When I awoke it was with a delightful sense of mind and body rested and restored. The wounded foot had ceased its pain. A gentle hand was bathing my face with cold water from the well, while another was straightening out the tangled locks which, to tell the truth, were somewhat unkempt and overgrown from enforced neglect. Two ladies full of sympathy for the youthful soldier were thus kindly ministering to his comfort. As soon as fully awake to his surroundings, he opened his eyes and turned them with what was meant for a look of gratitude upon the fair friends who seemed like visiting angels in that place of misery and death.

It was an incongruous picture that presented itself—a strange blending of the grewsome sights of war with the beautiful environments of peace. The wonted tranquility of this rural household had been rudely disturbed by the sudden clangor of arms. A terrible storm of battle—the more terrible because unforeseen—had broken in upon the quietude of their home. In the early hours of the morning it had raged all around them. At the first sound of its approach the terrified inmates fled to the cellar where they remained till it passed. They had come forth to find their house turned into a hospital.

The kindness of those ladies is something that the union trooper has never forgotten, for they flitted across his pathway, a transient vision of gentleness and mercy in that scene of carnage and suffering.

It was with a melancholy interest that I gazed upon the pallid face of my dead comrade of the First, who lay, a peaceful smile upon his features which were bathed in a flood of golden light, as the hot rays of the July sun penetrated the apartment. The man in the hall was also dead. Others of the wounded were lying on their improvised couches, as comfortable as they could be made.

In the afternoon the ambulance train arrived. The wounded were loaded therein, and started for Hagerstown, bidding farewell to those who remained on duty, and who had already received marching orders which would take them back into "Old Virginia."

The journey to Hagerstown was by way of Williamsport and the same pike we had marched over on the 6th of the month when Jewett was killed, and on the morning of the 14th when Weber was riding to "one more saber charge" at Falling Waters.

Nothing is more depressing than to pass over ground where a battle has recently been fought. Any veteran will say that he prefers the advance to the retreat—the front to the rear of an army. The true soldier would rather be on the skirmish-line than in the hospital or among the trains. Men who can face the cannon's mouth without flinching, shrink from the surgeon's knife and the amputating-table. The excitement, the noise, the bugle's note and beat of drum, the roar of artillery, the shriek of shell, the volley of musketry, the "zip" of bullet or "ping" of spent ball, the orderly movement of masses of men, the shouting of orders, the waving of battle-flags—all these things inflame the imagination, stir the blood, and stimulate men to heroic actions. Above all, the consciousness that the eyes of comrades are upon him, puts a man upon his mettle and upon his pride, and compels him oftentimes to simulate a contempt for danger which he does not feel. The senses are too, in some sort, deadened to the hazards of the scene and, in battle, one finds himself doing with resolute will things which under normal conditions would fill him with abhorrence.

Men fight from mingled motives. Pride, the fear of disgrace, ambition, the sense of duty—all contribute to keep the courage up to the sticking point. Few fight because they like it. The bravest are those who, fully alive to the danger, are possessed of that sublime moral heroism which sustains them in emergencies that daunt weaker men.

But, when the excitement is over, when the pomp and circumstance are eliminated, when the unnatural ardor has subsided, when the tumult and rush have passed, leaving behind only the dismal effects—the ruin and desolation, the mangled corpses of the killed, the saddening spectacle of the dying, the sufferings of the wounded—the bravest would, if he could, blot these things from his sight and from his memory.

The night in the field hospital at Falling Waters did more to put out the fires of my military spirit and to quench my martial ambition than did all the experiences of Hunterstown and Gettysburg, of Boonsborough and Williamsport. And, as the ambulance train laden with wounded wound its tortuous way through the theater of many a bloody recent rencounter, it set in motion a train of reflections which were by no means pleasing. The abandoned arms and accouterments; the debris of broken-down army wagons; the wrecks of caissons and gun-carriages; the bloated carcasses of once proud and sleek cavalry chargers; the mounds showing where the earth had been hastily shoveled over the forms of late companions-in-arms; everything was suggestive of the desolation, nothing of the glory, of war.

It was nearly dark when the long train of ambulances halted in the streets of Hagerstown. Some large buildings had been taken for hospitals and the wounded were being placed therein as the ambulances successively arrived. This consumed much time and, while waiting for the forward wagons to be unloaded, it occurred to me that it would be a nice thing to obtain quarters in a private house. Barnhart, first sergeant of the troop, who accompanied me, proposed to make inquiry at once, and ran up the stone steps of a comfortable-looking brick house opposite the ambulance and rang the bell. In a moment the door opened and a pleasant voice inquired what was wanted.

"A wounded officer in the ambulance yonder wants to know if you will take him in for a day or two until he can get ordered to Washington. He has funds to recompense you and does not like to go to the hospital."

"Certainly," replied the voice, "bring him in."

And Barnhart, taking me in his arms, carried me into the house and, guided to the second floor by the same lady who had met him at the door, deposited his burden on a couch in a well furnished apartment and we were bidden to make ourselves at home.

In a little while, a nice hot supper of tea, toast, eggs and beefsteak, enough for both, was brought to the room by our hospitable hostess, who seemed to take the greatest pleasure in serving her guests with her own hands. Later in the evening, she called with her husband and they formally introduced themselves. They were young married people with one child, a beautiful little girl of six or eight summers. He was a merchant and kept a store in an adjoining building. They spent the evening in the room, chatting of the stirring events of the month and, indeed, their experiences had been scarcely less exciting than our own. Hagerstown had been right in the whirl of the battle-storm which had been raging in Maryland. Both armies had passed through its streets and bivouacked in its environs. More than once the opposing forces had contended for possession of the town. Twice the union cavalry had charged in and driven the confederates out, and once had been forced, themselves, to vacate in a hurry. It was almost inside its limits that Captain Snyder, of the First Michigan cavalry, serving on Kilpatrick's staff, had with the saber fought single-handed five confederate horsemen and he was lying wounded mortally in a neighboring building. Our kind host and hostess entertained us until a late hour with interesting recitals of what they had seen from the inside or "between the lines."

That night after a refreshing bath, with head pillowed in down, I stowed myself away between snowy sheets for a dreamless sleep that lasted until the sun was high up in the eastern heavens. Barnhart was already astir and soon brought a surgeon to diagnose the case and decide what disposition should be made of the patient. Then the L—s and their little daughter came in with a cheery "good morning" and a steaming breakfast of coffee, cakes and other things fragrant enough and tempting enough to tickle the senses of an epicure. And, not content with providing the best of what the house afforded, Mr. L. brought in the choicest of cigars by the handful, insisting on my finding solace in the fumes of the fragrant weed.

"Do not be afraid to smoke in your room," said the sunny Mrs. L., "my husband smokes and I am not the least bit afraid that it will harm the furnishings."

I glanced with a deprecatory gesture at the lace curtains and other rich furniture of the room, as much as to say, "Could not think of it," and in fact, before lighting a cigar, I took a seat by the open window where I sat and puffed the blue smoke into the bluer atmosphere, beguiling the time the while, talking with these good friends about the war.

That was the very poetry of a soldier's life. For the better part of a week the two cavalrymen were the guests of that hospitable family who, at the last, declined to receive any remuneration for their kindness.

The journey to Washington was by rail. In the cars groups of interested citizens, and soldiers as well, questioned us eagerly for the latest news from the front, and our tongues were kept busy answering a steady fire of questions. No incident of the campaign was too trivial to find willing ears to listen when it was told. The operations of Kilpatrick's division seemed to be well known and there was much complimentary comment upon his energy and his dash. The name of Custer, "the boy general," was seemingly on every tongue and there was no disposition on our part to conceal the fact that we had been with them.

Arriving at the capital in the middle of the day, we were driven to the Washington house, at the corner of Pennsylvania avenue and Four-and-one-half street, where a room was engaged and preparations were made to remain until the surgeon would say it was safe to start for home.



The Washington house was a hotel of the second class but many nice people stopped there. Among the regular guests was Senator Henry Wilson, of Massachusetts, afterwards elected vice-president on the ticket with Grant. He was a very modest man, plain in dress and unassuming in manner. No one would have suspected from his bearing that he was a senator and from the great commonwealth of Massachusetts. The colleague of Charles Sumner, Henry Wilson was at that time one of the ablest, most widely-known and influential statesmen of his day. Conspicuous among the anti-slavery leaders of New England, his voice always had been heard in defense of human rights. His loyalty to the union was equaled only by his devotion to the interests of the soldiers. He lived a quiet, unostentatious life, at the hotel, where his well-known face and figure could be seen when the senate was not in session. He was a man of strong mentality, of sturdy frame and marked individuality. As chairman of the committee on military affairs he had been able to make himself extremely useful to the government in the prosecution of the war, and the soldiers found in him always a friend. He was very agreeable and companionable, and did not hold himself aloof from the common herd, as smaller men in his position might have done. He was seen often chatting with other guests of the house, when they were gathered in the parlors, after or awaiting meals. Once, I met him at an impromptu dancing party, and he entered into the amusement with the zest of youth.

