It was a piece of regular, obstinate, bloody, “bulldog” work. We knew, well as we thought of ourselves, that not the staunchest brigade of our veteran “incomparable” infantry, or battery of our canister-shooting artillery, could have fought better, stood better, or achieved more, for the success of the campaign. We felt that General Lee,—that the whole army,—“owed the cavalry one,” “several,” in fact. The army, even the infantry, had come to know the cavalry, at last. Obstinacy, toughness, dogged refusal to be driven, was their test of manhood, and this test the cavalry had signally, and brilliantly met. Everybody was satisfied, the cavalry would do, they were “all right.” We couldn’t praise them enough, we were proud of them. The remark was even suffered to pass, as nothing to his discredit particularly, that our “Magnus Apollo,” General Lee, himself, had once been in the cavalry, and no one resented it now. We knew that it was when he was younger than now. We, of the “Howitzers,” knew very well what arm of the service, and what corps of that arm, the experienced old General would join, if he was enlisting in the Army of Northern Virginia, now, when he knew more than he did. Still! he had been a cavalryman; admit it!
And we all admired the cavalry; honored the cavalry; shouted for the cavalry, from that time! Occasionally, from force of habit, the infantry (the artillery never) would fall from grace at sight of a passing cavalry column, and let fall little attentions, that sounded very like the old-time compliments, but they were not meant that way. It was the soldier-instinct to salute pilgrims. Just as, on a village street, if a dog, of any degree, starts to run, every other dog in sight, or hearing, tears off after him in pursuit, and if he can catch up, instantly attacks him,—not that he has anything against the fugitive, but, simply, because he is running by. The act of running past makes him the enemy of his kind. So, I think, the Confederate infantry assailed, with jokes and gibes, anybody in motion by their camp, or column. They had nothing against him; they attacked him because he was passing by. “It was their nature to.” Of all living men, General Lee, alone, was sacred to them in this. The cavalry always had their full share, and never suffered for want of notice.
This account of the false idea that prevailed, the fun that came of it, and the way it was dispelled, is part of the history of the time. It went to make up the life in the Army of Northern Virginia; it lives in the recollection of that good old time. No record of that old time would be complete without it. So I make no apology for falling into it, in this informal reminiscence.
At one o’clock on Sunday, the 8th of May, we reached the top of the hill near Spottsylvania Court House and suddenly came upon Stuart’s cavalry massed in the yard and field around a farmhouse. They had finished their splendid fight, the van of the army was on the spot to relieve them. They had been withdrawn from confronting the enemy, and were now drawn up here, preparatory to starting off, to overtake Sheridan’s raid toward Richmond; which they did, and, at “Yellow Tavern,” two days after, many of them, the immortal Stuart at their head, died and saved Richmond.
Greetings on the Field of Battle
I have lingered at that farmhouse gate, at the top of the hill, in this story, very much longer than we did in reality. In fact we didn’t linger there at all. Didn’t have a chance! For, the moment we came in sight, at that gate leading into the farmhouse, an officer came dashing out from amongst the troops of cavalry, and galloped across the field toward us. The instant this horseman got out of the crowd, we recognized him. That long waving feather, the long auburn beard, that easy, graceful seat on the swift horse,—that was “J. E. B.” Stuart, and nobody else! He rode up to the foremost group of us, and pulled up his horse. With bright, pleasant, smiling face, he returned our hearty salute with a touch of his hat, and a cheerful, “Good morning, boys! glad to see you. What troops are these?” “Richmond Howitzers, Longstreet’s Corps.” “Good! anybody else along?” “Infantry close behind.” “Good! Well, boys, I’m very glad to see you. I’ve got a little job for you, right now, all waiting for you.” Just then the Captain rode up and saluted. “Captain,” said the General, saluting pleasantly, “Draw our guns through the gate and stop. I’ll want you in ten minutes.” And, away he galloped, back toward the cavalry. The guns pulled in through the gate and halted as they were, on the road leading to the house, close by the cavalry.
We seized this sudden chance to see our old friends among the troopers. In every direction our fellows might be seen darting in among the horses, in search of our friends. Loud and hearty were the shouts of greeting as we recognized, or were seen by, those we sought or unexpectedly lighted on. Brothers, met and embraced. Friends greeted friends. Old schoolmates, who had, three years ago, parted at the schoolroom, locked eager, and loving hands, and asked after others, and told what they could. It was a delightful and touching scene, that meeting there on the edge of a bloody field! they coming out, we going in. There were jokes, and laughs, and cheerful words, but, the hand-clasps were very tight, the sudden uprising of tender feelings, at the sight of faces, and the sound of voices, we had not seen nor heard for years, and that we might see and hear no more. The memories of home, or school, and boyhood, suddenly brought back, by the faces linked with them, made the tears come, and the words very kind, and the tones very gentle.
I had several pleasant encounters. Among others, this: I heard a familiar voice sing out, “William Dame, my dear boy, what on earth are you doing here?” I eagerly turned, and in the figure hasting toward me with outstretched hand,—as soon as I could read between the lines of mud on him,—I recognized my dear old teacher, Jesse Jones. I loved him like an older brother, and was delighted to meet him. I had parted from him, that sad day, three years ago, when our school scattered to the war. I had seen him last, the quiet gentleman, the thoughtful teacher, the pale student, the pink of neatness. Here I find him a dashing officer of the Third Virginia Cavalry, girt with saber and pistols, covered with mud from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, and just resting from the bloody work of the last two days.
Just here, I had the great pleasure of falling in with my kinsman, and almost brother, Lieut. Robert Page, of the Third Virginia Cavalry, the older brother of my two comrades, and messmates, Carter and John Page. “Bob” was one of the “true blues” who had followed Stuart’s feather from the start, and was going to follow it to the bitter end. I remember how, at the very first, he rode off to the war, from his home, “Locust Grove,” in Cumberland County, Virginia, on his horse, “Goliath,” with his company, the Cumberland Troop. He had stuck to the front, been always up, and ever at his post, all the way through those three long, terrible years. He had deserved, and won his Lieutenancy, and commanded his regiment the last days of the war. He made an enviable record as a soldier for courage, faithfulness, and honor. None better! At Appomattox he was surrendered. And having been forced to cease making war on mankind with the saber, he mended his grip, and continued to make war, with a far deadlier weapon of destruction, the spatula.
All this was very pleasant, but it was very short. Time was up; ten minutes were out! We caught sight of General Stuart cantering across the field toward our guns, the bugle rang, and we tumbled out from amidst the cavalry, in short order, and took our posts around our respective guns.