RICHARDS WITH MOSBY’S MEN IN THE FIGHT AT MT. CARMEL CHURCH, FEBRUARY
19, 1864
In all military history, Colonel John S. Mosby and his command had
neither a counterpart nor a parallel. Man for man, Mosby and his men
did more, proportionately, to damage, to harass, to delay and to
disturb the Federal forces than any equal number of soldiers who wore
the gray.
John Singleton Mosby was born in Powhatan County, Virginia, in
December, 1833, fifty miles south of the scenes of his wonderful
military exploits. He came from refined, cultured and well-to-do
people, and as was the custom in those days amongst the better class
in that State, he was educated at the University of Virginia. His
courage early developed itself. Some trouble with a fellow-student
suspended his career in the University. He prepared himself for the
practice of law, and when the war broke out, he was engaged in his
profession at Bristol. He was among the very first men to offer for
the Confederate service for twelve months. War, especially partisan
war, had peculiar fascinations for this young lawyer. He had read
and re-read the history of Sumter and Marion, and he longed for
opportunity and occasion to engage in similar work. He knew every
detail of the things they had done in the struggle of the colonies
for liberty. While his eyes scanned the lines of Blackstone and
Story, dreams of military glory flitted before his vision. The
excitement, din, rush and fury of war appealed to his nature and
he sighed for a chance to see and know what real war was. He
shirked no duty, sought every possible opportunity for inflicting
loss upon his country’s enemies. Enlisted for twelve months, he
refused the furlough accorded men who served that length of time,
and he re-enlisted for the war. His enterprise and his daring won
him promotion, and by February, 1862, he was the adjutant of his
regiment. He resigned because of some misunderstanding between
Colonel William E. Jones and General Stuart, but the latter was quick
to note men of Mosby’s ability and military aptitude and he put him
on his staff as a scout and adviser. He held this position and rode
with Stuart on his Chickahominy raid in June, 1862. He was almost the
same age as his commander. He was quieter, but none the less brave.
He took service more seriously than General Stuart; war with him
was a passion, not a pastime. He loved war for the excitement and
experience it brought, for the opportunities it offered to his genius
for development, and devoid of fear, he was glad when chance brought
his way the legal right to fight.
It was only a brief period until his marvelous efficiency and his
masterful sagacity, as well as his extraordinary courage, caused
General Stuart to give him a small independent command. He used
this so effectively that his forces were quickly increased and the
area of his operations enlarged. He had men in his battalion from
almost all parts of the world, but the majority was composed of young
soldiers who came from Virginia and Maryland. There was so much that
was fascinating and attractive in the service in which Mosby was
engaged that there was no difficulty in finding recruits who were
the impersonation, not only of valor, but of dash. He enjoyed in the
highest degree the confidence not only of General Stuart, but of
General Lee, and the only criticism which General Lee ever passed on
Mosby was his ability to catch bullets and win wounds.
In 1863 he engaged in a successful exploit, which largely added to
his fame. With twenty-nine men, he penetrated the Federal lines and
captured General Stoughton in his headquarters in the midst of his
division, at Fairfax Court House, Virginia. This secured promotion
for Mosby. Nothing in the war was more skillfully or recklessly done
than this capture of General Stoughton. There are no mathematic
quantities by which the damage that Mosby inflicted upon the Federals
can be calculated. For every one man under his command, he kept
one hundred Federals from the front. Had Colonel Mosby enjoyed the
opportunities of other Confederate cavalry leaders, he would have
won a fame and rank equal to either Forrest or Wheeler or Morgan
or Stuart or Hampton. Had he gone to West Point and entered the
war with the experience and prestige which came to men who had
enjoyed military education, there would have been few officers
in the Confederate Army who would have surpassed him in military
achievement. At the period when Mosby first began his partisan
career, there was no other man in the armies of the South who, with
the means at hand, could have inflicted such damage on the enemy, or
have accomplished such great results for his country.
