In fulfilling the promise of my title page, I must begin at the beginning, and tell how I came to be a “one- legged” rebel, which interesting result was brought about by the skill and enterprise of certain surgeons of the C. S. A., who amputated the other leg; but it goes without telling that the reason I was a rebel, “so-called,” was my Old Virginia birth, which occurred in Rappahannock county on the 26th of March, 1844.

I do not contemplate autobiography, nor very much of general history, and if, in putting my story together, I should fail to round my periods handsomely and omit the high-toned and classic allusions to Achilles and Hector, the Trojan Horse and Ulysses, Richard and Saladin, these, more or less, of the boys who figured in ages past, and which should adorn my pages, I hope my lenient reader will travel the road far enough with me to learn that I am, unfortunately, lacking in classic lore, and cannot compare in erudition with a “Mosby,” a Gen. “Dick” Taylor or a John Esten Cooke, who would fight you a battle, gloriously, to-day with the sword, and fight it over again for you to-morrow as gracefully with the pen. I was “nothing but a private,” and a very junior one at that, when the late disturbance between the top and bottom of the map of the United States occurred, but I took a very lively interest in the arbitration from its very commencement.

At that time I was a sixteen-year-old, under instruction at Mossy Creek Academy, in Augusta county - just the right age to have a good deal of fool in my composition, and at exactly the right place to pevelop that quality, for if there was any one point more than another, in all Virginia, where the war fever struck hard, as an epidemic, it was in Augusta county; and it required long time and strong medicine, too, to cure it up there in the valley; but it was cured, and now we no more wish or expect to see the armed legions of sectional hate wheeling and clanking through blood and desolation in the beautiful Valley of Virginia.

On the 16th of June, 1861, my patriotism boiled over, and I volunteered under Capt. Joseph Huddel, in Company D, 52d Regiment Virginia Infantry, commanded then by that noble Virginia gentleman, statesman and soldier, Col. John B. Baldwin, of Staunton, and we remained near that place until the 10th of September; being licked into soldier shape by dint of discipline, drill, and duty, when we marched, by way of Buffalo Gap, to Crab Bottom, in Highland county, at the head of Jackson River.

At this place stands a barn, the property of Jacob Hebner, from the eaves of which the water flows north and south - one way into the Potomac and the other into the James, the head-springs of the two rivers being here only a stone's-throw apart; and, like the sentiment of the country at that time, taking the widest divergent direction to be brought together again, after measuring their full course, in one common destiny at the ocean.

It is interesting, sometimes, to the old veterans, to go back, in retrospect, to the days of 1861, when soldier-life was gilded with the glory that was to be, and we were making our first preprarations for the field in a war which we were taught to think would be a very short one - ninety days at most, but which tried our faith, nerve and patience, for four of the longest years that are ever crowded into the lifetime of one generation. And believing that some account of what we did and how we managed at that time, will be of interest to the general reader, and especially to the children of the old soldiers, I have ventured to draw on the treasury of memory, and the intererting little book of my friend, Carlton McCarthy, for what is fast fading away. We who passed through it can smile now at our crude ideas of what was then necessary to make up the outfit for war of the infantry soldier, but it won't be long until we shall all have passed “over the river,” and the memory of those little things which made the Confederate soldier what he was, will die too; and though the historians will tell, with eloquent pen, of the grand movements of armies and of the deeds of the Generals, he will hardly stop to explain how the private soldier was evolved from the farmer, the clerk, the mechanic, the school-boy, and transformed into the perfect, all-enduring, untiring and invincible soldier, who broiled his bacon on a stick and baked his bread on a ramrod.

The volunteer of 1861 was a very elaborate institution, and entertained the idea that he was little, if any inferior to Napoleon, in his capacity and possibilities, and he of the South was very sure that he was a match, in the field, for any five Yankees in the United States; an idea which was, to a certain extent, eliminated along with other erroneous ones which, at the outbreak of the disturbance, were entertained.

In his preparation for the campaign the Confederate soldier was forced to depend upon home resources, and in the first place he thought big boots, the higer the better, were essential to his military appearance; but he learned after awhile that a broad bottomed shoe was very much lighter to carry and easier on his ankles.

He also thought he must wear a very heavy padded coat, with long tails and many buttons, but this too proved an error, and a very short experience induced him to lay aside the coat and substitute a short-waisted, single-breasted jacket, which transformation gave the “Rebs” the universal title of “Gray Jackets” by the neighbors over the way - the Yankees.

