BATTLE OF CHANTILLY—LEESBURG—CROSSING THE POTOMAC
After such prolonged marching and such a victory as the second Manassas we hoped for a rest so well earned; at any rate, we imagined that there was no enemy near inclined to give battle; but on Monday, September 1, we were again on the march, which continued far into the night, it being near daylight when we went into park. The latter part of the way I rode on a caisson, seated by a companion, and so entirely overcome with sleep as to be unable to keep my eyes open five seconds at a time, nodding from side to side over the wheels. My companion would rouse me and tell me of my danger, but shame, danger, and all were of no avail till, waking for the fortieth time, I found my hat was gone. I jumped down, went back a short distance, and found my old drab fur, of Lexington make, flat in the road, having been trampled over by several teams and gunwheels.
After a halt of a few hours we were again on the move, and soon found ourselves in Fairfax County. About noon we passed by "Chantilly," the home of my messmate, Wash. Stuart, whom we had left desperately wounded at Winchester. The place, a beautiful country residence, was deserted now. Stuart, though, was somewhere in the neighborhood, a paroled prisoner, and on his return to us the following winter told us of the efforts he had made to find us near "The Plains" with a feast of wines, etc., for our refreshment. Two or three miles from Chantilly short and frequent halts and cautious advances warned us that there were breakers ahead. Then the pop, pop, pop! of a skirmish-line along the edge of a wood in our front brought back again those nervous pulsations in the region of the stomach which no amount of philosophy or will-power seemed able to repress.
The battery kept straight on in the road and through the woods, the enemy's skirmishers having fallen back to our right. We halted where the road began to descend, waiting until a place suitable for action could be found. Up to this time there was only infantry skirmishing, not a cannon having been fired on either side, when, as we stood quietly by our guns, a Federal shell burst in our midst with a tremendous crash. None of us heard the report of the gun that sent it, or knew from what direction it came, but the accuracy with which we had been located in the dense forest was not comforting.
Soon after this, our attention was attracted by the approach, along the road in our front, of ten or twelve horsemen, riding leisurely toward us, one of whom bore a banner of unusually large size. As they passed, the most conspicuous figure in the party was a Federal officer in new uniform, and several other prisoners, escorted by a guard of our cavalry. The banner was the flag of New York State, with the field of white satin emblazoned with the coat-of-arms of the Empire State, and all elaborately decorated with flowing cords and tassels.
After remaining here for an hour, and our officers finding no open ground for battle, and no enemy in sight except some videttes who saluted us with an occasional Minie-ball, we countermarched one-half mile in a drenching rain and went into park. Meanwhile, a brisk musketry fire had extended along the infantry lines, and soon after halting one of our battery horses fell dead, struck by one of their stray bullets. It was during this contest, in the pouring rain, that General Jackson, on receiving a message from a brigadier that his ammunition was wet, and he feared he could not hold on, replied, "Tell him to hold his ground. If his guns will not go off, neither will the enemy's."
Before the firing ceased, which continued through the twilight, Major-General Kearny, mistaking a line of Confederates for his own men, rode almost into their midst before discovering his error. He wheeled his horse, and, as he dashed off, leaning forward on the horse's neck, received a bullet in his back and fell dead upon the field. Next day his body was returned to his friends under flag of truce.
From Chantilly, or Ox Hill, as this battle was called by Confederates and Federals, respectively, we reached Leesburg, the county-seat, by a march of thirty miles due north into Loudoun County, and a mile or two east of this attractive town went into bivouac about sunset in a beautiful grassy meadow which afforded what seemed to us a downy couch, and to the horses luxuriant pasturage, recalling former and better days. Next morning, while lying sound asleep wrapped in my blanket, I became painfully conscious of a crushing weight on my foot. Opening my eyes, there stood a horse almost over me, quietly cropping the grass, with one forefoot planted on one of mine. Having no weapon at hand, I motioned and yelled at him most lustily. Being the last foot put down, it was the last taken up, and, turning completely around, he twisted the blanket around the calks of his shoe, stripped it entirely off of me, and dragged it some yards away. There being no stones nor other missiles available, I could only indulge in a storm of impotent rage, but, notwithstanding the trampling I had undergone, was able "to keep up with the procession."
The morning was a beautiful one, the sun having just risen in a clear sky above the mists overhanging and marking the course of the Potomac a mile to the east, and lighting up the peaks of the Blue Ridge to the west. The country and scenery were not unlike, and equal to the prettiest parts of the Valley. Circling and hovering overhead, calling and answering one another in their peculiarly plaintive notes, as if disturbed by our presence, were the gray plover, a bird I had never before seen. All in all, the environment was strikingly peaceful and beautiful, and suggestive of the wish that the Federals, whom we had literally whipped out of their boots and several other articles of attire, and who had now returned to their own country, would remain there, and allow us the same privilege.
But General Lee took a different view of it, and felt that the desired object would be more effectually accomplished by transferring the war into their own territory. So before noon we were again "trekking," and that, too, straight for the Potomac. Orders had again been issued forbidding the cannoneers riding on the caissons and limbers; but, in crossing the Potomac that day, as the horses were in better shape and the ford smooth, Captain Poague gave us permission to mount and ride over dry-shod. For which breach of discipline he was put under arrest and for several days rode—solemn and downcast—in rear of the battery, with the firm resolve, no doubt, that it was the last act of charity of which he would be guilty during the war. Lieutenant Graham was in command.