My sword and revolver were taken at once by the Sergeant, who proved to be a rebel lieutenant in disguise, and who remarked, laughing as he took them:
“We closed up, Captain, as you directed; as this is a favorite beat of Mosby’s, I hope our drill was satisfactory.”
“All right, Sergeant. Every dog has his day, and yours happens to come now. Possibly my turn may come to-morrow.”
“Your turn to be hung,” he replied.
II
It was not long before I was ushered into the presence of John S. Mosby, Lieutenant-Colonel, C. S. A.
He stood a little apart from his men, by the side of a splendid gray horse, with his right hand grasping the bridle-rein and resting on the pommel of his saddle—a slight, medium-sized man, sharp of feature, quick of sight, lithe of limb, with a bronzed face of the color and tension of whip-cord. His hair, beard, and mustache were light brown in color. His large, well-shaped head showed a high forehead, deep-set gray eyes, a straight Grecian nose, a firm mouth, and large ears. His whole expression told of energy, hard service, and—love of whiskey. He wore top-boots, and a civilian’s overcoat, black, lined with red, and beneath it the complete gray uniform of a Confederate Lieutenant-Colonel, with its two stars on the side of the standing collar, and the whole surmounted by the inevitable slouched hat of the whole Southern race. His men were about half in blue and half in butternut.
Mosby, after taking my horse and quietly examining my papers, presently looked up with a peculiar gleam of satisfaction on his face.
“Ah, Captain B——! Inspector-General of ——’s Cavalry! Good-morning, Captain! Glad to see you, sir! Indeed, there is but one I would prefer to see this morning to yourself, and that is your commander. Were you present, sir, the other day at the hanging of eight of my men as guerillas at Front Royal?”
I answered him firmly, “I was present, sir; and, like you, have only to regret that it was not the commander instead of his unfortunate men.”