Chapter VIII: In Virginia

Thirty guns of the horse artillery moved into position—not for battle,
but for a splendid review. Right and left, emerging from the Virginia
forest and the leafy defiles between the hills, came with
earth-shaking tread the cavalry, a great force of cavalry, Jeb
Stuart’s splendid brigades! In the misty, early morning they moved
into line, having come up from Brandy Station to a plain north of
Culpeper Court-House. It was the eighth of June, something more than a
month after Chancellorsville.

Beckham’s Horse Artillery, that had been John Pelham’s, having got
into position, proceeded to take interest in the forming cavalry.
There was so magnificently much of cavalry; it was so rested, so
recuperated, so victorious, so proud of its past and determined as to
its future, so easy, so fine, so glorious, so stamped, in short, with
the stamp of Jeb Stuart, that to watch it was like watching a high and
gay pageant! The sound of its movement, its jingle and clank, was
delightful; delightful the brave lilt of voices, the neighing of
impatient horses, delightful the keen bugles! The mist being yet
heavy, there was much of mere looming shapes, sounds out of a fogbank.
The plain was far spread, the review meant to be a noble one. There
was a sense of distant gaiety as of near. The mist hid panoplied war,
and far away bugles rang with an elfin triumph.

A certain company of the horse artillery was beautifully placed on a
small, clear knoll, above it the fine leaves, the drooping, sweet
bloom of a solitary locust. The guns were ranged in order, the horses
in harness, cropping the wet grass where they stood. But it was early
yet and the battery men had not received the order, _To your pieces!_
They were clustered in groups, watching the gathering cavalry. Lean
and easy and powerful, bronzed and young, they cheerfully commented
upon life in general and the scene below.

“Jeb isn’t here yet! He bivouacked last night at Beverly Ford.
Orderly, riding by, heard the banjo.”

“Is this review his notion or Marse Robert’s?”

“I reckon I can answer that. I was at headquarters. Jeb came out of
that lovely little cabin he’s got with a letter in his hand which he
read to Heros von Borcke—”

“Yes?”

“And he said in it that he didn’t believe there ever had been in this
sinful world a finer cavalry force, and wouldn’t the greatest general
on earth come over with some of his friends and review the greatest
body of horse—”

“Sounds like him.”

“And he gave the letter to Heros von Borcke, who went off with it. And
then I was at headquarters again—”

“You sound like the Old Testament! Well, you were at headquarters
again—?”

“And Heros von Borcke brought an order from Marse Robert—Jeb and all
of us to come over and be reviewed on the plain north of Culpeper.
Marse Robert said he’d be there with ‘some of his friends’—”

“Longstreet, I reckon. A.P. Hill’s still at Fredericksburg.”

“And they say Ewell’s going toward the Valley—”

To right and left there sprang a rustling. The sun strengthened, the
mist began to lift, a number of bugles blared together. Into the very
atmosphere sifted something like golden laughter. A shout arose—_Jeb
Stuart! Jeb Stuart! Jeb Stuart!_

Out of the misty forest, borne high, a vivid square in the sea of
pearl, came a large battle-flag. Crimson and blue and
thirteen-starred, forth it paced, held high by the mounted standard
bearer. The horse artillery saluted as it went by, going on to a
sentinelled strip of greensward where stood three ancient and
weather-beaten tents. Here it was planted, and here in the June wind
it streamed outward so that every star might be seen. The mist yet
held on the farther side of the plain, but all the nearer edge was
growing light and sunny. The bugles rang. _Jeb Stuart! Jeb Stuart!_
shouted the plain above Culpeper.

