After the fight at Chantilly and division of the booty the men who were with me, as usual, disappeared. Of the original fifteen who had come with me from the army for temporary service, five or six had been captured one night at a dancing frolic. Beattie was not in this party when he was made a prisoner, but was captured in a fight. I gave notice of a meeting at Rector's X roads, in Loudoun County, for the 31st of March. I had no idea until I got on the ground how many men I would have to go with me on my next raid, although I was confident that the success of my last one would attract a good many soldiers who were then at their homes on furlough. I was promptly there at the appointed time, and very soon sixty-nine men mustered to go with me. This was the largest force I had ever commanded up to that time. The shaking up of a kaleidoscope does not produce more variegated colors than the number of strange faces that appeared among them. I had never seen more than a dozen of them before, and very few of them had ever seen each other. I remember that there were several of the Black Horse Company with them. The force, therefore, lacked the cohesion and esprit de corps which springs from discipline and the mutual confidence of men who have long been associated together. I had no subordinate officer to aid me in command. They were better dressed, but almost as motley a crowd as Falstaff's regiment. There were representatives of nearly all the cavalry regiments in the army, with a sprinkling of men from the infantry, who had determined to try their luck on horseback. A good many of this latter class had been disabled for performing infantry duty by wounds; there were others who had been absent from their regiments without leave ever since the first battle of Bull Run. There were a number of the wounded men who carried their crutches along tied to their saddle bows. As soon as their commanders heard that I had reclaimed and converted them once more into good soldiers they not only made requisition to have them returned to their regiments, but actually complained to General Lee of their being with me.

Now I took a practical and not a technical view of the question, and when a man volunteered to go into a fight with me I did not consider it to be any more a duty of mine to investigate his military record than his pedigree. Although a revolutionary government, none was ever so much under the domination of red tape as the one at Richmond. The martinets who controlled it were a good deal like the hero of Moliere's comedy, who complained that his antagonist had wounded him by thrusting in carte, when, according to the rule, it should have been in tierce. I cared nothing for the form of a thrust if it brought blood. I did not play with foils. The person selected to feed the army was a metaphysical dyspeptic, who it is said, lived on rice-water, and had a theory that soldiers could do the same. A man, to fill such a position well, should be in sympathy with hungry men, on the principle that he who drives fat oxen must himself be fat. When I received these complaints, which were sent through, but did not emanate from headquarters, I notified the men that they were forbidden any longer to assist me in destroying the enemy. They would sorrowfully return to their homes. It was no part of my contract to spend my time in the ignoble duty of catching deserters. I left that to those whose taste was gratified in doing the work. Several of these men, who had been very efficient with me, were, on my application, transferred to me by the Secretary of War. I always had a Confederate fire in my rear as well as that of the public enemy in my front. I will add that I never appealed in vain for justice either to General R. E. Lee, General Stuart, or the Secretary of War, Mr. Seddon.

And now, again, on the 31st of March, I set out once more to tempt fortune in the Fairfax forests. The men who followed me with so much zeal were not, perhaps, altogether of the saintly character or excited by the pious aspirations of the Canterbury pilgrims who knelt at the shrine of Thomas À Becket. Patriotism, as well as love of adventure, impelled them. If they got rewards in the shape of horses and arms, these were devoted, like their lives, to the cause in which they were fighting. They were made no richer by what they got, except in the ability to serve their country. I did not hope for much on this expedition. The enemy had grown wary and were prepared for attack at every point. But I knew that if I dispersed the men without trying to do something I would never see them again.

The spring campaign was about to open, and most of them would soon be recalled to the army, and I would be left a major without a command. I concluded to attack the detached cavalry camp at Dranesville. In a letter to Stuart a few weeks before, I had suggested that the cavalry brigade then stationed at Culpepper Court House should do this. I said: "There are about three hundred cavalry at Dranesville who are isolated from the rest of the command, so that nothing would be easier than to capture the whole force. I have harassed them so much that they do not keep their pickets over half a mile from camp." For some reason, Stuart did not undertake it. The reason was, I suppose, that he was saving his cavalry for the hard work they would have to do as soon as Hooker crossed the Rappahannock.

The enterprise looked hazardous, but I calculated on being able to surprise the camp, and trusted a good deal to my usual good luck. Ames, Dick Moran, Major Hibbs, and John Underwood, who never failed to be on time, went with me. I thought I would vary my tactics a little this time, and attack about dusk. They would hardly look for me at vespers; heretofore I had always appeared either in the daytime or late at night. I got to Herndon Station, where I had had the encounter two weeks before with the Vermont cavalry, about sundown, and learned there that the camp at Dranesville, which was about three miles off, had been broken up on the day before, and the cavalry had been withdrawn beyond Difficult Run, several miles below. This stream has its proper name, as there are few places where it can be crossed, and I knew that these would be strongly guarded. So it was hopeless to attempt anything in that direction. As I was so near, I concluded to go on to Dranesville that night, in hopes that by chance I might pick up some game. After spending an hour or so there, we started up the Leesburg pike to find a good place with forage for camping that night. I expected that our presence would be reported to the cavalry camps below, which would probably draw out a force which I could venture to meet. As all the forage had been consumed for several miles around, we had to march five or six miles to find any. About midnight we stopped at Miskel's farm, which is about a mile from the turnpike and just in the forks of Goose Creek and the Potomac.

