From Antietam to Chancellorsville.

"Two armies covered hill and plain,
Where Rappahannock's waters
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain
Of battle's recent slaughters."

After resting a while at Winchester Lee's army began its march leisurely back toward Richmond, and took up a position near Fredericksburg, a point about half way between Washington and Richmond.

McClellan was relieved of his command, and Gen. Burnside took his place and gathered a large army in front of Fredericksburg on the Rappahannock river.

About the middle of December Burnside crossed the river at Fredericksburg by means of pontoon bridges and attacked Lee and Jackson just outside of the town of Fredericksburg.

A severe battle was fought, and Burnside was defeated with terrible loss. He re-crossed the river and wept when he contemplated the awful slaughter that had been made in his army. This ended the campaign of 1862. It is said that more soldiers fell in this battle in four hours than were killed in the entire Boer War. The historian has placed Burnside's losses at 12,311; Lee's at 5409.

Both armies went into winter quarters, and there was no general battle until the next spring, but frequent skirmishes between bodies of cavalry on both sides as they marched to and fro protecting their respective encampments.

From Harper's Ferry to Staunton, Va., stretches a part of the Blue Ridge mountains that played a conspicuous part in the war.

The mountain is impassable for armies except through the gaps that occur every twenty to thirty miles. These gaps were always closely guarded by the Confederates, and through them the armies frequently marched and counter-marched as occasion required.

If Jackson needed reinforcements in the valley, they were sent to him through one of these gaps; and on the other hand, if the armies defending Richmond needed reinforcements, it was Jackson's custom to give the enemy a stinging blow and send him in full retreat down the valley toward Washington, then cross through one of these gaps with a portion of his army and reinforce the armies defending Richmond.

When the armies fell back from Winchester my company of cavalry was left to guard the Bluemount gap, then called Snickersville. A little later the gap was abandoned, and we were ordered to Ashby's gap, farther up the valley, where we encamped near the little town of Paris, at the foot of the mountain, and put out our pickets on the east side of the mountain below Upperville on the pike that leads through Middleburg and on to Alexandria, Va., just under the shadow of the capital of the Northern nation, I will call it.

One day our pickets reported "the enemy's cavalry advancing up the pike toward Upperville." Our captain (Bruce Gibson) ordered the bugle sounded, and 90 to 100 men were soon in the saddle and on the march to meet the enemy.

It was four miles to Upperville, and as we approached the town we could distinctly see the enemy's cavalry filling the streets.

We halted at a point just opposite the home of our captain (where the family were on the porch watching the movements of both sides). Many of the men of the company lived in that neighborhood. It was eight miles from my home, hence this was no place to show the "white feather."

I was riding a fiery young mare. She was never satisfied unless she was a little ahead. She had a mouth that no bit could hold.

The captain ordered us to move forward, and as we approached the town, four abreast, our speed was increased to a trot, then to a gallop.

To the best of my recollection my position was about the middle of the command, but in spite of my tugging at the bit, my young steed carried me up to the front, and when we got close enough to the enemy to see the whites of their eyes, I was a little closer to them than I wanted to be, and I'll frankly confess it wasn't bravery that put me there. We were close enough to discover that we were running into a whole regiment of Union cavalry, and if we had continued, it would have meant annihilation.

The captain ordered right about, retreat! At this point to get those 100 horses turned around in that street and get out of the reach of 1000 guns in the hands of 1000 Bluecoats, was a knotty problem. If the enemy had charged us just at this time, our destruction would have been just as complete as it would have been if we had gone ahead; but they hesitated. Perhaps they were afraid of running into a trap.

