night attack on Jackson's right flank. Bayard, knowing that my men were familiar with that flank, sent me orders to retire quietly and report to him at the Burnt Chimneys, near the Bull Run bridge. This having been done, we were taken along the flank of the brigade to the head of the column and were told what we were expected to do,—to lead the charge and strike directly for the enemy's artillery, destroy its usefulness, if possible, and come out at the point where we had been picketing during the day, while Bayard was to lead the brigade in person down the right and left centres of the main lines. The signal for this charge was to be three artillery shots over our heads at intervals of one minute each, and when the third shot was fired I was to move at a walk to within a short distance of the rebel skirmish line, then hurl my squadron in column of platoons upon the enemy, sweeping along their extreme right. Imagine the thoughts that passed through my mind,—home, mother, sisters, brothers, and sweetheart all jumbled in my head at once. The suspense was awful! The men were admonished to follow their leader, and if he should fall to continue on and carry out his orders. The first shot was fired; then came a long delay. Wondering what could be the cause of this, I rose in my saddle, looked to the rear, and found that all the supports had retired and that we had been left alone. Suddenly Bayard rode up to me and, with choked voice, said, "Thank God, you are saved! The orders have been countermanded, and you can take up your old position over on the left." I must acknowledge that tears trickled down my cheeks while I was on the way to my old position. What would have been the result had this charge been made? Directly in our front, as we discovered next day, was a deep gully or washout, though Bayard had been assured that it was a clear, open field. Here would have been another "sunken road" as at Waterloo, and perhaps another Victor Hugo writing of the charge, while we poor souls would have been hurled to death, trampled beneath the hoofs of the horses of those who followed us.

On the afternoon of the last day of the battle of Second Bull Run I observed that the enemy were massing a large body of troops in front of our extreme left, and I sent several verbal messages to that effect by trustworthy non-commissioned officers to General Bayard, who was near General Pope. I began sending these messages between three and four o'clock, and my last one was to inform him that the enemy had placed four batteries of artillery in position, that I had counted twenty-eight sets of colors, that more troops were moving into position, and that if the enemy made an attack, they would strike the Pennsylvania Reserves on the left and rear. When the sergeant who carried this message returned, he told me that General Pope remarked to General Bayard, "Oh, that officer don't know his business. He don't know what he is talking about. Tell the fool that those people he sees are General Porter's men forming on the right of the enemy." I felt very much annoyed at this, and I don't deny that I used some very strong language about my superior officer, though most of it was done mentally. However, I rode rapidly over to General Reynolds, informed him of the fact, and persuaded him to come and see for himself. One glance was sufficient for him. He dashed back to his division and changed front to the left to meet the attack. Those who were in the Pennsylvania Reserves at that time can testify that the movement to the left was hardly finished when the heavy column I had again and again reported burst upon them, crushing their left back upon and through our artillery, leaving the guns in the hands of the enemy. I have often wondered who was the fool,—the general or the captain.

My squadron rode along the flank of this charging column of the enemy, and expended nearly all of its carbine ammunition upon it. They paid no more attention to us, however, than if we were so many gnats flying in the air. In my opinion the final repulse of the enemy was chiefly due to a small brigade of regular infantry. It seemed to me that every line that came in their front was wiped out. Their firing was done with coolness and precision; their commanding officer had them well in hand. It was a scene well worthy of the pencil of an artist; but we did not have that kind of people with us when such opportunities occurred. I crossed the Bull Run bridge with these regulars between sundown and dark. At that time the enemy seemed to be retiring very rapidly, as though they were retreating from the field. I thought at the time that we should have been pursuing them instead of retiring. But orders had to be obeyed.

I joined my regiment next morning near Centreville, my squadron having been held for picket duty that night near the bridge.

General Bayard and I had several conversations afterwards about what I have stated. He always cautioned me to be careful in my language about what I knew, as doubtless there would be an investigation concerning the battle, and he wanted me to corroborate him in case he should be called upon to testify before a court of inquiry. But the brave soldier was called to a higher court before his testimony could be taken, and until now I have remained silent upon the subject.

After the battle our cavalry brigade retired to the defenses of Washington, and remained there for six weeks, when we again took up the line of march, joining McClellan's army (which had recrossed the Potomac after Antietam) between the Bull Run Mountains and the Blue Ridge. We continued on in the advance, skirmishing and charging daily, and never halted until we arrived at Rappahannock Station, on a cold, stormy night in November, my squadron capturing a large picket post of the enemy and saving the railroad bridge. Here we received the news that McClellan had been relieved and Burnside placed in command of the Army of the Potomac. Soon we again took up the line of march and moved rapidly towards Fredericksburg.

In the battle of Fredericksburg the cavalry took a peculiar part. It is not generally known that Bayard's cavalry was used for the purpose of developing the enemy's artillery and infantry in front of Franklin's crossing, but such was the fact. An English officer who, if I remember rightly, was a volunteer aide on General Lee's staff, in an article published in Blackwood's Magazine, referred in complimentary terms to the manner in which my squadron manœuvred across the railroad, and for its bold advance upon the enemy's lines. I may be mistaken, but I have always given to Thomas Martin, a private in my company ("M"), the credit of having unhorsed General Maxcy Gregg. Observing a general officer, as I thought, about two hundred yards in my front, looking at us through his field-glass, Martin and I dismounted, and standing between our two horses, Martin rested his carbine on my shoulder, and the instant he fired I noticed the mounted officer fall from his saddle. I afterwards learned that General Gregg was killed on that part of the field, and about that time.

In all my experience, from my baptism of fire at Falling Waters on July 1, 1861, down to Jetersville, April 5, 1865, I never was under such a terrific fire of shot, shell, and musketry as in this movement in General Franklin's front. The shot and shell seemed to make the atmosphere blue. Our loss in men was very small, but in horses large. Poor Martin was wounded and made a cripple for life.

In this battle of Fredericksburg fell mortally wounded my beau-ideal of a cavalry general. Quick to act, brave to a fault, careful of his men, and dearly beloved by his whole command was General George D. Bayard, the Sheridan of our army in the early days of the war. His last words to his adjutant-general (Captain H. C. Weir) were, "Give my compliments to General Burnside, and say that I desire Colonel Dave Gregg to command my cavalry," and then he expired.

A few days after this our old stand-by, General David McM. Gregg, assumed command of our brigade. He was well dubbed "Old