Stuart, followed by his staff, trotted from the forest. He wore his
fighting jacket and his hat with the plume, he was magnificently
mounted, he stroked his wonderful, sunny beard, and he laughed with
his wonderful, sunny, blue eyes. He had more _verve_ than any leader
in that army; he was brave as Ney; the army adored him! The victory of
Chancellorsville was his victory no less than it was that of Stonewall
Jackson and of Robert Lee. All knew it, and the victory was but five
short weeks ago. The glory of the great fight hung about him like a
golden haze, a haze that magnified, and yet that, perhaps, did not
magnify overmuch, for he was a noble cavalry leader. Suddenly,—

“_Old Joe Hooker, won’t you come out of the Wilderness?_”

chanted the hosts about him.

He lifted his hat. The horse, that had about his arching neck a great
wreath of syringa and roses, pranced on to the colours and stopped.
Staff drew up, bugles blew, there came a sound of drum and fife, mist
began rapidly to lift. “Oh,” breathed Horse Artillery, getting into
place, “most things have a compensatory side!”

From the misty middle of the plain came with tramp and jingle another
mounted party. One rode ahead on a grey horse. Noble of form and noble
of face, simple and courteous, he came up to the great flag and
grandeur came with him. _General Lee! General Lee!_ shouted Cavalry,
shouted Horse Artillery.

Stuart, who had dismounted, came forward, saluting.

“Ah, General,” said Lee. “I am going to review you with much pleasure,
and I have taken you at your word and brought with me some of my
friends.”

Stuart beamed upon Longstreet, commander of the First Corps, and upon
several division generals.

“Oh, I have brought more than these!” said Lee. “Look how the sun is
drinking up the mist!”

As he spoke the sun finished the draught. The rolling plain north of
Culpeper lay bare. All the dewy, green middle waited for the cavalry
evolutions, for the march past, but the farther side, up and down and
over against Jeb Stuart’s flag, was already occupied and not by
cavalry. Troops and troops and troops, like a grey wall pointed with
banners!—Horse Artillery, from its place of vantage, stared, then
softly crowed. “Great day in the morning! Marse Robert has brought the
whole First Corps!”

Now here, now there, on the plain, went in brilliant manœuvres the
cavalry. The horse artillery came into line, manœuvred and thundered
as brilliantly. The massed infantry cheered, the reviewing general
stood with a grave light in his eyes. Jeb Stuart shifted his place
like a sunbeam. Oh, the blowing bugles; oh, the red and blue flag
outstreaming; oh, the sunlight and the clear martial sounds and the
high, high hopes on the plain north of Culpeper! June was in the heart
of most; doubly, doubly was it the Confederacy’s June, this month!
Great victories in Virginia lay behind it: in the Far South there had
been disasters, but Vicksburg—Vicksburg was heroically standing the
siege. And in front lay, perhaps, the crossing of the Potomac and the
carrying the war into Africa! June, June, June! it sang in the blood
of the grey. Long and horrible had been the war, and many were the
lost, and tears had drenched the land, but now it was summer and
victory would come before the autumn. The North was tired of spilling
blood and treasure; there sounded a clamour for peace. One or two
other great victories, and peace would descend and the great
Confederacy would stand! The march past raised its eyes to the crimson
banner with the thirteen stars, and June was in every soldier’s heart.

The march past was a thing to have seen and to remember. By the starry
banner, by Robert Edward Lee, went the cavalry brigades of his son,
“Roony” Lee, of his nephew, Fitzhugh Lee, of Beverly Robertson, of
W.E. Jones, of Wade Hampton. They lifted their sabres, the sun made a
dazzle of steel. June, June, June! sang the bugles, sang the birds in
the woods back of the warm-hearted, the admiring infantry. Past went
the horse artillery, the thirty guns, the proud battery horses, the
easy and bronzed cannoneers, the grave young officers.... _General
Lee! General Lee!_ shouted Cavalry, shouted Artillery! The dust rose
from the plain, all grew a shimmering blur....

