We had gone perhaps fifty or seventy-five yards in this way, when I heard that dull, rumbling sound familiar to every old cavalryman, that told me we were in close vicinity of a large body of moving horses. Peering through the bushes in the direction of the sound, and without turning my head towards my men, I motioned them to stop. The rumbling noise grew louder and nearer. For a few seconds my little party were perfectly quiet, then Mike’s horse grew restless and began to move about. Watching intently in the direction of the approaching noise and without looking around, I again motioned Mike to keep quiet, but it did no good. I could hear him swearing vigorously in a low tone at the old “baste of a brute,” but it only seemed to make the horse worse; he not only continued to twist and turn about, but began to sneeze and stamp the ground. At that instant I saw the advance guard of the Federal column file around a bend in the road not two hundred yards below us. I could tell from the direction they were coming, that we were much nearer the road than I had supposed, and that they would pass dangerously close to where we were standing; at the same time Mike’s horse began to lunge around, snorting, sneezing, kicking and keeping up as much racket in the brush as a train of army wagons, while Mike himself was swearing by note and loud enough to be heard above it all.
“Here they come, Mike! In the devil’s name keep quiet or they’ll bag every mother’s son of us,” I said as I turned my face toward him to see what was the matter. A glance explained it all. The old horse, in twisting about, had knocked over a rotten stump and uncovered a yellow jackets’ nest, that held a half bushel, it looked to me, of the maddest jackets I had ever seen. They had sampled the legs of Mike’s horse several times, but when they began to swarm up and pop it to him on his thighs and sides, the old fellow could stand it no longer and bolted straight forward through the brush, kicking, snorting, squealing like a mustang, and inside of fifty yards of where we were standing jumped into the open road.
Mike and his steed were about the busiest pair just then I ever saw; the old horse was kicking, squealing, stamping, plunging and biting in his frantic efforts to get rid of his tormentors, while Mike was giving his whole time, and undivided attention, to swearing and sticking on. He made no effort to guide him, but by the luckiest chance on earth the horse turned up the road, instead of down towards the enemy.
It was evidently a startling apparition that thus suddenly appeared in the road in front of the Federal cavalry, for they came abruptly to a halt, and for a moment seemed undecided as to what it was, or what to do, for the old horse had his busiest end towards them and they could see, what must have appeared to them, a dozen or more horses’ tails flirting up and down, around and around in the air (for the old brute was swinging it vigorously and with lightning rapidity), and a countless number of heels and legs flying out of this cloud of horse hair in all directions. At the same time a shapeless bundle of something gray, was bouncing about on top, for Mike in his gymnastic exercise in holding on assumed many inconceivable attitudes, all of which were enveloped in a thin yellow cloud that certainly was not dust, and out of which came curses, groans, squeals, and snorts. The old horse did everything but lie down to rid himself of the torture. Finally he made up his mind to run, and such running—a streak of lightning would have been distanced at the rate he went. He looked as if he was literally flying and would only touch the earth at intervals long enough to sling his heels out in vicious kicks, first on one side and then the other. At this part of the performance Mike would bounce up a frightful distance, but always managed to come down on the neck, back, or side of his horse. I never in my life saw such running, and can truthfully say no circus ever gave a greater variety of styles in riding.
As soon as the horse stretched out into a run, and the enemy could see what it was in front of them, they unslung their carbines, fired a volley at Mike and a half dozen or them darted out at full speed after him. As they passed I heard one fellow call out:
“Look at the damned rebel how he rides, will you?” And a sergeant mounted on a big gray horse shouted:
“It’s Anderson himself, boys, come on!” and he drove the spurs in the sides of his horse.
They were too intent on catching, as they thought, the noted captain and expert rider in front of them, to notice us in the brush, but being quite familiar with their methods, I was satisfied they would at once throw out flankers to prevent an ambush, so I moved back promptly to a safe position, and after following and watching them for several miles, and getting all the information desired, finally locating them on the proper road, all of which I reported to the colonel from time to time by sending a man back, I rejoined the command myself just in time to take a part in the wind-up of a sharp little fight that was claimed a draw by both sides. We held the ground, but the enemy was drawing off in good order down the road they had advanced on. We lost some men and had killed and captured some of theirs. Amongst the latter I recognized the sergeant, on the big gray horse, who had been so intent that morning on capturing Mike, thinking it was Anderson. He was battered up a little, had caught a pistol ball in his bridle-arm and evidently from the cut on his head had been knocked off of his big gray in the skirmish by some of our fellows.
Mike and I were standing by while his wounds were being dressed by our surgeon. He happened to be a countryman of Mike’s, and with that never failing, but indescribable bond of sympathy that the gallant sons of the Emerald Isle always have for each other, it matters not under what sky or flag they meet, they were soon engaged in an animated, but amicable discussion as to the merits of the two respective armies. With the truthfulness of a saint depicted on his countenance, Mike made the most startling and exaggerated statement concerning the strength and resources of our troops, and turning toward Captain Anderson, who had just walked up, he said: “I’ll l’ave it to Cap’n Anderson if I’m not right.”
At the mention of Anderson’s name and rank, the prisoner turned quickly and with much curiosity expressed in his face, critically eyed, over and over, the light but sinewy figure of the noted captain and skillful rider. Anderson noticed that he was being closely scrutinized, but without knowing any special cause therefor, he nodded pleasantly at the captive trooper and remarked: “That was a pretty sharp rap some of our fellows gave you over your head, sergeant.”