A month in Washington, and a surgeon's certificate secured the necessary "leave" when, accompanied by Lieutenant C.E. Storrs of troop "B," who had been severely wounded in one of the engagements in Virginia, after Falling Waters, I started by the Pennsylvania line, for the old home in Michigan, stopping a couple of days, en route, at Altoona, to breathe the fresh mountain air.

Resuming the journey, we reached Pittsburg, to be met at the station by a committee stationed there for the purpose of looking out for the comfort of all soldiers who passed through the city, either going or coming. We were conducted to a commodious dining hall, where a free dinner, cooked and served by the fair hands of the patriotic ladies of the "Smoky City," was furnished. It was an experience which left in our minds a most grateful appreciation of the noble spirit that actuated the Northern women in war times.

It was scarce two-thirds of a year since, as schoolboys innocent of war, though wearing the union blue, we had gone forth to try our mettle as soldiers, and it needs not to be said that there was a warm welcome home for the veterans fresh from one of the most memorable military campaigns in all the history of the world. The greetings then and there received were ample compensation for all that we had done and dared and suffered. I can never forget how kind the people were; how they gathered at the railroad station; how cordially they grasped us by the hand; how solicitous they were for our comfort; how tenderly we were nursed back to health and strength; how fondly an affectionate mother hung upon every word as we told the story of the exploits of the boys in the field; how generously the neighbors dropped in to offer congratulations; how eagerly they inquired about absent friends; how earnestly they discussed the prospect of ultimate victory; how deep and abiding was their faith in the justice of the cause and in the ability of the government to maintain the union; and how determined that nothing must be held back that was needed to accomplish that result. For some days there was a regular levee beneath my father's roof and the good people of the town gave the union soldier much cause to remember them with gratitude as long as he lives.

Only in a single instance was anything said that seemed obnoxious to a nice sense of propriety, or that marred the harmony of an almost universally expressed sentiment of patriotic approval of what was doing to preserve the life of the nation—a sentiment in which partisanism or party politics cut no figure whatever. One caller had the bad taste to indulge in severe and unfriendly criticism of "Old Abe," as he called the president. That was going too far and I defended Mr. Lincoln against his animadversions with all the warmth, if not the eloquence, of the experienced advocate—certainly with the earnestness born of a sincere admiration for Abraham Lincoln and love of his noble traits of character, his single-hearted devotion to his country. I had seen him in Washington weighed down with a tremendous load of responsibility such as few men could have endured. I had noted as I grasped his hand the terrible strain under which he seemed to be suffering; the appearance of weariness which he brought with him to the interview; the pale, anxious cast of his countenance; the piteous, far-away look of his eyes; and by all these tokens he said, as plainly as if he had put it into words; "Love and solicitude for my country are slowly, but surely, wearing away my life." I saw shining through his homely features the spirit of one of the grandest, noblest, most lovable of the characters who have been brought by the exigencies of fate to the head of human affairs. The soldiers loved him and they idealized him. He was to them the personification of the union cause. The day for the discussion of abstract principles had long gone by. Their ideal had ceased to be an impersonal one. All the hope, the faith, the patriotism of the soldiers centered around the personality of the president. In their eyes and thoughts, he stood for the idea of nationality, as Luther stood for religious liberty, Cromwell for parliamentary privilege, or Washington for colonial independence. To blame him, was to censure the boys in blue and the cause for which they fought. No man whose heart was not wholly with the Northern armies in the struggle, could rise to an appreciation of the character of Lincoln.

But the great heart of the North never ceased to beat in harmony with the music of the union. The exceptions to the rule were so rare as to scarcely merit notice. The "copperheads" and "knights of the golden circle" will hardly cut so much of a figure in history as do the tories of the Revolution.

On the 11th day of October, 1863, after an absence of three months duration, during which time I had been commissioned major to fill the vacancy caused by the death of Weber, I took passage at Washington on a ramshackle train over the Orange and Alexandria railroad to go to the front again. Storrs, whose wound had healed, joined me and we made the journey together.

The train reached Bealton Station, north of the Rappahannock river, a little before dark. The harbingers of a retreating army were beginning to troop in from the front. The army of the Potomac was falling back toward the fastnesses of Centerville, the army of Northern Virginia in close pursuit. Meade, who in July was chasing Lee across the Potomac back into Virginia, was himself now being hurried by Lee over the Rappahannock. The tables had been completely turned. The pursued had become the pursuer.

As usual, the flanking process had been resorted to. Using his cavalry as a screen, Lee was attempting to maneuver his infantry around Meade's right and, after the manner of Stonewall Jackson in the Second Bull Run campaign of 1862, interpose between the federal army and Washington.

Thanks to the vigilance of his outposts, the union commander detected the movement in time, and was able to thwart the strategy of his able adversary. Keeping his army well in hand, he retreated to Bull Run, Fairfax and Centerville.

While this was going on, there was a series of spirited encounters between the union and confederate cavalry, commanded by Pleasonton and Stuart, respectively—the former bringing up the rear, and covering the retreat, the latter bold and aggressive as was his wont.

These affairs, which began on the 9th, culminated on the 11th in one of the most exciting, if not brilliant, engagements of the war, Kilpatrick taking a prominent part, second only to that performed by the heroic John Buford and his First cavalry division.

When the movement began, on the evening of the 9th, Fitzhugh Lee was left to hold the line along the south bank of the Rapidan river, Buford's cavalry division confronting him on the north side. Stuart, with Hampton's division of three brigades, Hampton being still disabled from the wounds received at Gettysburg, spent the 10th swarming on the right flank of the confederate army, in the country between Madison Court House and Woodville on the Sperryville pike. Kilpatrick was in the vicinity of Culpeper Court House. Stuart succeeded not only in veiling the movements of the confederate army completely, but on the morning of the 11th, found time to concentrate his forces and attack Kilpatrick at Culpeper. Buford crossed the Rapidan to make a reconnoissance, and encountering Fitzhugh Lee, recrossed at Raccoon Ford, closely followed by the latter. The pursuit was kept up through Stevensburg, Buford retreating toward Brandy Station.

When Stuart heard Fitzhugh Lee's guns, he withdrew from Kilpatrick's front and started across country, intending to head off the federal cavalry and reach Fleetwood, the high ground near the Brandy Station, in advance of both Buford and Kilpatrick. The latter, however, soon discovered what Stuart was trying to do, and then began a horse race of three converging columns toward Brandy Station, Stuart on the left, Buford followed by Fitzhugh Lee on the right, and Kilpatrick in the center. Buford was in first and took possession of Fleetwood. Rosser with one of Lee's brigades, formed facing Buford, so that when the head of Kilpatrick's column approached, Rosser was across its path, but fronting in the direction opposite to that from which it was coming. Kilpatrick, beset on both flanks and in rear, and seeing a force of the enemy in front also, and ignorant of Buford's whereabouts, formed his leading regiments and proceeded to charge through to where Buford was getting into position. This charge was led by Pleasonton, Custer and Kilpatrick, in person. Rosser, seeing what was coming, and caught between two fires, dextrously withdrew to one side, and when the rear of Kilpatrick's division was opposite to him, charged it on one flank while Stuart assaulted it on the other, and there was a general melee, in which each side performed prodigies of valor and inflicted severe damage on the other. The First and Fifth Michigan regiments were with the advance, while the Sixth and Seventh helped to bring up the rear.

The rear of the column had the worst of it and was very roughly handled. The two divisions having united, Pleasonton took command and, bringing his artillery hurriedly into position, soon had Stuart whipped to a standstill.

All the fighting in this battle was done on horseback, and no more daring work was done by either side, on any of the battle fields of the war, than was seen at Brandy Station. Those who were in it, describe it as the most stirring and picturesque scene that they ever witnessed; especially when the three long columns, one of blue and two of gray, were racing on converging lines toward the objective point on Fleetwood hill. It must have been a pretty picture: Buford hurrying into line to face to the rear; the federal batteries unlimbering and going into position to resist the coming attack; Rosser galloping front into line, to find himself attacked front and rear; Kilpatrick, with Rosser in his front, Fitzhugh Lee and Stuart on his flanks; detachments breaking out of the confederate columns to attack the flanks and rear of Kilpatrick's flying division; federal regiments halting and facing toward the points of the compass whence these attacks came; then falling back to new positions, stubbornly contesting every inch of ground; the fluttering of guidons and battle-flags, the flash of sabers and puffs of pistol shots—altogether a most brilliant spectacle.