I ran my horse up against a pump, and finally got turned around, and was soon leaving my comrades behind me, for she was fleet of foot. But all at once I felt my steed going down under me. I thought that she was shot, but did not have much time to think about it, for I was soon for a few minutes unconscious. My horse had tripped and fallen, and, of course, I could not keep the saddle, going at a speed like that. The horse just behind leaped over me, horse and all (so the rider afterward told me). When I came to myself I was standing in the middle of the road with a crowd of Yankees around me, among them the colonel of the regiment. I was holding in my hand the handle of my pistol, the barrel of which had been broken off by the fall. When called upon to surrender my arms I meekly handed up this handle, scarcely knowing what I was doing. One of the Yankees said, "I don't want that, I want your arms." My arms consisted of a sabre, a short cavalry gun and another pistol, that remained in its holder.

With some assistance I unbuckled my belt and gave up my arms. The colonel asked me if I was hurt, and some other questions which I cannot now recall.

His own horse had been down on its knees, which were badly skinned. He dismounted and mounted another horse that had been brought to him, and told me I could have the use of his horse. I mounted with some difficulty, and was taken to the rear. There was very little firing; only one man was killed and one horse on our side.

My horse, they afterward told me, passed through the command and did not stop until she got to Paris, four miles beyond.

The Yankees remained only a short time, when they began their retreat down the pike with one lone prisoner, myself. On the way they picked up three or four citizens, which gave me some company.

It was quite dark when we reached Middleburg, and the command halted in the town for an hour, during which time I sat on my horse just in front of the house now occupied by Edwin LeRoy Broun.

I could see the lights in the windows and see the family moving about, among them my sister. I made no effort to make myself known. After an hour's wait the command moved down the pike toward Washington, arriving at Fairfax Courthouse about midnight, where they went into camp. The next morning some 15 or 20 prisoners were brought in and put in an old log schoolhouse. We remained there all that day, and the next day the citizens were released, and the soldier prisoners (about a dozen) were started for Washington under a guard of four cavalrymen. We were taken to the old capitol at Washington and put in one of the rooms. I suppose there were several hundred prisoners there at the time. We remained about a month, when we were exchanged. We were taken to Richmond by boat and turned over to the authorities there, and our Government released a similar number of Union prisoners who returned on the same boat that brought us to Richmond. I took the train at Richmond, rode to Gordonsville, and footed it from there home, a distance of about 150 miles.

I found my horse awaiting me, and after a few days rest, I mounted and rejoined my command at the little town of Paris, Fauquier county, where I had left them for a visit to Washington as a guest of the United States Government.

As the winter came on the Confederates drew in their outposts, and likewise the enemy. This left the whole eastern part of Virginia free from the depredations of either army, except now and then a raid from one side on the other.

My regiment was at camp in the woods near Harrisonburg, while Jackson's main army was with Lee, south of Fredericksburg. Jackson spent much time during the winter in religious work among his soldiers. "My ambition," he said, "is to command a converted army." He himself was one of the most devout men in the army, and seemed to be always in communion with his God.

The winter was a hard one, and both armies kept pretty well within their winter quarters.

We had no tents, but took fence rails, and putting one end on a pole fastened to two trees, and the other on the ground, and covering the rails with leaves and fastening up each end, leaving the front open, then building a big fire just in front, we had a very comfortable place to sleep. We sat on logs around the fire during the day and far into the night telling stories and entertaining ourselves in various ways. At night we crept under the roof of our shed, which was about a foot deep in leaves, and slept as comfortably as any farmer's hogs would do under similar circumstances.

About the first of January my company was again detached from the regiment and sent to Orkney Springs, just at the foot of North mountain, west of Strasburg.

Our duty was to keep a dozen men on the opposite side of the mountain scouting and doing picket duty. It was our custom to relieve the men once a week by sending over another detachment and relieving those on duty.

While at Orkney Springs we occupied cottages that were intended for the summer guests prior to the breaking out of hostilities. But after remaining in the cottages some time, the health of the command was so poor that we were compelled to go back to the woods. In a short time the sickness disappeared from the camp, showing that the best place for a soldier is out in the open.

Shortly after this word came that the enemy was advancing up the valley turnpike, and the whole regiment was ordered down to meet them, our company in advance.

It was March. The day was a stormy one. It snowed and rained alternately all day long, far into the night.

