Crossing to the south bank of the Potomac, Stuart established his headquarters at “The Bower,” an old mansion on the Opequon.
The family at the ancient hall were Stuart’s cherished friends, and our appearance now, with the red flag floating and the bugle sounding a gay salute as we ascended the hill, was hailed with enthusiasm and rejoicing.
All at the “Bower,” loved Stuart; they love him to-day; and will love him always.
His tents were pitched on a grassy knoll in the extensive grounds, beneath some ancient oaks resembling those seen in English parks. It was a charming spot. Through the openings in the summer foliage you saw the old walls of the hall. At the foot of the hill, the Opequon stole away, around the base of a fir-clad precipice, its right bank lined with immense white-armed sycamores. Beyond, extended a range of hills: and in the far west, the North Mountain mingled its azure billows with the blue of the summer sky.
Such was the beautiful landscape which greeted our eyes: such the spot to which the winds of war had wafted us. Good old “Bower,” and good days there! How well I remember you! After the long, hard march, and the incessant fighting, it was charming to settle down for a brief space in this paradise—to listen idly to the murmur of the Opequon, or the voice of the summer winds amid the foliage of the century oaks!
The great tree on the grassy knoll, under which Stuart erected his own tent, is called “Stuart’s Oak” to this day. No axe will ever harm it, I hope; gold could not purchase it; for tender hearts cherish the gnarled trunk and huge boughs, as a souvenir of the great soldier whom it sheltered in that summer of 1863.
So we were anchored for a little space, and enjoyed keenly the repose of this summer nook on the Opequon. Soon the bugle would sound again, and new storms would buffet us; meanwhile, we laughed and sang, snatching the bloom of the peaceful hours, inhaling the odors, listening to the birds, and idly dreaming.
For myself, I had more dreams than the rest of the gray people there! The Bower was not a strange place to me. My brethren of the staff used to laugh, and say that, wherever we went, in Virginia, I found kins-people. I found near and dear ones at the old house on the Opequon; and a hundred spots which recalled my lost youth. Every object carried me back to the days that are dead. The blue hills, the stream, the great oaks, and the hall smiled on me. How familiar the portraits, and wide fireplaces, and deers’ antlers. The pictures of hawking scenes, with ladies and gentlemen in the queerest costumes; the engravings of famous race-horses, hanging between guns, bird-bags and fishing-rods in the wide hall—these were not mere dead objects, but old and long-loved acquaintances. I had known them in my childhood; looked with delight upon them in my boyhood; now they seemed to salute me, murmuring—“Welcome! you remember us!”
Thus the hall, the grounds, the pictures, the most trifling object brought back to me, in that summer of 1863, a hundred memories of the years that had flown. Years of childhood and youth, of mirth and joy, such as we felt before war had come to harass us; when I swam in the Opequon, or roamed the hills, looking into bright eyes, where life was so fresh and so young. The “dew was on the blossom” then, the flower in the bud. Now the bloom had passed away, and the dew dried up in the hot war-atmosphere. It was a worn and weary soldier who came back to the scenes of his youth.
Suddenly, as I mused thus, dreaming idly under the great oak which sheltered me, I heard a voice from Stuart’s tent, sending its sonorous music on the air. It was the great cavalier singing lustily—
At all hours of the day you could hear that gay voice. Stuart’s headquarters were full of the most mirthful sounds and sights. The knoll was alive with picturesque forms. The horses, tethered to the boughs, champed their bits and pawed impatiently. The bright saddle-blankets shone under the saddles covered with gay decorations. Young officers with clanking sabres and rattling spurs moved to and fro. In front of the head-quarters tent the red battle-flag caught the sunshine in its dazzling folds.
Suddenly, a new charm is added to the picturesque scene. Maiden figures advance over the grassy lawn; bright eyes glimmer; glossy ringlets are lifted by the fingers of the wind; tinkling laughter is heard;—and over all rings the wild sonorous music of the bugle!
The days pass rapidly thus. The nights bring merriment, not sleep. The general goes with his staff to the hospitable mansion, and soon the great drawing-room is full of music and laughter. The song, the dance, the rattling banjo follow. The long hours flit by like a flock of summer birds, and Sweeney, our old friend Sweeney, is the king of the revel.