It was over, the great cavalry review. The day descended; the troops
drew off toward hidden bivouacs. Lee and Longstreet and Stuart rode
together awhile, under the sunset sky. Staff, behind them, understood
that great things were being spoken of—marches toward Maryland,
perhaps, or a watch on Joe Hooker, or the, of late, vastly increased
efficiency of the enemy’s cavalry. Staff had its own opinion as to
this. “They always could fight, and now they’ve learned to ride!
Pity!”

“I don’t call it a pity. I’d rather meet them equal. Pleasanton’s all
right.”

“We’ve had a beautiful review and we’ve also made a lot of noise, to
say nothing of a dust cloud like the Seven Days come back. Double
pickets to-night, I should say. We aren’t a million miles from
Hooker.”

“That’s true enough.—_Halt!_ General Lee’s going back.”

Under a great flush of sunset coral and gold above the trees, Lee and
his cavalry leader parted. The one smiled, the other laughed, they
touched gauntleted hands, and Lee turned grey Traveller. Longstreet
joined him and they rode away, staff falling in behind, out of the
June-time forest, back to the encampment at Culpeper. A moment and
their figures were drowned in the violet evening. Jeb Stuart, singing,
plunged with his staff into the woods. His headquarters were at Brandy
Station.

The starry night found this village filled with troops. They
bivouacked, moreover, all about it, on Fleetwood Hill and toward St.
James Church. There were outposts, too, toward the Rappahannock; a
considerable troop tethered its horses on the bank above Beverly Ford.
Others went toward Providence Church and Norman’s Ford, others toward
Kelly’s. Eight thousand horse bivouacked beneath the stars. Camp-fire
saw camp-fire, and the rustling night wind and the murmuring streams
heard other voices than their own, heard voices full of cheer.

The horse artillery prepared to spend the night in a grassy field
beside the Beverly Ford road. In front was a piece of thick woods. The
battery horses, tethered in a long line, began to crop the grass. The
guns, each known and loved like an old familiar, were parked. The men
gathered dry wood for their supper fires, fried their bacon, baked
their corn-meal pones, brewed their “coffee”—chiccory, rye, or sweet
potato, as the case might be. There was much low laughter and
crooning, and presently clouds of tobacco smoke. Beautiful
review—beautiful day—rest to-night—march to-morrow—Jeb lovely as
ever—going to end this blessed war—pile on the pine knots so we can
read the letters from home!...

Toward midnight, on the farther edge of the wood, a post of the horse
artillery relieved its pickets. The sound of the retiring steps died
away and the fresh sentinels took cognizance of their positions. The
positions were some distance apart, between them wood and uneven
ground and the murmurous night. Each picket was a lonely man, with the
knowledge only that if he raised his voice to a shout he would be
heard.

The moon shone brightly. It silvered the Beverly Ford road and made a
frosted wall of the forest left and right, and bathed with the mildest
light the open and undulating country. Somewhere a whip-poor-will was
calling. _Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!_

Beside the road sprang a giant sycamore. From beneath it Philip
Deaderick, once Richard Cleave, standing picket, watched the night. He
stood straight and still, powerfully knit, his short rifle in the
hollow of his arm. He stood grave and quiet, a wronged but not unhappy
man. The inner life, the only life, had marched on. A gulf had opened
and certain hopes and happinesses had fallen therein, but his life was
larger than those hopes and happinesses. The inner man had marched on.
He had marched even with a quickened step in this last month. “What
did it matter?” reasoned Cleave. “Those whom I love know, and I am not
cut off from service, no, nor from growth!” Around, above, below the
sharpened point of the moment he was aware enough of the larger man.
The point might ache at times, but he knew also impersonal freedom....
Things might be righted some day or they might not be righted. He
could wait. He looked from the shadow of the sycamore out upon the
lovely, moonlit land. Tragedy, death, and sorrow through all the
world, interpretations at grips, broken purposes, misunderstandings,
humanity groping, groping! He ached for it all—for the woman sleepless
on her pillow, for the prisoner in prison. The spirit widened; he
stood calm under all, quiet, with suspended judgment. _Whip-poor-will!
Whip-poor-will!_ He looked up and studied the stars between the silver
branches of the sycamore, then dropped his gaze and leaned slightly
forward, for he heard the tread of horses on the road.

Two horsemen, one in front, the other a little way behind, came
quietly up the silver streak.

“Halt!” said Deaderick.

The two drew rein. “All right!” said the one in advance. “A friend.
Colonel of Cary’s Legion, with an orderly.”

“Advance, friend, and give the countersign.”

“_Ivry._”

“Correct, _Ivry_. Pass!”

The officer, with a motion of his hand to the orderly to stay where he
was, came closer to the picket. “Before I do so,” he said, and his
tone was a strange one, “tell me your name.”

“Philip Deaderick.”

“You are trying to disguise your voice.... _Richard!_”

“Don’t, Fauquier! I am Philip Deaderick, gunner in ——’s battery, horse
artillery.”

“How long?”

“Since Groveton. Don’t betray me.”

“Who knows? Does Judith know?”

“Yes. She and my mother.”

The other covered his eyes with his hand, then spoke, much moved.
“Richard, if ever this war gives us time we might reopen matters. We
surely have influence enough—”

“I know, Fauquier. But there is no time now to be given nor stress to
be laid on private matters. Somehow they have sunk away.... Perhaps a
day will come, and perhaps it will not come.... In the mean time
dismissal from the army has not worked. I am back in the army.”

“And are not unhappy? You do not sound unhappy.”

“No. I am not unhappy. Only now and then.... Be careful, will you? If
I were known I should be unhappy soon enough!”

“You may trust me.” He leaned from the saddle and put his hand on the
other’s shoulder. “Richard, you’re a true man. I’ve always honoured
you, and I honour you more than ever! Truth will out! You be sure of
that.”

“I am at times reasonably sure of it, Fauquier. And if it does not
appear, I am reasonably sure that I can endure the darkness. I told
you that I was not unhappy.” He laid an affectionate touch on the
other’s hand. “I was sorry enough to hear about the arm, Fauquier.”

“Oh,” said Cary, “I have learned to use the left. I had rather it was
the arm than the leg, like dear old Ewell!... Richard, meeting you
like this moves me more than I can well let show. I’ve got so much of
my mother in me that I’d like to kiss you, my dear—” He bent as he
spoke and touched with his lips the other’s broad, uplifted brow,
which done, with a great handclasp they parted. Cary, turning, called
to the orderly who came up. The two rode on toward Brandy Station, and
Deaderick resumed his watch.

Another time passed. The moon rode high, the forest rustled, the road
lay a silver streak. Deaderick, still and straight beneath the
sycamore, presently turned his head and regarded the line of woods
upon his left. He had caught a sound—but it was some distance away. It
had been faint, but it was like a horse being pushed cautiously
through undergrowth. Now there was no more of it. He stood listening,
with narrowed eyes. The bushes a hundred feet away parted and a man
and horse emerged. They stopped a moment and the man rose in his
stirrups and looked about him. Then, with a satisfied nod, he settled
to the saddle again and the two came through the thin growth down to
the road.

“Halt!” said Deaderick, cocking his rifle.

The horseman came on. “Halt! or I fire.”

The horse was stopped. “Don’t waste your bullets on me!” said the
rider coolly. “Save them for the Yankees.”

“Dismount before you advance.”

“I have the countersign. I am Lieutenant Francis, bearing an enquiry
from General Lee.”

“Dismount before you advance.”

The officer dismounted. He was a tall man, wrapped, though the night
was warm, in a grey horseman’s cloak. “You are tremendously careful
to-night! I suppose my horse may follow me? He doesn’t stand well.”

“Fasten him to the sapling beside you.—Advance and give the
countersign.”

The tall man came up, revealing, beneath a grey hat pulled low, a
tanned countenance with long mustaches. “_Ivry._ I’ll tell General
Stuart that you are about the most cautious picket he’s got. I
remember having to convince just such another when I was in Texas in
’43—”

“Did you convince him?”