When we left camp I was suffering with rheumatism in my hip, so that I had to use a stump to mount my horse, for I was determined to go with the regiment. Soldiers lying in camp idle soon get restless, and even cowards will hail with delight a chance to have a brush with the enemy.

So notwithstanding the weather and physical ailments of some of the men, all went out of camp that morning bright and happy.

We marched all day until long after dark, and then discovered it was a false alarm. The Yankees were snug in their tents, many miles away.

We went into camp in the woods. I remember that I was wet to the skin, and I can see myself now sitting on a log pulling off first one long-legged boot, then the other, and pouring the water out.

But before this, fires had sprung up all over the woods. In spite of the fact that everything was drenched and water was dripping from every twig, in an incredibly short time the whole woods were brilliantly illuminated by burning camp-fires.

We got out our bacon and crackers and enjoyed a supper that no habitue of a Delmonico could have relished more. The bacon (not sugar-cured) was stuck on a stick and roasted before the fire, while the grease was allowed to fall on the cracker on a chip below.

The Delmonico man might boast of a higher grade of food and better cooking, but the soldier wins on the appetite.

After supper we stood around the camp-fires drying the outside of our clothes, telling stories and smoking. Then we prepared for bed.

The men in the companies are always divided into messes; the average number of men in each was usually about six. The messes were like so many families that lived together, slept together and ate together, and stood by each other in all emergencies. There was no rule regulating the messes. The men simply came together by common consent. "Birds of a feather flock together."

In winter one bed was made for the whole mess. It consisted of laying down rubber cloths on the ground and covering them with a blanket, and another and another, as occasion required, and if the weather was foul, on top of that other rubber cloths. Our saddles covered with our coats were our pillows. The two end men had logs of wood to protect them. Only our coats and boots were removed.

On a cold winter night, no millionaire on his bed of down ever slept sweeter than a soldier on a bed like this.

In the summer each soldier had a separate bed. If it was raining, he made his bed on top of two fence rails, if he could not find a better place. If the weather was good, old Mother Earth was all the soldier wanted.

As this was a cold, stormy night, of course we all bunked together. My, what a nice, soft, sweaty time we had! The next morning all traces of my rheumatism had disappeared, and I felt as spry as a young kitten.

As the day advanced the clouds rolled by, the sun came out bright and smiling, and the command marched back to the old camp-ground, near Harrisonburg.

With every regiment there is a Company Q. Company Q is composed of lame ducks, cowards, shirkers, dead-beats, generally, and also a large sprinkling of good soldiers, who, for some reason or other, are not fit for duty. Sometimes this company is quite large. It depends upon the weather, the closeness of the enemy, and the duties that are being exacted. Bad weather will drive in all rheumatics; the coming battle will drive in the cowards; hard marching and picket duty will bring in the lazy. But then, as I have just said, there were some good soldiers among them—the slightly wounded or those suffering from any disability. Taking them altogether, Company Q resembled Mother Goose's beggars that came to town; "some in rags, some in tags, and some in velvet gowns." Company Q was always the butt of the joker.

A short time after the regiment had returned from its fruitless march down the pike, the four regiments composing the brigade under Gen. William E. Jones were ordered to break camp and move across the mountains into the enemy's country in West Virginia.

At that time I was almost blind with inflamed eyes. They looked like two clots of blood. Of course, I did not go with the command, but was forced to join Company Q. As well as I remember, the company numbered at that time over 100 men, among them two or three officers.

As the regiment expected to be absent for over a month and to return crowned with laurels, Company Q conceived the idea of doing something that would put them on an equal footing with their comrades when they returned from this expedition.

A company was formed of about 100 men, which were soon on the march down the valley pike. My eyes had so improved that I could join the company.

The enemy was encamped near Winchester, perhaps 75 miles away. Our destination was this camp. We were to march down the valley, make a night attack and come back with all the plunder we could carry off or drive off. Every fellow expected to bring back at least one extra horse.