For Sweeney rattles as before on his banjo; and the “Old Gray Horse” flourishes still in imperishable youth! It is the same old Sweeney, with his mild and deferential courtesy, his obliging smile, his unapproachable skill in “picking on the string.” Listen! his voice rings again as in the days of ‘61 and ‘62. He is singing still “Oh Johnny Booker, help this nigger!” “Stephen, come back, come back, Stephen!” “Out of the window I did sail!” “Sweet Evelina,” and the grand, magnificent epic which advises you to “Jine the Cavalry!”
Hagan listens to him yonder with a twinkle of the eye—Hagan the black-bearded giant, the brave whose voice resembles thunder, the devotee and factotum of Stuart, whom he loves. And Sweeney rattles on. You laugh loud as you listen. The banjo laughs louder than all, and the great apartment is full of uproar, and mirth, and dance.
Then the couples sink back exhausted; a deep silence follows; Sweeney has made you laugh, and is now going to make you sigh. Listen! You can scarcely believe that the singer is the same person who has just been rattling through the “Old Gray Horse.” Sweeney is no longer mirthful; his voice sighs instead of laughing. He is singing his tender and exquisite “Faded Flowers.” He is telling you in tones as soft as the sigh of the wind in the great oaks, how
Alas! the cold, chilly winds of the coming winter will blow over the grave of the prince of musicians! Sweeney, the pride and charm of the cavalry head-quarters, is going to pass away, and leave his comrades and his banjo forever!
You would say that the future throws its shadow on the present. Sweeney’s tones are so sweet and sorrowful, that many eyes grow moist—like Rubini, he “has tears in his voice.” The melting strains ascend and sigh through the old hall. When they die away like a wind in the distance, the company remain silent, plunged in sad and dreamy revery.
Suddenly Stuart starts up and exclaims:—
“Stop that, Sweeney! you will make everybody die of the blues. Sing the ‘Old Gray Horse’ again, or ‘Jine the Cavalry!’”
Sweeney smiles and obeys. Then, the gay song ended, he commences a reel. The banjo laughs; his flying fingers race over the strings; youths and maidens whirl from end to end of the great room—on the walls the “old people” in ruffles and short-waisted dresses, look down smiling on their little descendants!
O gay summer nights on the banks of the Opequon! you have flown, but linger still in memory!
In the autumn of 1867, I revisited the old hall where those summer days of 1863 had passed in mirth and enjoyment; and then I wandered away to the grassy knoll where “Stuart’s oak” still stands. The sight of the great tree brought back a whole world of memories. Seated on one of its huge roots, beneath the dome of foliage just touched by the finger of autumn, I seemed to see all the past rise up again and move before me, with its gallant figures, its bright scenes, and brighter eyes. Alas! those days were dust, and Stuart sang and laughed no more. The grass was green again, and the birds were singing; but no martial forms moved there, no battle-flag rippled, no voice was heard. Stuart was dead;—his sword rusting under the dry leaves of Hollywood, and his battle-flag was furled forever.
That hour under the old oak, in the autumn of 1867, was one of the saddest that I have ever spent.
The hall was there as before; the clouds floated, the stream murmured, the wind sighed in the great tree, as when Stuart’s tent shone under it. But the splendor had vanished, the laughter was hushed—it was a company of ghosts that gathered around me, and their faint voices sounded from another world!
But this is a book of incident, worthy reader. We have little time for musing recollections. The halts are brief; the bugle is sounding to horse; events drag us, and we are again in the saddle.
Those gay hours on the Opequon were too agreeable to last. The old hall was a sort of oasis in the desert of war only. We paused for an instant; rested under the green trees; heard the murmur of the waters—then the caravan moved, breasting the arid wastes once more, and the coming simoom.
Stuart’s head-quarters disappeared—we bade our kind friends good-bye—and, mounting, set out for the Lowland, whither Lee’s column was then marching.