A number of books have been written about Mosby and his men, and
yet they can only touch a few of the wonderful things done by this
wonderful man with his wonderful followers. He had no equipment
of any kind. His men knew nothing about tents, and they had
substantially no commissary and no quartermaster. They lived largely
off their enemies and when not pursuing these, passed the time with
their friends.
Mosby operated in four Virginia counties. This country became known
as “Mosby’s Confederacy,” and the “Debatable Land.” However often
the Federals invaded it they never could feel that their title was
secure. This “Debatable Land” was not more than sixty miles long by
forty miles wide, and yet in this limited area Mosby and his men
subsisted, fought and disquieted the Federal army, in a way that
demoralized its trains and kept its soldiers in a state of constant
dread and apprehension. While the organization consisted of several
companies, never at any one time did Colonel Mosby have more than
four hundred men, and most of the time far less. These four hundred
men, or whatever their number may have been, destroyed more Federal
property than any other equal number of men in the Confederacy; and
it is truly said of them that they gave the Federal troops more
trouble than any five thousand men of any other command. Most of
their work was in the rear of their foes. In a fight, General Forrest
said one man in the rear was equal to three in the front, but in
Mosby’s operations, one man behind the Federal lines counted more
than twenty in front.
Mosby was cool, calm, fearless, dauntless. He inspired his men with
his own confidence, faith and hope. They all respected him—most of
them feared him—and all were glad to follow him. There was something
in his personality that created in the minds of his followers
absolute trust. They believed in him and they knew that he could
be relied upon in all emergencies and that whether in the storm of
battle, in the haste of retreat, or in the rush of the charge, Mosby
was always at himself, and he was sure to do the wisest and the most
sagacious thing under any contingency that might arise.
In Mosby’s command there was no room for cowardice and no place
for cowards. The men who went with him took their lives in their
hands. They knew that following him meant constant danger, ceaseless
activity, incessant watchfulness and reckless service, and they were
willing in exchange for the glory which they might gain, to assume
all the risks that were incident to the daily life of the adherents
of this silent, bold and fearless man.
Mosby’s operations were largely confined to Fauquier and Loudoun
County, Virginia. Occasionally he crossed the line into Prince
William County, and sometimes operated in Culpepper, but Fauquier
County was the chief scene of his operations. In the later months of
the war he was practically always within the enemy’s lines. He never
had a camp, except for a small number of his men, and then only for
a brief while. There was no place for Mosby to hide himself except
among those who loved the Cause in these counties. In cabins and
barns and in the forest and among the hills, his command found their
home. Rarely more than two or three of them ever remained together.
They scattered, as has been said, like the mist when the sun rose.
When the Federals undertook to pursue them, the pursuit became like
the chase after a phantom. If followed, they dispersed through the
country into the crossroads and by-ways and among their friends and
sympathizers. The exploits of Marion and Sumter become as a fading
light when compared with the glamour and splendor of the work of
Mosby and his men for the Confederacy. When they met, it was by
preconcerted arrangement, or in answer to the calls of couriers. Much
of their work was done at night. For the three years in which Mosby
was engaged in active operations, there was rarely a single day that
some of his men were not operating somewhere on the enemy’s line and
on the enemy’s forces. In the activity of his campaigning the death
rate was high, but there was always an abundance of daring spirits
that were ready to take the places of those who had fallen in this
desperate game of war.
Mosby taught his men to eschew sabres, to use no guns, but to rely
upon the pistol alone. This meant fighting at close range, hand to
hand combat. He and his men seemed to be everywhere; they were ever
the terror and dread of the Federal Army. The men who guarded the
wagon trains heard always with tremor the name of Mosby. With the
exception of General Forrest, Colonel Mosby was the most feared and
hated of all Confederate leaders. The writer of a history of his
command says: “He kept in a defensive attitude, according to their
own admission, thirty-five thousand of their troops which would
otherwise have been employed in the active theatre of war. But this
was not all. More than once, with his band, he compelled the invading
army to relinquish actual and projected lines of communication, to
fall back from advance positions, and, if we may credit the assertion
of the Federal Secretary of War, occasioned a loss of an important
battle.”
