fellow with a cocked pistol
who seemed anxious to get at me, and the officers around
were laughing, and saying, `Let the Italian get at him! he'll
finish him!'

“`Put me out in that field with a pistol,' I said, `and your
Italian or any can try me!'

“They only laughed at this, and hustled me about, as they

[figure description] Page 429.[end figure description]

did poor Frank Decaradeux and Coleman, whom they had
caught. Carper got off. Decaradeux had lost his hat, like myself,
and had an oilcloth wrapped over his head, which made his
pale cheeks and black eyes like a girl's. They laughed at this
resemblance, and said, pointing at me:

“ `Who is that fellow there, with his hand in the breast of his
coat? He looks like he didn't care what the price of tobacco
was!'

“I had gotten dignified, however, and made no answer; and
soon after an officer rode up, and said:

“ `Captain Darrell, I am sorry to see you in this predicament.
Captain McKewn of General McCall's staff. I remember having
the pleasure of your acquaintance at the University of Virginia.'

“I bowed, and he asked me what had become of my cap.
I told him I had unfortunately lost it, but I observed one of
the men riding around with it. He went off and got me a fine
new one, and soon afterwards the fellow who wore my cap—it
was a red one—came prancing around.

“ `Hey!' he said to me, `you see I've got your cap, you d—d
rebel!'

“ `Yes,' I replied, `but you are only getting back your own
property. I got that from a Brooklyn Fire Zouave, and you are
entitled to it, I suppose. I killed the owner.'

“This was really the case. In the charge made by Colonel
Fitz Lee, near Annandale, a short time before, I had lost my
hat in running the enemy, and came nearly up with two of them
who had jumped the fence and were scudding through the pines.
I threw myself from the saddle over the fence, and aiming at
one of the Yankees, shot him through the breast. I called to
the other to surrender, but he turned round and levelled his carbine
at me, not more than ten steps off. I had no load in my
pistol, and would have been a dead man, had it not been for one
of my friends in the road, who fired on the Yankee just as he
took aim at me. The ball passed just over my shoulder, and
struck him in the face, and he fell. I took off his pistol-belt and
pistol; and as I had no hat, picked up his red cap and wore it.
This was the same cap which the fellow prancing round had on.

[figure description] Page 430.[end figure description]

“When we came near Langly, the General, McCall, came out
with his division, and I heard him say, that he had heard the
firing, and thought Bayard had been ambushed by the whole
rebel army.

“ `It was worth your while, general,' I said, `to bring out your
division to capture four men.'

“ `Who is this?' asked General McCall.

“ `Captain Darrell, one of the prisoners, General,' said an officer.

“The general ordered me to be brought to him, and asked me
who I was. I told him and he said:

“ `You are from the Confederate army, are you not, Captain?'

“ `Yes, sir,' I replied.

“ `What is their force in front of us?'

“ `General McCall,' I said, `you ought to know that that is
not a proper question to ask me; and that it would be highly
improper for me to give you any information upon the subject.
I am a soldier, sir, and know my duty too well for that.'

“He laughed and said no more; and then Colonel Bayard
came up, and talked with me a short time; he was not wounded.
He only asked what command I belonged to and then rode on.

“That evening we were put in a wagon, and carried to Washington—
Decaradeux and myself. I don't know what became of
Coleman. Here we were put in the third story of the Old Capitol,
and I soon understood that they were trying to make out
that I was a spy, and hang me as such. When they asked me
my name, I told them Captain Darrell, of General Bonham's
Staff, as General Bonham, who was an old acquaintance of mine,
had often urged me to accept a commission in the C. S. A., to
protect me if I was captured. He told me he could easily procure
one for me, as at that time they were making appointments
every day; but I replied that I would rather remain free, as
they might put me off in some fort somewhere, when I would
never lay eyes on a Yankee. He then told me to consider myself
his volunteer aide, on his staff; and accordingly I reported
myself as such, and was so published in the morning papers.

“I was constantly scheming how to escape while in prison,
but had crowds of inquisitive visitors coming in on me at all

[figure description] Page 431.[end figure description]

times, and pestering me to death. One day a big pompous army
surgeon came in and flourished around, with

“ `Well, Captain—hem!—you young fellows have got yourselves
into a bad serape—hem!'

“ `Not that I am aware of, sir,' I replied coolly. `How so?'

“ `Why, you came inside of our lines by night, and waylaid
our troops, against all the usages of civilized warfare, sir.'

“ `I was on a scout, like General Bayard,' I returned.

“ `A scout, sir!' he exclaimed, growing red in the face; `we
were on no scout, sir! we were on a reconnoissance, sir, with a
force of one thousand cavalry, sir!'

“ `Well, I was on a reconnoissance, too, with a force of four infantry
men. You came out to reconnoitre us, and we reconnoitred
you. The reconnoitring parties happened to meet on the road,
and my reconnoitring party got the better of yours.'

“This seemed to make him furious. He swelled, and swaggered,
and puffed, like a big turkey-gobbler, and tried to frown
me down, but it was not successful.

“ `Well, sir,' he said, `if you did get the better of us, you at
least are our prisoner, sir; and there are grave charges against
you, sir—very grave charges, sir!'

“I began to get mad, and asked him what he meant by that.

“ `I mean, sir,' he said, raising his voice and swelling out his
breast, `that you have shot a doctor, sir!—yes, sir; a DOCTOR, sir!'

“ `What doctor? Where did I shoot a doctor?'

“ `On the road, sir! He was a doctor, sir; the officer you
killed, sir! a non-combatant, without arms, in the performance
of his official duties, sir!'

“ `Oh! a doctor was he!' I said, `a doctor! Well, you doctors
ought to take care how you ride along at the head of columns
of cavalry in our country, and put yourselves in the way of balls,
in uniform, with straps on your shoulders. It is dangerous.'

“ `He was a doctor, sir; I say! a non-combatant! a DOCTOR,
sir; and you murdered him! yes, murdered him, sir!'

“ `Look here, sir,' I said; `this is my room and if you can't
behave yourself in it, I wish you to leave it. I wish to have
no more of your talk!'

[figure description] Page 432.[end figure description]

“ `Oh, well, sir! very well, sir!'

“And the doctor swaggered out. The next who came was a
Major, a little smiling finicky fellow, who was oily and polite in
his manner, and seemed uncommonly friendly.

“ `This is an unfortunate affair, Captain,' he began in a sympathizing
tone.

“ `Not very,' I said.

“ `I fear it is. You see, you were taken inside of our lines, and
it is probable you will be treated as a spy.'

“ `I reckon not, sir.'

“ `Why, so I hear, at least. Do you often enter our lines,
Captain?'

“ `I have done so, frequently.'

“ `In citizen's dress, Captain?' he inquired, smiling; and then
I saw what he was after, and was on my guard.

“ `No,' I replied, `I come with my arms to make a military
reconnoissance.'

“ `Do your officers enter our lines in this way often, Captain?'

“ `Well,' I said, `tolerably often. Colonel Fitz Lee made a
reconnoissance or scout, as you please, down beyond Annandale,
the other day, with a squadron of cavalry; and General Jeb
Stuart is particularly fond of such expeditions—indulging in
them frequently.'

