A graphic story of a dash through the Federal cavalry at brandy Station.
What I relate are facts which actually befell me; no shenanagin about it. The greatest cavalry battle ever fought on the
American
[
252]
At early dawn the
Federal advance guard crossed the
Rappahannock river, and charged our outposts with such vigor that they entered our camp at their heels.
Most of my regiment, Sixth Virginia, had turned their horses out the evening before, so that not more than fifty of us were prepared to mount.
Our reveille was the crack of the pistol and carbine of the foe. These fifty men were quickly mounted, formed, and ordered to charge.
Not a moment was to be lost, as some of the enemy's advance were in our artillery camp.
An untamed horse.
I was the unfortunate possessor of an untamed and untamable Buchephalus that
Alexander might have ridden, but that no rider on earth could control.
I had experienced this on three former occasions.
But what could I do, charge or not charge, that was the question.
Although I knew full well that my wild charger would lead the van, of course I must charge.
In our front was a heavily-wooded forest of pine scrub and black jack, through which ran a narrow country road.
No time was to be lost, therefore there was little ceremony.
The usual commands—trot march, gallop, charge—were omitted, and the gallant
Shumate, who mustered the fifty, simply yelled ‘Charge,’ and away we flew down the winding road through that dark and dismal forest, all yelling like so many
Comanche Indians.
As the arrow from the bended bow flew my fiery horse.
I had taken the precaution to put a jaw-breaking bit on his bridle, but it was of no avail.
A furious ride.
He bowed his neck, and placing his mouth against his breast I was helpless, and away he fairly flew.
What must I do to be saved?
What could I do?
Jump. No; pull off the road I could not; stop I could not. Away, away we went; my horse seemed wild with fury.
I looked around, but there was no one in sight.
We had left the others far behind.
I knew that in a few seconds one poor and solitary cavalryman would be rushing into the midst of the foe. Oh, how I pulled, and how often I said whoa, whoa, sir, may be imagined, but all in vain.
A cavalry line.
As the cyclone sweeps over the prairie flew my mad horse.
One moment more and I see drawn up across my path a double <*>
[
253]
in the unwilling effort.
It may be, I thought, they will see my predicament and let me through; it may be they will not fire; but how could they know that my horse was running away.
The horse killed.
They must have thought the devil was coming, for up went at least a hundred carbines, a crash, a cloud of smoke, and with one terrible plunge and a groan my furious steed fell in the woods, pierced by several balls.
How I escaped God only knows.
In a few moments I heard our boys come thundering down the road.
A volley from the
Federal line, but onward they went, and I mounting a horse belonging to a lieutenant of Company H, who was killed here, joined in. We broke this regiment, the Eighth New York,
Lieutenant Owen Allen killing its brave commander,
Colonel Davis.
Then came the
English Illinois, and quicker than some of us came we went.
The dash.
That night after the battle was over—for it lasted all day—the boys overwhelmed me with compliments.
Never saw such dash!
such courage!
Charles O'Malley,
Murat!
and so on. But what was the laughter and merriment when I innocently observed, confound it, boys, my horse ran away with me.
