Lying upon the ground near by, with his head resting upon his arm, was another officer wearing the two stars of a major-general.
"Who is that?" I asked of a journalistic friend.
"Fighting Joe Hooker," was the answer.
With his side-whiskers, rather heavy countenance, and transparent cheeks, which revealed the blood like those of a blushing girl, he hardly looked all my fancy had painted him.
A Cavalry Stampede.
Toward evening, at the head of his corps, preceded by the pioneers tearing away fences for the column, Hooker led a forward movement across Antietam Creek. His milk-white horse, a rare target to Rebel sharpshooters, could be seen distinctly from afar against the deep green landscape. I could not believe that he was riding into battle upon such a steed, for it seemed suicidal.
In an hour we halted, and the cavalry went forward to reconnoiter. A few minutes after, Mr. George W. Smalley, of The Tribune, said to me:
"There will be a cavalry stampede in about five minutes. Let us ride out to the front and see it."
Galloping up the road, and waiting two or three minutes, we heard three six-pound shots in rapid succession, and a little fifer who had climbed a tree, shouted: