BATTLE OF CHANTILLY--LEESBURG--CROSSING THE POTOMAC
After such prolonged marching and such a victory as the second Manassas
we hoped for a rest so well earned; at any rate, we imagined that there
was no enemy near inclined to give battle; but on Monday, September 1,
we were again on the march, which continued far into the night, it being
near daylight when we went into park. The latter part of the way I rode
on a caisson, seated by a companion, and so entirely overcome with sleep
as to be unable to keep my eyes open five seconds at a time, nodding
from side to side over the wheels. My companion would rouse me and tell
me of my danger, but shame, danger, and all were of no avail till,
waking for the fortieth time, I found my hat was gone. I jumped down,
went back a short distance, and found my old drab fur, of Lexington
make, flat in the road, having been trampled over by several teams and
gunwheels.
After a halt of a few hours we were again on the move, and soon found
ourselves in Fairfax County. About noon we passed by "Chantilly," the
home of my messmate, Wash. Stuart, whom we had left desperately wounded
at Winchester. The place, a beautiful country residence, was deserted
now. Stuart, though, was somewhere in the neighborhood, a paroled
prisoner, and on his return to us the following winter told us of the
efforts he had made to find us near "The Plains" with a feast of wines,
etc., for our refreshment. Two or three miles from Chantilly short and
frequent halts and cautious advances warned us that there were breakers
ahead. Then the pop, pop, pop! of a skirmish-line along the edge of a
wood in our front brought back again those nervous pulsations in the
region of the stomach which no amount of philosophy or will-power seemed
able to repress.
The battery kept straight on in the road and through the woods, the
enemy's skirmishers having fallen back to our right. We halted where the
road began to descend, waiting until a place suitable for action could
be found. Up to this time there was only infantry skirmishing, not a
cannon having been fired on either side, when, as we stood quietly by
our guns, a Federal shell burst in our midst with a tremendous crash.
None of us heard the report of the gun that sent it, or knew from what
direction it came, but the accuracy with which we had been located in
the dense forest was not comforting.
Soon after this, our attention was attracted by the approach, along the
road in our front, of ten or twelve horsemen, riding leisurely toward
us, one of whom bore a banner of unusually large size. As they passed,
the most conspicuous figure in the party was a Federal officer in new
uniform, and several other prisoners, escorted by a guard of our
cavalry. The banner was the flag of New York State, with the field of
white satin emblazoned with the coat-of-arms of the Empire State, and
all elaborately decorated with flowing cords and tassels.
After remaining here for an hour, and our officers finding no open
ground for battle, and no enemy in sight except some videttes who
saluted us with an occasional Minie-ball, we countermarched one-half
mile in a drenching rain and went into park. Meanwhile, a brisk musketry
fire had extended along the infantry lines, and soon after halting one
of our battery horses fell dead, struck by one of their stray bullets.
It was during this contest, in the pouring rain, that General Jackson,
on receiving a message from a brigadier that his ammunition was wet, and
he feared he could not hold on, replied, "Tell him to hold his ground.
If his guns will not go off, neither will the enemy's."
Before the firing ceased, which continued through the twilight,
Major-General Kearny, mistaking a line of Confederates for his own men,
rode almost into their midst before discovering his error. He wheeled
his horse, and, as he dashed off, leaning forward on the horse's neck,
received a bullet in his back and fell dead upon the field. Next day
his body was returned to his friends under flag of truce.
From Chantilly, or Ox Hill, as this battle was called by Confederates
and Federals, respectively, we reached Leesburg, the county-seat, by a
march of thirty miles due north into Loudoun County, and a mile or two
east of this attractive town went into bivouac about sunset in a
beautiful grassy meadow which afforded what seemed to us a downy couch,
and to the horses luxuriant pasturage, recalling former and better days.
Next morning, while lying sound asleep wrapped in my blanket, I became
painfully conscious of a crushing weight on my foot. Opening my eyes,
there stood a horse almost over me, quietly cropping the grass, with one
forefoot planted on one of mine. Having no weapon at hand, I motioned
and yelled at him most lustily. Being the last foot put down, it was the
last taken up, and, turning completely around, he twisted the blanket
around the calks of his shoe, stripped it entirely off of me, and
dragged it some yards away. There being no stones nor other missiles
available, I could only indulge in a storm of impotent rage, but,
notwithstanding the trampling I had undergone, was able "to keep up with
the procession."
The morning was a beautiful one, the sun having just risen in a clear
sky above the mists overhanging and marking the course of the Potomac a
mile to the east, and lighting up the peaks of the Blue Ridge to the
west. The country and scenery were not unlike, and equal to the
prettiest parts of the Valley. Circling and hovering overhead, calling
and answering one another in their peculiarly plaintive notes, as if
disturbed by our presence, were the gray plover, a bird I had never
before seen. All in all, the environment was strikingly peaceful and
beautiful, and suggestive of the wish that the Federals, whom we had
literally whipped out of their boots and several other articles of
attire, and who had now returned to their own country, would remain
there, and allow us the same privilege.
But General Lee took a different view of it, and felt that the desired
object would be more effectually accomplished by transferring the war
into their own territory. So before noon we were again "trekking," and
that, too, straight for the Potomac. Orders had again been issued
forbidding the cannoneers riding on the caissons and limbers; but, in
crossing the Potomac that day, as the horses were in better shape and
the ford smooth, Captain Poague gave us permission to mount and ride
over dry-shod. For which breach of discipline he was put under arrest
and for several days rode--solemn and downcast--in rear of the battery,
with the firm resolve, no doubt, that it was the last act of charity of
which he would be guilty during the war. Lieutenant Graham was in
command.