The things done by Mosby and his men were so out of the ordinary
that they simply challenge belief and surpass comprehension. In the
capture of General Stoughton, two of his staff officers and thirty
other prisoners, in the midst of the Federal division, and removing
them and their equipment and fifty-eight horses into Confederate
lines without the loss of a man, appears impossible.
With a small body of men, he passed the rear of Sheridan’s army in
the valley of Virginia, and after a brisk skirmish, captured and
brought away General Duffie of the Federal Army. With less than one
hundred men he made a forced march into the enemy’s lines at night,
captured many prisoners, derailed a train, destroyed it, and secured
as his prey two paymasters, who had in their possession one hundred
and sixty-eight thousand dollars in United States currency. Refusing
to take anything himself, he divided this money amongst his followers
and each one with him on this expedition received twenty-one hundred
dollars.
With three hundred men he rode to the rear of Sheridan’s army in
the valley of Virginia and attacked in broad daylight a brigade of
infantry and two hundred and fifty cavalrymen, guarding a wagon
train. He burned one hundred wagons, captured two hundred and eight
prisoners and brought away five hundred mules and horses and two
hundred head of cattle.
When all these amazing things have been told they would make any one
man great, but Mosby had to his credit dozens of other feats almost
equally as remarkable.
Colonel Mosby was wounded several times, and in December, 1864, he
was desperately injured and was compelled to take a long furlough.
In 1863 there came to Colonel Mosby’s command a young Virginian, A.
E. Richards. Beginning as a private, by his soldierly qualities he
rose to be major. Christened Adolphus Edward Richards, he became
known among Mosby’s followers as “Dolly.” When he succeeded Mosby he
was just twenty years of age, and no man in the Confederacy, twenty
years old, accomplished more or exhibited a nobler courage or more
remarkable skill and enterprise.
From December, 1864, until April, 1865, was one of the most strenuous
periods of Mosby’s command. The Federal Army was then engaged around
Richmond, and this left a hundred miles’ space for the operation of
these aggressive cavaliers. For months, while Mosby was off, wounded,
Major Richards not only took up but efficiently carried on his work.
Two of the fights in which he commanded were used by Colonel George
Taylor Denison, of Canada, in his work on “Modern Cavalry,” published
in 1868, to illustrate the superiority of the revolver as a weapon
for cavalry.
Just at this time, Colonel Harry Gilmor, who enjoyed a wide
reputation as a partisan leader in Northern Virginia and Maryland,
had been surprised and made prisoner. The Federals, encouraged by
this success, undertook to capture Major Richards and scatter Mosby’s
men.
General Merritt, then in charge of the Federal cavalry operating in
“Mosby’s Confederacy,” sent the same detail which had caught Gilmor
to hunt down Richards and his followers. The party comprising this
force numbered two hundred and fifty men and was in charge of Major
Thomas Gibson of the 14th Pennsylvania Cavalry. This officer, in the
past, had shown that he was not only brave but resourceful, and his
superiors hoped as well as expected that he would do great things
on this expedition. If he could catch Major Richards and a part of
his command, it meant peace in the Federal rear, and the release of
many thousands of men for action at the front. Promotion was sure
to follow success, and the Federal leader dreamed of becoming a
brigadier and winning a renown that would make him famous.