We went in heavy on fancy caps, wavelocks and other cockady and stately head-gear, but these early gave way to the comfortable slouch hat, and to this day the Confederate veterans are much mystified when they read of the French and Prussians wearing the little caps and heavy helmlets on the march and in the field, but the volunteer of '61 was a fearfully and wonderfully gotten up representative of the Sons of Mars in the first flush of his warfever. He carried more baggage then than a major-general did afterwards, and many of these “high privates” were followed by their own faithful bodyservants, who did their cooking, washing and foraging, blacked those imposing boots, dusted his clothes, and bragged to the other negroes of what a noble soldier and gentleman “Massa Tom” or “Masse Dick” was.

The knapsack was a terror, loaded with thirty to fifty pounds of surplus baggage, consisting of all manner of extra underwear, towels, combs, brushes, blacking, looking-glasses, needles, thread, buttons, bandages, everything thought of as necessary, and strapped on the outside were two great, heavy blankets and a gum or oilcloth. His haversack, too, hung on his shoulder, and always had a good stock of provisions, as though a march across the Sahara might at any time be imminent. The inevitable canteen, with contents more or less, was also slung from the shoulder, and most of the boys thought a bold soldier's outfit for the war was absolutely incomplete unless he was supplied with long gloves. In fact, the volunteer of '61 made himself a complete beast of burden, and was so heavily clad, weighted and cramped that a march was absolute torture, and the wagon trains of mess-chests and camp equipage were so immense in proportion to the number of men that it would have been impossible to guard them in an enemy's country, or anywhere else, against enterprising cavalry. However, wisdom is born of experience, and before many campaigns have been worried through the private soldier, reduced to the minimum, consisted of one man, one hat, one jacket, one pair pants, one pair draws, one pair socks, one pair shoes, and his baggage was one blanket, one gum-cloth and one haversack, while the wonderfully-constructed mess-chests, with lids convertable into cozy dining tables, and with numerous divisions and sub-divisions in nooks and cases for the holding of all imaginable necessaries and luxuries, of tea and coffee, spices and condiments, dishes, cups, vases and spoons, were stored nevermore to see the light in the army again, and the company property consisted of two or three skillets and frying-pans, which didn't take up much wagon room - for the infantryman generally preferred to stick the handle of the mess frying-pan into the barrel of a musket and thus be sure of having it at a given point on the march when the minimum weight soldier got there, for the wagon got to be very unreliable for the transportation of anything but amunition; but sometimes they carried a small quantity of commissary stores, generally for the use of the train quartermaster and his staff.

The most important appearing personage in the army was the aforesaid quartermaster, who always managed to have saved for his own use, out of the scanty supplies, an abundance of the best, and as all drivers and assistants in his department held their “bomb-proofs” at his supreme pleasure, he had it in his power at all times to control freights. His handsome, fiashy, lace-trimmed uniform of fine gray cloth, adorned with the star or bar of his rank, caused the folks along the line of march to imagine they had the privilege of gazing at some of the famous generals - Longstreet, Hill, Pickett, or perhaps Lee himself - when in fact the generals, in their dingy dress, had passed unnoticed, and this gayly caparisoned cavalier was only a quartermaster marshaling a little wagon train in rear of the army.

The Confederate soldier held on to his haversack, not to carry food in as is popularly supposed, but it was the ever present recepticle for tobacco, pipes, strings, buttons and the like, and very often, when, with great display and bluster by the commissaries, three days' rations were issued to the men, they would cook and eat the whole lot at one meal, which was decidedly the most convenient way of carrying it, and besides it was usually the case that they had been without food for from two to five meals, and it was not much of an exploit to consume the small quantity issued for what was termed “three days' rations,” and after eating it, they would trust to luck and strategy for meals, or go hungry, as usual, till the next ration day.

The commissary department of the Southern Confederacy was most scandalously mismanaged from the beginning, and the commissary general was the worst and most complete failure, North or South, of the whole war, in consequence of which the men were forced to forage for themselves. As the war progressed and this stern “mother of invention” and “neutralizer of all law,” Necessity and Hunger, her child, made themselves felt in all their force, it was no uncommon sight to see a whole brigade marching in solid column along a road one minute and the next scattered over a big briar field picking the blackberries, but as soon as the gleaning was done all would return to the ranks and resume the march as though nothing had happened to break it, and in the Fall of the year a persimmon tree would halt a column as long as a 'simmon was on it.

We had no sutlers in our army; the blockade and dearth of marketable funds prevented that, the nearest approach to it being the occasional old darkey with his cider cart or basket of pies and cakes - so called - and it was almost marvelous to see how quick the old contraband's stock would be cleaned out.