We reached the west branch of the Shenandoah, near Strasburg, and went into camp for the night, having first put out pickets at the various fords up and down the river.

The enemy's camp was supposed to be ten miles beyond. We intended to remain at this camp until the next evening about dusk, and then start for the enemy, timing ourselves to reach their camp about midnight.

The next morning about 9 o'clock we came down from our camp into the open field to graze our horses. We had taken the bits out of their mouths and were lying around loose, while the horses cropped the grass, when all at once someone shouted "Yankees." Sure enough, there they were, a whole regiment of Union cavalrymen. They had crossed the river some distance below our pickets and had placed themselves directly in our rear, cutting off our retreat. We soon had our horses bridled, and mounting, made for the river. The commander sent me down the river to call in the pickets, but I did not go far until I met them coming in. They had heard the firing. We had a desperate race to join the fleeing company, but did so, narrowly escaping capture.

There was a small body of woods on the banks of the river, where we found shelter for the moment. We were entirely cut off from the fords, and there was no way of crossing the river but to swim. The banks were steep on each side, so it looked as if that would be the last of poor Company Q. We dismounted, got behind the trees, and were ready to give our tormentors a warm reception, but Providence seemed to smile on us. Someone discovered a little stream running into the river. We followed that down into the river, and the whole command swam across and climbed the banks on the other side, except one man (Milton Robinson) and myself. Our horses refused to swim. They behaved so ugly that we had to abandon them. Mine was the same "jade" that had dumped me on the Yankees a few months before. Now I had a chance to reciprocate. I tied her to a little sapling at the edge of the river, and Robinson and I hid in the bushes close by the banks. The Yankees came down and took our horses, and after searching around for some time, vacated the premises, much to our gratification.

The loss of our horses grieved us very much, but such is the life of a soldier.

The company in crossing the river were in the enemy's country, and were liable to be surrounded and captured at any time, but they made their escape in some way, and lost no time in getting back to camp, many miles away.

Robinson and I, of course, had to foot it, but in course of time we also landed in camp, much to the surprise of our comrades, who thought the enemy had us. Thus terminated ingloriously the well-planned expedition of Company Q.

In about ten days the brigade came back from the West Virginia expedition, and Company Q received the Sixth Regiment with open arms. Just what the expedition accomplished I am not able to say, but there is one little incident connected with it that has lingered lovingly in my memory to this day.

Every mess had in it a forager; that is, one skilled in the art of picking up delicacies. At least we called them such, as this term was applied to anything edible above hardtack and salt pork. We had such a one in our mess, and he was hard to beat. His name was Fauntleroy Neal. He was a close friend of mine. We called him Faunt.

Whenever he went on an expedition he always came back loaded. As he was with the brigade in West Virginia, we knew that when he returned (if he did return) he would bring back something good, and he did. I cannot remember all the things he had strapped to his saddle, but one thing looms up before my mind now as big as a Baltimore skyscraper. It was about half a bushel of genuine grain coffee, unroasted. There was also sugar to sweeten it. Grains of coffee in the South during the Civil War were as scarce as grains of gold, and when toasting time came and the lid was lifted to stir the coffee, it is said that the aroma from it spread through the trees and over the fields for many miles around. I forgot the long, weary march on foot back up the valley, forgot the loss of my horse, and really felt as if I had been fully compensated for any inconvenience that had come to me from the ill-starred tramp of Company Q.

But spring had fully come, the roads were dry, and the time for action was here.

Hooker, at the head of 120,000 Northern soldiers, was again crossing the Rappahannock, near Fredericksburg, to lock horns with Lee and Jackson.

Hooker had superseded Burnside in command of the Union army. They called him "fighting Joe."

Hooker handled his army the first two or three days with consummate skill, and at one stage of his maneuvers he felt confident that he had out-generaled Lee and Jackson. He believed they were in full retreat, and so informed the Washington Government. But he was doomed to a terrible disappointment. What Hooker took to be a retreat of the Confederates was simply a change of front, which was followed up by Jackson executing another one of his bold flank movements, the most brilliant of his brief career, the result of which was Hooker's defeat. The entire Union army was thrown into such confusion that it was compelled to retreat across the river, after sustaining heavy losses in killed and wounded.

