MAJOR A. E. RICHARDS
Commanding Mosby’s Men at Mt. Carmel Fight
The hours of this search were moments of sore trial to the three Confederates under the floor. A sneeze, a cough, would betray their hiding place. Discovery meant prison—maybe death—and certainly retirement from the work in which they delighted and which gave them the consciousness of service to the country to which they had offered their fortunes and their lives. Minutes lengthened into days. The tread of the searching Federals echoed ominously into the silence and darkness of their place of refuge. Their hearts beat strong and fast—so furiously that they feared they might reveal their presence to their enemies. Huddled close together, with a trusty pistol in each hand, they waited for what fate might bring. They reviewed over and over again in their minds what they should do, if found. Should they open fire and sell their lives as dearly as possible, or by sudden rush seek to run the gauntlet of their foes, and thus bring ruin and the torch upon their family and friends, or accept a long and baneful imprisonment. In the gloom and dread of their prison, they could hear every word that was spoken. The curses and threats to the father and mother cut deep into their hearts, and they longed for a chance to resent the insults that were heaped upon the inmates of the home. Only an inch of wood separated them from their pursuers, and thus through two long hours they listened, watched—even prayed—that they might not be found. The torture of body and mind became almost unbearable, and they questioned if they should not rise up, push the trap door ajar, open fire, and rush away in the din and confusion such an attack was sure to bring. Each moment that passed they realized added new chances for escape, and though moments seemed years, with hearts for every lot, they bided the end.
Captain Snow and his men rode to the place of rendezvous. There, fortunately or unfortunately, the Federals found a barrel of apple brandy. It was a bitter cold night, and after taking a little brandy they all took some more and a large number of the men became intoxicated. Captain Snow decided that the best thing for him to do was to hurry back through Paris and cross the Shenandoah, lest when the sun rose, Mosby’s men might turn out in large numbers and destroy him, with his force weakened by their potations.
Suspecting a ruse, the Richards family looked well in every direction to see that all the Federals had gone, and that none were lurking in the shadows of the farm structures. They waited, and then waited some more, to be sure that there was no mistake about their departure, and then the bed was rolled back, the trap door raised, and Major Richards and his two companions, called by those above, hastily emerged from their hiding place. Though their uniforms were carried away by their enemies as a trophy, they felt that they were not without some compensation. Their horses, which had been turned loose in a distant pasture, had neither been seen or captured.
They greeted their steeds with affectionate pats on their noses and sincerely congratulated themselves that these had been spared them in the very close call which had passed their way. The Confederate commander immediately sent Captain Walker and Private Hipkins in different directions with urgent orders to all the men to follow in the track of the enemy. This they could easily do by the moonlight. All three rode at highest speed in different directions to tell the news. The steeds were not spared. Haste was the watchword of the call to comrades once found. Each was urged to spread the news in the plain and on the mountain sides, and to let nothing stay them in the ride for vengeance and retribution. The Federals had left a well-marked trail, and this made pursuit sure and rapid. Those following were told that it was the plan to strike the enemy before they could recross the Shenandoah, and that they must ride fiercely, halt not, and be prepared for onslaught, pursuit and battle.
Captain Snow rode hard and fast, and he got across the river before the sun was up. Major Gibson was not so fortunate. With one hundred and thirty-six men, when the Confederates under the urgent call of the couriers that were sent in every direction began to get together, Gibson was still on the turnpike leading through Ashby’s Gap across the Blue Ridge Mountains. They had not gotten down to the foot of the mountains and were just ahead of Major Richards and the men that he and his companions had so quickly summoned. There was no time to count or figure the odds. This incursion must be resented and few or many, Richards resolved to attack wherever he found the foe. He had fought as great odds before, and the extraordinary experience of the night had quickened his taste for battle and blood. When he came in touch with the Federals, he had only twenty-eight men. Five to one had no terrors for these galloping cavaliers, and Major Richards determined to make an attack, be the consequences what they would. In the meantime, ten others came up, and now he had one to four.
The turnpike at Ashby’s Gap winds its way up the mountain side by a succession of short curves. Major Richards arranged his men to press an attack on the enemy while they were passing around these curves, so that his real strength would be concealed. The Federal officer, uncertain what might happen in this country, but sure that dangers were lurking in every quarter, had increased his rear guard to forty men, under the command of Captain Duff of the 14th Pennsylvania. A sight of the bluecoats aroused every Mosby man to impetuous and furious action. They longed to resent some rough handling that had been given their comrades a few days before and they bitterly remembered with indignation the treatment accorded their associates, and above all they desired to serve notice on their invaders that it was a risky business to hunt Mosby’s men in their chosen haunts. The Confederates rode down in a furious, headlong charge around the bend of the road and received a volley from the Federal rear guard. This did no damage, but the Federals broke into a gallop; with disordered ranks and shattered files they all scrambled away for safety, and undertook to reach the main force. The Confederates, spurring and whooping and yelling, dashed in among these retreating Federals and used their six shooters with tremendous effect. The Federals could not fire their longer guns. There was no chance to turn, and the rear files felt the pitiless onslaught of the Confederate column, which was riding so furiously and bent on destroying their fleeing foes. The shooting was almost altogether on the side of the Confederates.
At the top of the mountains was Mt. Carmel Church. Here the Baptists of the neighborhood hitherto were accustomed to come and worship long before the war. Its peaceful surroundings and its memories of God’s service were not in harmony with the rude and savage war scenes enacted about it on this wintry morn. The men who rode at that hour with Richards were not thinking of the dead, who in the quiet and peace of the country churchyard were waiting Heaven’s call for the resurrection. They were now dealing only with the living, and those living who had invaded their country, ravaged their homes, and sought to destroy their liberty. Courage nerved every arm, valor moved every heart. They thought only of punishing their foes and bringing ruin and destruction on these men who had oftentimes, with ruthless barbarity, inflicted grievous wrongs upon their kinsmen and countrymen.
The turnpike passed in front of the church. Upon the road Major Gibson drew up his men in column. When they heard the firing and saw the galloping cavalrymen, they did not at first understand the situation, but as the surging crowd came closer they observed the Federals and Confederates in undistinguishable confusion. As the Confederates were riding toward the rear guard and these were in a gallop, the latter could not use their carbines. At the gait they were going it was impossible to aim and fire with the least assurance of hitting anybody.