Attracted by the adventurous nature of the expedition and also lured
by the hope of success in the work, two of Merritt’s staff officers,
Captain Martindale and Lieutenant Baker, volunteered to aid in
this scout. This command crossed the Shenandoah River at night. A
few miles away from the river, at Paris, in Fauquier County, the
force was divided. Major Gibson took with him the men of his own
regiment, which comprised one-half of the command, and placed the
other half, from the 1st New York Cavalry, in charge of Captain
Snow. These forces separated with the understanding that they would
make wide circuits through the country, would gather prisoners and
seize horses, and meet at Upperville at daylight, six miles from
Paris. A couple of deserters from the 12th Virginia regiment acted
as guides for the two detachments. Through the report of a spy,
Captain Snow learned that Major Richards had come that night to his
father’s house, near Upperville, and the captain felt it would be
a great feather in his cap if he could make the leader of Mosby’s
command a prisoner. This was what Major Gibson had been chiefly sent
to do, and the Federal captain calculated if he could do this, he
would win the applause and gratitude of his countrymen. They reached
“Green Garden,” the Richards’ ancestral home, at one o’clock in the
morning. Without warning or signal of any kind the Federal soldiers
surrounded the house and the leader knocked for admittance at the
front door. Hearing was very acute in those days where Mosby’s men
slept, and the knock, although at first not very heavy, awoke Major
Richards, Captain Walker and Private Hipkins, who were together
spending the night under the hospitable roof. The moon was shining
with brilliance; not a cloud obscured its brightness. The ground
was covered with snow. When the Confederates looked through the
blinds, they saw the yard filled with Federal soldiers. On other
occasions, when the odds were not so great, Major Richards and some
of his companions had shot their way out, but he dared not try this
experiment this time, for it meant almost certain death. To meet such
emergencies, the Richards family had provided a trap door in the
floor of the family room. Major Richards had only time to seize his
pistols and his field glasses, and his companions hastily caught up
their arms, and all went scurrying down through the trap door into
the space under the sills. This trap door was in the lower floor
and covered with an oil carpet, over which a bed was rolled. The
Federals remained silent for a few moments, knocked again with more
fury, and upon forcing themselves into the house, the men in blue
found Major Richards’ uniform, his boots with the spurs attached,
his white hat with its black ostrich plume, and they chuckled and
said to themselves, “We have caught him at last.” Forcing the father
of Major Richards to furnish them candles they searched the house
over and over again. They went from cellar to garret and from garret
to cellar. One officer suggested that in order to make sure of
their game they burn the house, but another, with nobler instincts
and better impulses, protested so vigorously that this plan was
abandoned. For two hours they scrutinized every portion of the house,
the outbuildings, the stables, the cabins, but all in vain, and
they finally concluded that by some strange sport of chance their
victims had escaped; and they mounted their horses and rode away to
Upperville.
[Illustration: MAJOR A. E. RICHARDS
_Commanding Mosby’s Men at Mt. Carmel Fight_]
The hours of this search were moments of sore trial to the three
Confederates under the floor. A sneeze, a cough, would betray their
hiding place. Discovery meant prison—maybe death—and certainly
retirement from the work in which they delighted and which gave them
the consciousness of service to the country to which they had offered
their fortunes and their lives. Minutes lengthened into days. The
tread of the searching Federals echoed ominously into the silence
and darkness of their place of refuge. Their hearts beat strong and
fast—so furiously that they feared they might reveal their presence
to their enemies. Huddled close together, with a trusty pistol in
each hand, they waited for what fate might bring. They reviewed
over and over again in their minds what they should do, if found.
Should they open fire and sell their lives as dearly as possible,
or by sudden rush seek to run the gauntlet of their foes, and thus
bring ruin and the torch upon their family and friends, or accept
a long and baneful imprisonment. In the gloom and dread of their
prison, they could hear every word that was spoken. The curses and
threats to the father and mother cut deep into their hearts, and they
longed for a chance to resent the insults that were heaped upon the
inmates of the home. Only an inch of wood separated them from their
pursuers, and thus through two long hours they listened, watched—even
prayed—that they might not be found. The torture of body and mind
became almost unbearable, and they questioned if they should not rise
up, push the trap door ajar, open fire, and rush away in the din and
confusion such an attack was sure to bring. Each moment that passed
they realized added new chances for escape, and though moments seemed
years, with hearts for every lot, they bided the end.
Captain Snow and his men rode to the place of rendezvous. There,
fortunately or unfortunately, the Federals found a barrel of apple
brandy. It was a bitter cold night, and after taking a little brandy
they all took some more and a large number of the men became
intoxicated. Captain Snow decided that the best thing for him to do
was to hurry back through Paris and cross the Shenandoah, lest when
the sun rose, Mosby’s men might turn out in large numbers and destroy
him, with his force weakened by their potations.