The rebel soldier depended much upon the supplies he could get from the enemy in battle, for the Yankees were always abundantly supplied, and thus we had a double incentive to win the fight.

A federal officer who was conversing with General Jackson in the street of Harper's Ferry, at its surrender in September, 1862, says that an Orderly galloped up to “Stonewall” and said: “General, I am ordered by General McLaws to report to you that McClellan's whole army is within six miles, and coming this way.” Jackson took no notice of it at all, and the Orderly turned to ride back when the General called to him, “has General McClellan a drove of cattle or a wagon train with him?” The Orderly replied that he had. “All right,” said Jackson, “I can whip any army that is followed by a drove of cattle;” alluding to the hungry condition of his men, and the good fighting qualities thereby developed when beef was in sight.

Stealing is a low vice, no matter who does it, but that hungry men should take whatever they found in the eating line is not to be wondered at, and the old Irish adage, “There is no law for a hungry man,” should be borne in mind when judging the soldier.

In the early days, when the volunteers were being mustered for “twelve months, unless sooner discharged,” and the idea of a short war was being industriously promulgated by the big men of the cross roads, and the newspaper generals at the county seats, the boys were very uneasy about it, for fear it would wind up before they could get in.

When the first Manassas was fought, the 52d Virginia was sorely disgruntled, believing they had been left out for a purpose, and jealously rankled hot in our hearts at sight of the battery boys, and others, from Staunton, who were sporting around town with bullet-wounds and bloody bandages, the idols of the girls and made heroes of by everybody. Fate was against us, for we had not even seen the smoke of that first great battle from afar, and we would have resigned a kingdom without a murmur to have had one of those wounds; even a very small wound would have been thankfully received, and we noticed also that the accounts and descriptions of the battle were considered much more accurate and authentic when related by some fellow with his arm in a sling and a general air about him of - “stand aside! I am holier than thou,” “been wounded at Manassas;” although it might be that he got crippled under a waggon, and never saw a Yankee.

But every one of these veteran heroes of that battle was supposed to have slain at least four Yankees, and fought Sherman's battery with bowie knife. “Charging” the batteries of the enemy was the favorite amusement of the lucky fellows who were at Manassas, and every one of them had “charged,” more or less, batteries that day, and the men who captured the “Long Tom” rifle-piece were wonderfully numerous.

I must now return to the camp at Crab Bottom, because our stay was brief, and the rumors of the operations of our great Generals in the mountains were numerous. There was always news, and Floyd, Wise, Loring, Lee, Johnston, and other great commanders of the Confederacy, were measuring lances with Milroy, Roscrans, McClellan, Cox, Tyler, Schenck, etc., of the Federal Army, for the control of the empire of Western Virginia, and the time has come, in my story, for the 52d to “mix in,” as Forrest, the famous cavalryman, would say.

We marched towards Moorefield, but stopped at a camp called “Straight Creek,” in Highland county, and were joined by Captain Shumaker, with his battery from “Camp Bartow,” and here we did have a most glorious time of it, in the perfect autumn weather of the mountain glades and vales, and oh! such living! The memory of the buckwheat and honey, the cakes, pies, roast beef and wild turkey, lingers lingeringly, and I would I were a boy again in camp with the old 52d; but the regiment has made its last march on this side the shadow land, and nothing is left but the glorious memory of the good time gone.

While here, an incident occurred which made quite an impression on my boyish mind, and I very much doubt if it has been forgotten by the oldest survivor. Our camp was on the bank of a creek and just below the point where a mill dam was located. It was quite a large dam and had been sufficient, up to this time, to hold the accumulated water in check, but now it chose to give way, and sweeping like a mighty flood through the camp it overwhelmed tents, barracks, bunks, and all pertaining to our little military, in one universal ruin. We were completely washed out, and the disaster served in a measure, to reconcile us, to the movement we were soon called to make to Alleghany mountain; and now our soldier life began to lose its gilding.

Our regiment was ordered to report to Gen. H. R. Jackson, of Georgia, a veteran of the Mexican war, in which he was a Colonel of Volunteers, who had been left with two brigades, by General Lee, to hold the crossing at Greenbriar River of the turnpike leading from Staunton to Parkersburg across Cheat Mountain, and after passing through the intervening valley, and then the Alleghany Mountain into our own Valley.

Jackson's camp here was called “Camp Bartow,” from one of the heroes of Manassas, the lamented Colonel of the 8th Georgia.