Although it was the last day of March, snow was still lying on the ground, and winter lingered on the banks of the Potomac. My authority over the men was of such a transitory nature that I disliked to order them to do anything but fight. Hence I did not put out any pickets on the pike. The men had been marching all day, and were cold and tired. The enemy's camps were about fifteen miles below, and I did not think they could possibly hear of us before the next morning, when we would be ready for them, if they came after us. We fed and picketed our horses inside the barnyard, which was surrounded by a strong fence. Sentinels were stationed as a guard over the horses, and to arouse us in the event of alarm. Many of the men went to bed in the hay-loft, while others, including myself, lay down on the floor in the front room of the dwelling-house, before a big log fire. With my head on my saddle as a pillow, I was soon in a deep sleep. We were within a few hundred yards of the river, and there were Union camps on the other side; but I had no fear of them that night. About sunrise the next morning, I had just risen and put on my boots when one of the men came in and said that the enemy on the hill over the river was making signals. I immediately went out into the back yard to look at them. I had hardly done so, when I saw Dick Moran coming at full speed across the field, waving his hat, and calling out, "The Yankees are coming!"

He had stopped about two miles below, near the pike, and spent the night with a friend; and just as he woke up, about daylight, he had seen the column of Union cavalry going up the pike on our trail. By taking a short cut across the fields, he managed to get to us ahead of them. The barnyard was not a hundred yards from the house; and we all rushed to it. But not more than one-third of our horses were then bridled and saddled. I had buckled on my arms as I came out of the house. By the time we got to the inclosure where our horses were, I saw the enemy coming through a gate just on the edge of a clump of woods about two hundred yards off. The first thing I said to the men was that they must fight. The enemy was upon us so quick that I had no time to bridle or saddle my horse, as I was busy giving orders. I directed the men not to fire, but to saddle and mount quickly. The Union cavalry were so sure of their prey that they shut the gates after passing through, in order to prevent any of us from escaping. As Capt. Flint dashed forward at the head of his squadron, their sabres flashing in the rays of the morning sun, I felt like my final hour had come. Another squadron, after getting into the open field, was at the same time moving around to our rear. In every sense, things looked rather blue for us. We were in the angle of two impassable streams and surrounded by at least four times our number, with more than half of my men unprepared for a fight. But I did not despair. I had great faith in the efficacy of a charge; and in the affair at Chantilly had learned the superiority of the revolver over the sabre. I was confident that we could at least cut our way through them. The Potomac resounded with the cheers of the troops on the northern bank, who were anxious spectators, but could not participate in the conflict. When I saw Capt. Flint divide his command, I knew that my chances had improved at least fifty per cent. When he got to within fifty yards of the gate of the barnyard, I opened the gate and advanced, pistol in hand, on foot to meet him, and at the same time called to the men that had already got mounted to follow me. They responded with one of those demoniac yells which those who once heard never forgot, and dashed forward to the conflict "as reapers descend to the harvest of death." Just as I passed through the gate, at the head of the men, one of them, Harry Hatcher, the bravest of the brave, seeing me on foot, dismounted, and gave me his horse. Our assailants were confounded by the tactics adopted, and were now in turn as much surprised as we had been. They had thought that we would remain on the defensive, and were not prepared to receive an attack. I mounted Harry Hatcher's horse, and led the charge. In a few seconds Harry was mounted on a captured one whose rider had been killed. When the enemy saw us coming to meet them they halted, and were lost.

