What could that sound mean? Had the enemy again advanced and assailed the small force of cavalry there?
Going on now at full speed, I heard the cannon steadily approaching Culpeper Court-House. All at once, as I drew near the village, I heard a tremendous clatter in the streets; a column of cavalry was advancing to the front—soon the crack of carbines was heard beyond the town.
A short ride brought me to the field, and all was explained. Colonel Rosser had been attacked by a whole corps of Federal infantry, and two divisions of cavalry—while his own force was about two hundred men, and a single gun.
He had offered an obstinate resistance, however, fallen back slowly, and when about to be driven into the town, Young had come to his aid.
Then followed one of the gayest comedies of the war. Young was the author of it. You laugh sometimes still, do you not, old comrade, at the trick you played our friends on that October evening?
Young threw himself into the fight with the true cavalry élan. Dismounting his whole brigade, he opened a rapid fire on the advancing enemy; and this obstinate resistance evidently produced a marked effect upon their imaginations. They had been advancing—they now paused. They had been full of audacity, and now seemed fearful of some trap. It was evident that they suspected the presence of a heavy force of infantry—and night having descended, they halted.
This was the signal for the fifth act of the comedy. Young kindled camp-fires along two miles of front; brought up his brass band and played “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” and “Dixie.” It was obvious to the enemy that at least a corps of Lee’s infantry was there in their front, ready to renew the action at dawn!
The finale was comic—I shared the blankets of the gallant Georgian that night—when we rose the enemy’s whole force had disappeared.
Such had been the result of the ruse, and I always regarded the affair as one of the gayest incidents of the war.
When I left the brave Young, he was laughing in triumph.