The Southern camp was on the south bank of the river, here not more than twenty yards wide, but Colonel Baldwin had by order of General Jackeon, posted our regiment at the Alleghany Pass, in our rear. When the Federals learned of the withdrawal of the large body of Southern troops towards the Kanawha, they determined to move the balance of us, and General Reynolds, of brilliant Gettysburg fame, organized a force of 6,000 troops, with twelve pieces of artillery, and moving from their camp, on the summit of Cheat Mountain, on the 2d of October, came down on Camp Bartow with great gallantry; but Jackson's two little brigades, commanded by Colonels Johnson and Taliferro, stood their ground so stubbonly that, after exhausting all their means to drive them from the field, in a battle commencing early on Thursday morning October 3, and continuing till half-past two o'clock p. m., the Federals retreated in confusion, losing over 300 men killed and wounded, while Jackson's loss was 6 killed, 31 wounded and 12 missing.

General Reynolds had intended to clear the turnpike, and march to Staunton, but not succeeding in getting “Camp Bartow,” he failed to approach our post at Alleghany Pass and, to our chagrin, we had lost another opportunity to fight the Yankees, so we grumbled savagely - fully satisfied now that the war would end and we would not have any show at all to distinguish ourselves. However, we “roughed it,” soldier-fashion, and grew very familiar with the mountains; in fact, we might have been mistaken, from our language, for a corps of topographical engineers, so extensively did we talk of what was being done in our department. Go where you would about the camp, such geographical remarks as “General Lee is moving on the Yanks at Elkwater.” 'General Floyd is going to cut them off at Meadow Bluffs,” “Old Governor Wise will knock 'em out at Sewell Mountain,” “Rosecrans whipped at Lewisburg;” “we will flank them by way of Carnifax Ferry;” and we used to bet largely on what “Ned” Johnson would do when Taliaferro's brigade joined him. We had an idea that a regiment of Southern troops was something fearful to run against, and as for a brigade - well, it was simply irresistible - in fact every man was a general, and knew exactly what to do next, no matter what had been the result of the last movement. But discouraging days were at hand, and when winter came upon us great numbers of the men got sick, and the mountain fogs and frosts were harder to contend with than the enemy.

When General Floyd made his march from the Gauley River to Fayette Court-house, he had to transport more than 800 sick men, and although he was for twenty days engaged in skirmishing and fighting the Yankees for the right of way, his killed and wounded only amounted to 14. After the fight at Greenbrier River, General H. R. Jackson was sent on duty to Georgia; Taliaferro's brigade was withdrawn towards Staunton; Camp Bartow was only occupied by scouts and pickets, and our line of defence was drawn back to Alleghany Mountain, fourteen miles from Greenbriar River and the same distance from Montery, with Colonel Edward Johnson in command, with about 1,200 men, consisting of the 12th Georgia, 31st Virginia, the 52d Virginia under Colonel Baldwin, the battallions of Hansborough and Riger, and two batteries of four 6-pounders under Captains Anderson and Miller, also one company of cavalry under Captain Flournoy, and here, with a scanty supply of blankets and rations, in the keen, frosty air of the mountains we actually suffered.

About this time a name, afterwards well known in the Valley was much talked of, and on the 13th of December it owner, Gen. R. H. Milroy, appeared in our front, with a force which, his own people said, amounted to 8,000.

His first move on our line was made at Slavin's Crossing, about three miles from Camp Bartow, on the 18th, where Major Ross, with the volunteers of the brigade, with 100 men, met the advance of the enemy and checked their movement long enough for Colonel Johnson to get ready for them; and the next morning the great General Milroy's army came up hunting a fight, and I am of the opinion to this day that nobody had to waste time hunting a fight around old Ed Johnson without getting as much as was good for them before night.

The Virginians and Georgians had a hot breakfast all ready for Milroy's folks as soon as they got there, and the 31st Virginia, especially, was very hospitable in their reception. This regiment was mostly composed of Northwest Virginia men, and Milroy stood between them and home, which appeared to make them particularly severe on him, and their gallant commander, Major Boykin, led them with dauntless spirit. I had a splendid position in this battle and could see the whole fight without having to take any part in it, and I remember how I thought Colonel Johnson must be the most wonderful hero in the world, as I saw him at one point, where his men were hard pressed, snatch a musket in one hand and, swinging a big club in the other, he led his line right up among the enemy, driving them headlong down the mountain, killing and wounding many with the bayonet and capturing a large number of prisoners; but the “boys in blue” fought stubbornly, and many of our men were killed here on the left of the road. On the right, the enemy, in strong force, posted in a mountain clearing, among the fallen timber, stumps and brush, was too much for the Rebs, until the veteran, Captain Anderson, brought his battery into position and thundered a storm of round shot and canister among them, knocking their timber defences about their heads, and making their nest too hot to hold them; and they, too, retreated to Cheat Mountain, but for quite awhile they were pelted by Anderson's guns and by Miller's battery, which got in in the nick of time.