The New Standard Encyclopedia gives Hooker's army as 130,000; Lee's, 60,000. Hooker's losses, 18,000; Lee's, 13,000.

Perhaps no general on either side during the entire war felt more keenly his defeat than did Hooker on this occasion. For awhile everything seemed to be going his way, when suddenly the tide turned, and he saw his vast army in a most critical situation, and apparently at the mercy of his opponent.

History tells the whole story in better language than I can. It calls it the "Battle of Chancellorsville."

Carl Schurz, one of the generals in Hooker's army, says that never did Gen. Lee's qualities as a soldier shine as brilliantly as they did in this battle. To quote his own language, "We had 120,000 men, Lee 60,000. Yet Lee handled his forces so skillfully that whenever he attacked he did it with a superior force, and in this way he overwhelmed our army and compelled its retreat, after suffering terrible losses not only in dead and wounded, but in prisoners."

But the Confederates also suffered a tremendous loss at Chancellorsville. Just at the moment when he was about to gather the fruit of his victory, which might have resulted in the surrender of Hooker's army, or the greater portion of it, Stonewall Jackson was fired on by his own men, mortally wounded, and died a few days afterwards.

The following account of the wounding of Jackson, as related by an eye-witness, will be of interest to the reader:

It was 9 o'clock at night. There was a lull in the battle, and Jackson's line had become somewhat disorganized by the men gathering in groups and discussing their brilliant victory. Jackson, noticing the confusion, rode up and down the line, saying, "Men, get into line, get into line; I need your help for a time. This disorder must be corrected."

He had just received information that a large body of fresh troops from the Union army was advancing to retake an important position that it had lost. Jackson had gone 100 yards in front of his own line to get a better view of the enemy's position. The only light that he had to guide him was that furnished by the moon. He was attended by half a dozen orderlies and several of his staff officers, when he was suddenly surprised by a volley of musketry in his front. The bullets began whistling about them, and struck several horses. This was the advance guard of the Federal lines. Jackson, seeing the danger, turned and rode rapidly back toward his own line. As he approached, the Confederate troops, mistaking them for the enemy's cavalry, stooped and delivered a deadly fire. So sudden was this volley, and so near at hand, that every horse which was not shot down recoiled from it in panic and turned to rush back, bearing his rider toward the approaching enemy. Several fell dead on the spot, and more were wounded, among them Gen. Jackson. His right hand was penetrated by a ball, his left was lacerated by another, and the same arm was broken a little below the shoulder by a third ball, which not only crushed the bone, but severed the main artery. His horse dashed, panic-stricken, toward the enemy, carrying him beneath the boughs of the trees, which inflicted several blows, lacerated his face, and almost dragged him from the saddle. His bridle hand was now powerless, but seizing the rein with his right hand, notwithstanding its wound, he arrested his horse and brought the animal back toward his own line.

He was followed by his faithful attendants. The firing of the Confederates had now been arrested by some of the officers, who realized their mistake, but the wounded and frantic horses were rushing without riders through the woods, where the ground was strewn with the dead and dying. Here Gen. Jackson drew up his horse and sat for an instant, gazing toward his own line, as if in astonishment at their cruel mistake, and in doubt whether he should again venture to approach them. He said to one of his staff, "I believe my arm is broken," and requested him to assist him from his horse and examine whether the wounds were bleeding dangerously. Before he could dismount he sank fainting into their arms, so completely prostrated that they were compelled to disengage his feet from the stirrups. They carried him a few yards into the woods north of the turnpike to shield him from the expected advance of the Federalists. One was sent for an ambulance and a surgeon, while another stripped his mangled arm in order to bind up the wound. The warm blood was flowing in a stream down his wrist. His clothes impeded all access to its source, and nothing was at hand more efficient than a penknife to remove the obstruction.