He tried to make me commit myself in several other ways,
but finding he could not succeed, got up and left. After that I
told the sentinel at my door not to admit any more of them—
which, however, I lost by, as they would not allow my friends to
come and see me, or any of the delicacies they sent to reach me.
They permitted me to walk in the yard, however, but forbade the
prisoners to exchange any words or signs with those confined
above. One day I saw some ladies at an upper window of the prison,
who waved their handkerchiefs to me, and I took off my hat to
them. The sentinel told me it was against orders, but I replied
that in the South gentlemen always returned the salutation of
ladies—and I didn't mind him. One of the ladies then dropped
a little secession flag, made of riband; and I picked it up and
put it in my hat. The sentinel ordered me to take it out, but I

[figure description] Page 433.[end figure description]

refused; and told him to call his Sergeant. The Sergeant came,
and I told him to call the officer of the guard. I was going on
through the officer of the guard, and the officer of the day, up
to the Provost-Marshal; but the officer of the guard was an old
Lieutenant, who said, `Oh, everybody knows his politics. There
is no harm in letting him wear a riband in his hat.' So I
continued to wear it.

“One of the ladies was Mrs. Greenough, and she had a little
daughter of about twelve or thirteen, who used to run about the
prison and visit all the rooms, as the sentinel would not stop
such a mere child. She and myself became great friends, and
one day she brought me some flowers from her mother, and
whispered—for a guard was always present—that I would find a
note in them. I found the note, and after that carried on quite a
correspondence. I would make her a present of an apple, which
I had cut and hollowed out—putting a note in it, and then sticking
it together again. As the crowd were going down to dinner
one day, I slipped up instead of down, and went into Mrs.
Greenough's room, and had a long talk with her and another lady
who was with her; getting back again without discovery.

“I was always thinking of plans to escape, however, and three
schemes suggested themselves. Either to bribe the sentinel in the
back yard not to see us—or stab the sentinels at the outer and
inner door—or drop out of the front window by blankets torn
in strips, just as the sentry walked off on his beat, taking the
chances of his fire when he discovered us. I had two associates
in these plans, a prisoner named Conner, and Lieutenant Harry
Stewart. They preferred the first, while I liked the last best.
Our plan was to escape to Baltimore, where some friends were
fitting out secretly a tug with guns on it, to run down the bay,
and attack Burnside's transports. This played exactly into my
hand—to cut and slash, and blaze away at them—and I was so
anxious to undertake the expedition, instead of being sent down
tamely, with a white flag and all that sort of thing, to be exchanged
at Fortress Monroe, that when they told me I would be
regarded as a prisoner of war and soon released, I did not give
up my plan of escaping. It was all stopped, though, by Major

p521-461 [figure description] Page 434.[end figure description]

Wood's coming into my and Decaradeux's room, and telling us he
suspected something, and had put Conner and Harry Stewart
into solitary confinement.

“Before I could arrange any new plan Decaradeux and myself
were exchanged, and I was free again. It was well I didn't
adopt Harry Stewart's plan. After a while he was allowed to go
back to his room, and having bribed the two sentinels in the
back yard, he attempted with Conner to escape one night. Just
as he raised the window to get out, one of the sentinels said,
`There is the d—d rascal—fire on him!' The man fired, and
shot him through the heart. I don't know what became of Conner.

“When I got to Richmond, I set off for Centreville to get my
trunk, intending to go out and join some friends in the South-west;
but General Stuart met me there; gave me a fine horse;
and told me if I would stay with him, he would show me some
sport.

“I accepted his offer; and have been with him ever since.”

Having given me the history of his adventures at Langly
and in Washington, Captain Darrell yawned, and persisted in
changing the subject. It was evident that he had made up his
mind not to talk any more at that time upon military matters;
and we accordingly passed to other topics.

He was here again yesterday, however, and I immediately
attacked him on the subject of his adventures.

He shook his head.

“You are making me talk too much about myself,” said the
Captain, “and I will get up the reputation of a boaster. One
of the greatest dangers with hunters, partisans, and scouts, is the
temptation to exaggerate, and tell `good stories.' All that I
say is true, and scouting with me is no more than hunting—as

[figure description] Page 435.[end figure description]

if it were after bear or deer—and I speak of it as such. But I
don't wish to be thought a boaster.”

It was some time before I could eradicate from the Captain's
mind the impression that his histories were listened to with sentiments
of cynical doubt. He yielded very gradually—thawing
very slowly before the warmth of my assurances; but at last I
succeeded in quieting his scruples, and getting him in a talkative
humour. One thing led to another; this incident brought forth
that; and finally the Captain was persuaded to give me the following
story of his adventures at Williamsburg.

As before, I give the narrative almost exactly in the words of
the speaker. It was as follows:

“I might as well commence at the beginning. On the retreat
from Yorktown, last spring, when our army was falling back to
the Chickhominy, I was with General Stuart, and the cavalry
were retiring by the Telegraph and Williamsburg roads, covering
our rear. These two roads make a sort of triangle; like the
two sides of the letter V, the point of the V being down the
Peninsula. The Williamsburg road was the left side of the V—
look at these two straws—and the Telegraph road the other.
There were two by-roads running through the triangle and connecting
the main roads. If you have a clear idea of this, you
will understand what took place easily.

“The cavalry were falling back in two columns upon the
Telegraph and Williamsburg roads, General Stuart being in
command of the force on the latter. He was anxious to keep
up thorough communications with the other column, however,
and as I was familiar with every part of that country, he sent
me with Captain Conner, of the Jeff. Davis Legion, who was
ordered to cut across with a party, leave pickets at openings, and
see that the cavalry on the Telegraph road fell back regularly in
good order—parallel with the other column, and neither too fast
nor too slow. Well, I proceeded with Captain Conner along
the sort of bridle path which was the lowest down of the two
which I have mentioned, as connecting the main roads, keeping
a keen look-out for the enemy, who, I was pretty sure, were all

[figure description] Page 436.[end figure description]

around us. The pines were too thick to see much, however—
you know what sort of a country it is—and we went on rather
blindly. About half way we met a countryman who was leading
a cow by the horns, and he told us that a party of the
enemy's cavalry had just passed along the other cross road
above toward the Williamsburg road.

“It occurred to me at once that our men on the Telegraph
road had fallen back more rapidly than the other column, and
unmasked the mouth of the upper cross road, which the enemy
had then struck into, intending to get into the Williamsburg
road and cut the General off. I stated my opinion to Captain
Conner, but he seemed to think differently. The cavalry which
the countryman had seen could not possibly be any but our
own, he said. I stuck to it, however, that they were probably
the enemy's; and as the countryman told us they were then
drawn up on the cross road, I offered to go and reconnoitre.
Captain Conner said he would go with me, and we started off at
a gallop through the pines toward the spot where the man said
they were.

“When I got within fifty yards I could see a party of cavalry
drawn up, as the countryman stated, and I was sure they were
Yankees. Captain Conner still adhered to his opinion, however,
that they were a part of our own force, and I told him I would
dismount, creep up, and determine the matter. He agreed; and
I got off my horse, threw the bridle over a stump, and crept
through the pine brush until I was within fifteen feet of them.
I saw the blue pantaloons and jackets plainly, and knew they
were Federals; so I crept back toward my horse. At the same
moment—it all occurred in a twinkling—I heard, `Halt! halt!
halt! halt! bang! bang! bang!' in front, and saw Captain
Conner, who had pushed on, certain that they were Confederates,
taken prisoner by the enemy. I had mounted, and the first
thing I knew I was in the midst of them—carried by my horse,
who became ungovernable—and I saw that my best chance
would be to make straight for the Williamsburg road, which was
not far, and if I got out, inform the General that a party was
lying in wait for him. I ran through them, followed by bang!