The short lull had been succeeded by new activity. Meade was advancing along the east slope of the Blue Ridge to cut Lee off from Richmond. But the adventure succeeded no better now than in 1862. Meade failed, as McClellan had failed before him.
The army passed the Blue Ridge; drove back the force sent to assail them in flank as they moved; and descended to Culpeper, from which they withdrew behind the Rapidan. Here Lee took up his position, crowned the south bank with his artillery, and, facing General Meade, occupying the north bank, rested.
Such had been the result of the great campaign, in its merely military aspect.
Lee had invaded the North, delivered battle on the territory of the enemy, suffered a repulse, retired, and was again occupying nearly the same ground which he had occupied before the advance. Moving backward and forward on the great chessboard of war, the two adversaries seemed to have gained or lost nothing. The one was not flushed with victory; the other was not prostrated by defeat. Each went into camp, ceased active operations, and prepared for the new conflict which was to take place before the end of the year.
I shall record some incidents of that rapid and shifting campaign, beginning and ending in the month of October; then I pass on to the more important and exciting pages of my memoirs: the mighty struggle between Lee and Grant.
To return for a moment to the cavalry. It held the front along the Rapidan and Robertson rivers, from Madison Court-House on the left, to Chancellorsville on the right. Stuart kept his lynx-eye on all the fords of the two rivers, having his head-quarters in the forks of the streams not far from their junction.
I should like to speak of the charming hours spent at the hospitable mansion near which head-quarters had been established. The sun shone bright, at the house on the grassy hill, but not so bright as the eyes which gave us friendly welcome. Years have passed since that time—all things have changed—but neither time or the new scenes will banish from some hearts the memory of that beautiful face, and the music of that voice! We salute to-day as we saluted in the past—health and happiness attend the fair face and the kindly heart!
I saw much of Mohun in those days, and became in course of time almost his intimate friend. He exhibited still a marked reserve on the subject of his past life: but I thought I could see that the ice was melting. Day by day he grew gayer—gradually his cynicism seemed leaving him. Who was this singular man, and what was his past history? I often asked myself these questions—he persisted in giving me no clue to the secret—but I felt a presentiment that some day I should “pluck out the heart of his mystery.”
So much, in passing, for my relations with Mohun. We had begun to be friends, and the chance of war was going to throw us together often. I had caught one or two glimpses of a past full of “strange matters”—in the hours that were coming I was to have every mystery revealed.
Meanwhile Lee was resting, but preparing for another blow. His army was in the highest spirits. The camps buzzed, and laughed, and were full of mirth. Gettysburg was forgotten, or if remembered, it only served to inflame the troops, and inspire them with a passionate desire to “try again.” In the blaze of a new victory, the old defeat would disappear.
Such was the condition of things in the army of Northern Virginia in the first days of October, 1863.
It soon became obvious that Lee had resolved to strike a blow at his adversary.
How to do so with advantage seemed a hard problem. Between the opponents lay the Rapidan, which would be an ugly obstacle in the path of an army retreating after defeat—and the same considerations which deterred General Meade from attacking Lee, operated to prevent a like movement on the part of his adversary.
Thus an advance of the Southern army on the enemy’s front was far too hazardous to be thought of—and the only course left was to assail their flank. This could either be done by crossing lower down, and cutting the enemy off from the Rappahannock, or crossing higher up, and cutting him off from Manassas. Lee determined on the latter—and in a bright morning early in October the great movement began.
Leaving Fitz Lee’s cavalry and a small force of infantry in the works on the Rapidan fronting the enemy, General Lee put his columns in motion for the upper fords.
The men hailed the movement with cheers of delight. As they wound along, with glittering bayonets, through the hills and across the river, you could easily see that the old army of Northern Virginia was still in full feather—that Gettysburg had not shaken it—and that Lee could count on it for new campaigns and harder combats than any in the past.
The head of the column was directed toward Madison Court-House, which would enable Lee either to advance directly upon the enemy’s flank by the Sperryville road, or continue his flank movement, pass the Rappahannock, and cut off his opponent from Washington.
The advance was an inspiring spectacle. The weather was magnificent, and the crimson foliage of the wood rivalled the tints of the red battle-flags, fluttering above the long glittering hedge of bayonets.