“I did. The word is _Ivry_. Allow me to pass.”

“Be so good first as to open your cloak. It is too warm to wear it
so.”

“My man, you are on your way to the guardhouse. Messengers from
General Lee are not accustomed—_What is that?_”

“Nothing. I was humming a line of an old carol. Do you remember the
road to Frederick?”

Dead silence, then a movement of Marchmont’s hand beneath the cloak.
Cleave divined, and was upon him. Not so tall, but more powerfully
built and a master wrestler, the tug of war was a short one. The
pistol, wrenched from the Englishman’s grasp, fell to the ground and
was kicked away. The two struggling figures swung round until
Marchmont was nearer the sycamore, Cleave between him and the horse.
Another fierce instant and the Englishman was thrown—the picket’s
rifle covered him.

“I regret it,” said Cleave, “but it can’t be helped. I wish that some
other had been sent in your place.” He raised his voice to a shout.
“Picket two! A prisoner. Send guard!” There came back a faint “All
right! Hold on!”

Marchmont sat up and picked the leaves from his clothing. “Well, I
have thought of you more than once, and wished that we might meet
again! Not precisely under such auspices as these, but under others. I
was obliged to you, I remember, that day at Front Royal.”

“It was a personal matter then, in which I might indulge my own
inclination. To-night I regret that it is not a personal matter.”

“Exactly. Well, I bear you no grudge. ‘Fortune of war!’ At Front Royal
you were a colonel leading a charge—may I ask why I find you playing
sentry?”

“That is a long story,” said Cleave. “I am sorry that I should be your
captor, and it is entirely within your right to deny the request I am
going to make. I am Philip Deaderick, a private soldier. I ask you to
forget that I ever had another name.”

“All right, Philip Deaderick, private soldier!” said Marchmont.
“Whatever may be your reasons, I won’t blab. I liked you very well on
the road to Frederick, and very well that day at Front Royal.—To-night
was just a cursed fanfaronade. Knew you must all be hereabouts.
Crossed over to see what I could see, got the word and this damned
cloak and hat from a spy, and ambled at once into the arms of a man
who could recognize me! Absurd! And here comes the guard.”

Guard came up. “What is it, Deaderick? Deserter? Spy?”

“It’s not a deserter,” said Deaderick. “It’s somebody in a blue
uniform beneath a grey cloak. I don’t think he’s an accredited
spy—probably just an officer straying around and by chance hearing the
word and acting on the spur of the moment. You’d better take him to
the captain back on the road.”

Another hour passed and he was relieved. Back with the outpost he lay
down upon the summer earth and tried to sleep. But the two encounters
of the night had set the past to ringing. He could not still the
reverberations. Greenwood! Greenwood!—the place and one within it—and
one within it—and one within it!... And then Marchmont, and the hopes
and ambitions that once Richard Cleave had known. “A colonel leading a
charge”—and the highest service in sight—and a man’s knowledge of his
own ability.... Philip Deaderick turned and lay with his face to the
earth, his arm across his eyes. He fought it out, the thousandth inner
battle, then turned again and lay, looking sideways along the misty
night.

In the distance a cock crew. The chill air, the unearthly quiet told
the hour before dawn. The east grew pale, then into it crept faint
streaks of purple. The birds in the woodland began incessantly to
_cheep! cheep!_ The mist was very heavy. It hid the road, swathed all
the horizon. Reveille sounded: the bugler, mounted on a hill behind
the guns, looked, in the moody light, like some Brocken spectre. Far
and wide, full at hand, thin and elfin in the distance, rang other
reveilles. They rang through the streets of Brandy Station and through
the surrounding forests, fields, and dales, waking Jeb Stuart’s
thousands from their sleep.