[figure description] Page 437.[end figure description]

bang! bang! from their carbines, and drove ahead into the Williamsburg
road—right plump against a column of the enemy's
cavalry, drawn up to charge the General, when he came near
enough. My horse ran right against a Yankee's, who wiped at
me with his sabre—for they all had their sabres drawn—and
just missed me. I was going so fast though that I passed straight
through the column, and seeing that the other side of the road
was lined with heavy undergrowth, I jumped off my horse and
ran in, leaving my horse to the Yankees.

“They banged away at me as I went in, but only a few had
their carbines ready, and they did not come near me. They
could not follow me, as the pines were too thick for any horseman
to enter. My object now was to get back to the General
and tell him of the attempt to cut him off. I thought I would
reconnoitre, however, first, and ascertain their force, so I crept
up to the edge of the bushes, and looked out. As I did so, I
saw them moving backwards and forwards, greatly excited,
with `Here they are!' `Look out!' but soon afterwards they
fell back, apparently looking for a better position. The next
thing I saw was Colonel Goode, of the Third Cavalry, coming
up the road, and I ran out and met him, felling him what I
knew, and stating that they were going to charge him. He
drew his men up on the right of the road so as to let the Yankees
charge by, and slash into them; and as I had no horse I
got into the bushes just in advance of the head of the column,
intending to shoot the commander of the Federal cavalry as soon
as I could see him well. I had my carbine and pistol, which I
had hung on to through all, and soon I heard the enemy coming,
shouting and yelling, right down on Colonel Goode.

“As they came within about fifteen yards, I levelled my carbine
at the officer in front, and pulled trigger; but the cursed thing
snapped. I had been skirmishing all day, and it had got dirty.
I fired my pistol into them, however, and the Federal Cavalry
halted, both sides sitting in the saddle and banging away with
earbines. Our men had the better of it, though, as the Yankees had
their sabres drawn, and we got the first fire on them, killing
several of them, I saw in the road afterwards. I wounded three

[figure description] Page 438.[end figure description]

or four myself, and was still popping at them when they concluded
to give it up, and go back. They turned round, and I
ran out, looking for a good horse, as several were running about
without riders. I got a good one, but found he was wounded,
and just then I saw a splendid black stallion, who took my eye
wonderfully. I tried to catch him—walking up and holloing
`woe!' to him—but whenever I got near, he trotted off, and I
missed him. I determined not to give it up, however—and I
kept following and trying to catch him until I was at least a mile
and a half back toward Williamsburg. I caught him at last,
mounted him, and started back toward the scene of the skirmish.
I remember feeling in fine spirits, and looking down at my
splendid stallion, who was full of fire and spirit—a big black fellow,
the very horse I wanted—admiring his neck and action. I
was still examining him, with my head down, as we went on at full
speed toward the spot where I expected to find Colonel Goode,
when suddenly I heard a quick `Halt! halt! halt!' `Here's
one of `em!' in front; and a carbine ball whizzed by me. I
looked up, and there was the enemy in the road instead of Colonel
Goode, who had fallen back. They had got reinforcements, and
brought up artillery to plant in the road—and I had run right
into them!

“There was only one thing for me to do, and that was to get
away from there as fast as possible. I accordingly wheeled round
and went back over the same road I had come, followed by a
dozen men, shouting `halt! halt! halt!' and firing at me. I
leaned over on my horse, and could hear the balls whizzing by me
every second—I afterwards found the accountrements, especially
the thick bundle behind the saddle, full of bullet holes. I would
have got away from them, but all at once my horse threw up his
head—a ball had passed clean through it. He still kept on,
however,—horses will go long with that sort of wound—but
another bullet struck him right behind my leg, on the left side,
and I felt him staggering. The party saw this, and set up a
whoop, which was rather too near. I saw that they would catch
me, if I depended on my horse, so I threw myself off and ran
down a little path in the bushes, by the side of the road, and did

[figure description] Page 439.[end figure description]

not stop until I was well concealed. They fired at me and
around several times, but as they were afraid of coming on
our infantry, they gave it up, and rode away.

“As soon as they were gone I came out of the bushes, and
went to my horse. He had fallen in the road, and I took from
him several articles strapped to the saddle, and left him to die.

“I knew now that the General would retire by the Beach
road, the only one left, and I determined to strike across and join
him, trusting to luck to get a horse somewhere. I accordingly
set out in that direction, trusting to my skill to flank the enemy's
pickets, which I knew I could do, and get through. My only
fear was that I would be shot by our own pickets, as it was now
getting dusk. I went on, through the woods and fields, avoiding
the enemy's fires whenever I saw them, and approaching our
lines. I had got very nearly through, when suddenly I came
upon three cavalrymen in the middle of the road, near a little
bridge I had to pass. I was sure they were Yankees, so I cocked
my pistol, and walked up to them boldly, saying in a loud commonplace
tone—

“ `Hem!—ah!—what company do you belong to, men?'

“ `Company A, sir.'

“This was not sufficient. Company A might be a Yankee company.
So I said,

“ `What regiment?'

“ `The Fourth.'

“This was no more definite than the other.

“ `Ah!' I said, `ahem—the Fourth, eh? Fourth New York,
I suppose?'

“ `No—the Fourth Virginia,' replied one of the men. I never
was more relieved in my life, and told them how things stood, and
which way to look out. I went on through the awful mud, and
when I had gone some distance met a regiment of Confederate
infantry coming down, with an officer on horseback at their
head, who was very much out of humour.

“ `Where is the post?' he was saying. `I don't believe it is this
way, and we must have come in the wrong direction. Where
is the regiment to be relieved?'

[figure description] Page 440.[end figure description]

“I recognised General Pryor, and said:

“ `I can tell you, General.'

“ `Hello! who's that!' he replied, looking through the dark,
`how did you know me?'

“ `By your voice. I remember meeting you at the Commercial
Convention in Knoxville, to which I was a delegate—and making
your acquaintance.'

“ `What is your name, sir?'

“I told him, and added,

“ `The regiment you are looking for is down in the fortifications,
in that direction; and though it will be going back, I will
act as your guide.'

“So I went with him, and finding some friends in the Nineteenth
Mississippi, commanded by Colonel Mott, a friend of mine,
I lay down, and went to sleep.

“On the next morning, I was still talking with my friends of
the Nineteenth, when chancing to look toward the front, I saw a
line of men advancing through the brushwood, who, I was certain,
were Yankees. It was drizzling, and no attack was expected,
though we knew that the enemy was right in our front;
and when I told the Lieutenant, in command of the company
I was with, that the men in front were certainly Yankees, he did
not believe it.

“ `They can't be,' he said; `they are a party of our own men
who have been out on a scout toward the enemy, and are coning
in.'

“As he was speaking, the line came on steadily, and I saw
distinctly the blue pantaloons, and oil-cloth capes thrown over
their heads as a protection from the rain. I knew from this
that it was the enemy, as none of our men had capes; and I
jumped up, carying to the men:

“ `They are Yankees! Fire, men! They are right on you!'

“ `Hold your fire!' shonted the Lieutenant, `don't shoot your
friends! It is some of the Seventh Alabama from our left.'

“ `There are no troops on our left!' I replied, `the Seventh
Alabama is on the right, and those people are Yankees! Fire,
men!'

[figure description] Page 441.[end figure description]

“And I ran out pointing at them where they were advancing,
within twenty yards, in the pines.

“ `Don't fire, I say!' shouted the Lieutenant to his men, `they
are friends!'

“Well, I'll take the responsibility, as far as I am concerned!'
I said; and levelling my carbine I took aim, and saw one of
the men fall. As soon as I shot, the whole party stopped suddenly,
as though they were astonished.