Stuart was kept at bay until after nightfall, when Pleasonton withdrew in safety across the river.

It has been claimed that Brandy Station was the greatest cavalry engagement of the war. Sheridan, who was then still in the west, and consequently not "there" awards that honor to Yellow Tavern, fought the following season. Doubtless he was right, for the latter was a well planned battle in which all the movements were controlled by a single will. But most of the fighting at Yellow Tavern was done on foot, though Custer's mounted charge at the critical moment, won the day. Brandy Station was a battle in which all the troopers were kept in the saddle. It was, however, a battle with no plan, though it is conceded that Pleasonton handled his command with much skill after the two divisions had united. His artillery was particularly effective. Captain Don G. Lovell, of the Sixth Michigan, the senior officer present with the regiment, greatly distinguished himself in the difficult duty of guarding the rear, meeting emergencies as they arose with the characteristic courage and coolness which distinguished him on all occasions on the field of battle.

The battle ended about the time our train reached Bealton, so Storrs and I missed the opportunity of taking part in one of the most memorable contests of the civil war.

After a night on the platform of the railroad station, we started at dawn to find the brigade. From wounded stragglers the salient events of the previous day were learned and the inference drawn from the information which they were able to give was that the cavalry must be encamped somewhere not far away. All agreed that it was having a lively experience. Everything, however, was at sixes and sevens and it was only after a long and toilsome search, that the regimental quartermaster was located among the trains. My horse, equipments and arms had disappeared, but fortunately Storrs found his outfit intact and, having two mounts, he loaned me one. Selecting from the quartermaster's surplus supplies a government saber, revolver and belt, thus equipped and mounted on Storrs's horse, I rode in search of the regiment, which we ascertained to be in camp in the woods, some distance away from the trains.

When at last found, it proved to be a sorry looking regiment, but a wreck and remnant of its former self. With two troops ("I" and "M") absent on detached service in the Shenandoah valley, the Sixth Michigan started in the Gettysburg campaign, June 21, with between 500 and 600 troopers in the saddle. When Storrs and I rode into that silvan camp, on that bright October morning, there were less than 100 men "present for duty" including not a single field officer. Many of the troops were commanded by lieutenants, some of them by sergeants, and one had neither officer nor non-commissioned officer. They had been fighting, marching and countermarching for months, and had a jaded, dejected appearance, not pleasant to look upon, and very far removed indeed from the buoyant and hopeful air with which they entered upon the campaign. At one point, during the retreat of the day before, it had been necessary to leap the horses over a difficult ditch. Many of them fell into it, and the riders were overtaken by the enemy's horse before they could be extricated. Among these was Hobart, sergeant major, who was taken to Libby prison, where he remained until the next year, when he was exchanged.



The next thing, was to report to General Custer for duty. It was my first personal interview with the great cavalryman. He was at his headquarters, in the woods, taking life in as light-hearted a way as though he had not just come out of a fight, and did not expect others to come right along. He acted like a man who made a business of his profession; who went about the work of fighting battles and winning victories, as a railroad superintendent goes about the business of running trains. When in action, his whole mind was concentrated on the duty and responsibility of the moment; in camp, he was genial and companionable, blithe as a boy. Indeed he was a boy in years, though a man in courage and in discretion.

After drawing rations and forage, the march was resumed and, little of incident that was important intervening, on the 14th the division was encamped on the north side of Bull Run, near the Gainesville or Warrenton turnpike, where we remained undisturbed until the evening of the 18th, when the forward movement began which culminated on the 19th in the battle of Buckland Mills, which will be the theme of the next chapter.



CHAPTER XIV

THE BATTLE OF BUCKLAND MILLS

Buckland Mills was, in some sort, a sequel to Brandy Station. The latter battle was a brilliant passage at arms, in which neither side obtained a decisive advantage. Kilpatrick was still pugnacious and both willing and anxious to meet Stuart again. That his mind was full of the subject was evinced by a remark he was heard to make one morning at his headquarters on the Bull Run battle ground. He was quartered in a house, his host a Virginian too old to be in the army, and who remained at home to look after the property. It was a clear day, and when the general came out on the porch, the old gentleman accosted him with a cheery:

"A fine day, general!"

"Yes, a—fine day for a fight;" was the instant reply.

In most men this would have sounded like gasconade. In Kilpatrick's case, it was not so considered. He was credited with plenty of pluck, and it was well understood that he was no sooner out of one action, than he was planning to get into another. He ran into one, a day or two later, which furnished him all the entertainment of that kind that he wanted, and more too.

Reconnoissances across Bull Run on the Gainesville road disclosed a considerable force of mounted confederates. When their pickets were driven in by the Sixth Michigan on the 15th and again by the First Michigan on the 16th strong reserves were revealed. As a matter of fact, Stuart was at Buckland Mills with Hampton's division, and Fitzhugh Lee was at or near Auburn, but a few miles away. They had their heads together and devised a trap for Kilpatrick, into which he rode with his eyes shut.

Sunday evening, October 18, the Third division moved out across Bull Run, Kilpatrick in command, Custer's brigade leading, Davies[16] with the First brigade bringing up the rear. Stuart's cavalry was attacked and driven rapidly until dark by the First Vermont cavalry[17] under Lieutenant Colonel Addison W. Preston, acting as advance guard. Early on Monday morning, October 19, the march was resumed, the Sixth Michigan in advance.

About midway between Bull Run and Broad Run the confederate rear guard, a regiment of Young's brigade of Hampton's division, was encountered which fell back before the advance of the Sixth Michigan making but slight resistance and retreating across Broad Run, where it was found that Stuart had taken up a strong position, forming the three brigades of Gordon, Rosser and Young in line on the opposite side, as if to contest the crossing.

The stream was deep and difficult, spanned at the pike by a stone bridge. Its banks were wooded. Stuart stationed a piece of artillery on the high ground so as to command the bridge and its approaches. A portion of the regiment was dismounted and advanced to engage the dismounted confederates across the stream. Captain George R. Maxwell of the First Michigan, whose regiment was at the time in the rear, rode up and asked permission to take a carbine and go on foot with the men of the Sixth who were in front. The permission was granted and, giving his horse into the charge of an orderly, he was in a few moments justifying his already well established reputation as a man of courage, by fighting like an enlisted man, on the skirmish line of a regiment not his own, thus voluntarily exceeding any requirements of duty.

Custer rode up with his staff and escort, and halted in the road, making a conspicuous group. Stuart's cannoneers planted a shell right in their midst, which caused a lively scattering, as they had no desire to be made targets of for that kind of artillery practice. Fortunately no one was killed.

Custer then brought up his entire command and formed a line of battle, the Sixth Michigan in the center across the pike, the Fifth Michigan on the right, the Seventh Michigan on the left, the First Michigan and First Vermont in reserve, mounted. After a somewhat stubborn resistance. Stuart apparently reluctantly withdrew, permitting Custer to cross though he could have held the position easily against ten times his number whereas, as the sequel proved, he greatly outnumbered Kilpatrick. The Seventh crossed at a ford about a mile below, the other regiments at the bridge. Stuart retreated toward Warrenton. It was then about noon, perhaps a little later than that. Kilpatrick came up and ordered Custer to draw in his skirmishers and allow Davies to pass him and take the advance. Custer massed his command on some level ground, behind a hill, beyond the bridge, and adjacent to the stream. Davies crossed the bridge, passed the Michigan brigade, and took up the pursuit of Stuart. Kilpatrick, with his staff, followed along the pike in rear of Davies's brigade. As he was moving off, Kilpatrick directed Custer to follow the First brigade and bring up the rear.

This was the very thing that Stuart was waiting for. It had been arranged between him and Fitzhugh Lee that he, with his three brigades,[18] was to fall back without resistance before the two brigades of the Third division, until they were drawn well away from the bridge, when Lee, who was coming up from Auburn through the woods to the left, with the brigades of Lomax, Chambliss and Wickham and Breathed's battery would swing in across the pike, cut Kilpatrick off from the bridge, and then, at the first sound of Lee's guns, Kilpatrick was to be attacked simultaneously by Stuart in front and by Lee in rear, and thoroughly whipped.

It was a very pretty bit of strategy and came very near being successful. The plan was neatly frustrated by one of those apparent accidents of war which make or unmake men, according as they are favorable or unfavorable.

Custer respectfully but firmly demurred to moving until his men could have their breakfast—rather their dinner, for the forenoon was already spent. Neither men nor horses had had anything to eat since the night before, and he urged that the horses should have a feed and the men have an opportunity to make coffee before they were required to go farther.

