II
It was not long before I was ushered into the presence of John S. Mosby, Lieutenant-Colonel, C. S. A.
He stood a little apart from his men, by the side of a splendid gray horse, with his right hand grasping the bridle-rein and resting on the pommel of his saddle—a slight, medium-sized man, sharp of feature, quick of sight, lithe of limb, with a bronzed face of the color and tension of whip-cord. His hair, beard, and mustache were light brown in color. His large, well-shaped head showed a high forehead, deep-set gray eyes, a straight Grecian nose, a firm mouth, and large ears. His whole expression told of energy, hard service, and—love of whiskey. He wore top-boots, and a civilian’s overcoat, black, lined with red, and beneath it the complete gray uniform of a Confederate Lieutenant-Colonel, with its two stars on the side of the standing collar, and the whole surmounted by the inevitable slouched hat of the whole Southern race. His men were about half in blue and half in butternut.
Mosby, after taking my horse and quietly examining my papers, presently looked up with a peculiar gleam of satisfaction on his face.
“Ah, Captain B——! Inspector-General of ——’s Cavalry! Good-morning, Captain! Glad to see you, sir! Indeed, there is but one I would prefer to see this morning to yourself, and that is your commander. Were you present, sir, the other day at the hanging of eight of my men as guerillas at Front Royal?”
I answered him firmly, “I was present, sir; and, like you, have only to regret that it was not the commander instead of his unfortunate men.”
This answer seemed to please Mosby, for he apparently expected a denial. He assumed a grim smile, and directed Lieutenant Whiting to search me.
My gold hunting-watch and chain, several rings, a set of shirt-studs and sleeve-buttons, a Masonic pin, some coins, and about three hundred dollars in greenbacks, with some letters and pictures of the dear ones at home, and a small pocket Bible, were taken. My cavalry-boots, worth about fifteen dollars, were apprised at six hundred and fifty in Confederate money; my watch at three thousand dollars, and the other articles in about the same proportion, including my poor servant “Wash,” who was put in and raffled for at two thousand dollars, so that my entire outfit made quite a respectable prize.
“Wash” was very indignant that he should be thought worth only two thousand dollars, Confederate money, and informed them that he considered himself unappreciated, and that, among other accomplishments, he could make the best milk-punch of any man in the Confederacy.
When all this was concluded, Mosby took me a little one side and returned to me the pocket Bible, the letters and pictures, and the Masonic pin, saying quietly as he did so, alluding to the latter with a significant sign:
“You may as well keep this. It may be of use to you somewhere.”
I thanked him warmly for his kindness as I took his offered hand, and really began to think Mosby almost a gentleman and a soldier, although he had just robbed me in the most approved manner of modern highwaymen.
Immediate preparations were made for the long road to Richmond and Libby Prison. A guard of fifteen men, in command of Lieutenant Whiting, was detailed as our escort, and, accompanied by Mosby himself, we started directly across the country, regardless of roads, in an easterly direction towards the Shenandoah and the Blue Ridge.
We were now in company of nine more of our men, who had been taken at different times, making eleven of our party in all, besides the indignant contraband “Wash,” whom it was thought prudent also to send to the rear for safe-keeping.
I had determined to escape if even half an opportunity should present itself, and the boys were quick in understanding my purpose, and intimating their readiness to risk their lives in the attempt. One of them in particular, George W. M‘Cauley, commonly known as Mack, and another one named Brown, afterwards proved themselves heroes.
At Howettsville on the Shenandoah, nine miles below Front Royal, we bivouacked for the night in an old school-house.
Our party of eleven were assigned to one side of the lower floor of the school-house, where we lay down side by side with our heads to the wall and our feet nearly meeting the feet of the guard, who lay in the same manner opposite us, with their heads to the other wall, except three, who formed a relief guard for the sentry’s post at the door.
Above the head of the guard along the wall ran a low desk, on which each man of them placed his carbine and revolver before disposing himself for sleep.
A fire before the door dimly lighted the room; and the scene as the men dropped gradually to sleep has stamped itself upon my memory like a picture of war painted by Rembrandt.
I had taken care to place myself between M‘Cauley and Brown, and the moment the rebels began to snore and the sentry to nod over his pipe, we were in earnest and deep conversation.
M‘Cauley proposed to warn the others and make a simultaneous rush for the carbines, and take our chances of stampeding the guard and escaping. But on passing the word in a whisper along our line, only three men were found willing to join us. As the odds were so largely against us, it was in vain to urge the subject.
The march began at an early hour the next morning, and the route ran directly up the Blue Ridge. We had emerged from the forest and ascended about one-third of the height of the mountain, when the full valley became visible, spread out like a map before us, showing plainly the lines of our army, its routes of supply, its foraging parties out, and my own camp at Front Royal as distinctly as if we stood in one of its streets.
We now struck a wood-path running southward and parallel with the ridge of the mountains, along which we travelled for hours, with this wonderful panorama of forest and river, mountain and plain before us in all the gorgeous beauty of the early autumn.
“This is a favorite promenade of mine,” said Mosby. “I love to see your people sending out their almost daily raids after me. There comes one of them now almost towards us. If you please, we will step behind the point and see them pass. It may be the last sight you will have of your old friends for some time,” and, looking in the direction he pointed, I saw a squadron of my own regiment coming directly towards us on a road running under the foot of the mountain, and apparently on some foraging expedition down the valley. They passed within a half-mile of us, under the mountain, while Mosby stood with folded arms on a rock above them.
Before noon we reached the road running through Manassas Gap, which was held by about one hundred of Mosby’s men, who signalled him as he approached, and here, much to my regret, the great guerilla left us, bidding me a kindly good-bye.
We were hurried through the gap and down the eastern side of the Blue Ridge, and by three o’clock reached Chester Gap, after passing which we descended into the valley and moved rapidly towards Sperryville on the direct line to Richmond.