Captain Anderson was killed just as the Yankees were breaking up into the retreat by a party he mistook for some of our own infantry lying between his guns and the enemy, and riding forward he called them to come back into the line, at the same time beckoning to them with his head, when they fired a full volley at him, which killed him instantly. He had been through three wars, and had taken part in fifty-eight pitched battles.

Lieutenant Raines, of Lynchburg, took command of Anderson's battery, and the other battery, under Captain Miller, had been originally mustered into the 52d, but was taken out and organized as artillery during the preceding summer.

My recollections of Col. Edward Johnson, as he appeared that day, is very distinct, partly, perhaps, because it was the first real battle I had ever witnessed, but mainly, I think, because he acted so differently from all my preconceived ideas of how a commander should act on the field of battle. He was a native of Chesterfield county, Virginia, but at the opening of the war was living in Georgia, and came from there at the first outbreak of hostile preparations in command of the 12th Georgia regiment. After this battle he was made brigadier, and in February, 1863, was promoted to major-general, and commanded a division in Ewell's corps, composed of the brigades of Walker, Stewart, J. M. Jones and Nicholls.

He was noted all through the war as a stubborn fighter, and was known throughout the country after this victory as “Alleghany” Johnson.

In the battle of Alleghany Mountain the Federals admitted a loss of four hundred killed and wounded, while ours, by actual returns, was twenty-five killed and ninety-seven wounded - not more than skirmishing afterwards, but we rated it as a big battle then.

The next day I was on detail with the burial party, and while putting away two dead Yankees who had been in the party that killed Captain Anderson, we found in their pockets the first greenbacks I had ever seen. We considered the bills curiosities in the way of currency and only valued them as such, not believing that such money would be of any more value than the continental currency was after the Revolution, for of course the North was to be defeated and impoverished by the war, and not able to redeem her promise to pay. In fact, at that time, we would not have given ten cents on the dollar for it in Confederate money, which goes to sustain the statement elsewhere made that I, as a type of the volunteer of 1861, had a considerable touch of fool in my composition, because any person of common sense must have known that the war money of an already established government must, of necessity, have a better show for value than that of an experiment, no matter who might be the final winner in the contest, but the faith that was in us was strong indeed.

After the battle of Alleghany Mountain some half dozen of our company died; in fact, nearly all the wounded died from cold and exposure to the inclement winter weather, and we all suffered severely. We soon moved our camp to Shenandoah Mountain, where General Johnson left us for awhile to attend to important business in Richmond, and Colonel Baldwin commanded the department, and we remained here until the general movement of armies took place in March, 1862. We made our winter quarters as comfortable as we knew how, but we were green campaigners, and the best we knew was awkward enough. We had got some tents, and these, with log huts and plenty of fire, kept us in some sort of comfort, but during this bleak winter the boys talked a good deal about their “twelve months'” term of enlistment expiring in the spring, and not quite so much of their fear that the war would be too short to give to them a taste. Our next movement was to the old camp at West View, six miles from Staunton, and in preparing for this we burned up completely our camp at Shenandoah Mountain, tents and all, which puzzled exceedingly the generals of the rank and file, and it has always remained a mystery to me why we did it, for there was no enemy in threatening distance so far as we knew.

While waiting for developments, “us generals” were passing through an ordeal of electioneering, because the term of service for nearly the whole army had expired and the time for reorganization of companies and regiments had arrived, and enlistments “for the period of the war.”

To offer a man promotion in the early period of the war was almost an insult, and the higher the social position, the greater the wealth, the more patriotic it would be to serve in the humble position of private in the ranks; and I have seen many men of education and ability refusing promotion, and carrying their muskets under command of officers greatly their inferiors, mentally and morally, as soldiers. It was not uncommon to see ex-congressmen and judges, as well as preachers, tramping along in ranks as privates, but one year of soldiering had engendered a desire for commissions in the hearts of many, and, in some cases, much trickery was resorted to by aspirants to secure the soldier vote for company offices. Our regiment, at reorganization, had been changed somewhat, Colonel Baldwin having been retired to a seat in the Confederate States Congress.