“ `Fire!' I cried to the Mississippians, `give it to' em, boys!'
Charge!'

“And I blazed away with my pistol as I ran toward them.
They did not wait for the expected charge—it turned out to be
only a company—and broke and ran. I followed, and came to
the man I had shot, who was dying. His gun was lying by
him, and I seized it, and fired on them as they were running;
but finding no one following me, I concluded I had better go
back. When I got to the fortification I found Colouel Mott
there, attracted by the firing; and showed him the gun I had
brought back, telling him that they were Yankees.

“ `Certainly they were,' he replied, `and the Lieutenant in
command ought to have known that there were none of our
troops on the left.'

“As I had nothing to do, I proposed to the Colonel that if
he would give me half-a-dozen men I would go and scout in
front, and bring him any information I could procure of the
enemy's movements. He agreed to this, and called for volunteers.
A dozen men stepped out, but I told him I did not want
more than six; and with these, I went along in the track of the
party of Yankees. I remember one of them was named Bryant,
a first-rate man, and he stuck to me all day, though he was
wounded; but he would not leave me.

“Well, I followed the party, marching the men in single file,
and looking out every moment for the Yankees. I came on
their trail at last, and thought I could hear the hum of their
voices just over a knoll in front of me. The woods there have
hollows in them, and you can get very close to a party of men
without knowing it if they are in one of them. There was a

[figure description] Page 442.[end figure description]

hollow of this sort just before me, and the hill sloped up in such
a way, that you could get right on them and not be perceived.
I crept up the side of the hill, going from tree to tree, looking
and listening. I could not see anybody, but I was sure I heard
the hum of voices not far off; and I determined to reconnoitre
and ascertain who the party were. I accordingly went cautiously
up the hill, to peep over, leaving my men behind.

“Just as I got near the top I heard the tramp of feet, and
could see the heads of the men coming up the hill. The officer
in command was walking in front, and before I knew it he was
right on me, within three yards.

“ `Dress up to the right!' he cried quickly to his men.

“ `Dress up, yourself, sir!' I shouted to him, suddenly.

“And as I spoke, I levelled my carbine at his breast, fired,
and shot him through the body. Before the enemy had recovered
from their surprise, I shouted back, as if I was speaking to
my company:

“ `Charge 'em, men! Fire on 'em! Char-r-rge!'

“And I set the example by firing my pistol as fast as I could
at their heads, which was all I could see above the hill. They
fired a volley at me, but their position was too unfavourable,
and the bullets went whizzing high up in the trees. My men
came up promptly, and we all took trees and commenced skirmishing
with them, neither side advancing, but keeping up a
scattering fire all the time.

“The captain, when I had shot him, sat down on the ground,
and remained there leaning his shoulder against the trunk of a
tree. The tree I had dodged behind was not far off, and we
carried on a conversation for some time; I suppose about half
an hour. I asked him why he had come down to the South,
and he said he wished now that he had stayed at home. He said
a good many things, but I don't remember them now. His
name was a singular one; he told me what it was, and I've got it
somewhere; his company was the 47th Sharpshooters, New York.

“I had shot away all my ammunition, and I got up and went
to him, asking him for his pistol. He took hold of the belt, and
tried to unbuckle it, but was too weak.

[figure description] Page 443.[end figure description]

“ `It's no use,' he said, `I can't undo it, and you had better
go back. You will just make them shoot both of us.'

“He did not look as if he was shot; I could see no marks of a
wound; but soon after I had gone back to my tree, he raised his
shoulder from the trunk which he was leaning against, sat upright,
and then fell upon his back, dead.

“About this time there was a general advance of our line
upon the enemy, all along; and the company of sharpshooters
fell back, firing as they went. Our troops came along, and charged
their main line, which was posted behind a fence, some distance
in front; and here Colonel Mott was killed as he was leading
the charge. I went along with them, but had first gotten the
dead officer's sword. As soon as our men advanced, and the
enemy went away, I came from behind the tree where I had
been sitting down firing, and approached the body. He was
lying on his back, with his eyes open—dead from my bullet,
which had passed through his breast. I had no sword, having
left mine behind that morning; so I unbuckled his belt, and
drew it from under his body, and buckled it around my own
waist. It had a good pistol and cap-pouch, besides the sword,
on it—I have the sword still.

“That was a hot day,” concluded the Captain; “this was
where Tom—got wounded. He came up to a Federal officer,
a finely dressed fellow, and ordered him to surrender. He
obeyed, but made no motion to yield his arms. Tom said:

“ `Give up your arms, sir!'

“The officer handed over his sword which he held in his
hand; but did not seem to remember the pistol in his belt.

“ `Give me your pistol!' exclaimed Tom, with a scowl at
him.

“ `I have surrendered my sword,' was the reply, `spare me
the disgrace, sir, of giving up my pistol also to a private!'

“He had surrendered his sword, but wished to spare himself
the mortification of handing over his pistol! Tom put his bayonet
at him, and he soon surrendered his pistol.

“Soon afterwards Tom had a duel at ten yards distance, with
a Yankee. They loaded and fired twenty times without hitting

[figure description] Page 444.[end figure description]

each other, until Tom made a good shot and bored him through
the breast. He dropped his musket, threw up his hands and
fell back. Tom was very soon wounded, however, and was
firing still when Colonel Baldwin came along with a led horse,
and, as he knew him, put him on it. He was going to the rear
when he saw General A. P. Hill, sitting by a stump, smoking;
and as the young man was an acquaintance, he asked him what
was the matter. He informed him that he was wounded; and
the General took off his cravat, and tied it around his leg, above
the wound. Tom then rode on into Williamsburg.

“That was my great fighting day, and some time or other I
will tell you all about it. I had command of two or three regiments,
and never had more fun in my life.”

p521-472

[figure description] Page 445.[end figure description]

My friend, Captain Longbow, is a very different personage from
Captain Darrell. The latter is brave, honest, simple, and candid.
He relates only what really occurred, and never unless you overcome
his repugnance to such narratives: he is modest, retiring—
the model of an officer and a gentleman.

Longbow is a striking contrast, I am sorry to say, to all this.
He is a tremendous warrior—according to his own account; he
has performed prodigies—if you can only believe him; more
moving accidents and hair breadth escapes have happened to
him than to any other soldier in the service—if they have only
happened. The element of confidence is thus wanting in the
listener when Longbow discourses, and you are puzzled how
much to believe, how much to disbelieve. But then the worthy
is often amusing. He has some of the art of the raconteur, and
makes his histories or stories, his real events or his fibs, to a
certain degree amusing. I am always at a loss to determine how
much of Longbow's narratives to believe; but they generally
make me laugh. It is certain that he mingles truth with them,
for many incidents related by him, in the course of his narratives,
are known to me as real circumstances; and thus there ever
remains upon the mind, when this worthy has ceased speaking,
an impression that although the narrative is fabulous, portions
of it are true.

[figure description] Page 446.[end figure description]

These prefatory words are intended to introduce the following
account of Longbow's adventures in the Valley, when General
Johnston was opposed to General Patterson there, in the summer
of 1861, just before the battle of Manassas. Some of the incidents
related I know to be true; others, it is proper that I should
warn the reader, I regard as purely romantic. The manner in
which Longbow professed to have obtained his “blood bay” I
believe to be imaginary; the untimely end to which the animal
came may not, doubtless is not, of historical verity, but it is certain
that an officer did kill his horse under the circumstances
narrated. Thus the mind is left in a state of bewilderment as to
how much is true and how much is false in the worthy's story;
and perhaps the safest proceeding would be to set down the
whole as an “historical romance.”