Suspecting a ruse, the Richards family looked well in every direction
to see that all the Federals had gone, and that none were lurking in
the shadows of the farm structures. They waited, and then waited some
more, to be sure that there was no mistake about their departure,
and then the bed was rolled back, the trap door raised, and Major
Richards and his two companions, called by those above, hastily
emerged from their hiding place. Though their uniforms were carried
away by their enemies as a trophy, they felt that they were not
without some compensation. Their horses, which had been turned loose
in a distant pasture, had neither been seen or captured.
They greeted their steeds with affectionate pats on their noses and
sincerely congratulated themselves that these had been spared them
in the very close call which had passed their way. The Confederate
commander immediately sent Captain Walker and Private Hipkins in
different directions with urgent orders to all the men to follow in
the track of the enemy. This they could easily do by the moonlight.
All three rode at highest speed in different directions to tell the
news. The steeds were not spared. Haste was the watchword of the
call to comrades once found. Each was urged to spread the news in
the plain and on the mountain sides, and to let nothing stay them
in the ride for vengeance and retribution. The Federals had left
a well-marked trail, and this made pursuit sure and rapid. Those
following were told that it was the plan to strike the enemy before
they could recross the Shenandoah, and that they must ride fiercely,
halt not, and be prepared for onslaught, pursuit and battle.
Captain Snow rode hard and fast, and he got across the river before
the sun was up. Major Gibson was not so fortunate. With one hundred
and thirty-six men, when the Confederates under the urgent call of
the couriers that were sent in every direction began to get together,
Gibson was still on the turnpike leading through Ashby’s Gap across
the Blue Ridge Mountains. They had not gotten down to the foot of
the mountains and were just ahead of Major Richards and the men that
he and his companions had so quickly summoned. There was no time to
count or figure the odds. This incursion must be resented and few or
many, Richards resolved to attack wherever he found the foe. He had
fought as great odds before, and the extraordinary experience of the
night had quickened his taste for battle and blood. When he came in
touch with the Federals, he had only twenty-eight men. Five to one
had no terrors for these galloping cavaliers, and Major Richards
determined to make an attack, be the consequences what they would. In
the meantime, ten others came up, and now he had one to four.
The turnpike at Ashby’s Gap winds its way up the mountain side by a
succession of short curves. Major Richards arranged his men to press
an attack on the enemy while they were passing around these curves,
so that his real strength would be concealed. The Federal officer,
uncertain what might happen in this country, but sure that dangers
were lurking in every quarter, had increased his rear guard to forty
men, under the command of Captain Duff of the 14th Pennsylvania.
A sight of the bluecoats aroused every Mosby man to impetuous and
furious action. They longed to resent some rough handling that
had been given their comrades a few days before and they bitterly
remembered with indignation the treatment accorded their associates,
and above all they desired to serve notice on their invaders that it
was a risky business to hunt Mosby’s men in their chosen haunts. The
Confederates rode down in a furious, headlong charge around the bend
of the road and received a volley from the Federal rear guard. This
did no damage, but the Federals broke into a gallop; with disordered
ranks and shattered files they all scrambled away for safety, and
undertook to reach the main force. The Confederates, spurring and
whooping and yelling, dashed in among these retreating Federals and
used their six shooters with tremendous effect. The Federals could
not fire their longer guns. There was no chance to turn, and the rear
files felt the pitiless onslaught of the Confederate column, which
was riding so furiously and bent on destroying their fleeing foes.
The shooting was almost altogether on the side of the Confederates.
At the top of the mountains was Mt. Carmel Church. Here the Baptists
of the neighborhood hitherto were accustomed to come and worship
long before the war. Its peaceful surroundings and its memories
of God’s service were not in harmony with the rude and savage war
scenes enacted about it on this wintry morn. The men who rode at
that hour with Richards were not thinking of the dead, who in the
quiet and peace of the country churchyard were waiting Heaven’s call
for the resurrection. They were now dealing only with the living,
and those living who had invaded their country, ravaged their homes,
and sought to destroy their liberty. Courage nerved every arm, valor
moved every heart. They thought only of punishing their foes and
bringing ruin and destruction on these men who had oftentimes, with
ruthless barbarity, inflicted grievous wrongs upon their kinsmen and
countrymen.
