It is
true, the adjuncts of the scene were far from peaceful. The green
fields were full of blue sharp-shooters; in the suburbs were posted
batteries; down the mountain road behind, wound a long compact column
of cavalry.
Breathed fought hard that day. From the waving field of rye on the
upland his guns thundered on--in the face of that fire, the enemy could
not, or would not, advance.
So the night came on, and Stuart's great train moved.
Those wagons were a terrible encumbrance to us on the march. But Stuart
determined not to abandon them, and they were dragged on--a line
stretched to infinity!
Thenceforth, dear reader, the march was a sort of dream to me. How can
I relate my adventures--the numerous spectacles and events of the time?
I know not even now if they were events or mere dreams, seeing that,
all the long way, I was half asleep in the saddle! It was a veritable
Drowsyland that we moved through on horseback! The Dutchmen, the
"fraus," the "spreading," the sauer-kraut--the conestogas, the red
barns, the guttural voices, the strange faces--were these actual
things, or the mere fancies of a somnambulist? Was I an officer of real
cavalry making a real march; or a fanciful being, one of a long column
of phantoms?
I seem dimly to remember a pretty face, whose owner smiled on me--and a
faint memory remains of a supper which she gave me.
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