Grant was right—he was always right—and Little Phil not only proved a thorough leader of the cavalry corps, but he demonstrated his ability to command an army in one of the most successful campaigns of the war.
“Where are our hosses?” demanded a Berkshire boy, who was one of the first to come up with the sergeant and two men left to guide us to the reserve, as stated in the last chapter.
“In the woods back up the turnpike about a mile.”
“This is a nice way to treat American soldiers!” exclaimed a corporal, who had left both his boots in the mud in the plowed field. “I can't run through blackberry brush barefooted!”
“I'm going to camp here till they bring back my horse and something to eat. I didn't enlist to caper around on foot in such a place as this,” said another.
I volunteered to take the sergeant's steed and go and see that the horses were sent to meet us, but at that moment there was heard the noise of the rebel cavalry coming in on our flank crashing through the bushes.
“You couldn't manage my horse—he's so fiery,” said the sergeant. “I can't hold him when he takes it into his head to go where the other horses are.”
Away went the sergeant and the two men who had been left with him, on a gallop up the road.
“Follow me!” shouted the sergeant, as he put spurs to his charger.
We followed.