A MEETING WITH MOSBY

At the time of the surrender of Lee and the fall of Richmond about the only confederate force in the Shenandoah Valley was Mosby's band. The last of Early's army had been swept away by Sheridan's advance, led by Custer, and for the first time since 1860, that beautiful valley was free from the movements of armed forces confronting each other in hostile array. The bold and dashing partisan was, however, capable of doing much mischief and it was thought best by General Hancock to treat with him and see if he would not consent to a cessation of hostilities and, possibly, take the parole. Accordingly, an agreement was made to meet him at Millwood, a little town a few miles distant from Winchester and near the mountains. General Chapman, a cavalry officer, was selected to conduct the negotiations and with an escort of two regiments left early on the morning of the day designated for the rendezvous agreed upon. Not yet having been relieved from duty there I readily obtained permission to accompany the expedition. I was early in the saddle and joining a party of staff officers, struck across country, arriving at about the same time as the escort which took the main road.

The region to which we were going was one of the favorite haunts of Mosby and his men and it produced a queer sensation to thus ride peacefully through a country where for four long years, the life or liberty of the union soldier caught outside the lines had been worth not a rush, unless backed by force enough to hold its own against an enemy. There never had been a time since our advent into this land of the philistines (a land literally flowing with milk and honey) when we could go to Millwood without a fight, and here we were going without molestation, right into the lair of the most redoubtable of all the partisan leaders.

But Mosby's word was law in that section. His fiat had gone forth that there was to be a truce, and no union men were to be molested until it should be declared off. There was, therefore, no one to molest or make us afraid. No picket challenged. Not a scout or vidette was seen. The country might have been deserted, for all the indications of life that could be heard or seen. The environment seemed funereal and the ride could hardly be described as a cheerful one. Each one was busy with his own thoughts. All wondered if the end had really come, or was it yet afar off? Lee had surrendered but Johnson had not. Would he?

The chief interest, for the time being, however, centered in the coming interview with Mosby, under a flag of truce. If he could be prevailed upon to take the parole there would not be an armed confederate in that part of Virginia.

It had been expected that he would be there first but he was not and his arrival was eagerly awaited. The escort was massed near a large farm house, the owner of which was very hospitable and had arranged to give the two commands a dinner.

The officers were soon dispersed in easy attitudes about the porches and lawn or under the shade of friendly trees, smoking and chatting about the interesting situation. Eager glances were cast in the direction from which our old foe was expected to come, and there was some anxiety lest he should fail to meet the appointment after all. But, at length, when the forenoon was pretty well spent, the sound of a bugle was heard. All sprang to their feet. In a moment, the head of a column of mounted men emerged from a woody screen on the high ground, toward the east, as though coming straight out of the mountain, and presently, the whole body of gray troopers came into view.

It was a gallant sight, a thrilling scene, for all the world like a picture from one of Walter Scott's novels; and to the imagination, seemed a vision of William Wallace or of Rob Roy. The place itself was a picturesque one—a little valley nestling beneath the foot-hills at the base of the mountains whose tops towered to the sky. Hills and wooded terraces surrounded it, shutting it in on all sides, obstructing the view and leaving the details of the adjacent landscape to the imagination.

Mosby evidently had arranged his arrival with a view to theatric effect—though it was no mimic stage on which he was acting—for it was to the sound of the bugle's note that he burst into view and, like a highland chief coming to a lowland council, rode proudly at the head of his men. Finely uniformed and mounted on a thorough bred sorrel mare, whose feet spurned the ground, he pranced into our presence. Next came about sixty of his men, including most of the officers, all, like himself, dressed in their best and superbly mounted. It was a goodly sight to see.

General Chapman advanced to meet the commander as he dismounted and the two officers shook hands cordially. There were then introductions all around and in a few moments, the blue and the gray were intermingling on the most friendly terms.

It was difficult to believe that we were in the presence of the most daring and audacious partisan leader, at the same time that he was one of the most intrepid and successful cavalry officers in the confederate service. He was wary, untiring, vigilant, bold, and no federal trooper ever went on picket without the feeling that this man might be close at hand watching to take advantage of any moment of unwariness. He had been known in broad daylight, to dash right into federal camps, where he was outnumbered a hundred to one, and then make his escape through the fleetness of his horses and his knowledge of the by-roads. On more than one occasion, he had charged through a union column, disappearing on one flank as quickly as he had appeared on the other. His men, in union garb, were often in our camps mingling unsuspected with our men or riding by their side when on the march.

We were prepared to see a large, fierce-looking dragoon but, instead, beheld a small, mild-mannered man not at all like the ideal. But, though small, he was wiry, active, restless and full of fire.

