The next day, November 3, was cold and chilly and we were early on the march, still southward. We had now exhausted our supply of rations, and at a temporary halt wagon-loads of hardtack and pork were driven along our company lines and boxes of the bread and barrels of pork dumped out, and the men told to fill their haversacks. Barrel heads and boxes were soon smashed with the butts of guns and contents appropriated, each man taking all he would. Many a fine piece of the pork marched away on a bayonet, ready for the noon-day meal. I filled my own saddle-bags, as did the rest of us officers, preferring to take no further chances on the grub question.
We bivouacked about four o'clock, after a thirteen-mile march in a raw and very chilly air. Just going into bivouac I saw Major-General John F. Reynolds, who met such a tragic death at Gettysburg the next July. His corps—the First—was in the advance of ours. Our regiment was marching at the head of our brigade column. Lieutenant-Colonel Albright was temporarily absent and I was directing the column. General Reynolds's corps had passed into the field to the left and were already in bivouac; the other troops of our division were not visible at this point, and I was hesitating what direction to give the column. General Reynolds was sitting on his horse looking at us, evidently with much interest, and noticing my dilemma, rode up to my assistance at once. Addressing me as adjutant, he said: "Part of your corps has moved in yonder," pointing out the place. "If I were you I would go in here and occupy this field to the right in column of divisions, and you may say General Reynolds advised this, if you please." His manner and way of doing this little service were so pleasant that he captured me at once. Had he chosen to do so, he could have given me orders, as the senior officer present, but with a gentle courtesy he accomplished his purpose without that, and to reassure me gave his name and rank in this delicate way. I shall never forget his pleasant smile as he returned my salute after thanking him for his suggestion. He was a superb-looking man, dark complexioned, wearing full black whiskers, and sat his fine horse like a Centaur, tall, straight, and graceful, the ideal soldier. I do not remember to have ever seen this remarkable officer again. He was one of the few great commanders developed by the war. A quiet, modest man, he yet possessed a very decisive element of character, as illustrated by the following incident related to me by my friend Colonel W. L. Wilson, assistant adjutant-general of one of the divisions of Reynolds's corps, and shows his unwearied vigilance and his indefatigable capacity for work. The corps was in the presence of the enemy, an attack was deemed highly probable. Night had brought on a storm of rain and intense darkness. General Reynolds had given the proper officers very explicit instructions about locating his picket lines, and Colonel Wilson, knowing the critical nature of the work and his division chief's anxiety over it, about midnight went out over their part of the line to make doubly sure that everything was right. Among the first persons he encountered after reaching the outposts was General Reynolds, all alone, making his way over the line in that drenching rain, to be assured that the pickets were properly posted and doing their duty. Here is Colonel Wilson's account of the colloquy that ensued: "Who are you, sir? Where do you belong? What are you doing here?" he volleyed at me savagely. Being apparently reassured by my reply, he continued in a less peremptory tone, "Who ordered that line? How far out is it?" Receiving my reply, he exclaimed, "Push it out, push it out farther!" "How far, General?" I ventured to ask. "Push it out until you feel something!" This was Reynolds.
We continued our march down what I was told was the valley of the Catochin. November 5 found us near Upperville, where we bivouacked alongside an old graveyard, our head-quarters being established inside the enclosure, to get the protection of its stone wall from the cold wind that was blowing. The temperature had fallen during the past twenty-four hours, so that it was now decidedly chilly—good for marching, but cold in bivouac. My notes say that I was chilled through until my teeth chattered; that I slept in the hollow made by a sunken grave to get warm; that my dreams were not disturbed by any unsubstantial hobgoblins of the defunct member of an F. F. V. whose remains might have been resting below me. The letters F. F. V. meant much in those war days. They stood for "First Family of Virginia," an expression much in use by her slave-proud aristocracy, and, of course, much satirized by us of the North. On this day we passed several very handsome mansions with their slave contingents. One old "daddy" volunteered the information that his "Mars was a pow'ful secesh;" that he had three sons in the rebel army. My diary notes with indignation that these rich plantations were carefully guarded by our cavalry to prevent our soldiers entering to get water as they passed. They would doubtless have helped themselves to other things as well, especially things eatable, but the owners were rebels and deserved to have their property taken, we all felt.
The orders against marauding were punctuated by a striking example this day. The cavalry orderly of the general commanding our division, riding back to head-quarters after delivering a batch of orders, among them another on this hated subject, carried a pair of handsome turkeys strapped to his saddle. It is safe to say that entire flock came into our camp that night, and turkey was served at breakfast to some of the rank and file as well as to the general. Verily, "consistency thou art a jewel."