I have thought it best to convey this caution to the reader,
lest the narrative here given might cast discredit upon the other
papers in these “Outlines,” which contain, with the exception of
“Corporal Shabrach” and “Blunderbus,” events and details of
strict historical accuracy.

I have never told you, said Longbow, of the curious adventures
which I met with in the Valley in 1861, and how I got my
fine blood bay, and lost him. I was then a private, but had
just been detailed as volunteer aide to Colonel Jackson—he was
not “General” or “Stonewall” yet—and had reported a few
days before the engagement at Falling Waters.

I need not inform you of the state of affairs at that time,
further than to say that while Beauregard watched the enemy in
front of Washington, with his headquarters at Manassas, Johnston
held the Valley against Patterson, with his headquarters at Winchester.
Well, it was late in June, I think, when intelligence
came that General Patterson was about to cross the Potomac at
Williamsport, and Colonel Jackson was sent forward with the
First Brigade, as it was then called, to support Stuart's cavalry,
and feel the enemy, but not bring on a general engagement.
This, the Colonel proceeded to do with alacrity, and he had soon
advanced north of Martinsburg, and camped near the little

[figure description] Page 447.[end figure description]

village of Hainesville—Stuart continuing in front watching the
enemy on the river.

This was the state of things, when suddenly one morning we
were aroused by the intelligence that Patterson had crossed his
army; and Jackson immediately got his brigade under arms,
intending to advance and attack him. He determined, however,
to move forward first, with one regiment and a single gun—and
this he did, the regiment being the Fifth Virginia, Colonel
Harper, with one piece from Pendleton's battery.

I will not stop here to describe the short and gallant fight near
Falling Water, in which Jackson met the enemy with the same
obstinacy which afterwards gave him his name of “Stonewall.”
Their great force, however, rendered it impossible for him to
hold his ground with one regiment of less than four hundred
men, and finding that he was being outflanked, he gave the order
for his line to fall back, which was done in perfect order. It
was at this moment that Colonel Jackson pointed out a cloud of
dust to me on the left, and said:

“That is cavalry. They are moving to attack my left flank.
Where is Stuart? Can you find him?”

“I think so, Colonel.”

“Well, present my compliments to him, and tell him that the
enemy's cavalry will probably attack him. Lose no time,
Captain.”

I obeyed at once, and passing across the line of fire, as the
men fell back fighting, entered a clump of woods, and took a
narrow road, which led in the direction I wished.

My fortune was bad. I had scarcely galloped a quarter of a
mile when I ran full tilt into a column of Federal cavalry, and
suddenly heard their unceremonious “halt!”

Wheeling round, I dug the spurs into my horse, and darted
into the woods, but I was too late. A volley came from the
column; my horse suddenly staggered, and advancing a few
steps, fell under me. A bullet had penetrated his body behind
my knee, and I had scarcely time to extricate myself, when I
was surrounded. I was forced to surrender, and did so to a
gray-haired officer who came up a moment afterwards.

[figure description] Page 448.[end figure description]

He saluted me, and seeing my rank from my uniform, said:

“I hope you are not hurt, Captain?”

“No, sir,” I said angrily; “and if my horse had not fallen,
you would never have captured me.”

The old officer smiled.

“When you are as old a soldier as I am, sir,” he replied,
“you will not suffer these accidents to move you so much. Are
you a line or staff officer?”

“A staff officer.”

“Who commands yonder?”

“The ranking officer.”

Another smile came to his face.

“I see you are prudent. Well, sir. I will not annoy you.
Take this officer to the rear,” he added to a subaltern; “treat
him well, but guard him carefully.”

The column continued its advance, and I was conducted to the
rear. I heard the firing gradually recede toward Martinsburg,
and knew that Jackson must be still falling back. Skirmishing
on the right of the column I moved with, indicated the presence
of Stuart; but this too gradually receded, and soon word was
passed along the line that the Colonel had received intelligence
of the Confederates having retreated. This announcement was
greeted with a cheer by the men, and the column continued to
advance, but soon halted.

That night I bivouacked by a camp fire, and on the next
morning was conducted into Martinsburg, which the enemy had
occupied in force.

I was on foot, and of course had been deprived of my arms.

I was placed in a house under guard, with some other Confederate
prisoners, and could only learn from the Federal Corporal
that our forces had fallen back, south of the town, losing
“a tremendous amount of stores, wagons, tents, commissary and
quartermaster stores, and all they had.” I laughed, in spite of
myself, at this magniloquent statement, knowing in what
“light marching order” Jackson had been, and resolved philosophically
to await the progress of events.

The day thus passed, and on the next morning I was aroused

[figure description] Page 449.[end figure description]

from my bed upon the floor by a thundering salvo of artillery.
I started up joyfully, fully convinced that Jackson was attacking
the town, when the Corporal came in, and cried:

“Hurrah for the glorious Fourth!”

“Fourth what?” I said.

“Why, Fourth of July!”

“Oh, that is the cause of the firing, is it?” I growled; “then
I'll finish my nap.”

And I again lay down. Soon afterwards a breakfast of “hard
tack,” pork, and coffee, was supplied to the prisoners, and I had
just finished my meal when I was informed that General Patterson
had sent for me. Fifteen minutes afterwards I was conducted
through the streets, swarming with blue-coats, galloping cavalry,
and wagons, to a fine mansion in the southern suburbs of the
town, where the commanding General had established his headquarters—
Colonel Falkner's.

Here all was life and bustle; splendidly caparisoned horses,
held by orderlies, were pawing the turf of the ornamented
grounds; other orderlies were going and coming; and the impression
produced upon my mind was, that the orderly was an
established institution. At the door was a sentinel with a musket,
and having passed this Cerberus, my guard conducted me to
an apartment on the left, where I was received by a staff officer,
whose scowling hauteur was exceedingly offensive.

“Who are you?” he growled, looking at me in the most insolent
manner.

“Who are you?” was my response, in a tone equally friendly.

“I will have no insolence,” was his enraged reply. “Are
you the prisoner sent for by the General?”

“I am, sir,” was my reply; “and I shall ascertain from General
Patterson whether it is by his order that an officer of the Confederate
States Army is subjected to your rudeness and insults.”

He must have been a poor creature; for as soon as he found
that I would not endure his brow-beating he became polite, and
went to announce my arrival.

I was left alone in the ante-room with an officer, who wrote
so busily at his desk that he seemed not to have even been

[figure description] Page 450.[end figure description]

aware of any one's presence; and this busy gentleman I afterwards
discovered was General Patterson's Adjutant-General.

I waited for half an hour, when I was informed that General
Patterson was ready to see me. I found him seated at a table
covered with papers, which stood in the middle of a large apartment
filled with elegant furniture, and ornamented with a fine
Brussels carpet. On the mantel-piece a marble clock ticked; in
Gothic bookeases were long rows of richly bound volumes; the
Federal commander had evidently selected his headquarters with
an eye to comfort and convenience.

He was a person of good figure and agreeable countenance;
and wore the full-dress uniform of a Major-General of the U. S.
Army. As I entered he rose, advanced a step, and offered me
his hand.

“I am glad to make your acquaintance, Captain,” he said;
then he added with a smile, “I doubt, however, if you are
equally pleased at making mine.”

“Delighted, General, I assure you,” was my reply, “though
the incident to which I am indebted for this honour was rather
rough.”

“What was that?”

“My horse was shot and fell with me.”