Custer was a fighting man, through and through, but wary and wily as brave. There was in him an indescribable something—call it caution, call it sagacity, call it the real military instinct—it may have been genius—by whatever name entitled, it nearly always impelled him to do intuitively the right thing. In this case it seemed obstinacy, if not insubordination. It was characteristic of him to care studiously for the comfort of his men. And he did not believe in wasting their lives. It is more than probable that there was in his mind a suspicion of the true state of things. If so, he did not say so, even to the general commanding the division. He kept his own counsel and had his way. The delay was finally sanctioned by Kilpatrick, and the brigade remained on the bank feeding their horses and making coffee, Davies meanwhile advancing cautiously on the Warrenton road to a point within about two or three miles of Warrenton. Stuart made slight if any attempt to resist his progress.

The Gainesville-Warrenton pike, after crossing Broad Run, is bounded on both sides by cleared farm lands, fringed about one-third of a mile back by woods. From the place of Custer's halt it was not more than 500 or 600 yards to these woods. The road runs in a westerly direction and the brigade was on the south side of it.

There is very little of record from which to determine the time consumed by Custer's halt. It is a peculiar circumstance that not a single report of this battle made by a regimental commander in Custer's brigade appears in the official war records. A similar omission has been noted in the battle of Gettysburg. Custer made a report and so did Kilpatrick and Davies, but they are all deficient in details. There is no hint in any of them as to the duration of the delay. The confederate chronicles are much more complete. From them it would appear that the stop was made about noon and that the real battle began at 3:30 in the afternoon. Memory is at fault on this point for the reason that after coffee and while the horses were feeding I lay down upon the ground and fell asleep. Before that some of the men had gone into the adjacent fields in search of long forage. It was understood that the Seventh Michigan after crossing at the lower ford was scouting through the country toward Greenwich and there was no hint or suspicion that an enemy could approach from that direction without being discovered by this scouting party.

Finally Custer was ready to move. Awakened by a staff officer I was directed to report to the general.

"Major," said he, "take position with your regiment about 500 yards toward those woods remain there until the command is in column on the pike, then follow and bring up the rear."

The order was given with a caution to be careful, as the Seventh Michigan had been scouting near Greenwich and might be expected to come in from that direction. Greenwich is almost due south from Buckland Mills, whereas Auburn, from which place Fitzhugh Lee was approaching, lay considerably west of south.

The movement of the two commands began simultaneously. The Fifth Michigan, Pennington's battery, the First Michigan and First Vermont, with Custer and his staff leading, were in a few moments marching briskly in column on the Warrenton pike, which was not very far away from the starting point. The Sixth Michigan meantime proceeded in column of fours toward the place designated by General Custer, close up to the woods. Nothing had been seen or heard of Davies for some time. Everything was quiet. Nothing could be heard except the tramp of the horses' feet and the rumble of the wheels of Pennington's gun carriages, growing more and more indistinct as the distance increased.



The Sixth had gone about 250 or 300 yards and was approaching a fence which divided the farm into fields, when Captain Don G. Lovell, who was riding by the side of the commanding officer of the regiment,[19] suddenly cried out:

"Major, there is a mounted man in the edge of the woods yonder," at the same time pointing to a place directly in front and about 200 yards beyond the fence.

Captain Lovell was one of the most dashing and intrepid officers in the brigade. He was always cool and never carried away with excitement under any circumstances. It is perhaps doubtful whether he could have maintained his customary imperturbability, if he had realized, at the moment, just what that lone picket portended.

A glance in the direction indicated, revealed the truth of Captain Lovell's declaration but, recalling what General Custer had said, I replied:

"The general said we might expect some mounted men of the Seventh from that direction."

"But that vidette is a rebel," retorted Lovell, "he is dressed in gray."

"It can't be possible," was the insistent reply, and the column kept on moving.

Just then, the man in the woods began to ride his horse in a circle.

"Look at that," said Lovell; "that is a rebel signal; our men don't do that."

The truth of the inference was too evident to be disputed. Things were beginning to look suspicious, and in another instant all doubt, if any remained, was set at rest. The horseman, after circling about a time or two, brought his horse to a standstill facing in the direction from which we were approaching. There was a puff of smoke from the muzzle of his revolver or carbine, and a bullet whizzed by and buried itself in the breast of one of the horses in the first set of fours.

"There,—it," exclaimed Lovell. "Now you know it is a rebel, don't you?"

The information was too reliable not to be convincing, and the regiment was promptly brought front into line, which had hardly been accomplished, when shots began to come from other points in the woods, and no further demonstration was needed that they were full of confederates.

The fence was close at hand, and the command to dismount to fight on foot was given. The Sixth deployed along the fence and the Spencers began to bark. The horses were sent back a short distance, under cover of a reverse slope. The acting adjutant was dispatched to overtake Custer and report to him that we were confronted by a large force of confederates and had been attacked. Before he had started, the confederates displayed a line of dismounted skirmishers that extended far beyond both flanks of the regiment and a swarm of them in front. A Michigan regiment, behind a fence, and armed with Spencer carbines, was a dangerous antagonist to grapple with by a direct front assault, and Fitzhugh Lee's men were not eager to advance across the open field, but hugged the woods, waiting for their friends on the right and left to get around our flanks, which there was imminent danger of their doing, before relief could come. It did not, however, take Custer long to act. Putting the Fifth Michigan in on the right of the Sixth, he brought back Pennington's battery, and stationed the First Vermont mounted to protect the left flank, holding the First Michigan mounted in reserve to support the battery and to reinforce any weak point, and proceeded to put up one of the gamiest fights against odds, seen in the war. Opposed to Custer's five regiments and one battery, Fitzhugh Lee had twelve regiments of cavalry, three brigades under Lomax, Owen and Chambliss and as good a battery—Breathed's—as was in the confederate service.

Before the dispositions described in the foregoing had been completed, Breathed's battery, which had been masked in the woods to the right and front of the position occupied by the Sixth Michigan, opened fire with shell. But Pennington came into position with a rush, and unlimbering two pieces, in less time than it takes to tell it, silenced the confederate artillery, firing over the heads of the Sixth Michigan skirmishers. Fitzhugh Lee pressed forward his dismounted line, following it closely with mounted cavalry, and made a desperate effort to cut off Custer's line of retreat by the bridge. This he was unable to do. The Sixth held on to the fence until the confederates were almost to it, and until ordered by Custer to retire, when they fell back slowly, and mounting their horses, crossed the bridge leisurely, without hurry or flurry, the battery and the other regiments, except the First and Fifth Michigan, preceding it. The First Michigan brought up the rear.

Fitzhugh Lee was completely foiled in his effort to get in Custer's rear, or to break up his flanks. Unfortunately, a portion of one battalion of the Fifth Michigan, about fifty men, under command of Major John Clark, with Captain Lee and Adjutant George Barse was captured. Being dismounted in the woods on the right, they were not able to reach their horses before being intercepted by the enemy's mounted men.

Custer, on the whole, was very fortunate and had reason to congratulate himself on escaping with so little damage. Davies did not fare so well. When Kilpatrick found that Custer was attacked, he sent orders to Davies to retreat. But the sound of firing which gave this notice to Kilpatrick was also the prearranged signal for Stuart, and that officer immediately turned on Davies with his entire division, and Davies though he put up a stout resistance had no alternative finally but to take to the woods on the north side of the pike and escape, "every man for himself." Fitzhugh Lee was between him and the bridge, he was hemmed in on three sides, and in order to escape, his men had to plunge in and swim their horses across Broad Run. The Fifth Michigan, except Major Clark's command, escaped in the same way. The wagons, which followed Davies, including Custer's headquarters wagon containing all his papers, were captured.

At first blush, it may appear that, if the vidette who fired the first shot, thus divulging the fact of the enemy's presence, had not done so, the Sixth Michigan would have gone on and marched right into Fitzhugh Lee's arms. It is not likely, however, that such would have been the result. Captain Lovell had already seen and called attention to the picket, declaring that he was a "rebel." The obvious course, under the circumstances, before taking down the fence and advancing to the woods, would have been to deploy a skirmish line and feel of the woods instead of blundering blindly into them.

Fitzhugh Lee made a mistake in halting to dismount. He should have charged the Sixth Michigan. Had he charged at once mounted as Rosser did in the Wilderness, with his overwhelmingly superior force at the moment of his arrival he must certainly have interposed between Custer and the bridge. He allowed one regiment to detain his division until Custer could bring back his brigade, and get his regiments into position to support each other.

Major H.B. McClellan, Stuart's adjutant general, commenting in his book[20] on this battle, says that "Custer was a hard fighter, even on a retreat." He also says:

"Fitzhugh Lee had come up from Auburn expecting to gain, unopposed, the rear of Kilpatrick's division, but he found Custer's brigade at Broad Run ready to oppose him. A fierce fight ensued."