Horse Artillery stood up, rubbed its eyes, and made a speedy toilet.
In the shortest possible time the men were cooking breakfast. Cooking
breakfast being at no time in the Army of Northern Virginia a
prolonged operation, they were to be found in an equally short space
of time seated about mess-fires eating it. It was yet dank and chilly
dawn, the east reddening but not so very red, the mist hanging heavy,
closing all perspectives. Horse Artillery lifted its tin cup, filled
with steaming mock-coffee, to its lips—_Crack! crack!_ came the rifle
shots from the Beverly Ford woods. Horse Artillery set down its cup.
“What’s that? What are all those pickets firing that way for? Good
Lord, if there’s going to be a surprise, why couldn’t they wait until
after breakfast? _Get the horses and limber up!_—All right, Captain—”

Vedettes, driven in, came galloping up the road. “Blue cavalry! No end
of blue cavalry! Column crossing, and a whole lot of them up in the
woods! Nobody could see them, the mist was so heavy! You slow old
Artillery, you’d better look out!”

Beckham came up. “Captain Hart, draw a piece by hand down into the
road! Get hitched up there, double-quick! Into position on the knoll
yonder!—Oh, here comes support!”

The Sixth Virginia Cavalry had been on picket; the Seventh Virginia
Cavalry doing grand guard. Alert and in the saddle, they had seen and
heard. Now from toward Brandy Station up they raced, like a friendly
whirlwind, to the point of danger. A cheer from the artillery welcomed
them, and they shouted in return. Flournoy and the Sixth dashed down
the Beverly Ford road and deployed in the woods to the right. Marshall
and the Seventh followed and deployed to the left. Artillery limbered
up and took to the high ground near St. James Church. Up galloped
Eleventh and Twelfth Virginia and fell into line behind the guns.

Jeb Stuart, in the saddle on Fleetwood Hill, his blue eyes upon the
Beverly Ford situation, found a breathless aide beside him.

“General! General! They’re crossing below at Kelly’s Ford! Two
divisions—artillery and infantry behind! They’ve got us front and
rear!”

Stuart’s eyes danced. He stroked his beard. “All right! All right!
I’ll send Robertson and Hampton—Here’s W.F.H. Lee—Cary, too! This is
going to be the dandiest fight!”

A brigadier galloped up. “General, shall we detach regiments to guard
all approaches?”

“Too many approaches, General! We’ll keep concentrated and deliver the
blow where the blow is due! Will you listen to that delightful
fuss?—Dabney, you go tell General Hampton to place a dismounted
battalion by Carrico Mills.”

The clang and firing in the Beverly Ford woods grew furious—the Sixth
and Seventh fighting with the Eighth New York and the Eighth Illinois.
On pushed the Federal horse, many and bold, Buford’s Regulars,
trained, efficient. The forward surge, the backward giving, brought
all upon the edge of the wood. There was charge and countercharge,
carbine firing, sabring, shouts, scream of horses, shock and fire,
hand-to-hand fighting. Back and upward roared the surge, up and over
the hill where were the guns, the guns that were trained, but could
not be fired, so inextricably was friend intertwined with foe. The
shouting blue laid hold of the guns; the cannoneers fought
hand-to-hand, with pistol muzzle and pistol butt, dragging at the
horses’ reins, striking men from the saddle, covering the guns,
wrenching off the blue clutch. Then came like a jubilant whirlwind the
supporting grey, Hampton and Lee.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” asked Jeb Stuart on Fleetwood Hill. “Oh, ho!
They’re coming thick from Kelly’s Ford!”

“General Robertson reports, sir, that there’s artillery and infantry
on his front. The cavalry, in great strength, is sweeping to the
right—”

“Fine! They’re all coming to Fleetwood Hill. Go, tell Major Beckham to
send any guns that he can spare.”

