I looked in the direction indicated and saw a half-dozen mounted men at the edge of a wood; but the first one wore blue clothes, so I reassuringly said: "Why, it's some of our men who are out here foraging."
"No; I'm —— if it is. I'm going to get out of range, anyhow;" with that he turned his horse's head. I kept my eye on the men, and saw, to my horror, two of them raise their guns and point at us.
As quickly as if I had been shot, I jerked my horse around and dodged my head on the other side of his neck; the horse turning suddenly as I made this motion, threw me entirely out of the saddle on to my feet on the ground. Just as I turned there were two shots in quick succession.
As we were within very close range, the Rebel cavalrymen seeing me dropped out of the saddle, stopped firing, supposing, of course, I was hit. The funny part of it was, my companion's horse had been so accustomed to going "double" that he could not be made to budge a step until my horse was ready to go along with him.
I had not lost the reins and was soon in the saddle, hanging by the neck of the horse. I spurred him for dear life and led the other horse out of the scrape. It was a close call, and I have not the least doubt but that my fall out of the saddle saved us both, as they supposed we were sure game and didn't follow up until we were galloping down the road, there being a fence between us.
These men were part of the Confederate cavalry that had been on the very mountain below us all the time we had been in the woods above.
We returned to camp at Aldie, reported the matter, and were complimented highly as "two —— fools."
During these every-day cavalry skirmishes, while en route to Gettysburg, I saw a great many horrible sights in the way of wounded cavalrymen and horses. One of the most disagreeable, to me, was to see them carry a dead soldier across a led horse's back, while a companion walked along side, holding him steady by the heels, precisely as if the man was a bag of potatoes, or corn, going to mill. There was a great deal of this, which seemed to be the only method to get the dead out of those mountains, where ambulances could not travel. It is not pleasant to think or write about; but, dear me, I sometimes feel as if all the horrible truths should be told. In the war-papers we find but little mention of the rough manner of taking care of the wounded, and the disgusting disposition of the dead heroes. As General Sherman says: "I don't want to make any more speeches about the war—it's not a pleasant subject. You know, boys, as well as I do, that war is hell."
I will just observe, in passing, that a chapter on the "ruling passions" and dispositions of men, as they lie in field hospitals, would be a curious study. My observation has always been that the big, blustering fellow, who was often a bully in camp, on getting a little wound, was the fellow to make Rome howl when he got under the Surgeon in a hospital. Quiet, inoffensive boys, probably lying near him with serious and painful wounds, were compelled to hear the booby howl like a school-boy who had stumped his sore toe.
We were at Aldie several days. General Hooker's headquarters were somewhere about Fairfax Court House, some ten or twelve miles distant, or to our rear. Between this cavalry outpost and the Army of the Potomac communication was kept up over one of the best of Virginia pikes. I think it must be a section of the National pike, leading to Winchester and the West; anyway, it is a good and a very straight road, running up and down the hills, so that it seems to be always in sight. I remember the road very distinctly, from an adventure with guerrillas over it.