Every story should have its hero, and as I have no idea myself of posing as such, I can't think it at all improper to make, for my central figure in this part of my little book which treats of the war, the immortal “Stonewall” Jackson, whose fortunes as a commander I am proud to have followed from the day of McDowell to that of his death. We had not heard much of him, apart from the record he made at Manassas, until reports of his crazy battle at Kernstown, as it was called, were received; and although it was the custom in that war for both sides to magnify their victories and depreciate their defeats, we were pretty strongly impressed with the belief that Jackson had been pretty badly worsted at Kernstown, by that fighting Irishman, General Shields, whom we rated always as a gentleman and a soldier; and when we learned that Jackson was retreating up the Valley before Banks, our faith was visibly weakened, for we knew Milroy was pushing towards our own position with a much larger force than we could muster.

Our accounts from Jackson were not all painted in black, for we learned that he had matched his four thousand “foot cavalry” against Shields' ten thousand, and had fought so fierce and fast that the high-blooded Irishman thought Jackson had two thousand the most men, and we trusted largely in his skill; and were not totally dissatisfied when he turned up at West View, as though to cut out some work for “Alleghany” Johnson's men, which, of course, we thought unnecessary, all of us being generals, and able to lay our plans without his supervision, but he seems to have been arranging matters to suit General Banks, who, about this time, telegraphed McClellan that he “had forced the Rebel, Jackson, to permanently abandon the Valley and retreat on Gordonsville in Eastern Virginia.”

I had almost forgotten that we are on the march with “Stonewall” Jackson down the Valley, and we want to keep up, for although the complicated movements of McClellan on the Peninsula, McDowell in front of Washington, Banks in the Valley, Shields along the Blue Ridge, and Fremont and Milroy in the mountains of Western Virginia, were enough to puzzle the brain of the most thorough master of the art of war in any age, they do not appear to have disquieted or embarrassed Jackson in the least. He looked right through the cloud of mystery to the plain object to be attained, viz: the diversion of re-enforcements from McClellan's “grand army,” and he went at the accomplishment of this purpose with the mathematical accuracy and resistless force of a Corliss engine in motion. Past Harrisonburg we tramped rapidly, and by the 20th had reached New Market, on the Valley pike, where the road to Luray across the Massanutton - the glory of the Valley - leads into the Page valley, and here, for the first time, we up-country boys saw General Ashby, whose fame as a cavalry leader had reached us so brilliantly, and thenceforward the troopers of Ashby hung as an impenetrable veil in front and flank, so perfectly screening our movements that General Banks never knew where to look for his tormentor - Jackson - and it is doubtful if he yet knew whether or not this “Rebel” was still at Gordonsville, in Eastern Virginia.

We took the right-hand road at New Market, and at night united with General Ewell's division, which had come down the river from Swift Run Gap.

On the afternoon of the next day - 23d May, 1862, when we had passed Luray a long distance - a funny incident occurred, which, perhaps, General Jackson may have been expecting. The column was marching along at a swinging gait - getting over ground pretty lively - when a young and rather good-looking woman rushed out of the woods, so agitated and out of breath that she could scarcely speak, but coming up to the General, who had turned to meet her, she soon began to talk with great volubility. We, of course, could not hear what she was saying, nor could we even conjecture the import of her mission, but it was subsequently made known that this was the famous woman spy and scout, Belle Boyd, and the information she detailed right there to General Jackson with the precision of a staff officer, was to the effect that Front Royal was just beyond the woods, a short distance ahead; that the town was full of Federal troops; that their camp was on the west side of the river, where they had cannon in position to cover the wagon bridge, but none to protect the railroad bridge below; that the Yankees believed Jackson's army was west of the Massanutton near Harrisonburg, and knew nothing of the movement of Ewell's division; that Banks had moved his headquarters to Winchester, twenty miles northwest of Front Royal, and was looking for the Rebels to advance by the Valley pike, and when they did he intended to strike their flank and rear with his Front Royal detachment, all of which was absolutely trne, but it was known to General Jackson the night we left New Market and only needed Belle Boyd to confirm it; and when the “foot cavalry” got knowledge of this matter, as they did in a few days, their opinion of their leader changed, and blind, awkward and queer as he seemed they knew he was anything but a crank.

The movement to Front Royal was nearly to a focus now, and Gen. “Dick” Taylor started his Louisiana brigade - a “daisy” she was, too - at a double, closely followed by the whole force, and pretty soon we broke cover down a steep by-path into the Gooney Manor road, not half a mile from town. Some cavalry was first encountered, but almost instantly brushed away, and our cavalry, making a sweep, captured and brought out many prisoners.

