The 6th, however, kept on, and now Colonel White led his men through a perfect storm of bullets, up the bluff, and again the Yankees fled, pursued fiercely by the “Comanches,” who captured many prisoners in the chase to the river, and on reaching the bank, near the High Bridge, their infantry, to the number of over seven hundred, threw down their arms and surrendered to White’s Battalion.
In this last charge, as Maj. Thompson, who had left his battery to help the cavalry fight, was riding recklessly down upon the enemy, whirling his sabre around his head and shouting to the “Comanches” to “charge the devils,” that he "wanted to go in with White’s Battalion," &c., a Yankee fired upon him with fatal aim, sending a bullet through his head, and the brave young officer leaped from his saddle a corpse, and thus the light of that gallant spirit, which for four years had revelled unscathed, amid the most appalling dangers, went out in blood upon the field of victory to the men whom he had so often seen following the lead of his loved friend and commander, Turner Ashby; that friend who, on the bloody field at Harrisonburg, breathed out his noble life in Jamie Thompson’s arms, but his eyes’ last glance rested on a beaten foe, and the last sounds that fell upon his ear were the wild triumphant yells of the “Comanches.”
The battalion took four regimental standards and about eight hundred prisoners, while the total of prisoners amounted to about eleven hundred, greatly exceeding the whole Confederate force engaged, and their loss in killed and wounded was certainly not less than four hundred, including many officers, and six flags were displayed as trophies of the fight.
General Dearing had been carried to a house near the field, and after the battle Colonel White went to see him, finding him unable to speak above a whisper, and in fact, dying. Gen. Rosser was seated on one side, and as White came in, the wounded General took his hand, and pointing with the other to the Brigadier’s stars on his own collar, turned his face to General Rosser and whispered, “I want these to be put on his coat.”
Among the wounded in the battalion was Benjamin F. Leslie, Company A, who had been remarkable for his unwavering faith in the success of the South, through all the gloomy retreat, even when every heart was despondent, and who while fighting desperately at the bridge was mortally wounded.
He, too, was at the house, and when the Colonel went in to see him found him suffering greatly from the bullet wound through his body and lying with his knees almost drawn up to his chin. The Colonel asked him if he was badly hurt, and he replied, “Yes, Colonel, I am mortally wounded.” “Oh!” said the Colonel, “I hope not. Ben, you must cheer up.” “No, sir,” said Ben, "there’s do hope for me; I asked the doctor and he says I must die," and then raising his head, with the light of faith in and devotion to his cherished country’s cause beaming from his eye, he exclaimed, “But there are men enough left to gain our independence.”
The gallant commander of the 12th Virginia cavalry, Major Nott, was killed in the charge upon the infantry early in the engagement, and the scene was full of sad and solemn meaning as the soldiers buried their dead comrades on the hill near the house, just before leaving the ground to the enemy, but many felt that the hero blood of the Southland had not been spilled in vain when they saw so many of their foes laid beneath the same sod, and knew they had lost so many more, but the enemy had fought bravely and well, and the Confederate loss was very severe, the battalion alone losing eighteen killed and wounded out of about forty engaged. Only the first squadron was present at the opening of the fight, as Capt. French with his squadron had been left on picket at Amelia Springs in the morning, and all day long was bringing up the rear closely pressed by the enemy, and compelled to turn and fight at every hill and wood and stream along the route, so that he did not reach the ground until towards the close of the battle.
About dark the command of White reached the main army, which was still wearily plodding along the muddy road towards Lynchburg, and now the brigade lay in line of battle until midnight, waiting for the slow-moving train to pass, while less than a mile away the camp-fires of Grant’s army shone brightly through the gloom of that dismal night.
Two hours after the last wagon had passed, the old Valley brigade marched silently along in rear of the whole army, but it was as slow as ever, for the rain was again falling, and the bottom of the road sinking deeper and deeper beneath the mud, so that, although the enemy had rested during the hours of darkness, their advance was up with the Confederates by 9 o’clock on the morning of the 7th, and the latter, who had toiled on through all the weary night, were forced to renew and continue the same old story of turning at bay on every hill along the route.
About noon the rear-guard reached Farmville, in Prince Edward county, and so stubbornly did Rosser hang on in his bull-dog style to the favorable positions around that place, that the pursuit was checked, and the enemy compelled to resort to a flank movement, which their great force rendered easy, but which came to grief from being performed too near the view of Gen. Rosser.