I saw brave men in
the war--none braver than Breathed. When he failed in any thing, it was
because reckless courage could not accomplish it.
He was young, of vigorous frame, with dark hair and eyes, and tanned by
sun and wind. His voice was low, and deep; his manners simple and
unassuming; his ready laugh and off-hand bearing indicated the born
soldier; eyes mild, friendly, and full of honesty. It was only when
Breathed was fighting his guns, or leading a charge, that they
resembled red-hot coals, and seemed to flame.
To come to my incident. I wish, reader, to show you Breathed; to let
you see the whole individual in a single exploit. It is good to record
things not recorded in "history." They are, after all, the real glory
of the South of which nothing can deprive her. I please myself, too,
for Breathed was my friend. I loved and admired him--and only a month
or two before, he had made the whole army admire--and laugh with--him
too.
See how memory leads me off! I am going to give ten words, first, to
that incident which made us laugh.
In the last days of winter, a force of Federal cavalry came to make an
attack on Charlottesville--crossing the Rapidan high up toward the
mountains, and aiming to surprise the place. Unfortunately for him,
General Custer, who commanded the expedition, was to find the Stuart
horse artillery in winter quarters near.
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