The troopers of the Gulf States advanced at the word; their dense column was seen slowly moving, with drawn sabre, across the plain; the moment of decisive struggle seemed rapidly approaching, when suddenly a heavy blow was struck at Stuart’s rear.
I had been directed by him to ascertain if “every thing had been sent off from Fleetwood,” and to see that no papers had been dropped there in the hurry of departure. Going back at a gallop I soon reached the hill, and rode over the ground recently occupied by the head-quarters. The spot seemed swept. Not a paper was visible. All that I could see was a withered bouquet dropped by some young officer of the staff—a relic, no doubt, of the last night’s ball at the village.
I had already turned to ride back to Stuart, when my attention was attracted by a column of cavalry advancing straight on Brandy—that is, upon Stuart’s rear. What force was that? Could it be the enemy? It was coming from the direction of Stevensburg; but how could it have passed our force there?
“Look!” I said to an officer of the horse artillery, one battery of which was left in reserve on the hill, “look! what column is that?”
“It must be Wickham’s,” was his reply.
“I am sure they are Yankees!”
“Impossible!” he exclaimed.
But our doubts were soon terminated. From the rapidly advancing column two guns shot out and unlimbered. Then two white puffs of smoke spouted from their muzzles, and the enemy’s shell burst directly in our faces.
The horse artillery returned the fire, and I hastened back with the intelligence to Stuart.
“It is only a squadron, I suppose,” he replied with great coolness. “Go back and get all the cavalry you can, and charge the guns and bag them!”{1}