Major McClellan also quotes Major P.P. Johnston, who commanded a section of Breathed's battery in the fight, as saying:

"My battery was hotly engaged. The battle was of the most obstinate character, Fitz. Lee exerting himself to the utmost to push the enemy, and Custer seeming to have no thought of retiring."

The battle was opened by Wickham's brigade of Virginians commanded by Colonel T.H. Owen of the Third Virginia cavalry. It was the First, Second and Third Virginia that led the advance. Pennington gave Breathed's battery much the worst of it.

The truth is that Fitz. Lee did not find Custer ready to oppose him, though it did not take him long to get ready, after he was attacked. Custer with most of his command was well on his way to follow Kilpatrick. Only one regiment was left behind, and that one regiment—the Sixth Michigan cavalry—was taken entirely by surprise when fired upon by the vidette, and was all that Colonel Owen had in front of him when he arrived and began the attack. It is possible that ignorance of what it was facing helped the Sixth Michigan to hold on till Custer could be notified and brought back. And again, it is possible that Custer was marching more slowly than the writer wots of; that he suspected the ruse which was being played by his old West Point instructor,[21] and sent the regiment out there for the express purpose of developing the enemy, if enemy there was, making a feint of moving away so as to deceive, but keeping an ear to windward to catch the first sound of danger. It has always seemed to the writer that General Custer must have had a motive which did not appear on the surface, in giving that order. His order was to go 500 yards. Five hundred yards would have brought us to the woods. If he suspected that there might be an enemy there, no surer way to find out whether his suspicions were well founded or not could have been chosen. One thing is certain. He was back in an incredibly short space of time. It may be that he heard the sound of firing and was on his way when the adjutant found him.

Fitzhugh Lee followed Custer half way to Gainesville and then withdrew. Near that place was found a line of federal infantry sent out to support the cavalry, but it did not advance far enough to get into the fight.

That night, Kilpatrick invited all the officers of the division to his headquarters and made a sorry attempt at merry-making over the events of the day. There were milk-punch and music, both of very good quality, but the punch, palatable as it undeniably was, did not serve to take away the bad taste left by the affair, especially among the officers of the First brigade. Custer's men did not feel so badly. They had saved their bacon and their battery, and the wariness, prudence and pluck of their young commander had prevented a much more serious disaster than had actually happened.

It may be of interest enough to mention that Fitz. Lee told the writer, in Yorktown, in 1881, that Stuart was at fault in stopping to fight at Buckland Mills; that, under the arrangement with him (Lee) Stuart should have fallen back very rapidly, without making any resistance whatever, until he had lured Kilpatrick with his entire division some distance beyond the bridge. In that event, General Lee would have found the opportunity he was seeking. But he did not know about Custer's action in insisting on stopping there. He was much surprised when informed of the true state of things, since he had felt that Stuart was blameworthy in the matter. He had supposed that it was Stuart's resistance to the federal advance which kept Custer's brigade back until his arrival, and foiled his well planned attempt.



CHAPTER XV

WINTER QUARTERS IN STEVENSBURG

In the month of November, 1863, the army of the Potomac recrossed the Rappahannock and the army of Northern Virginia retired behind the Rapidan. General Meade took up the line through Culpeper, placing the Third division on the left flank with headquarters at Stevensburg.

The advance into Stevensburg was stoutly contested by Hampton's division, and the confederate cavalry showed that it had not lost any of its fighting qualities, if its dash and spirit had been somewhat dampened by the sturdy resistance put up in the recent campaign by the federal troopers led by Pleasonton, Buford, Gregg, Kilpatrick and Custer.

At the time of the "Mine Run" affair, the Michigan cavalry crossed the Rapidan at Morton's Ford and attacked Ewell's infantry, falling back after dark to the old position on the north side of the river.

After that episode, the army went into winter quarters. The three generals—Kilpatrick, Custer and Davies—had quarters in houses, the rest for the most part lived in tents or huts. The Sixth was hutted in temporary structures built of logs surmounted by tents. They were fitted with doors, chimneys and fireplaces—some of them with sashes and glass and were very comfortable. The winter was a very cold one. There was some snow, even in Virginia, and the first day of January, 1864, is still remembered as noteworthy for its extremely low temperature throughout the country.

While in this camp the Michigan regiments had a visit from Jacob M. Howard, the colleague of Zachariah Chandler in the United States senate. He was one of the ablest men who ever represented the state in the national congress. He had served with high distinction as attorney general of the state before being elected to the senate. As chairman of the senate committee on Pacific railroads, he had much to do with piloting the country through the many difficulties which stood in the way of the accomplishment of the great enterprise of laying tracks for the iron horse across the American desert—spanning the continent with railroads—and reducing the journey from the Missouri river to the Pacific ocean from one of months to one of days—the most important of the achievements that followed close on the heels of the civil war. The senator made a patriotic speech to the soldiers and was cordially cheered.

The cavalry picket line was twenty-five miles long, and it was no child's play to serve as field officer of the day, when every picket post and every vidette had to be visited at least once each twenty-four hours. The outer line was along the Rapidan river. The confederate pickets on the other side were infantry. The union pickets were mounted and the duty was very wearing on both men and horses. Stuart's cavalry performed comparatively but little picket duty, and was kept back in comfortable quarters, recruiting and fitting for the coming spring campaign.

During the winter there was very little firing between the pickets. There was a sort of tacit understanding that they were not to molest each other. Indeed, officers could ride along the line without fear of being shot at. When on inspection duty, they at times rode down to the bank and conversed with the enemy on the other side. The pickets were suspected of crossing and recrossing and exchanging civilities—trading tobacco for papers and the like. The word of honor would be given to allow the federal or confederate, as the case might be, to return in safety and it was never violated when given. These visits were always in the daytime, of course, for at night vigilance was never relaxed, and a vidette was not supposed to know anybody or permit even his own officers to approach without the proper countersign.

Life in winter quarters was at best dull and it relieved the monotony to go on picket. The detail as field officer of the day was welcomed, although it necessitated a ride of forty or fifty miles and continuous activity for the entire of the tour of duty, both night and day. On these rides I made the acquaintance of a number of Virginia families, who lived near the river and within our lines. Of these I can now recall but two. On the banks of the Rapidan, directly in front of Stevensburg, lived a man named Stringfellow, who owned a large plantation, which had been despoiled of everything of value, except the house and a few outbuildings. Every fence was gone, and not a spear of anything had been permitted to grow. Mr. Stringfellow was a tall man, with gray hair, and clerical in garb and aspect. He was, in fact, a clergyman, and the degree of doctor of divinity had been conferred upon him—a thing that in those days meant something. Degrees, like brevets, were not so easily obtained before the civil war period as they have been since.

Mr. Stringfellow was a gentleman of culture, a scholar and profound student of Biblical literature. He had written a book, a copy of which was to be seen in his house, in which he had demonstrated, to his own satisfaction, at least, that the "institution of slavery" was of divine origin. It was said that he was a brother of the Stringfellow who became so notorious during the Kansas troubles, as a leader of the "border ruffians," who tried to force slavery into that territory, before the breaking out of hostilities between the states. Living at home with this Virginia doctor of divinity, was a married daughter, whose husband was an officer in the confederate army. They were people of the old school, cultured, refined, and hospitable, though hard put to it to show any substantial evidences of their innate hospitality, on account of their impoverished condition, which they seemed to feel keenly, but were too proud to mention, except when driven to it by sheer necessity. The federal cavalrymen were always welcome in that house and the officers in many instances were very kind to them. Indeed, I suspect that more than once they were spared the pangs of hunger by the thoughtful kindness of officers who had found shelter in their home and had broken bread at their table, only to suspect that the family larder had been stripped of the last morsel, in order to keep up the reputation for Virginia hospitality.

About five miles farther down the river, in a lonely spot, where a small tributary of the Rapidan tumbled down a decline, was a water-power on which was a rude sawmill, where a single old-fashioned "sash saw" chewed its way lazily through hardwood logs. The mill was tended by its owner who, with his wife, lived in a house hard by the mill, the only occupants of the dwelling and the only inhabitants of the immediate neighborhood. They led a lonely life, and when its monotony was broken by the arrival of the officer of the day upon his tour of duty, extended a quiet, but what appeared to be a not over cordial welcome. The man was a dwarf. He was so low in stature that when he stood, his head came just above the top of the dining room table. His diminutive stature was due to a strange malformation. His legs looked as if they had been driven up into his body, so that there was little left but the feet. Otherwise, he was like another, with well formed head and trunk. His wife was a comely lady both in form and in feature, rather above than below medium height. Both were intelligent and well read, pleasant people to visit with; but when this man, with the head and trunk of an adult, the stature of a child and, to all intents and purposes, no legs at all, toddled across the floor the effect was queer and, taken in connection with his somewhat solitary environment, it suggested a scene from the "Black Dwarf." But when one was seated as a guest of these good people at their hospitable board his physical deformity was lost sight of in the zest of his conversation.