Stuart’s cavalry had moved out on the right flank to protect the column from the observation of the enemy. The campaign of October, 1863, had opened.
It was to be one of the briefest, but most adventurous movements of the war. Deciding little, it was yet rich in incident and dramatic scenes. A brilliant comedy, as it were—just tinged with tragedy—was that rapid and shifting raid of Lee’s whole army, on Meade. Blood, jests, laughter, mourning—these were strangely mingled, in the cavalry movements at least: and to these I proceed.
From the heights, whence you see only the “great events,” the movements of armies, and the decisive battles, let us now descend into the lowland, good reader. I will lay before you some incidents, not to be found in the “official reports;” and I promise to carry you on rapidly!
It was a magnificent morning of October,
Stuart leaped to saddle, and, preceded by his red flag rippling gayly in the wind, set out from his head-quarters in the direction of the mountains.
He was entering on his last great cavalry campaign—and it was to be one of his most successful and splendid.
The great soldier, as he advanced that morning, was the beau ideal of a cavalier. His black plume floated proudly; his sabre rattled; his eyes danced with joy; his huge mustache curled with laughter; his voice was gay, sonorous, full of enjoyment of life, health, the grand autumn, and the adventurous and splendid scenes which his imagination painted. On his brow he seemed already to feel the breath of victory.
It was rather an immense war-machine, than a man which I looked at on that morning of October, 1863. Grand physical health, a perfectly fearless soul, the keenest thirst for action, a stubborn dash which nothing could break down—all this could be seen in the face and form of Stuart, as he advanced to take command of his column that day.
On the next morning at daylight he had struck the enemy.
Their outposts of cavalry, supported by infantry, were at Thoroughfare Mountain, a small range above the little village of James City. Here Stuart came suddenly upon them, and drove in their pickets:—a moment afterward he was galloping forward with the gayety of a huntsman after a fox.
A courier came to meet him from the advance guard, riding at full gallop.
“Well!” said Stuart.
“A regiment of infantry, general.”
“Where?”
“Yonder in the gap.”
And he pointed to a gorge in the little mountain before us.
Stuart wheeled and beckoned to Gordon, the brave North Carolinian, who had made the stubborn charge at Barbee’s, in 1862, when Pelham was attacked, front and rear, by the Federal cavalry.
“We have flushed a regiment of infantry, Gordon. Can you break them?”
“I think I can, general.”
The handsome face of the soldier glowed—his bright eyes flashed.
“All right. Get ready, then, to attack in front. I will take Young, and strike them at the same moment on the right flank!”
With which words Stuart went at a gallop and joined Young.
That gay and gallant Georgian was at the head of his column; in his sparkling eyes, and the smile which showed the white teeth under the black mustache, I saw the same expression of reckless courage which I had noticed on the day of Fleetwood, when the young Georgian broke the column on the hill.
Stuart explained his design in three words:—
“Are you ready?”
“All ready, general!”
And Young’s sabre flashed from the scabbard.
At the same instant the crash of carbines in front, indicated Gordon’s charge.
Young darted to the head of his column.
“Charge!” he shouted.
And leading the column, he descended like a thunderbolt on the enemy’s flank.
As he did so, Gordon’s men rushed with wild cheers into the gorge. Shouts, carbine-shots, musket-shots, yells resounded. In five minutes the Federal infantry, some three hundred in number, were scattered in headlong flight, leaving the ground strewed with new muskets, whose barrels shone like burnished silver.
“Good!” Stuart exclaimed, as long lines of prisoners appeared, going to the rear, “a fair beginning, at least!”
And he rode on rapidly.
The cavalry pressed forward without halting and reached the hills above James City—a magniloquent name, but the “city” was a small affair—a mere village nestling down amid an amphitheatre of hills.
On the opposite range we saw the enemy’s cavalry drawn up; and, as we afterward learned, commanded by General Kilpatrick.