From Upperville we moved by easy marching down to Warrenton. The weather had grown much colder. On the 8th of November there was a fall of rain, succeeded by snow, and we marched in a very disagreeable slush. The bivouac in this snow was most trying. The result for myself was a severe attack of fever and ague. I had been much reduced in flesh from the fatigue and nervous strain of the strenuous life of the past two months. This attack prostrated me at once. I was placed in an ambulance, being unable to ride my horse. The shaking and jolting of that ambulance ride were something fearful. I can now sympathize with the wounded who were compelled to ride in those horrible vehicles. They were covered wagons, with seats on each side, and made with heavy, stiff springs, so as to stand the rough roads, which were frequently cut through the fields. This night General Kimball had me brought to his head-quarters, a brick farm-house, for shelter. It was a kindness I greatly appreciated. The next night our chaplain succeeded in getting me into a farm-house some little distance from the regiment. He secured this accommodation on the strength of Freemasonry. The owner's name I have preserved in my diary as Mr. D. L. F. Lake. He was one of Mosby's "cavalry," as they called themselves. We in our army called them "guerillas." They were the terror of our army stragglers. They were "good Union men" when our army was passing, but just as soon as the army had passed they were in their saddles, picking up every straggler and any who may have had to fall behind from sickness. In that way they got quite a few prisoners. This man did not hesitate to tell us the mode of their operations. He said his farm had been literally stripped of hay, grain, and cattle by our cavalry under General Stoneman. All he had left was one chicken. This his wife cooked for the chaplain and me. He brought out Richmond papers during the evening and freely discussed the issues of the war with the chaplain. I was too ill to pay much attention to what was said, only to gather that his idea of us Northern people was that we were a miserable horde of invading barbarians, destined to be very speedily beaten and driven out. He admitted, however, that in financial transactions he preferred "greenbacks" to the Confederate scrip, which I thought rather negatived his boasted faith in the success of the Confederacy. His wife, who had, not many years gone, been young and pretty, occasionally chimed in with expressions of great hate and bitterness. Perhaps the latter was not to be wondered at from their stand-point, and they had just now ample grounds for their bitter feelings in the fact that they had just been relieved of all their portable property by the Union forces. He had receipts for what Stoneman had taken, which would be good for their market value on his taking the oath of allegiance. But he said he would die rather than take that oath, so he considered his property gone. He no doubt thought better of this later on, and probably got pay for his stuff. His kindness to me on the score of our fraternal relations was generous to the full extent of his ability, and showed him to be a true man, notwithstanding his "secesh" proclivities. It was a great favor, for had I been compelled to remain out in that rough weather sick as I was, the consequences must have been most serious. On leaving I tried to pay him in gold coin for his hospitality, but he firmly declined my money, saying: "You know you could not have gotten into my house for money. Pay in like manner as you have received when opportunity affords." For this fraternal hospitality I shall always remember my "secesh" Masonic brother with gratitude, for I feel that it saved my life.
Another terrific day in that awful ambulance brought me to Warrenton, where I got a room at a so-called hotel. Here, upon the advice of our surgeon, I made application for leave of absence on account of sickness. The red tape that had to be "unwound" in getting this approved and returned almost proved my ruin. Captain Archbald was taken sick at this time, and his application for a like leave accompanied mine. The corps surgeon, Dr. Dougherty, called with our surgeon to examine us at the hotel, and said he would approve both applications; that it would be but a day or so before our leaves would be ready and returned to us. The next day orders for the army to move were issued, and we saw our men marching away. It made my heart ache not to be in my place with them. I was, however, barely able to sit up, so that was out of the question. Now another possibility confronted us, namely, being picked up and carried off as prisoners by my late host's comrades, Mosby's guerillas. The army was evidently evacuating Warrenton and vicinity, and unless our leaves of absence reached us within a very few hours we would be outside of the "Union lines" and transportation to Washington unobtainable, for the railroad trains did not pretend to run beyond the Union lines. The next day came, the last of our troops were moving out, and our leaves had not come. Captain Archbald and I resolved that we must cut that "red tape" rather than take the chances of going to Richmond. This we did by securing suits of citizens' clothes and making our way as citizens through the lines to Washington. From there we had no difficulty in reaching home in uniform. At Washington I wrote Colonel Albright of our dilemma and the way we had solved it, and asked that our leaves of absence be forwarded to us at Scranton. They came some two weeks later. Had we remained at Warrenton, they would never have reached us, unless in a rebel prison. Yet I suppose we had committed an offence for which we could have been court-martialled.
I should have mentioned that just at the time I was taken sick, on the 9th of November, whilst the army was approaching Warrenton, the order relieving General McClellan from the command of the Army of the Potomac was issued. He was ordered to report to his home in Trenton, N. J., on waiting orders. Great was the consternation among the veterans of that army on his retirement, for they really had a strong attachment for "Little Mac," as they fondly called him. He took his leave in an affectionate order, recounting the heroic deeds of this noble army. This was followed by a grand review, accompanied by battery salutes, and the military career of General George B. McClellan passed into history.