It was a gallant sight, a thrilling scene, for all the world like a picture from one of Walter Scott's novels; and to the imagination, seemed a vision of William Wallace or of Rob Roy. The place itself was a picturesque one—a little valley nestling beneath the foot-hills at the base of the mountains whose tops towered to the sky. Hills and wooded terraces surrounded it, shutting it in on all sides, obstructing the view and leaving the details of the adjacent landscape to the imagination.
Mosby evidently had arranged his arrival with a view to theatric effect—though it was no mimic stage on which he was acting—for it was to the sound of the bugle's note that he burst into view and, like a highland chief coming to a lowland council, rode proudly at the head of his men. Finely uniformed and mounted on a thorough bred sorrel mare, whose feet spurned the ground, he pranced into our presence. Next came about sixty of his men, including most of the officers, all, like himself, dressed in their best and superbly mounted. It was a goodly sight to see.
General Chapman advanced to meet the commander as he dismounted and the two officers shook hands cordially. There were then introductions all around and in a few moments, the blue and the gray were intermingling on the most friendly terms.
It was difficult to believe that we were in the presence of the most daring and audacious partisan leader, at the same time that he was one of the most intrepid and successful cavalry officers in the confederate service. He was wary, untiring, vigilant, bold, and no federal trooper ever went on picket without the feeling that this man might be close at hand watching to take advantage of any moment of unwariness. He had been known in broad daylight, to dash right into federal camps, where he was outnumbered a hundred to one, and then make his escape through the fleetness of his horses and his knowledge of the by-roads. On more than one occasion, he had charged through a union column, disappearing on one flank as quickly as he had appeared on the other. His men, in union garb, were often in our camps mingling unsuspected with our men or riding by their side when on the march.
We were prepared to see a large, fierce-looking dragoon but, instead, beheld a small, mild-mannered man not at all like the ideal. But, though small, he was wiry, active, restless and full of fire.
"How much do you weigh, colonel?" I asked as I shook his hand and looked inquiringly at his rather slender figure.
"One hundred and twenty-eight pounds," said he.
"Well, judging from your fighting reputation, I looked for a two hundred pounder, at least," I replied.
His spare form was set off by a prominent nose, a keen eye and a sandy beard. There was nothing ferocious in his appearance but when in the saddle he was not a man whom one would care to meet single-handed. There was that about him which gave evidence of alertness and courage of the highest order.
It was astonishing to see officers of Mosby's command walk up to union officers, salute and accost them by name.