“That is a pity, and the thing was unfortunate. But war is
altogether a rough business. I am disposed to agree with Franklin,
Captain, that `there never was a good war, or a bad peace.'
But we will not discuss this vexed question—you are Captain
Longbow, I believe.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Of Colonel Jackson's command?”

“Of the command which engaged you the day before yesterday.”

General Patterson smiled.

“I see you are reticent, and it is a good habit in a soldier.

[figure description] Page 451.[end figure description]

But I know that Colonel Jackson commanded, and from his boldness
in opposing me with so small a force, he must be a man of
nerve and ability.”

“He has that reputation, General.”

“Do you know General Johnston?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am afraid of his retreats. General Scott declares that one
of them is equal to a victory.”

I assented with a bow.

“Colonel Stuart, commanding your cavalry, I do not know,”
continued the General, “but I am afraid he gobbled up one of
my companies of infantry just before the late fight. That makes
the number of prisoners taken considerably in your favour.
The company was commanded, however, only by a Second Lieutenant,
and as I have you, Captain,” he added with a smile, “the
odds are not so great.

The General's courtesy and good-humour began to put me in
the same mood, and I said:

“How long are you going to keep me, General? not long, I
hope.”

“Not a day after I can have an exchange.”

“That may, however, be for a long time.”

“Possibly, but you shall be well treated, Captain.”

“I have no doubt of that, General, but you know the proverb,
or what ought to be a proverb—`to the exile honey itself is
bitter.' Well, it is the same with prisoners.”

“You shall not be confined. I will take your parole, and you
can then have the freedom of the town of Martinsburg. Winchester,
too, if you wish.”

“I am very much obliged to you, especially for Winchester,
General—but I cannot accept.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am going to try to escape.”

The General began to laugh.

“You will find it impossible,” he replied; “even if you eluded
the sentinel you could not get through my lines. The pickets
would stop you.”

[figure description] Page 452.[end figure description]

“General,” I said, “you are really so very courteous, and our
interview is so completely divested of all formality, that I am
tempted to presume upon it.”

“In what manner?”

“By offering to make you a bet.”

“A bet! Well, what is it?” said the General, laughing.

“This. My horse was killed, and as we poor Confederates are
not over rich, I will lay you a horse and equipments that I make
my escape.”

The General greeted this proposal with evident enjoyment.

“In what time?” he asked.

“Before you reach Richmond.”

He made a humorous grimace.

“Richmond is a long way off, Captain—let the limit be the
1st day of August, and I will agree.”

“Very well, General; I will pay my bet if I lose; and if I win,
you will send me my horse through the lines.”

“Most assuredly.”

At this moment an orderly brought in a dispatch, which the
General read with attention.

“From the front,” he said. “Jackson is at Darkesville, Captain,
and is preparing to make a stand there.”

“And you will attack, I suppose, in a day or two, General?”

These words were greeted with a quick glance, to which I responded
innocently:

“As I have no chance to escape in that time, you could reply
without an indiscretion, could you not, General?”

“Caution is never amiss, my dear Captain,” he replied; “I pay
you a compliment in imitating your own reticence. But here is
another dispatch. Excuse me while I read it.”

The contents of the paper seemed to be important; for the
General turned to his table, and began to write busily. His back
was turned to me, and seeing a newspaper lying in the antechamber,
I rose and went to procure it.

“You are not leaving me, Captain?” the General called out,
without turning round.

[figure description] Page 453.[end figure description]

“Is it forbidden to go into the ante-room, General?”

“Not at all—you can't escape, as my sentinel is too good a
soldier to permit an officer in Confederate uniform to pass!”

And he went on writing.

His words operated upon my mind like a challenge; and at
the same moment my eye fell upon two objects, the sight of
which thrilled through every nerve. These objects were simply a
light linen overall lying upon a chair, and on a table the tall
blue hat of the Adjutant-General, encircled with its golden cord.
At the same instant a shrill neigh attracted my attention to the
grounds without; and looking through the window, I saw an
orderly holding a magnificent horse, from which an officer had
just descended.

In one instant I had formed an audacious resolution; and sitting
down at a table upon which were pen, ink, and paper, I
wrote:

“Captain Longbow presents his compliments to General Patterson,
and informs him that he is about to make an attempt to
win the bet just made. There is an excellent horse now at the
door, which has only to be secured in case Captain Longbow
can pass the sentinel—when his escape will not be difficult in spite
of the pickets.

“Headquarters of General Patterson, July 4, 1861.”

I had just placed this note in an envelope, and directed it to
“Major-General Patterson, com'd'g, etc,” when the Adjutant-General
turned his head, and said courteously:

“Are you writing a letter, Captain?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“To send through the lines, I suppose. If you give me your
word of honour that it contains only private matter, and nothing
contraband, I will forward it unread by the first flag of truce.”

I paused a moment, and then made up my mind.

“It is not to go through the lines,” I said; “it is addressed to
General Patterson.”

“Ah!” said the officer.

“Yes, sir. It refers to a subject upon which the General and
myself were conversing when we were interrupted. I do not

[figure description] Page 454.[end figure description]

wish to trouble him further at present, as he seems busy; but if
you will have the goodness to hand it to him this evening or to-morrow,
I will be greatly indebted to you.”

“I will do so with pleasure, Captain,” said this most courteous
of enemies; and taking the note, he placed it in one of the pigeonholes
of his desk.

At the same moment the officer who had dismounted from the
fine horse was introduced, and soon afterwards my pulse leaped.
The voice of General Patterson was heard calling his Adjutant-General;
and that officer hastened to the inner room, closing the
door after him.

I did not lose an instant. Seizing the light linen overall, I put
it on and buttoned it up to the chin, as though to guard my
uniform from the dust; and throwing my brown felt hat under
the table, placed upon my head the high-crowned blue one, with
its golden cord and tassel. I then opened the outer door; negligently
returned the salute of the sentinel, who came to a “present”
with his musket at sight of my cord and tassel; and
walked out to the gate, which was set in a low hedge, above
which appeared the head of the splendid animal I had determined
to “capture.”

Every instant now counted. My ruse might at any moment
be discovered; for on the Adjutant General's return to his room,
he must observe my absence. It was necessary to act rapidly,
and with decision.

Strolling with a careless air to the spot where the orderly
stood, holding his own and the officer's bridle, I patted the
horse on the neck, and said:

“That is a fine animal.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the orderly, touching his hat to the Adjutant-General's
hat; “the Colonel paid six hundred dollars for him
only last week.”

“Excellent equipments, too,” and I raised up the flap of one
of the holsters, which contained a pair of silver-mounted pistols.

[figure description] Page 455.[end figure description]

In an instant I had drawn one of the weapons, cocked it, and
placed it at the orderly's head.

“I am a Confederate prisouer, determined to escape or die,”
I said. “If you move I will blow your brains out. Wait until I
get a fair start, and then tell your Colonel I took his horse by
force!”

With one bound I was in the saddle, and turning the horse's
head to the fence on the south of the house, cleared it, and set
out at full speed for a wood near by. As I did so, I saw a sudden
tumult, and crowds running about at the house, among
whom I recognised the Adjutant-General.

“Good-by, Major,” I called out; “I will send your hat and
coat by flag of truce!”

And in a moment I had gained the clump of woods, and was
out of sight.

My captured horse was an animal of superb action, and I soon
found that I must make him show his points. As I looked
over my shoulder, I saw a company of cavalry—evidently the
body-guard of the General, whose horses always remained saddled—
leave the town, and follow furiously upon my track.