The winter of 1863-64 was one of hard work for the federal cavalry. In addition to their other duties, the Michigan regiments were required to change their tactical formation and learn a new drill. Up to that time, Philip St. George Cooke's single rank cavalry tactics had been used. The tactical unit was the set of fours and all movements were executed by wheeling these units. There was but one rank. For some reason, it was decided to substitute the old United States cavalry tactics and form in double ranks. The utility of the change was, to say the least, an open question, and it necessitated many weeks of hard and unremitting toil on the part of both officers and men. There was little time for rest or recreation. Long and tiresome drills and "schools of instruction" made up the daily routine. In one respect, however, these drills of troop, regiment and brigade were a good thing. Many hundreds of new recruits were sent on from Michigan and, being put in with the old men, they were worked into good soldiers before the campaign opened, and proved to be as reliable and efficient as the veterans with whom they were associated. The Sixth Michigan received over two hundred of these recruits at one time. They were fine soldiers and on the march from the Wilderness to the James, no inspecting officer could have picked out the recruits of 1863-64 from those who enlisted in 1862.

At division and brigade headquarters alone was there time for play. Generals Custer and Kilpatrick had a race course where they used to devote some time to the sport of horse racing. There were in the division a number of blooded and speedy animals, and not a little friendly rivalry was developed in the various commands when the merits of their respective favorites were to be tested on the turf.

It was while at Stevensburg that General Custer obtained leave of absence and went home to Michigan to claim his bride. He was married in February, 1864, to Miss Elizabeth B. Bacon, daughter of Judge Bacon, of Monroe, Michigan. Mrs. Custer accompanied him when he came back and from that time on till the end of the war, whenever the exigencies of the service would permit, she was by his side. He was then but two months past twenty-four years of age, though he had already achieved fame as a cavalry officer and general of brigade. He was the youngest officer of his rank who won any great measure of success. Kilpatrick was more than three years his senior, although both were graduated from West Point in 1861.

Some time after the beginning of the year 1864, there began to be rumors of some daring expedition that was on foot, to be led by the dashing general commanding the division. It was about the middle of February, when a number of statesmen of national prominence came to Stevensburg, and it did not take a prophet to tell that something of unusual importance was in the wind, though nothing very definite leaked out as to what it was. Among the visitors referred to, were Senators Chandler ("Zach."), of Michigan, and Wilkinson, of Minnesota. During their stay, there was a meeting in a public hall in Culpeper at which speeches were made by both these gentlemen and where General Kilpatrick demonstrated that he was no less an orator than a fighter. His speech was the gem of the evening and stirred up no end of enthusiasm. Hints were thrown out of an indefinite something that was going to happen. It is now known, as it was soon thereafter, that Kilpatrick had devised a daring scheme for the capture of Richmond, which had been received with so much favor by the authorities in Washington, that he was then awaiting only the necessary authority from the war department before setting out on what proved to be an ill-fated expedition.

Late in the month, permission was given and he proceeded to organize a force of picked men and horses, selected with great care from the various regiments. The Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Michigan and First Vermont were represented, the Sixth furnishing about three hundred men. The First Michigan had just re-enlisted at the expiration of its three years' term of service and was absent on "veteran furlough," so did not take part, as the officers and men of that fine regiment would have been only too glad to do, had they been given the opportunity. It was a small division, divided into two brigades. General Davies led one of them, but General Custer was taken away and entrusted with the command of an important diversion designed to attract the attention of the enemy by an attack on his left flank, while Kilpatrick passed around his right and by a quick march reached the confederate capital. That portion of Custer's brigade which went on the raid, as it was called, was commanded by Colonel Sawyer, of the First Vermont cavalry. Detachments from the Fifth, Sixth and Seventh Michigan were commanded by Captain Hastings, Major Kidd and Lieutenant Colonel Litchfield respectively; the First Vermont by Lieutenant Colonel Preston.

Custer's part of the work was successfully accomplished. He created so much commotion in the direction of Charlottesville, that Kilpatrick was across the Rapidan and well on his way before his purpose was either discovered or suspected. It was, however, a fatal mistake to leave Custer behind. There were others who could have made the feint which he so brilliantly executed, but in a movement requiring perfect poise, the rarest judgment and the most undoubted courage, Kilpatrick could illy spare his gifted and daring subordinate; and it is no disparagement to the officer who took his place to say that the Michigan brigade without Custer, at that time, was like the play of Hamlet with the melancholy Dane left out. With him the expedition as devised might well have been successful; without him it was foredoomed to failure.

At the Culpeper meeting there was a large gathering of both officers and enlisted men, attracted thither from various arms of the service by a natural curiosity to hear what the speakers had to say. There were also several ladies in the audience. On the platform sat many officers of high rank. I do not remember who presided, but recall distinctly the glitter of rich uniforms.

After the speaking had begun, an officer wearing the overcoat of an enlisted man came in from the wings and modestly took a seat at the back of the stage. "Not obvious, not obtrusive, but retired," he seemed to shun observation. When, later, he removed his overcoat it was seen that he wore the dress uniform of a brigadier general. Inquiry disclosed that he was Wesley Merritt, commander of the Reserve brigade of the First cavalry division. His brigade consisted of three regiments of regulars—the First, Second and Fifth United States cavalry—and two regiments of volunteers—the First New York dragoons and the Sixth Pennsylvania cavalry. This was a crack brigade and after the opening of the spring campaign it was closely associated with the Michigan brigade for the remaining period of the war.



Wesley Merritt, whom I saw then for the first time, was one of the "youngsters" who received their stars in June, 1863. He was graduated from the West Point military academy in 1860, at the age of twenty-four, and made such rapid progress in rank and reputation that he was a brigadier at twenty-seven. As a cavalry commander he was trained by John Buford. The latter was rightly called, "Old Reliable," not because of his age, but for the reason that he rarely if ever failed to be in the right place at the right moment—solid rather than showy, not spectacular but sure. His courage and ability were both conspicuous. He belonged to the school of officers of which Thomas, Meade, Sedgwick and Gregg were exemplars, rather than to that of which Kearney, Sheridan and Custer were preeminent types.

Such also was Merritt, an apt pupil of an illustrious teacher, the lineal successor of Buford. He came by natural selection to be commander of the First division, and at the last was chief of cavalry of the army of the Potomac, the capable successor of Pleasonton and Sheridan, a position for which he was peculiarly fitted by nature, by acquirements, and by experience. Modesty which fitted him like a garment, charming manners, the demeanor of a gentleman, cool but fearless bearing in action, were his distinguishing characteristics. He was a most excellent officer, between whom and Custer there was, it seemed, a great deal of generous rivalry. But, in the association of the two in the same command there was strength, for each was in a sort the complement of the other. Unlike in temperament, in appearance, and in their style of fighting, they were at one in the essentials that go to make a successful career.

But, to return to the point in the narrative from whence this digression strayed, the force that was thus assembled in Stevensburg, somewhat against the protests, but in compliance with orders from army and corps headquarters, was brought together with much show of secrecy, albeit the secret was an open one. As has been seen, the rumor of the projected movement had been for some time flying about from ear to ear, and from camp to camp. Its flight, however, must have been with heavy pinions, for it did not extend beyond the river, where the confederates were resting in fancied security, innocent of the hatching of a plot for sudden mischief to their capital.

The composition of the Second brigade has already been given. Its numerical strength was about 1,800 officers and men. The First brigade consisted of nine regiments of cavalry and one battery of artillery. That is to say there were detachments from that number of regiments. These were distributed equally among the three divisions, as follows: From the First division, the Third Indiana, Fourth New York and the Seventeenth Pennsylvania; from the Second division, the First Maine, the Fourth Pennsylvania, and Sixteenth Pennsylvania; from the First brigade, Third division, Davies's own command, the Second New York, the Fifth New York, and Eighteenth Pennsylvania. Ransom's regular battery was assigned to duty with this brigade. The detachments from the First division were all consolidated under Major Hall of the Sixth New York; those from the Second division under Major Taylor of the First Maine. The aggregate strength of Davies's command was 1,817 officers and men, exclusive of the artillery. The total strength of Kilpatrick's command was about 3,500.