They presented a handsome spectacle in the gay autumn sunshine; but we did not attack them. Stuart’s orders were to protect the march of Ewell from observation; and this he accomplished by simply holding the Federal cavalry at arm’s-length. So a demonstration only was made. Skirmishers advanced, and engaged the enemy. The whole day thus passed in apparent failure to drive the Federals.
A single incident marked the day. Stuart had taken his position, with his staff and couriers, on a hill. Here, with his battle-flag floating, he watched the skirmishers,—and then gradually, the whole party, stretched on the grass, began to doze.
They were to have a rude waking. I was lying, holding my bridle, half asleep, when an earthquake seemed to open beneath me. A crash like thunder accompanied it. I rose quickly, covered with dust. A glance explained the whole. The enemy had directed a gun upon the tempting group over which the flag rose, and the percussion-shell had fallen and burst in our midst.
Strangest of all, no one was hurt.
Stuart laughed, and mounted his horse.
“A good shot!” he said, “look at Surry’s hat!” which, on examination, I found covered half an inch deep with earth.
In fact, the shell had burst within three feet of my head—was a “line shot,” and with a little more elevation, would have just reached me. Then, exit Surry! in a most unmilitary manner, by the bursting of a percussion-shell.
At nightfall the enemy was still in position, and Stuart had not advanced.
We spent the night at a farm-house, and were in the saddle again at dawn.
The hills opposite were deserted. The enemy had retreated. Stuart pushed on their track down the Sperryville road, passed the village of Griffinsburg, and near Stonehouse Mountain came on, and pushed them rapidly back on Culpeper Court-House.
All at once quick firing was heard on our right.
“What is that?” Stuart asked.
“An infantry regiment, general!” said Weller, one of our couriers, galloping quickly up.
The words acted upon Stuart like the blow of a sword. A wild excitement seemed to seize him.
“Bring up a squadron!” he shouted—for we were riding ahead without support; “bring up the cavalry! I am going to charge! Bring me a squadron!”
And drawing his sword, Stuart rushed at full gallop, alone and unattended, toward the Federal infantry, whose gun-barrels were seen glittering in the woods.
Never had I seen him more excited. He was plainly on fire with the idea of capturing the whole party.
The staff scattered to summon the cavalry, and soon a company came on at full gallop. It was the “Jefferson Company,” under that brave officer, Captain George Baylor.
“Charge, and cut them down!” shouted Stuart, his drawn sword flashing as he forced his horse over fallen trees and the debris of the great deserted camp.
A fine spectacle followed. As the Federal infantry double-quicked up a slope, Baylor charged.
As his men darted upon them, they suddenly halted, came to a front-face, and the long line of gun-barrels fell, as though they were parts of some glittering war-machine.
The muzzles spouted flame, and the cavalry received the fire at thirty yards.
It seemed to check them, but it did not. They had come to an impassable ditch. In another moment, the infantry broke, every man for himself, and making a detour, the cavalry pursued, and captured large numbers.
For the second time Stuart had charged infantry and broken them. Pushing on now through the great deserted camps of Stonehouse Mountain, he descended upon Culpeper.
The enemy’s cavalry retreated, made a stand on the hills beyond, with their artillery; and seemed to have resolved to retreat no farther.
Suddenly the thunder of artillery came up from the Rapidan. I was sitting my horse near Stuart and Gordon. They were both laughing—indeed, Stuart seemed laughing throughout the campaign.
“That is Fitz Lee!” he said; “he has crossed and driven them.”
And turning round,—
“I wish you would go to General Lee, Surry—you will find him toward Griffinsburg—and tell him we are driving the enemy, and Fitz Lee seems to be coming up.”
I saluted, and left the two generals laughing as before.
In half an hour I had found General Lee. He was in camp on the Sperryville road, and was talking to Ewell.
It was a singular contrast. Lee, robust, ruddy, erect, with his large frank eye—Ewell, slight, emaciated, pale, with small piercing eyes, and limping on his crutch.
“Thank you, colonel,” General Lee said, with his grave but charming courtesy; “tell General Stuart to continue to press them back toward the river.”
And turning to Ewell:—
“You had better move on with your command, general,” he said, in his measured voice.
Ewell bowed and turned to obey—I returned to Stuart.