"How much do you weigh, colonel?" I asked as I shook his hand and looked inquiringly at his rather slender figure.

"One hundred and twenty-eight pounds," said he.

"Well, judging from your fighting reputation, I looked for a two hundred pounder, at least," I replied.

His spare form was set off by a prominent nose, a keen eye and a sandy beard. There was nothing ferocious in his appearance but when in the saddle he was not a man whom one would care to meet single-handed. There was that about him which gave evidence of alertness and courage of the highest order.

It was astonishing to see officers of Mosby's command walk up to union officers, salute and accost them by name.

"Where did I meet you?" would be the reply.

"There was no introduction. I met you in your camp, though you were not aware of it at the time."

Major Richards, a swarthy-looking soldier, remarked to me that he was once a prisoner of the Fifth and Sixth Michigan cavalry. He was captured near Aldie, in the spring of 1863, and made his escape when the Michigan regiments were on the march back to Fairfax Court House, in the night, when his guards were not noticing, by falling out of the column and boldly ordering his captors to "close up" as they were coming out of a narrow place in the road when the column of fours had to break by twos. In the darkness and confusion he was mistaken for one of our own officers. After he had seen the column all "closed up" he rode the other way.

After awhile the farmer called us in to dinner and the blue and the gray were arranged around the table, in alternate seats. I sat between two members of the celebrated Smith family. One of them, R. Chilton Smith, was a relative of General Lee, or of his chief-of-staff, a young man of very refined manners, highly educated and well bred. He sent a package and a message by me to a friend in Winchester, a commission that was faithfully executed. The other was the son of Governor, better known as "Extra Billy" Smith, of Virginia; a short, sturdy youth, full of life and animation and venom.

"Mosby would be a blanked fool to take the parole," said he, spitefully. "I will not, if he does."

"But Lee has surrendered. The jig is up. Why try to prolong the war and cause further useless bloodshed?"

"I will never give up so long as there is a man in arms against your yankee government," he replied.

"But what can you do? Richmond is ours."

"I will go and join 'Joe' Johnston."

"It is a question of but a few days, at most, when Sherman will bag him."

"Then I will go west of the Mississippi, where Kirby Smith still holds the fort."

"Grant, Sherman, Sheridan and Thomas will make short work of Kirby Smith."

"Then, if worst comes to worst," he hotly retorted, "I will go to Mexico and join Maximilian. I will never submit to yankee rule; never."

I greatly enjoyed the young man's fervor and loyalty to his "cause" and, in spite of his bitterness, we took quite a liking to each other and, on parting, he was profuse in his expressions of regard and urged me cordially not to forget him should fortune take me his way again.

A day or two later, I was ordered to Petersburg, and soon thereafter, was in Richmond, Johnston having, in the meantime, surrendered. In the evening of the day of my arrival, after having visited the points of interest, Libby prison, the burnt district, the state house, etc., I was in the office of the Spotswood hotel where were numbers of federal and confederate soldiers chatting pleasantly together, when I was saluted with a hearty:

"Hello; how are you, colonel!" and, on looking around, was surprised as well as pleased to see my young friend of the Millwood conference.

I was mighty glad to meet him again and told him so, while he seemed to reciprocate the feeling. There was a cordial shaking of hands and after the first friendly greetings had been exchanged I said:

"But what does this mean? How about Mexico and Maximilian? Where is Mosby? What has been going on in the valley? Tell me all about it."

"Mexico be blanked" said he. "Mosby has taken the parole and so have I. The war is over and I am glad of it. I own up. I am subjugated."

The next day I met him again.

"I would be only too glad to invite you to our home and show you a little hospitality," said he, "but your military governor has taken possession of our house, father has run away, and mother is around among the neighbors."

I assured him of my appreciation of both his good will and of the situation and begged him to be at ease on my account. He very politely accompanied me in a walk around the city and did all he could to make my stay agreeable.

I never saw him afterwards. When in Yorktown in 1881, I made inquiry of General Fitzhugh Lee about young Smith and learned that he was dead. I hope that he rests in peace, for although a "rebel" and a "guerrilla," as we called them in those days, he was a whole-hearted, generous, and courageous foe who, though but a boy in years, was ready to fight for the cause he believed in and, in true chivalrous spirit, grasp the hand of his former adversary in genuine kindness and good-fellowship.

One other incident of the Millwood interview is perhaps worth narrating.

A bright eyed young scamp of Mosby's command mounted the sorrel mare ridden by his chief, and flourishing a roll of bills which they had probably confiscated on some raid into yankee territory, rode back and forth in front of the lawn, crying out:

"Here are two hundred dollars in greenbacks which say that this little, lean, sorrel mare of Colonel Mosby's, can outrun any horse in the yankee cavalry."

The bet was not taken.