The expedition started after dark Sunday evening, February 28, 1864, with three days' rations. The route selected led toward the lower fords of the Rapidan. The advance guard consisted of 600 picked men from the various commands, all under Colonel Ulric Dahlgren, an officer of Meade's staff who had established a reputation for extraordinary daring and dash. He had been especially designated from army headquarters to accompany the expedition. Davies followed with the main body of his brigade including Ransom's battery. To Colonel Sawyer with the Vermont and Michigan men fell the irksome duty of bringing up the rear of the column, the chief care being to keep up the pace, not losing sight of those in front, of which for a good part of the night there was much danger.

The crossing was made a little before midnight at Ely's Ford, Dahlgren taking the confederate picket post by surprise and capturing every man. No alarm was given. The start was thus auspicious. We were within the enemy's lines and they were not yet aware of it.

There was no halt. The rapid march was continued throughout the night. It was clear and cold. The order for the march was "at a fast walk," but every experienced cavalryman knows that the letter of such an order can be obeyed only by those in advance. The rear of the column kept closed up with great difficulty. The sound of hoofs in front was the only guide as to the direction to be taken. Often it was necessary to take the trot, sometimes the gallop, and even then the leaders were at times out of sight and out of hearing. At such times, there was an apprehensive feeling after the touch, which had to be kept in order to be sure that we were on the right road. This was especially true of the heads of subdivisions—the commanders of regiments—who were charged with the responsibility of keeping in sight of those next in front.

The march was not only rapid but it was continuous. There was an air of undue haste—a precipitancy and rush not all reassuring. Only the stoical were entirely free from disquietude. Those of us who were with the extreme rear, and who had not been admitted to the confidence of the projectors and leaders of the expedition, began to conjecture what it all meant, where we were going and, if the pace were kept up, when we would get there, and what would be done when the destination was reached. All the excitement and enjoyment were Dahlgren's; all the dull monotony and nerve-racking strain ours.

The head of column reached Spottsylvania Courthouse at daylight. The tail came trailing in as best it could, some time later. Here, in accordance with the prearranged plan, Dahlgren with his six hundred troopers separated from the main body, bearing to the westward and following the direct road to Frederickshall station on the Virginia Central railroad, his objective point being Goochland, about twenty miles above Richmond on the James river. The plan was for Colonel Dahlgren to cross the river at or near that place, move down on the south side, and be in position to recross by the main bridge into Richmond at ten o'clock, Tuesday morning, March 1, at the same moment when Kilpatrick would enter the city from the north by way of the Brook turnpike.[22]

But, "the best laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley." General Sheridan pointed out that such combinations rarely work out as expected, and that when an engagement with the enemy is liable to take place at any moment it is better to keep the whole force well together.[23]

In this case for Kilpatrick to divide his force was a fatal error of judgment. In the light of what took place it is now clear, as it ought to have been at the time, that the entire command should have been kept together, on one road. General Custer made the same mistake when he went to his death at Little Big Horn, in 1876. The combination did not work out as he expected. It may be entirely safe and proper for detachments to be sent out to make diversions for the purpose of deceiving the enemy. This was done when, on approaching Ashland Station, Major Hall was despatched with a force of about five hundred men to drive in the pickets in front of that place and make a feint of attacking, leading the enemy to suppose that this was the main body, while Kilpatrick with most of his force proceeded without opposition on the road leading to Richmond. But care was taken that he could reunite at any moment.

It would have been better had Dahlgren continued as the advance guard, going directly to Richmond by way of one of the bridges of the South Anna river and the Brook, the main column closely following. In that way, the general commanding might have had all the parts of his expeditionary force well in hand, under his own eye, and there need have been no halting, hesitation, or waiting one for the other. Dahlgren utterly failed to carry out to fulfilment the part of the plan prearranged for him to accomplish, and lost his life into the bargain. And the pity of it is that his life was wasted. Had he died leading a charge through the streets of Richmond, compensation might have been found in the glory of his achievement. But he died in an ambush, laid for him by a small force of home guards and furloughed confederate soldiers, who managed to throw themselves across his way when, after admitted defeat, he was trying to make his escape with only a small portion of his command. He deserved a better fate.

The main body crossed the Po river in the morning of Monday, February 29, and made a halt of fifteen minutes to feed. Thence it pushed on, Davies's brigade still leading, by way of Newmarket, Chilesburg and Anderson's bridge across the South Anna river to Beaverdam Station on the Virginia Central railroad. This point was reached late in the afternoon, the rear guard not arriving until after dark. Here some buildings and stores were burned. A train coming into the station, warned by the reflection of the flames in the cloudy sky, backed out and escaped capture. A small force of confederates made its appearance but was easily brushed away. The brushing and burning, however, were done by Davies's men. The Michigan cavalrymen coming too late for the fair, were privileged to hover in the background and watch the interesting performance from a safe distance, leaving it for the imagination to picture what they would have done if they had had the chance.

This night was cold, raw and rainy, the atmosphere full of moisture which gradually turned to an icy sleet. This added greatly to the discomfort of the march, which was resumed after tearing up the track and taking down the telegraph wires and poles in the neighborhood of the station. The stop at Beaverdam Station was not worth mentioning so far as it gave any opportunity to men or horses for rest or refreshment. Out into the dark night—and it was a darkness that could be felt—rode those brave troopers. On and on, for hours and hours, facing the biting storm, feeling the pelting rain, staring with straining eyes into the black night, striving to see when nothing was visible to the keenest vision, listening with pricked up ears for the sound of the well-shod hoofs which with rhythmical tread signaled the way.

The night was well advanced when at last a halt was ordered to make coffee for the men and give the patient animals the modicum of oats that had been brought, strapped to the cantles of the saddles. The bivouac was in the neighborhood of the Ground Squirrel bridge. Davies in his official report said that he went into camp at eight o'clock in the evening. That may have been. Davies was at the head of column and, after the small advance guard, the first to reach the camp ground. It was fully two hours later when the last of the Second brigade reached the place. From seven o'clock Sunday evening, till ten o'clock Monday night there had been no stop to speak of—no chance to cook coffee or feed the horses—save the brief halt of barely fifteen minutes on the south bank of the Po river. The men were weary, wet, cold and hungry but there was no complaining, for they were all hardened veterans, accustomed to hardship and exposure. They had been schooled to endure the privations of campaigning with cheerful fortitude.

When, at one o'clock, Tuesday morning, March 1, the march was once more resumed, it was found that the First brigade still had the lead. As on the previous day Michigan and Vermont were relegated to the rear. By the custom of the service it was our turn to be in the advance. The rule was for brigades and even regiments to alternate in leading. That is because it is much easier to march in front than in rear. On that morning Sawyer's command was entitled to be in front and the first in the fray. That may, however, be looked upon as a trifling matter and not worth mentioning. Veterans will not so consider it. It was but natural that Kilpatrick should before all others have confidence in his old brigade and those officers with whom he had personally served. Davies was a gallant officer and had some fine officers and regiments with him. There were none better. It was an inglorious part that was assigned to us. Still, there was as it turned out not much glory in the expedition for anybody, least of all for Kilpatrick himself.

The march during the forenoon was along the Richmond and Potomac railroad, to and across the Chickahominy river, to the Brook turnpike. Davies advanced along the turnpike toward the city, driving in the pickets and capturing a few of them. He crossed the "Brook"[24] and succeeded in getting inside the outer entrenchments, within a mile of Richmond. From the high ground overlooking the intervening plain it was almost possible to look into the streets and count the spires on the churches.

The time which it would take to make the ride from the Rapidan to the "Brook" had been closely calculated. Ten o'clock, Tuesday morning, March 1, had been the hour set when Kilpatrick would arrive and begin the assault upon Richmond from the north, while Dahlgren attacked it from the south. The former was on time to the minute. But where was Dahlgren? He made no sign. There was no way to determine whether he was or was not carrying out his part of the prearranged plan. Signals did not work. Kilpatrick was left to his own resources. A condition had developed in which prompt decision and action were imperatively demanded. There was no time for delay or careful deliberation. To do or not to do, that was the question. And there was but one man who could settle it. The rationale of the raid was a hurried ride, timely arrival, great daring, a surprise, a sudden charge without a moment's hesitation—success.

Whatever was done must needs be done quickly. It was not conceivable that Kilpatrick with three thousand men and six pieces of artillery—Kilpatrick the bold, the dashing cavalryman, the hero of Middleburg and Aldie—the conceiver of the expedition, who knew in advance all about the perils he must meet, the chances he must take—that he would permit uncertainty as to what Dahlgren with but five or six hundred men and no artillery was doing to influence his own immediate action. For all that he knew, Dahlgren was already in position, ready to strike, but awaiting the sound of battle from the north as the signal to begin.

