A moment afterward the bugle sounded, and the column advanced toward
the Rapidan, within a mile of which it halted--Mohun and myself riding
forward to reconnoitre at Germanna Ford, directly in our front.
The pickets were engaged, firing at each other across the river. On the
northern bank were seen long columns of Federal cavalry, drawn up as
though about to cross.
I rode with Mohun to the summit of the lofty hill near the ford, and
here, seated on his horse beneath a tree, we found Mordaunt. It was
hard to realize that, on the evening before, I had seen this stern and
martial figure, kneeling in prayer upon a grave--had heard the brief
deep voice grow musical when he spoke of his wife. But habit is every
thing. On the field, Mordaunt was the soldier, and nothing but the
soldier.
"You see," he said, "the game is about to open," pointing to the
Federal cavalry. "You remember this spot, and that hill yonder, I
think."
"Yes," I replied, "and your charge there when we captured their
artillery in August, '62."
As he spoke, a dull firing, which we had heard for some moments from
the direction of Ely's Ford, grew more rapid. Five minutes afterward,
an officer was seen approaching from the side of the firing, at full
speed.
When he was within a hundred yards, I recognized Harry Mordaunt.
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