The turnpike passed in front of the church. Upon the road Major
Gibson drew up his men in column. When they heard the firing and
saw the galloping cavalrymen, they did not at first understand the
situation, but as the surging crowd came closer they observed the
Federals and Confederates in undistinguishable confusion. As the
Confederates were riding toward the rear guard and these were in a
gallop, the latter could not use their carbines. At the gait they
were going it was impossible to aim and fire with the least assurance
of hitting anybody.
The pursuit was rapid and fierce. The fleeing enemy were helpless.
The Confederates were moved to savage onslaught and resolved to kill
and slay with all the abandon that war creates. There were few of the
Confederate riders that did not have some wrong to avenge, and to
these there was no better time than the present. There were at first
no calls for surrender. There was no chance for parley. War meant
fighting, and fighting meant killing those who opposed. The Federals
had no chance to turn and ask for their lives. The time in this
battle had not yet come for this cry. The Confederates rode into the
files of the Federals with their pistols in hand; they shot as they
rode, and they made no distinction among their foes. When one file
of the Confederates exhausted their shots another took their place.
There was no let up in punishing the fleeing Federals. When the
loads were all used, they reversed their revolvers and knocked their
foes from their steeds with the butt end of their weapons. The hotly
pursued rear guard, under Captain Duff, had no time to tell Major
Gibson of what had happened. The turnpike went down the mountain, and
that was open. If they turned aside they knew not what might come,
and when they saw Major Gibson’s men drawn up in line ready for the
fray, it came into their minds that he was better prepared than they
were to deal with these men in gray who were riding and firing with
devilish vehemence, so the rear guard galloped on by.
It was a perplexing sight to see these men of opposite sides thus
mingling in combat, and the soldiers in Major Gibson’s line looked
with amazement at the confusion, pursuit and flight.
The men of the rear guard had no time to inform Major Gibson of the
situation; the men with Major Richards were not disposed to pass
them by, and the thirty-eight Confederates responded to the command
to turn and attack the column waiting by the roadside. The men with
Richards veered to the right and galloped into the midst of Gibson’s
men, pushed their revolvers into the faces of the surprised Federals
and opened a furious and murderous attack.
The assault was so unexpected and so savage that it disorganized
Major Gibson’s line. Richards’ men broke through the column and
severed it in twain, and then a panic struck the Federal force. Its
men, demoralized, quickly followed the madly fleeing Federal rear
guard down the mountain side. Another chance was now opened up. It
was seven miles to the Shenandoah River, and the Federals, unless
they re-formed, could expect no respite or safety until this stream
was passed. It would require an hour for the Federals, in this race
for life, to reach the ford, and until then there was little hope of
escape from danger, capture and death.
The Federals could not use their carbines with one hand, while the
Confederates could hold their bridles with their left hands and fire
their revolvers with their right. Part of Major Gibson’s men were
shot down before they could even offer resistance or turn in flight.
In an instant, the Federals began to give way and started down the
side of the mountain, along which only two men could ride abreast.
The moment the retreat was begun it became headlong. Again and again
brave officers in blue attempted to stay the flight. A few men would
halt by the wayside, but the feeling of the hour with the Federals
was to escape, and it was impossible to get enough Federals together
to stop the stampede.