And yet he hesitated. The object of the expedition, as has been shown, was to ride into Richmond and liberate the prisoners. It was a daring enterprise. A courage to execute commensurate to the ability to conceive was presupposed. So far everything had gone by the clock. Officers and men alike knew what that forced march of thirty-six hours, without pause, meant, if it had any rational meaning. Each one had screwed his courage to the sticking point to follow wherever our gallant commander led, prepared to share with him success or failure, according to the event. Indeed, there was safety in following rather than in falling back. We were far afield in an enemy's country. It was necessary to "hang together to avoid hanging separately." The goal was in sight. By a bold and quick forward movement alone could it be reached. An order to move up into a line of squadron columns was momentarily expected. That a dash into the city, or at least an attempt would be made nobody doubted. Anything short of that would be farcical, and the expedition that set out big with promise would be fated to return barren of results. The good beginning was worthy of a better ending than that.

Well, some of Davies's advance regiments were dismounted and the men sent forward deployed as carbineers on foot to feel of the fortifications and make a tentative attack on their defenders. Some of Ransom's guns were unlimbered and opened fire at long range. Reply was made by the enemy's cannoneers, for some of the earthworks facing us were manned with artillerists.

In the meantime, Sawyer's brigade held on the pike in column of fours, mounted, anxiously awaiting orders and developments, listened intently to the desultory firing of the carbineers and the occasional boom of the cannon in front. There was a growing feeling of uneasiness and incertitude which began to frame our minds for doubts and fears as to the outcome.

At length, a staff officer was seen riding slowly from the front towards the rear. The thought that ran along the column was, "Now the order is surely coming to move forward at a trot." Not so, however. He had been directed by General Kilpatrick to notify commanding officers that in case any of their men should be wounded, they would be obliged to make their own arrangements for the transportation and care of them, since there were no ambulances available.

Cheerful intelligence, surely, and well timed to put men and officers upon their fighting mettle! From that moment, the mental attitude of the bravest was one of apathetic indifference. Such an announcement was enough to dampen the ardor of men as brave as those who had been selected to make up the personnel of this expedition.

Finally, anxious to get some idea of what was going on and what the outlook, I rode forward to a place overlooking the battle field. Away to the front, a thousand yards or more, was an open stretch of cleared fields, across which was a light line of dismounted cavalry skirmishers, firing away at the defenders of the earthworks. This defensive force did not appear to be formidable in numbers; nor was it particularly effective in its fire upon our troops. Along the union line rode Captain L.G. Estes, adjutant general of the division, his cape lined with red thrown back on one shoulder, making of him a conspicuous target. He was exposing himself in most audacious fashion, as was his wont. It looked like an act of pure bravado. It was not necessary for him to furnish evidence of his gallantry. His courage was proverbial among the cavalrymen of the Third division. They had seen him recklessly expose his life on many battle fields.

This was as near as the expedition ever came to capturing Richmond. Kilpatrick who, at the start, was bold and confident, at the last when quick resolution was indispensable, appeared to be overcome with a strange and fatal irresolution. Davies was recalled and the entire force was directed to take the road to Meadow Bridge. It was after dark when we were ordered into camp somewhere between Mechanicsville and Atlee's Station. When I received the order I inquired if we were to picket our own camp but was informed that details for that purpose had been made and it would not be necessary. This quieted my fears somewhat but not entirely. Precautions were taken against possible surprise and to ensure speedy mounting and getting into position in the event of an emergency requiring it. The regiment went into bivouac in line, a little back in the shadow and away from the fires. Few camp fires were permitted. The saddle girths were loosened slightly but the saddles were not removed. Each trooper lay in front of his own horse, pulling the bridle rein over his horse's head and slipping his arm through it. In this way they were to get such sleep as they could. In case of a sudden alarm they were to stand to horse and be ready instantly to mount.

Thinking that in any case it could be got ready while the regiment was being mounted, I allowed my own horse to be unsaddled and hitched him by the halter to a sapling in front of my shelter tent which was quickly pitched, Barnhart, the acting adjutant, and an orderly pitching theirs by the side of it. Then, removing sword and belt but keeping on overcoat, boots and spurs, I crawled in with a "poncho" under me, using the saddle for a pillow.

It was a raw, rainy night, and snow was falling. The bad weather of the first night out was worse than repeated. It seemed more like Michigan than Virginia. It was very dark. I do not believe that any man living could make a map of the camps which the two brigades occupied that night—the exact locations or even the relative positions of the various commands. I doubt if the actual participants could point them out were they to visit the place. I know that at the time I had not the slightest knowledge on the subject and could not have told which way to go to find any one of them or even brigade or division headquarters. It looked like a case of "wisdom consists in taking care of yourself." We were on the north side of the Chickahominy and, with the bridges guarded, it would be difficult for the forces with which we had been contending during the day to get in on our night encampment. At least they could not well take us by surprise. But this made the position all the more vulnerable from the north. It was idle to suppose that Stuart's cavalry was doing nothing. It was as certain as anything could be that his enterprising horsemen were gathering on our track, urging their steeds to the death in an endeavor to stop the audacious career of the federal commander.

During the early evening it was known throughout the command that the general had not given up the hope of capturing the city and liberating the prisoners. A body of five hundred men led by Lieutenant Colonel Addison W. Preston of the First Vermont cavalry was to start out from our camp by the Mechanicsville road, charge in, release the prisoners and bring them out, Kilpatrick covering the movement with his entire command. The latter's official report says there were two bodies, one to be led by Preston, the other by Major Taylor of the First Maine cavalry. The name of Preston was a guarantee that the dash, if made at all, would be bravely led. There was no more gallant officer in the whole cavalry corps.

The conditions were such as to make one wakeful and alert, if anything could. But the danger of yielding for an instant to the allurement of the drowsiness produced by the long ride without sleep was overpowering. In an instant after getting under cover of the shelter tent I was emulating the seven sleepers. It is doubtful if the trump of Gabriel himself, had it sounded, could have awakened me. The assurance that we were protected by pickets, and the order to go into camp having been given unaccompanied by any warning to be alert and on the watch for danger, had lulled me into such an absolutely false sense of security that I was for the time dead to all the surroundings. There was firing among the pickets. I did not hear it. A cannon boomed. I did not hear it. A second piece of artillery added to the tumult. I did not hear it. Shells hurtled through the trees, over the camp and the waves of sound did not disturb my ear. At last partial consciousness returned. There was a vague sense of something out of the usual order going on. Then I found that Barnhart and the orderly were pulling me out of the "pup" tent by the heels. That sufficed. I was instantly wide awake. Barnhart was ordered to get his horse and mount the regiment. The orderly to saddle my horse and his own. In a few moments all hands were in the saddle. The regiment was wheeled by fours and moved a short distance to the right, more in the shadow and out of range of the shells, and formed in line facing toward where the enemy was supposed to be, and held there awaiting orders. No orders to advance came, nor was any brigade line of battle formed. In a very short time a staff officer came riding fast and directed me to move out by fours on the road in rear of the alignment and follow the command which he said had gone and was retreating. He did not say what road it was nor whither it led. He then rode away. Wheeling into column the regiment was moved out on the road and, greatly confused as to the points of the compass, and not hearing or seeing anything of the column, turned in the wrong direction. The same staff officer soon overtook the head of the regiment and set us right. We had to countermarch and, as a matter of fact, were going towards the enemy instead of joining in the retreat. It was by mistake, however. We had gone probably an eighth of a mile before being stopped.



The march then led back within sight of the camp which had been vacated. As we passed that point, far away in the distance among the trees, by the light of the abandoned fires, could be seen men flitting like specters through the places where the camps had been. They were presumably the enemy and apparently bent on plunder rather than conquest. It was a good time to give them a Roland for their Oliver but there did not seem to be a disposition to make a concerted attack or, in fact, any attack at all. Kilpatrick was in full retreat toward Old Church, abandoning his plan of a midnight attack on Richmond.

The force which made the attack on the camps was led by Wade Hampton who, as soon as he knew of the expedition, set out on the trail, picking up odds and ends of confederate cavalry when and where he could. He marched that day from Hanover Courthouse and says he came in sight of the camp fires near Atlee's Station and to his right on the Telegraph or Brook road. He must have been deceived as to the direction, for it is not possible that any portion of the main body could have been in camp on either of those roads. The camp he attacked was that of the Seventh Michigan which bore the brunt of it. This regiment lost a number of prisoners including the commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Litchfield.

We must have marched at least a mile, perhaps more, when the column was overtaken. It was moving at a walk on the road leading to Old Church. Finding myself in rear with no rear guard I detached three troops (A, E and G) and held them with sufficient interval to cover the retreat. When there was a halt they were formed in line across the road and facing to the rear with carbines loaded and at a "ready" to repel any attack, should one be made. Once when halted the tread of horses could be heard approaching.