Beckham sent two of McGregor’s. Artillery was in straits of its own.
Charges from the Beverly Ford woods might be repelled, but now arose
the dust and thunder of the advance from Kelly’s. Impossible to stay
before St. James Church and become grain between the upper and nether
millstones! Artillery fell back, first to Pettis’s Hill, then to
Fleetwood, and fell back with three pieces disabled. Before they could
get into position, Buford’s regiments charged again. There followed a
mêlée. The cannoneers, too, must deal with that charge. They had
pistols which they used, they had sponge staff and odd bits of iron.
As soon as it was humanly possible, they got a gun into service—then
two. The shells broke and scattered the shouting blue lines.

Through Brandy Station charged regiment after regiment,—blue,
magnificent, shouting,—Gregg and Duffie’s divisions up from Kelly’s
Ford. A dismounted squadron of Robertson’s broke before them; they
fell upon a supporting battery and took the guns. On they roared,
through Brandy Station, out to Fleetwood Hill. Jeb Stuart swung his
hat. “Now, Cavalry of the Army of Northern Virginia! Now, Cavalry of
the Army of Northern Virginia!”

There followed a great cavalry fight. Squadron dashed against
squadron. All was gleaming and dust and shouting, carbine smoke and
wheeled lightning of sabres. June stood a-tiptoe; the earth seemed to
rock; a hundred brilliant colours went in sparkles before the eyes,
the ears rang. There was a mad excitement in which, whether time
plunged forward like a cataract, or stood still like an arrested
hearkener to the last trump, none in that abandonment could have told.
It was a gay fight, shrieking with excitement, the horses mad as the
riders, the air shaking like castanets. The squadrons crashed
together, the sabres swung, the pistols cracked! Down went men and
horses, biting the dust, gaiety going out like a blown candle.
Without, air and sunshine and wild animal exultation; within, pain,
smothering, and darkness, darkness.... The guns were taken, the guns
were retaken; the grey gave back, the blue gave back. The battle lines
wheeled and charged, wheeled and charged. There was shock and fire and
a mad mêlée—a staccato fight, with cymbal and quick drum. And ever in
front tossed the feather of Stuart.

To and fro, through the hot June weather, the battle swung. Though no
one could tell the time, time passed. The blue gave back—slowly.
Slowly the grey pressed them eastward. A train shrieked into Brandy
Station, and grey infantry came tumbling out. Loud blew Pleasanton’s
bugles. “Leave the fight a drawn fight, and come away!”

With deliberation the blue, yet in battle front, moved eastward to the
fords of the Rappahannock. After them pressed the grey. An aide, dust
from head to foot, rode neck by neck with Stuart. “General! we are
being hard put to it on the left—Buford’s Regulars! General Lee has a
wound. We’ve got a battery, but the ammunition’s out—” The feather of
Stuart turned again to the Beverly Ford road.

W.H.F. Lee’s troops, re-forming, charged again, desperately,
brilliantly. Munford, commanding Fitzhugh Lee’s brigade, had been up
the river at Wellford’s Ford. Now, bringing with him Breathed’s
battery, he fell upon the blue flank. Buford gave way; the grey came
on with a yell. Down through the Beverly woods, past the spot where,
at dawn, there had been outpost fighting, down to the ford again,
rolled the blue. The feather of Stuart went by in pursuit.

Philip Deaderick, resting after a hard fight, leaning against a yet
smoking gun, watched with his fellows the retreat of the tide that had
threatened to overwhelm. The tide was finding outlet by all the fords
of the Rappahannock. It was streaming back from all the region about
Brandy Station. It went in spirits, retiring, but hardly what one
might call defeated. It had been, in sooth, all but a drawn battle—a
brilliant cavalry battle, to be likened, on an enormous scale, to some
flashing joust of the Middle Ages.

Deaderick, watching, leaned forward with a sound almost of
satisfaction. Below him passed two men, riding double, blue gallopers
toward Beverly Ford. The one behind, without cloak or hat, saw him,
waved his arm and shouted, “_Au revoir_, Lieutenant McNeil!”