As the Confederate advance guard fired their revolvers into the backs
of the retreating foe, they would either drop back and reload their
weapon, or else those behind them who had full cylinders would ride
up and continue the fire into the fleeing enemy. In the wild chase
of the Federals the Confederates observed one on a dun horse. He
was brave and was fighting desperately to protect the rear of his
men, and urging them to halt and face their foe. When Major Richards
observed that the efforts of this Federal soldier were having some
effect upon his comrades, he called to two of his soldiers, Sidney
Ferguson and Charles Dear, to “kill the man on the dun horse.” This
person had not bargained for this singling out of himself as a target
for Confederate shots. When these ominous words fell upon his ears,
he put spurs to his horse and in a reckless frenzy forged his way
past his comrades and was not afterwards seen in the rout. The two
Confederates who were endeavoring to capture or kill the man on the
dun horse, at this point made Lieutenant Baker of General Merritt’s
staff a prisoner. This rapid and relentless following was continued
for seven miles down the narrow road, and it only ended on the banks
of the Shenandoah River. Scattered along the highway were wounded
and dead animals. Thirteen Federal troopers were still in death on
the roadside. Sixty-four prisoners were taken and more than ninety
horses captured. Captain Duff, the commander of the rear guard, was
among the wounded prisoners. Among the revolvers captured was one
with Colonel Harry Gilmor’s name carved upon the guard. Reading this
inscription, Major Richards asked Lieutenant Baker, his prisoner, how
the Federals happened to have this pistol, and he was then informed
for the first time that Colonel Gilmor had been captured.
Major Gibson, the Federal commandant, was among the few who escaped.
He reported his misfortune to General Merritt. It is published
in Series 1, Volume 46, Part 1, Page 463, of the Records of the
Rebellion. He said:
“I placed Captain Duff in charge of the rear guard, which consisted
of forty men. I made the rear guard so strong, in proportion to
the size of my command, owing to the enemy’s repeated and vigorous
attacks on it. I was at the head of the column, and turned around
in order to observe the condition of the column, and looking to the
rear, I observed several men hold up their hands and make gestures
which I supposed were intended to inform me that the rear was
attacked. I immediately ordered the command, ‘right into line.’
“No sooner had I issued these commands than I saw Captain Duff and
his party at the rear of the small party who marched in the rear of
the led horses. Captain Duff’s command was coming at a run. I saw
rebels among and in the rear of his party, charging. I ordered the
command forward, fired a volley and ordered a charge, which the men
did not complete. Captain Duff in the meantime was trying to rally
his men in the rear of my line. Before his men had reloaded their
pieces, I had fired another volley and ordered another charge....
The charge was met by one from the enemy and the command was broken.
The men had no weapons but their carbines, and these were extremely
difficult to load, and inefficient in the melee that ensued. I
made every effort, as did Captain Duff and Captain Martindale and
Lieutenant Baker, of the corps staff, to re-form the men, but our
efforts were fruitless. The rebels had very few sabres, but were well
supplied with revolvers, and rode up to our men and shot them down,
without meeting more resistance than men could make with carbines.
There was a small ridge overlooking both parties, through which
the path led. I rode up to the side of this and formed the advance
guard, which had returned to aid me. The enemy were amidst the men,
and both parties were so mixed up that it was impossible to get the
men in line. As fast as the men could force their horses into the
path, where many of the men were crowded together, they broke for
the river. I waited until I was surrounded, and only a half a dozen
men left around; the balance had retreated toward the river, or were
killed, wounded or captured. Captain Martindale, as he left, said
to me: ‘It is useless to attempt to rally the men here; we’ll try
it farther on.’ I tried to ride to the front. Men were crowded into
the path by twos and threes where there was really only room for
one to ride. Men were being thrown and being crushed as they lay on
the ground, by others; they were falling from their horses from the
enemy’s fire in front and rear of me. I rode past about twenty of
the men and again tried to rally the men, but all my efforts were
fruitless.
“... I was ordered to surrender, two of the enemy in advance
endeavoring to beat me off my horse with their pistols.... I reached
the river; my horse fell several times in it, but at last I got
across. Captain Martindale forced most of the men across to halt and
form here, and cover the crossing of the few who had reached the
river. Captain Martindale, myself, two scouts and twelve men were
saved. We waited to see if more would come, but none came; eight had
crossed and arrived at camp before us.”
Major Gibson, in accounting for his disaster, says that his men
being armed with carbines alone were “unable to engage in a melee
successfully with an enemy armed with at least two revolvers to the
man; also, I didn’t know of the attack until I observed the rear
guard coming in at full flight, mixed up with and pursued by the
enemy.” He concluded his report by asking for a “court of inquiry at
the earliest practicable moment.”