Just at this moment Gen. Hill appeared upon the scene with a part of his staff. They called upon him for assistance. One of his staff, Maj. Leigh, succeeded in reaching the wound and staunching the blood with a handkerchief. It was at this moment that two Federal skirmishers approached within a few feet of the spot where he lay, with their muskets cocked. They little knew what a prize was in their grasp. When, at the command of Gen. Hill, two orderlies arose from the kneeling group and demanded their surrender, they seemed amazed at their nearness to their enemy, and yielded their arms without resistance.

Lieut. Morrison, suspecting from their approach that the Federalists must be near at hand, stepped out into the road to examine, and by the light of the moon he saw a cannon pointing toward them, apparently not more than 100 yards distant. Indeed, it was so near that the orders given by the officers to the cannoneers could be distinctly heard. Returning hurriedly, he announced that the enemy were planting artillery in the road and that the general must be immediately removed. Gen. Hill now remounted and hurried back to make arrangements to meet this attack. In the combat which ensued, he himself was wounded a few moments after, and compelled to leave the field. No ambulance or litter was yet at hand, and the necessity for immediate removal suggested that they should bear the general away in their arms. To this he replied that if they would assist him to rise, he would walk to the rear. He was accordingly raised to his feet, and leaning upon the shoulders of two of his staff, he went slowly out of the highway, and toward his own troops.

The party was now met by a litter, which someone had sent from the rear, and the general was placed upon it and borne along by two of his officers. Just then the enemy fired a volley of canister shot up the road, which passed over their heads, but they proceeded only a few steps before the charge was repeated with more accurate aim. One of the officers bearing the litter was struck down, when Maj. Leigh, who was walking by their side, prevented the general from being precipitated to the ground. Just then the roadway was swept by a hurricane of projectiles of every species, before which it seemed no living thing could survive. The bearers of the litter and all the attendants except Maj. Leigh and the general's two aids left him and fled into the woods on either side to escape the fearful tempest, while the sufferer lay along the road with his feet toward the foe, exposed to all its fury. It was now that his three faithful attendants displayed a heroic fidelity which deserves to go down with the immortal name of Jackson into future ages.

Disdaining to save their lives by deserting their chief, they lay down beside him in the causeway and sought to protect him as far as possible with their bodies. On one side was Maj. Leigh, and on the other Lieut. Smith. Again and again was the earth around them torn with volleys of canister, while shells and minie balls flew hissing over them, and the stroke of the iron hail raised sparkling flashes from the flinty gravel of the roadway. Gen. Jackson struggled violently to rise, as though to endeavor to leave the road, but Smith threw his arm over him and with friendly force held him to the earth, saying, "Sir, you must lie still; it will cost you your life if you rise." He speedily acquiesced, and lay quiet, but none of the four hoped to escape alive. Yet, almost by miracle, they were unharmed, and after a few moments the Federalists, having cleared the road of all except this little party, ceased to fire along it, and directed their aim to another quarter.

They now arose and resumed their retreat, the general walking and leaning upon two of his friends, proceeded along the gutter at the margin of the highway in order to avoid the troops, who were again hurrying to the front. Perceiving that he was recognized by some of them, they diverged still farther into the edge of the thicket. It was here that Gen. Pender of North Carolina, who had succeeded to the command of Hill's division upon the wounding of that officer, recognized Gen. Jackson, and said, "My men are thrown into such confusion by this fire that I fear I shall not be able to hold my ground." Almost fainting with anguish and loss of blood, he still replied, in a voice feeble but full of his old determination and authority, "Gen. Pender, you must keep your men together and hold your ground." This was the last military order ever given by Jackson.