He was pushing the Federal cavalry “from pillar to post.” Driven back from the hill, where they had planted their artillery, they had retreated on Brandy; Stuart had followed like a fate; Gordon, sent round to the left, struck their right flank with his old sabreurs; Fitz Lee, coming up on the right, thundered down on their left—and in the woods around Brandy took place one of those cavalry combats which, as my friends, the novelists say, “must be seen to be appreciated!” If the reader will imagine, in the dusk of evening, a grand hurly-burly made up of smoke, dust, blood, yells, clashing swords, banging carbines, thundering cannon, and wild cheers, he will have a faint idea of that “little affair” at Brandy.
A queer circumstance made this fight irresistibly comic.
Fitz Lee had repulsed Buford on the Rapidan; followed him on his retreat, harassing him at every step—when, just as Buford reached Brandy, with Fitz Lee at his heels, Kilpatrick descended on Fitz Lee’s rear by the Sperryville road, and Stuart thundered down on his!
Thus Fitz Lee was pursuing Buford; Kilpatrick, Fitz Lee; and Stuart, Kilpatrick! It was a grand and comic jumble—except that it came very near being any thing but comic to that joyous cavalier, “General Fitz,” as we called him—caught as he was between Generals Buford and Kilpatrick!
General Fitz was the man for a “tight place,” however—and “his people,” as he called his cavalry, soon cut through to Stuart.
It was a tough and heavy fight.
“Old Jeb cut off more than he could chaw, that time!” said a veteran afterward, in describing the fight. And at one time it seemed that the enemy were going to hold their ground.
Fleetwood, beyond, was lined with bayonets, and every knoll was crowned with cannon: when night fell, however, the whole force had retreated and crossed the Rappahannock, leaving the ground strewed with their dead and wounded.
In the dusky woods near Brandy, Stuart sat his horse, looking toward the Rappahannock, and laughing still. He was talking with brave Fitz Lee, whose stout figure, flowing beard, and eyes twinkling with humor, were plain in the starlight. I shall show you that gallant figure more than once in this volume, reader. You had but to look at him to see that he was the bravest of soldiers, and the best of comrades.
So night fell on a victory. Stuart had driven the enemy at every step. He had charged their infantry, cavalry, and artillery, routing all,—and he was once more in sight of Fleetwood Hill, where he had defeated them in the preceding June.
Singular current of war! It used to bear us onward; but be taken with a sudden fancy to flow back to the old spots! See Manassas, Fredericksburg, Cold Harbor, Chancellorsville!
Fleetwood takes its place with them—twice bloody and memorable. In sight of it took place two of Stuart’s hardest combats—and both were victories.
By sunrise Stuart was pushing rapidly up the bank of the Rappahannock toward Warrenton Springs.
Meade had retreated from Culpeper, and was falling back rapidly. Lee was pressing on to cut him off in the vicinity of Auburn.
A hot fight took place at Jeffersonton, a little village beyond Hazel River; and here the enemy fought from house to house, but finally retreated.
Stuart followed, and came up with their rear retreating over the bridge at Warrenton Springs.
On the northern bank the Federal sharp-shooters were posted in double line.
Stuart turned, and saw, not far from him, the Jefferson Company who had charged so gallantly at Stonehouse Mountain. A movement of his hand, and they were charging over the bridge.
Suddenly they recoiled. The head files had stopped,—the horses rearing. The flooring in the centre of the bridge had been torn up—it was impossible to cross.
The men wheeled and came back under a hot fire of sharp-shooters. Stuart’s face was fiery.
“To the ford!” he shouted.
And placing himself in front of the men, sword in hand, he led them through the ford, in face of a heavy fire, charged up the opposite slope, and the Federal skirmishers scattered in wild flight.
The Twelfth Virginia Cavalry followed them, and they were cut down or captured.
As the column moved on, Stuart galloped along the line toward the front.
He had just faced death with these men, and at sight of him they raised a cheer.
“Hurrah for old Jeb!” rose in a shout from the column.
Stuart turned: his face glowed: rising in his stirrups, he took off his hat and exclaimed:—-
“Bully for the old Twelfth!”