Between these and the pickets which would certainly bar my
passage, I seemed to stand little chance; but it was worth the
trial, and I went on at full speed, keeping as much as possible
in the woods. Stopping for nothing in the shape of a fence, I
made straight across the country, and gradually seemed distancing
my pursuers. What words, however, can describe my mortification
when, issuing from a dense covert, I found they had
followed by a parallel road, and were on my very heels! I
heard the tramp of their horses, and the quick shout they gave
as they caught sight of me.

Then commenced on the narrow wood road what is called a
“stern chase” at sea. It was a question of the speed of our
horses; but I found, unfortunately, that my pursuers were as
well mounted as myself. They were steadily gaining on me,
when I ran straight into a regiment of infantry, who had pitched
their small tents de l'arbre, under the trees. The quarter-guard,
however, made no effort to stop me, and I shot past the camp,

[figure description] Page 456.[end figure description]

but in four hundred yards came in sight of the cavalry
pickets.

It was now “neck or nothing.” I had to ride through or
over every obstacle in my way, or surrender. The picket consisted
of about a company of cavalry, every man standing by his
horse; and as I approached, the officer came out, evidently supposing
that I brought him some important message.

The officer staggered back, nearly knocked down by my
horse; and I passed on, followed by a quick volley which did
not harm me. I knew now that if once I could pass the external
pickets, my escape would be certain; and all at once I came
on them. The picket consisted of four or five mounted men; and
as I approached, the vidette in the middle of the road ordered
me to halt, presenting his carbine. I drew my revolver and
fired, and at the same moment he discharged his carbine, but
missed me.

I do not know whether I struck him or not. I went past
him, and did not look back to see. Suddenly the whole picket
fired, and the bullets hissed close to me; but not one touched me
or my horse, and I was free! In ten minutes I was out of sight,
and in five minutes more saw the Confederate pickets in front
of me.

They received me rather roughly. The vidette fired on me
and then ran, and I followed him. A hundred yards further I
drove in the whole external picket, which retired firing.

The first person I saw near the “Big Spring” was Colonel
Stuart, with his cavalry drawn up in line of battle. As soon as
he recognised me he burst into laughter, and cried: “Ho, ho!
here's Longbow in a Yankee uniform!”

“Exactly, Colonel.”

“Where are you from?”

“Martinsburg—driving in your pickets on the way.”

“No wonder,” laughed Stuart. “Your appearance is enough
to frighten a whole brigade. I hope my pickets fired on you
before they ran.”

“Furiously, Colonel, as the enemy were doing behind.”

“But how did you escape? I was truly sorry to hear from

[figure description] Page 457.[end figure description]

Jackson that you had ridden to look for me, and never turned
up afterwards.”

I briefly related my adventures, and offered my horse, hat, and
pistols in proof. Stuart listened, laughing heartily, and when I
had finished, said:

“So all that firing was only a Fourth of July salute! I thought
so, but never take anything on trust; so I've been ready all
the morning, and thought when the picket fired that you were
the enemy.”

Soon afterwards I parted from this great soldier; and riding
on, found Jackson at Darkesville, to whom I reported, receiving
his congratulations upon my escape.

But I must hasten on and tell you about my horse.

A few days afterwards I was at General Johnston's headquarters,
and ascertaining that he was about to send a flag through
the lines, thought it a good opportunity to return the Adjutant-General's
hat and coat. I therefore rolled up these articles, and
wrote a note to accompany them, thanking the Major for the use
of them, and begging him to excuse the little liberty I had taken
in appropriating them.

I went with the flag; and when the business of the interview
was transacted, gave the hat, coat, and note, to the Federal officer
who met us, and who was a gentleman of good-sense and breeding.
He laughed when I explained how I had procured the articles,
and informed me that he had already heard the story.

“I even heard there was a bet between you and General Patterson,”
he said. “Is that the fact, Captain? and what was the
amount?”

“It was not money, but a horse and equipments, which the
General has lost.”

“Then he will certainly pay, and he has some very fine
horses.”

“I am afraid he has forgotten me.”

[figure description] Page 458.[end figure description]

“On the contrary, he has remembered you, Captain,” said the
officer, smiling; and at a sign from him a mounted man led forward
a beautiful bay, splendidly equipped, which every member
of the party had been looking at and admiring.

“The General requested me to send this horse to you, Captain,”
said the officer; “but as you are present, I deliver him in
person. He is a splendid animal, and I only hope I shall soon
have the pleasure of capturing you, and getting him into my
own possession.”

Everybody began to laugh, and admire my horse. I mounted
and put him at a fence, which he went over like a deer.

“Thank the General for me, Major; his horse is excellent,” I
said.

“I will do so with pleasure; this is really the poetry of war!”

And saluting each other, the two parties separated.

I have thus told you how I got my fine blood bay. He was
a magnificent animal. I will next proceed to inform you how I
lost him.

Two days afterwards I was riding out with Colonel Jackson,
when General Johnston, wholly unattended, met him, and the
two officers rode on, in earnest conversation, pointing as they
did so to the various hills and knolls which afforded good positions
for troops. I had fallen back some distance to allow them
to converse without reserve, when all at once I saw General
Johnston turn and look at me; then Jackson beckoned to me.
I rode up and saluted the General, who gravely returned the
bow, and said:

“Captain, I have determined to send you to Manassas with a
dispatch to General Beauregard, which I wish delivered at once.
The dispatch will be ready in two hours from this time, and I
would like to have you set off at once. Can you do so?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied; “this moment, if necessary.”

“Very good; ride back with me to headquarters, and I will
give you a message also.”

I followed the General back to Darkesville, waited an hour,
and then was sent for, and received the dispatch and instructions.
On the same night I set out on my bay horse, and by

[figure description] Page 459.[end figure description]

morning was at General Beauregard's headquarters, and had
delivered the dispatch. An hour afterwards I was sound asleep.

I was waked by the clatter of hoofs, and rising, found couriers
going and coming.

“What is the matter?” I asked of an orderly.

“The Yankees are coming,” he replied, “and they are already
near Fairfax Court-house.”

I immediately hurried to General Beauregard, and found him
about to mount and ride out on the lines. At sight of me, he
exclaimed—

“Good! I was just about to send for you, Captain. The
enemy are upon us, and I wish General Johnston to know that
if he desires to help me, now is the time.”

“I will carry the message, General.”

“Will your horse hold out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, tell General Johnston the condition of things here. A
very large force of the enemy are within a few miles of me, and
are still advancing. Say to the General simply this—that if he
wishes to help me, now is the time.”

With these words General Beauregard saluted me, and rode on.
I immediately called for my lorse, mounted, and set off at a
rapid gallop for the Valley.

General Patterson's present was now destined to be subjected
to a hard trial. I had already ridden him nearly fifty miles
within the last twenty-four hours, and was about to pass over the
very same ground almost without allowing him any rest.

I galloped on toward Thoroughfare. My bay moved splendidly,
and did not seem at all fatigued. He was moving with
head up, and pulling at the rein.

“Good! my gallant bay!” I said; “if you go on at that rate
we'll soon be there!”

I had not counted on the heat of the July weather, however;
and when I got near Salem my bay began to flag a little. I
pushed him with the spur, and hurried on. Near Paris he began
to wheeze; but I pushed on, using the spur freely, and drove him
up the mountain road, and along the gap to the river. This we

[figure description] Page 460.[end figure description]

forded, and in the midst of the terrible heat I hurried on over
the turnpike.

My bay had begun to pant and stagger at times; but there
was no time to think of his condition. I had undertaken to
deliver General Beauregard's message; and I must do so, on
horseback or on foot, without loss of time. I dug the spur into
my panting animal and rushed on.