Colonel George Taylor Denison, who long held a leading commission
as a Canadian Cavalry officer, in his book on “Modern Cavalry,”
describes the results of this battle as one of the most remarkable in
the history of cavalry warfare. He asserts the fight of Mosby’s men
at Mt. Carmel Church demonstrated the superiority of the pistol and
revolver above all other weapons in cavalry combat, when these are in
the hands of men who know how to use them.
The Confederates pursued the fleeing foe right up to the Shenandoah
River. With his limited force Major Richards deemed it unwise to
cross that stream. He marched back with his followers over the
Blue Ridge Mountains to Paris, a little town in the northernmost
part of Fauquier County. In this immediate neighborhood, and about
Upperville, there had been many engagements between cavalry on both
sides. Some of the severest cavalry fighting of the war occurred in
this vicinity a few days after the Battle of Fleetwood Hill. Stuart
and Pleasanton were for three days in contact about Upperville,
Middleburg and Aldie, but none of these, considering the number
engaged, were so brilliant as this conflict between Major Gibson and
Major Richards. Only two Confederates were wounded and none killed.
This gallant fight was complimented by General Lee in a dispatch to
the War Department.
As the Federals left the home of Major Richards’ father, they took
with them his uniform and his other trappings. When he emerged from
the trap door there was nothing left for him to wear. The Federal
soldiers had taken everything that they could lay their hands upon,
hoping thereby to make the Major ride thereafter with a limited
wardrobe. They wished also to exhibit them as a trophy won from
Mosby’s men.
Searching around, Major Richards found an old-fashioned, high top,
black felt hat, badly worn and with many holes around the brim.
He managed to secure a suit of brown Kentucky jeans and a pair of
laborer’s boots which had been discarded by some farm hand. Lacking
an overcoat, his mother pinned her woolen shawl about his shoulders.
It was not a very attractive garb. It might have served in a pinch
for an infantryman, but it did not sit well upon a dashing cavalryman.
When Richards’ command reached Paris the Federal prisoners had
been corralled in an old blacksmith shop. While resting there the
Confederate commander was informed that one of the prisoners desired
to speak with him. When Major Richards arrived at the blacksmith
shop, the courier indicated a handsomely dressed young officer as the
one who had sent the message seeking an interview. The Confederate
commander asked why he had been sent for. The Federal officer,
surprised at the appearance of the Confederate, not then twenty-one
years of age, said to Major Richards: “I desire to speak to the
commanding officer.” Major Richards, in his pride of achievement,
forgot the sorry appearance he was making in the cast-off clothing
of the farm hand, and calmly looking the Federal in the eye, he said
to him: “I am the commanding officer.” The lieutenant, amazed, gazed
carefully at the stripling, so grotesquely clad. He was too astounded
to be able to speak. Waiting a brief time, Major Richards, in order
to relieve the embarrassment, said, “Well, what is it you want?” The
Federal lieutenant then informed the major that there was a captain
among the prisoners who was severely wounded, and he wished to know
if he could not be properly cared for. The solicitude of the wounded
man’s comrade appealed to the finer sentiments of the Confederate.
Learning the name of the Federal captain, he directed him to be
paroled and removed to the village hotel and placed under the care of
the neighborhood physician, and directed that the bills for medical
attention and board be sent to him for payment.
After this preliminary had been arranged, Major Richards turned to
the lieutenant and said, “I notice you are wearing a staff officer’s
uniform;” to which response was made: “Yes, I am a lieutenant on
General Merritt’s staff.” Then the Confederate commander asked, “How
did you happen to be in this command?” The Federal replied that he
had been sent with the orders under which Major Gibson was to make
this raid, and he asked General Merritt to permit him to go along
just for the fun of it; to which the Confederate replied: “I hope,
Lieutenant, you have enjoyed it more than your surroundings seem to
indicate.”
The wounded officer was Captain Duff, who had commanded the rear
guard. He speedily recovered and was permitted to return to his home.
In later years when statements were made that Mosby had mistreated
his prisoners, the grateful captain made a vigorous defense of Mosby
and his men, and extolled both their humanity and their mercy.