The words were unclassic, it may be, reader, but they raised a storm.
“I felt like I could die for old Jeb after that,” one of the men said to me.
Stuart disappeared, followed by tumultuous cheers, and his column continued to advance upon Warrenton ahead of the army. He had ridden on for a quarter of an hour, when he turned to me, and said:—
“I am getting uneasy about things at Culpeper. I wish you would ride back to Rosser, who is there with two hundred men, and tell him to call on Young, if he is pushed.” I turned my horse.
“You know where Young is?”
“On the Sperryville road.”
“Exactly—Rosser can count on him. I am going on toward Warrenton.”
And the general and myself parted, riding in opposite directions.
I returned toward Hazel River; passed that stream, and the long rows of army wagons; and as the sun was sinking, drew near Culpeper.
As I pressed on, I heard the long thunder of cannon coming up from the direction of Brandy.
What could that sound mean? Had the enemy again advanced and assailed the small force of cavalry there?
Going on now at full speed, I heard the cannon steadily approaching Culpeper Court-House. All at once, as I drew near the village, I heard a tremendous clatter in the streets; a column of cavalry was advancing to the front—soon the crack of carbines was heard beyond the town.
A short ride brought me to the field, and all was explained. Colonel Rosser had been attacked by a whole corps of Federal infantry, and two divisions of cavalry—while his own force was about two hundred men, and a single gun.
He had offered an obstinate resistance, however, fallen back slowly, and when about to be driven into the town, Young had come to his aid.
Then followed one of the gayest comedies of the war. Young was the author of it. You laugh sometimes still, do you not, old comrade, at the trick you played our friends on that October evening?
Young threw himself into the fight with the true cavalry élan. Dismounting his whole brigade, he opened a rapid fire on the advancing enemy; and this obstinate resistance evidently produced a marked effect upon their imaginations. They had been advancing—they now paused. They had been full of audacity, and now seemed fearful of some trap. It was evident that they suspected the presence of a heavy force of infantry—and night having descended, they halted.
This was the signal for the fifth act of the comedy. Young kindled camp-fires along two miles of front; brought up his brass band and played “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” and “Dixie.” It was obvious to the enemy that at least a corps of Lee’s infantry was there in their front, ready to renew the action at dawn!
The finale was comic—I shared the blankets of the gallant Georgian that night—when we rose the enemy’s whole force had disappeared.
Such had been the result of the ruse, and I always regarded the affair as one of the gayest incidents of the war.
When I left the brave Young, he was laughing in triumph.
If your eye meets this page, old comrade, it may give you another laugh—and laughter is something in this dull epoch, is it not?
But whether you laugh or sigh, and wherever you may be, health and happiness attend you!
In the afternoon, I was at Warrenton.
I found the general moving toward Auburn, on a reconnoissance.
Meade had been delayed much by uncertainty as to his adversary’s designs—had scarcely advanced beyond the Rappahannock—and the object of Stuart was to discover his position and intentions.
That was the work always assigned to the “Eyes and Ears” of the army Stuart’s cavalry; and the stout cavalier, now at the head of his column, was on for the railroad, along which the enemy must retreat.
Another comedy was to follow—which came near being a tragedy.
Stuart steadily advanced, and about sunset had passed Auburn, when, as he was riding at the head of his column, a messenger rode up hastily from Gordon, holding the rear.
“Well!” said Stuart.
“The enemy are in your rear, general!”
“Impossible!”
“General Gordon sent me to say so.”
Stuart turned and galloped back. Gordon came to meet him.
“The Yankee army are in our rear, general,” said Gordon. “Come, and I will show you.”
And riding to an eminence he pointed out across the fields, in the gathering gloom, long lines of infantry and artillery moving toward Manassas.
Stuart gazed at them keenly. As he sat looking toward them, a staff officer from the front came up rapidly.
“Well, captain!”
“The enemy are in front, general.”
“Infantry?”
“Yes, with artillery.”
Stuart looked at Gordon.
“A real trap,” he said coolly, knitting his brows.
“Have they seen you, Gordon?” he asked.