Gen. Jackson now complained of faintness, and was again placed upon the litter, and after some difficulty, men were obtained to bear him. To avoid the enemy's fire, which was again sweeping the road, they made their way through the tangled brushwood, almost tearing his clothing from him, and lacerating his face in their hurried progress. The foot of one of the men bearing his head was here tangled in a vine, and he fell prostrate. The general was thus thrown heavily to the ground upon his wounded side, inflicting painful bruises on his body and intolerable agony on his mangled arm, and renewing the flow of blood from it. As they lifted him up he uttered one piteous groan, the only complaint which escaped his lips during the whole scene. Lieut. Smith raised his head upon his bosom, almost fearing to see him expiring in his arms, and asked, "General, are you much hurt?" He replied, "No, Mr. Smith, don't trouble yourself about me." He was then replaced a second time upon the litter, and under a continuous shower of shells and cannon balls, borne a half mile farther to the rear, when an ambulance was found, containing his chief of artillery, Col. Crutchfield, who was also wounded. In this he was placed and hurried toward the field hospital, near Wilderness Run. From there he was taken to a farmhouse, his left arm amputated, and a few days afterward he died. His wife and little child were with him. Thus ended the life of one of the world's greatest warriors and one of Christ's greatest soldiers.

The following ode to Stonewall Jackson was written by a Union officer (Miles O'Reiley), and is inserted here in preference to others that may have been quite as appropriate, because of the added beauty of sentiment it conveys from the fact that its author wore the blue:

He sleeps all quietly and cold
Beneath the soil that gave him birth;
Then break his battle brand in twain,
And lay it with him in the earth.
No more at midnight shall he urge
His toilsome march among the pines,
Nor hear upon the morning air
The war shout of his charging lines.
No more for him shall cannon park
Or tents gleam white upon the plain;
And where his camp fires blazed of yore,
Brown reapers laugh amid the grain!
No more above his narrow bed
Shall sound the tread of marching feet,
The rifle volley and the crash
Of sabres when the foeman meet.
Young April o'er his lowly mound
Shall shake the violets from her hair,
And glorious June with fervid kiss
Shall bid the roses blossom there.
And white-winged peace o'er all the land
Broods like a dove upon her nest,
While iron War, with slaughter gorged,
At length hath laid him down to rest.
And where we won our onward way,
With fire and steel through yonder wood,
The blackbird whistles and the quail
Gives answer to her timid brood.
And oft when white-haired grandsires tell
Of bloody struggles past and gone,
The children at their knees will hear
How Jackson led his columns on!

I have only referred incidentally to Jackson's Valley Campaign. It was short, but intensely dramatic. For bold maneuvering, rapid marching and brilliant strategy, I believe it has no parallel in history. As for results, without it Richmond doubtless would have been in the hands of McClellan in the spring of 1862.

Perhaps it is not extravagant to say that as the tidings reached the people all over the South that their idol was dead, more sorrow was expressed in tears than was ever known in the history of the world at the loss of any one man.

As the Israelites saw Elijah depart they exclaimed, "The chariots of Israel and the horsemen thereof!"

The South felt that in the loss of Stonewall Jackson they were parting with the "better half" of their army.

The North had the men, the money and the munition of war, but the South had Lee and Stonewall Jackson. And in having them they felt that they were more than a match for the North. Now that Jackson was gone the question was, What will Gen. Lee do?

To go back to the valley, I was indebted to my friend Faunt Neal for the loan of a horse, he being fortunate enough to have two.

After the battle of Chancellorsville almost the entire force in the valley passed over the Blue Ridge and joined Lee's army on the Rappahannock. Of course, this included my command.

Lee's army still occupied the south bank of the Rappahannock, near the late battlefield, while just opposite, on the north bank, was the Union army waiting to see what the next move would be. I believe I have mentioned the fact that Gen. J.E.B. Stuart commanded Lee's entire cavalry force, about 10,000 men with several batteries of artillery. This force was encamped higher up the river, in Culpeper county, in and around Brandy Station, and might be called the left wing of Lee's army, although separated from it by several miles.

Just opposite Stuart's cavalry and on the north bank of the river was the entire cavalry force of the Union army, supported by a corps of infantry.