V. — THE CHASE.
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.