Pleasanton dismounted his cavalry, and advanced them as infantry, and drove Stuart, who retreated a mile, made another stand, and was again driven. The last fight took place in front of a pretty farm-house, occupied by a near relative of the Rebel General Ashby, who commanded a body of cavalry in 1861, and who was killed in Western Virginia. He was the boldest of all the Southern horsemen. He trained his horses to leap a five-barred gate. He could pick a handkerchief from the ground while his horse was upon a run. He was dashing, brave, and gallant, and a great favorite with the Southern ladies, who called him the bold cavalier.
After the battle, my friend and I visited the farm-house. Our appetites were keen, and we wanted dinner.
I found the owner at the door.
"Can I obtain dinner for myself, and oats for my horse?" was the question.
"Yes, sir, I reckon. That is, if my wife is willing. She don't like Yankees very well. Besides, the soldiers have stolen all our poultry, with the exception of one turkey, which she is going to have for dinner."
Roast turkey in old Virginia, after weeks of hard-tack and pork, was a dinner worth having.
"Please tell your wife that, although I am a Yankee, I expect to pay for my dinner."
A conference was had in-doors, resulting in an affirmative answer to my request.
A friend was with me. The cloth was laid, and a little colored girl and boy brought in from time to time the things for the table. At last, there came the turkey, done to a nice brown, steaming hot from the oven, filling the room with a flavor refreshing to a hungry man, after the events of the morning. The hostess made her appearance, entering like a queen in stateliness and dignity. She was tall, and in the prime of womanhood. Her eyes were jet. They shone upon us like electric flashes. Her greeting was a defiance. Seated at the table, she opened the conversation.
"I should like to know what you are down here for, stealing our chickens and niggers?"