The Louisianians, led by the gallant General, went at the railroad bridge, and then came Col. Bradley T. Johnson, with his regiment, the 1st Maryland, in a fair, square attack straight into Colonel Kenly's 1st Maryland, of Bank's army, when “Greek literally met Greek,” and the tug of war was desperate. Generals Jackson and Ewell galloped along the field, like knights of the olden time, cheering on their men; the “Tigers,” of Major Wheat, and the Louisiana boys “waded in” yelling, firing, fighting; while the Virginians joined in the chorus, the 52d well up and doing her duty equal to any on the field, and no man, woman or child, all the way from Luray, knew we were coming until we had passed, except Belle Boyd.

I wish I could give a description of the battle of Front Royal, with all the preceding incidents and operations, showing the inspiration by which General Jackson planned and brought through to complete success his audacious movement right into the camps of the enemy which surrounded him, and I have always believed it was a piece of one of the sublimest pictures of strategy ever performed in war.

The enemy was pretty soon driven across the river, and tried hard to destroy the bridge, but the pressure in the rear was too great to give them time, and moreover Ashby, with part of his cavalry, had crossed above, cut the railroad and telegraph wires to Strasburg, and prevented any help coming to the enemy from that point, while at Buckton he drove them from the strong position in the railroad cut and captured a train of cars. Other portions of the cavalry overtook the retreating Federals at Cedarville, and some companies of the 6th Virginia cavalry, led by Captain Grimsley, of Culpeper, in two gallant charges, broke them up completely, but many good men of the cavalry were killed - among them Captain Baxter, Company K, 6th Virginia, and Captains Sheets and Fletcher of the Ashby Legion.

There was considerable jealousy on the part of the infantry against the cavalry, the “foot-pads” thinking the riders had the easiest time, and seldom omitted an opportunity to make game of them, especially when the cavalry would be passing them on a march, and the old chaff of “Come down out o' that hat, know yo're thar; see your legs a hanging down!” “Get from behin' them boots! needn't say you aint thar; see your ears a workin'!” will be remembered while any of the old soldiers live. But I think the cutest thing I ever heard was by an old infantry man, on the Valley pike, in 1863. He was resting, his arms crossed on the muzzle of his musket, when a dashing-looking cavalry man, wearing considerable gold lace and feathers, rode up. The infantryman eyed him quizzically, for a few minutes, and then accosted him with, “Say, Mister, did you ever see a dead Yankee?” and paused to enjoy the contemptuously dignified, silent stare of the cavalier. The old knapsack-toter then continued: “Cause if you didn't, and you'll go along with us for about an hour we'll show you one.” This failing to elicit any response, he began again, in a very reassuring tone: “You needn't be afeered, Mister, 'cause there haint none of our cavalry got killed yet, and I hain't never heered of but one of 'em gittin' hurt, and he was kicked while he was currying of his creeter.” Of course there was a yell, as the “wore out” cavalryman rode off as lively as he could, and the footman set his trap for the next one.

We boys didn't make so much sport of the cavalry after Front Royal, and it was no uncommon sight to see a dead man with spurs on during the Valley campaign. The artillery, too, under the famous commanders, Poague, Chew, Courtney, Carpenter, Lattimer, Caskie, Raines, Luck, Miller, Cutshaw, Wooding, and others, did splendid service.

I do not think I ever saw a list of the regiments in Jackson's first campaign in the Shenandoah Valley, and believing it will interest the reader, will endeavor to give, from memory and reading, what I believe to be a correct statement of them:

From Virginia, there were the 2d, 4th, 5th, 10th, 13th, 21st, 23d, 27th, 31st, 33d, 37th, 42d, 44th, 48th, 52d, and 58th regiments, and the 1st (Irish) battalion, infantry.

From Louisiana, the 6th, 7th, 8th and 9th regiments, and Major Wheat's “Tiger” battalion, infantry.

From Georgia, the 12th and 21st regiments, infantry.

From North Carolina, the 21st regiment, infantry.

From Alabama, the 15th regiment, infantry.

From Mississippi, the 16th regiment, infantry.

From Maryland, the 1st regiment, infantry.

The cavalry of General Ashby was the 7th and 12th regiments, and the 17th battalion, Virginia, and the brigade which came over with General Ewell was the 2d and 6th Virginia, with one company, under Ewell's special orders, commanded by Capt. E. V. White, from Loudoun county, Va. - making 27 regiments and 2 battalions of infantry, 4 regiments and 1 battalion of cavalry, and, I think, 11 batteries, of about 44 guns altogether.

On Sunday morning, June 1st, 1862, we walked out on the Wardonsville road and held service with General Fremont's advance, which we checked, and finally drove his people back so far as to give us wagon room and let all of our trains get safely past this dangerous point.

