A moment afterward the bugle sounded, and the column advanced toward the Rapidan, within a mile of which it halted—Mohun and myself riding forward to reconnoitre at Germanna Ford, directly in our front.
The pickets were engaged, firing at each other across the river. On the northern bank were seen long columns of Federal cavalry, drawn up as though about to cross.
I rode with Mohun to the summit of the lofty hill near the ford, and here, seated on his horse beneath a tree, we found Mordaunt. It was hard to realize that, on the evening before, I had seen this stern and martial figure, kneeling in prayer upon a grave—had heard the brief deep voice grow musical when he spoke of his wife. But habit is every thing. On the field, Mordaunt was the soldier, and nothing but the soldier.
“You see,” he said, “the game is about to open,” pointing to the Federal cavalry. “You remember this spot, and that hill yonder, I think.”
“Yes,” I replied, “and your charge there when we captured their artillery in August, ‘62.”
As he spoke, a dull firing, which we had heard for some moments from the direction of Ely’s Ford, grew more rapid. Five minutes afterward, an officer was seen approaching from the side of the firing, at full speed.
When he was within a hundred yards, I recognized Harry Mordaunt. He was unchanged; his eyes still sparkled, his plume floated, his lips were smiling.
He greeted me warmly, and then turned to General Mordaunt, and reported the enemy attempting to cross at Ely’s.
“I will go, then; will you ride with me, Surry? Keep a good look out here, Mohun.”
I accepted Mordaunt’s invitation, and in a moment we were galloping, accompanied by Harry, toward Ely’s.