“I think not, general.”
“Well, so far all is well. There is nothing to do but to lay low, and take the chances of getting out.”
Stuart’s voice was never cooler. He looked quietly at the huge column cutting off his retreat.
“A splendid chance to attack them!” he all at once exclaimed.
And tearing a leaf out of his dispatch-book, he wrote a hasty note to General Lee. I afterward knew what it contained. Stuart described his situation, and proposed that Rodes, then near Warrenton, should attack at dawn—when he would open with his artillery, charge with his horsemen, and cut his way out.
“A good man in blue uniform now, Gordon.”
Gordon sent off an aid, and the man soon appeared. From top to toe he was of irreproachable blue; and he listened keenly to his instructions.
Five minutes afterward he had dismounted, given his horse to a comrade, and was stealing on foot through the thicket toward the Federal column. A moment afterward he had mingled with their column and disappeared.
Other messengers, also in Federal uniform, were dispatched: the whole force of cavalry was massed, and concealed in the woods: then darkness descended; and the long night of anxiety began.
The situation was not agreeable. Stuart was caught in a veritable trap. On both sides—in his rear and his front—were passing heavy corps of Federal infantry; their numerous artillery; and their long-drawn columns of cavalry. Discovery was destruction; the only hope was that the enemy would not suspect our proximity. If we were once known to be lurking there, good-bye to Stuart and his men!
So the long night commenced. The hours passed on, and still we were not discovered. It seemed miraculous that some noise did not betray Stuart’s hiding-place; but an Unseen Eye seemed to watch over him, and an Unseen Hand to guard him.
More than once the neigh of a horse rang out on the air of night; and two or three times the discordant bray of a mule attached to the artillery startled the silence of the woods. But these sounds were unheeded. They evidently attracted no attention from the enemy.
Leaning down in their saddles, the men, half overcome by sleep, but afraid of a rough waking, passed sleepless hours, looking for the dawn.
Stuart was never cooler. On his horse, at the head of his men, he betrayed no emotion. You would not have known, except for his subdued tones when speaking to some one, that he and his command were in a veritable “tight place.” Cool and resolute, he was equal to any event. Certain capture or destruction of his whole force was imminent.
Thus the night glided away. We had not been discovered. Over the trees was seen the yellow streak of dawn.
I looked round. The men’s faces were haggard from want of sleep. But they evidently felt perfect confidence in Stuart.
He hastened to justify it.
No sooner had light come than he placed his artillery in position. As it grew and broadened, the enemy were seen just on a hill in front of us, busily cooking their breakfasts.
Suddenly a single cannon sent its long thunder, dull and reverberating, through the woods, from the direction of Warrenton.
Stuart rose erect in his saddle, and looked in the direction of the sound, his eyes glowing.
Another followed; then another; then a long, continuous bellow of artillery, making the hills echo.
There was no longer any doubt about the fate of the messengers. Lee had received the dispatches; Rodes had opened on the Federal columns, attacking as that good soldier knew how to attack.
Stuart darted to his guns. On his countenance was a grim smile.
“Attention!” he exclaimed.
The cannoneers ran to their posts, a cheer rose, the next instant the guns spouted flame; shell after shell in rapid succession screamed through the woods—and bursting in the midst of the blue groups, threw them into the wildest disorder.
Stuart did not allow the panic to subside. His sharp-shooters opened at the same instant a determined fire; the great cavalier went at full speed to the head of his column:—then rushing like an avalanche, troopers and artillery, charged the column in front, burst through, trampling it as he went, and at a gallop the gray horsemen, with guns following, broke out; and were again free.
Stuart was out of the trap. From one of the “tightest places” that a commander was ever in he had extricated his whole command.
Once in safety, he turned like a wild boar on his enemies. In ten minutes his artillery had taken a new position—its thunders had opened—its roar told the army, that his feather still floated, his star was still in the ascendant.
Such was that queer affair of Auburn. Few more curious incidents occurred in the war.
A brave officer of the infantry had accompanied us as an amateur.
“I’ve got enough of the cavalry,” he said, laughing; “I am going back to the infantry. It is safer!”