At Millwood some citizens gathered in the middle of the street
to ask the news. I continued the gallop without stopping, and
in an hour approached Winchester, where Johnston had established
his general headquarters.

Beyond the Opequon my bay staggered, blood rushed from
his nostrils, and his eyes glared; as I neared the town the spur
scarcely raised him; from his chest issued a hollow groan.

All at once an officer, followed by some couriers, appeared at
a turn of the road, and I recognised General Johnston.

In an instant I was at his side, and had delivered my message.

“Very good!” exclaimed the General; “and I am greatly
obliged by your promptness; but look at your horse, Captain—
he is dying!”

At the same instant my bay fell, and rolled over.

“You are wrong, General,” I said, as I sprang up; “he is
dead!”

In fact he was then gasping in the death agony, and in ten
minutes he was dead.

“Pity you should lose so fine an animal, Captain,” said the
General.

“Easy come, easy go, General. I got him from General Patterson—
I believe Colonel Jackson told you how.”

“Ah! that is the horse? Well, sir, I will give you one of my
own in place of him, for he has enabled you to bring me information,
upon the receipt of which the result of the battle at Manassas
depended.”

“I wonder if General Patterson contemplated such a thing.
General, when he sent me the horse.”

“Doubtful!” replied Johnston, with his calm, grim smile;
and saluting me, he rode away rapidly.

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Six hours afterwards his army was in motion for Manassas,
where the advance arrived on the night of the 20th of July.
On the next day Jackson's brigade held the enemy in check, and
Kirby Smith ended the fight by his assault upon their right.
Jackson and Smith belonged to the Army of the Shenandoah,
and this will show you that without that army the battle would
have been lost.

I brought that army, my dear friend, by means of General
Patterson's bay horse!

Such was the narrative of Captain Longbow, and I would like
to know how much of it is true. The incident of the hard ride,
and the death of the Captain's horse especially, puzzles me.
That incident is veracious, as I have once before said; but a
serious question arises as to whether Longbow bore that message!
I have a dim recollection that my friend Colonel Surry
told me once that he had been sent to Beauregard; had killed his
horse; and the high character of the Colonel renders it impossible
to doubt any statement which he makes. I expect him on
a visit soon, as he intends to make a little scout, he tells me, to
Fauquier to see a young lady—a Miss Beverley—there, and
doubtless will call by; then I shall ask him what are the real
facts of this affair.

Meanwhile my friend Longbow is entitled to be heard; and I
have even taken the trouble to set down his narrative for the
amusement of the friend to whom it will be sent. If Colonel
Surry ever composes his memoirs, as I believe is his intention,
the real truth on this important point will be recorded. Until
then—Vive Longbow!

p521-489

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“Quantum mutatus ab illo!” That is an exclamation which
rises to the lips of many persons on many occasions in time of
war.

In 1860, there stood on the left bank of the Chickahominy,
in the county of New Kent, an honest old mansion, with which
the writer of this page was intimately acquainted. Houses
take the character of those who build them, and this one was
Virginian, and un-“citified.” In place of flues to warm the
apartments, there were big fires of logs. In place of gas to
light the nights, candles, or the old-fashioned “astral” lamps.
On the white walls there were no highly coloured landscape
paintings, but a number of family portraits. There was about
the old mansion a cheeerful and attractive air of home and welcome,
and in the great fireplaces had crackled the yule clogs
of many merry Christmases. The stables were large enough
to accommodate the horses of half a hundred guests. The old
garden contained a mint patch which had supplied that plant
for the morning juleps of many generations. Here a number
of worthy old planters had evidently lived their lives, and passed
away, never dreaming that the torch of war would flame in their
borders.

The drawing-room was the most cheerful of apartments; and
the walls were nearly covered with portraits. From the bright
or faded canvas looked down beautiful dames, with waists just
beneath their arms, great piles of curls, and long lace veils; and

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fronting these were gentlemen with queer blue coats, brass buttons,
snowy ruffles, hair brushed back, and English side-whiskers.
The child in the oval frame above the mantel-piece—
with the golden curls, and the little hand on the head of her
pet dog—could look at her father and mother, grandfather,
grandmother, and great-grandmother, almost without turning
her head. Four generations looked down from the walls of the
old mansion; about it was an indefinable but pervading air
of home.

Of the happy faces which lit up this honest old mansion
when I saw it first, I need not speak. Let me give a few words,
however, to a young man who was often there—one of my
friends. He was then in the bloom of youth, and enjoyed the
spring-days of his life. Under the tall old trees, in the bright
parlour full of sunshine, or beneath the shadow of the pine-wood
near, he mused, and dreamed, and passed the idle hours of his
“early prime.” He was there at Roslyn in the sweetest season
of the year; in spring, when the grass was green, and the
peach-blossom red, and the bloom of the apple-tree as white as
the driven snow; in summer, “when the days were long” and
all the sky a magical domain of piled-up clouds upon a sea of
blue; and in the autumn, when the airs were dreamy and memorial—
the woods a spectacle from faery-land, with their purple,
gold, and orange, fading slow. Amid these old familiar scenes,
the youth I write of wandered and enjoyed himself. War
had not come with its harsh experiences and hard realities—
its sobs and sighs, its anxieties and hatreds—its desolated homes,
and vacant chairs, and broken hearts. Peace and youth made
every object bright; and wandering beneath the pines, dreaming
his dreams, the young man passed many sunny hours, and
passed them, I think, rationally. His reveries brought him no
money, but they were innocent. He had “never a penny to
spare,” but was rich in fancy; few sublunary funds, but a heavy
balance to his credit in the Bank of Cloudland; no house to
call his own, but a number of fine chateaux, where he entered
as a welcome guest, nay, as their lord! Those brave chateaux
stood in a country unsurpassed, and those who have lived there

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say no air is purer, no sky more bright. War does not come
there, nor the hum of trade; grief and care fly away; sorrow
is unknown; the doors of these old chateaux are closed against
all that carries that most terrible of maladies, the Heartache.

They were Chateaux en Espagne, you will say, good reader;
and truly they were built in that fine land. Do you know a
better? I do not.

Many years have passed since the youth I speak of wandered
amid these happy scenes; but I know that the dead
years rise like phantoms often before his eyes, and hover
vague and fitful above the waves of that oblivion which cannot
submerge them. While memory lives they will be traced
upon her tablets, deeper and more durable than records cut
on “monumental alabaster.” The rose, the violet, and the
hyacinth have passed, but their magical odour is still floating
in the air—not a tint of the sky, a murmur of the pines, or a
song of the birds heard long ago, but lives for ever in his
memory!

But I wander from my subject, which is Roslyn “before
and after.” The reader has had a glimpse of the old house as
it appeared in the past; where is it, and what is it now?

That question will be best answered by a description of my
last visit to the well-known locality. It was a day or two
after the battle of Cold Harbour, and I was going with a
few companions toward the White House, whither the cavalry
had preceded us. I thought I knew the road; I was sure
of being upon it; but I did not recognise a single locality.
War had reversed the whole physiognomy of the country.
The traces of huge camps were visible on the once smiling
fields; the pretty winding road, once so smooth, was all furrowed
into ruts and mud-holes; the trees were hewn down;
the wayside houses dismantled; the hot breath of war had
passed over the smiling land and blasted it, effacing all its
beauty. With that beauty, every landmark had also disappeared.
I travelled over the worn-out road, my horse stumbling
and plunging. Never had I before visited, I could have
made oath, this portion of Virginia!

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