The powerful moral effect of our assuming the offensive, when nothing but surrender had been expected, seemed to bewilder them. Before they could recover from the shock of their surprise Captain Flint, the leader, had fallen dead in their sight. Before the impetuous onset of my men they now broke and fled. No time was given them to re-form and rally. The remorseless revolver was doing its work of death in their ranks, while their swords were as harmless as the wooden sword of harlequin. Unlike my adversaries, I was trammelled with no tradition that required me to use an obsolete weapon. The combat was short, sharp and decisive. In the first moment of collision, they wheeled and made for the gate which they had already closed against themselves. The other squadron that had gone around us, when they saw their companions turn and fly, were panic-stricken and forgot what they had been sent to do. Their thoughts were now how to save themselves. Our capture was now out of the question. They now started pell-mell for the gate in order to reach it ahead of us. But by this time our men had all mounted, and like so many furies were riding and shooting among their scattered ranks. The gate was at last broken through by the pressure, but they became so packed and jammed in the narrow passage that they could only offer a feeble resistance, and at this point many fell under the deadly fire that was poured in from behind. Everywhere above the storm of battle could be heard the voices and seen the forms of the Dioscuri—"Major" Hibbs and Dick Moran—cheering on the men as they rode headlong in the fight. Dick Moran got into a hand-to-hand conflict in the woods with a party, and the issue was doubtful, when Harry Hatcher came up and decided it. There was with me that day a young artillery officer—Samuel F. Chapman—who at the first call of his State to arms had quit the study of divinity and become, like Stonewall Jackson, a sort of military Calvin, singing the psalms of David as he marched into battle. I must confess that his character as a soldier was more on the model of the Hebrew prophets than the Evangelist or the Baptist in whom he was so devout a believer. Before he got to the gate Sam had already exhausted every barrel of his two pistols and drawn his sabre. As the fiery Covenanter rode on his predestined course the enemy's ranks withered wherever he went. He was just in front of me—he was generally in front of everybody in a fight—at the gate. It was no fault of the Union cavalry that they did not get through faster than they did, but Sam seemed to think that it was. Even at that supreme moment in my life, when I had just stood on the brink of ruin and had barely escaped, I could not restrain a propensity to laugh.

Sam, to give more vigor to his blows, was standing straight up in his stirrups, dealing them right and left with all the theological fervor of Burly of Balfour. I doubt whether he prayed that day for the souls of those he sent over the Stygian river. I made him a captain for it. The chase was kept up for several miles down the pike. When the people at Dranesville saw Capt. Flint pass through that morning in search of me, they expected to see him return soon with all of us prisoners. Among the first fugitives who had passed through, and showed the day's disasters in his face, was a citizen who had hurried down the night before to the camp of the Vermont cavalry to tell them where I was. Thinking that Captain Flint had an easy thing of it, he had ridden with him as a pilot, to witness my humiliation and surrender. He escaped capture, but never returned to his home during the war. I doubt whether his loyalty ever received any reward. He was also the first man to get back to the camp he had left that morning on Difficult Run, where he was about as welcome as the messenger who bore to Rome the tidings of CannÆ. The reverend Sam was not satisfied with the amount of execution he had done at the gate, but continued his slaughter until, getting separated in the woods from the other men, he dashed into a squad of the Vermont men, who were doing their best to get away, and received a cut with a sabre. But one of my men, Hunter, came to his rescue, and the matter in dispute was quickly settled. Down the pike the Vermont cavalry sped, with my men close at their heels. Lieutenant Woodbury had got three miles away, when a shot from Ames laid him low. They never drew rein or looked back to see how many were behind them. I got pretty close to one, who, seeing that he was bound to be shot or caught, jumped off his horse and sat down on the roadside. As I passed him he called out to me, "You have played us a nice April fool, boys!" This reminded me that it was the first day of April. Some of the men kept up the pursuit beyond Dranesville, but I stopped there. The dead and wounded were strewn from where the fight began, at Miskel's, for several miles along the road. I had one man killed and three slightly wounded. I knew that as soon as the news reached the camps in Fairfax a heavy force would be sent against me, so I started off immediately, carrying eighty-three prisoners and ninety-five horses, with all their equipments.

At Dranesville were two sutlers' stores that had not been removed by their owners when the camps were broken up. These were, of course, appropriated, and helped to swell the joy of the partisans. A more hilarious party never went to war or a wedding than my men were returning home. Danger always gives a keener relish for the joys of life. They struck up a favorite song of Tom Moore's, "The wine cup is sparkling before us," and the woods resounded with the melody. The dead and wounded were left on the field to be cared for by citizens until their friends could come after them. The number of prisoners I took exceeded the number of my men. One of my command—Frank Williams—had ridden early that morning to the house of a farmer to get his breakfast. The Vermont cavalry came up and got between him and us, and so Frank had to retreat. He, however, took two of them prisoners who had straggled off on the same errand, and carried them along with him. As he had seen such an overwhelming force go down upon us, and as he knew that we were hemmed in by deep water on two sides, Frank took it for granted that my star had set forever. He started off to carry the news, and reached Middleburg that day, when he informed the citizen of what he supposed was our fate. There was, of course, loud lamentation over it, for many had a son or a brother or a lover there. Frank had been there an hour or so anxiously waiting to hear something from us, but dreading the worst, when suddenly a blue column was seen coming up the pike. As blue was the predominant color, the first impression was that the men in gray were prisoners. But soon Dick Moran, who was riding in front, solved all doubts and fears as, with a voice louder than a Triton's shell, he proclaimed, "All right."