After Port Republic we enjoyed ourselves in our pleasant June camps about Mt. Meridian, and begun our planning and generalship again. There hadn't been quite so much of that among us since we left Strasburg, for the situation appeared to be mixed to such an extent that for some time each individual general had nearly decided that it would be as much as the bargain to get his own individual baggage out safe, but now we had shaken off the dogs of war which had howled at our heels and gnashed at our flanks like blood-hounds hunting the lion, and being free again were ready for a new campaign.

I think it best, from this time forward, to deal less in general history, if I can, so long as the war lasts, and give my readers more of the incidents that cluster around the life of the soldier - but I couldn't help talking as I did about the Valley campaign; and now “Stonewall” was our hero and idol. His old, ambling sorrel, was in our eyes, a war charger worthy of a Cœur de Lion; and his dingy coat and mangy cap were glorified. We didn't make game of him any more, but one irreverent fellow started, as a conundrum, “Why is General Jackson a better leader than Moses was?” answering - “because it took Moses forty years to march the children of Israel through the Wilderness, and Jackson would have doubled-quicked them through in three days.” The army had suffered all the usual trials of military life - and death too - in time of war, and the men had been hurried by day and by night; in storm and sunshine; in hunger and cold; on picket and camp guard; in the whistling tempest of lead, and the howling, deamon shriek of shell; in the mangling of comrades, and the hasty burial of our dead on the field where they fell - and yet so wonderfully recuperative is the mind of man, that as soon as the pressure of adverse circumstances is removed, he lights his candle at the burning torch of hope and leaves the past behind him. Just so did we, the men and boys, who had followed “Stonewall” through his trying campaign, come out bright and fresh, ready to follow again wherever the star of his destiny might lead - for we wanted to follow that destiny wherever it might be.

The brigade to which my regiment was attached was composed of the 13th Virginia regiment, made up of companies from the counties of Culpeper, Louisia, Orange, Frederick and Hampshire, and was commanded, during the war, by Colonels A. P. Hill, J. A. Walker and Terrell. The 31st Virginia, from Upsher, Randolph, Gilmer, Barbour and Highland, under Colonel Hoffman. The 49th Virginia, from Rappahannock, Prince William, Fauquier, Nelson and Amhurst, under Colonels Smith (extra) and Gibson. And the 52d Virginia - my own old regiment - was from Augusta, Rockbridge and Bath, and had for Colonels, during the war, Baldwin, Harman, Watkins, Skinner and Lilly. Our Brigadiers were Edward Johnson, Elzey, Pegram and Stewart.

These were all gallant soldiers and good officers, whose names have gone into history gloriously, but “us boys” made the wreaths of fame that bound their brows, and we are proud that they wore them worthily.

A. P. Hill reached the rank of Lieutenant-General, and was killed near Petersburg, by a straggler, just as the star of peace breaking through the clouds. Terrell and Watkins were both killed, so was Board, and Hoffman, a late judge in West Virginia, lost a foot; but the old hero, Lieutenant-General J. A. Early, more thoroughly lied on than any, and with whom more ability than all his traducers combined, is now dead; while Gibson, of Culpeper, is one of the most prominent lawyers of Middle Virginia, and may yet be Governor, carries on his person the scars of ten wounds received in battle. It used to appear very much as if fate, and not accident, had control of the bullets in battle, for some men went bravely through battle after battle with never a scratch to show for it, and were finally killed in some little insignificant skirmish, where not a dozen shots were fired; and then again there were men who would be wounded in every battle if they came in cannon shot of the field. I know one instance where as good a soldier as fought in the Southern Army got hit with a ball every time he went into a fight, but not one serious wound among them, and his brother, in the same company, equally as good a soldier, who never missed a battle, went safely through the war with only one wound.

Some soldiers seemed to move in a charmed circle of safety, while others appeared to be bright particular objects of special favoritism when wounds were to be distributed, and in the latter part of the war the soldier was thought by his comrades to be especially lucky when he got a furlough wound - one that didn't quite kill, but allowed him to stay at home while it was healing.

We remained in the Valley long enough to get rested up good, and then moved through Brown's Gap, and “on to Richmond,” for the new general of the army there was tired of McClellan's parallels, redoubts, salients and other engineering schemes on the Chicahominy, and desired to put a “Stonewall” across the road.

I remember picking up a Richmond paper about this time which contained a letter from a young lady in the country to her friend in the city, inviting her to pay a visit, and the ingenious working in of the names of our Generals interested me so much that I retained it in memory. The latter ran thus -