49

On the afternoon of the 5th of June, 1862, the rear guard of Jackson's
command passed through the streets of Harrisonburg, and filing to the left a
short distance below that town, took the road to Port Republic, Fremont's
advance at the time being close up with Ashby's rear guard of cavalry. On the
night of the 5th the troops went into camp about two miles from Harrisonburg.
At reveille on the morning of the 6th the men were astir, and after partaking of
a hasty breakfast the weary march was resumed. To many it was their last meal,
for before the sun had disappeared in the western horizon the First Maryland
had to mourn the loss of some of its best and bravest, who lay cold in the embrace
of death, and the spirit of the chivalrous Ashby, the Bayard of the Confederate
Army, had also winged its flight from earth. It was his error of judgment that
brought about the disaster, and he paid the penalty with his life.

After laboriously advancing on their journey some four miles over a most
wretched road, during which the wagons of the long train and the artillery were
being constantly stuck in the mud, which greatly retarded the march of the
infantry, a halt was ordered. Ashby and his cavalry were resting in a strip of
wood, and a short distance beyond in a field was the First Maryland. Suddenly
there was borne to the ears of the latter a yell, followed by the rattle of small
arms. The enemy was upon Ashby, and that, too. most unexpectedly, for many
of his troopers had unsaddled their horses.

For some minutes this firing and yelling continued. Colonel Johnson grasped
the situation at once. Ashby had been attacked, but by what force? Hastily
calling the First Maryland to "Attention! "Colonel Johnson led it in the
direction of the wood from which these sounds of conflict emanated, but as the
command advanced, the yelling and firing seemed to recede, until they were
far away.

A dismounted prisoner was next seen coming to the rear under guard. He
was a dashing-looking fellow, in a handsome, well-fitting uniform. He was
nervously swinging one of his gauntlets in his hand, and seemed cast down and
mortified at his ill fortune. At that moment the glorious, whole-souled Colonel
Bob Wheat rode up. Springing from his horse he rushed up to the discomfited
trooper. Their hands were extended simultaneously, for the recognition wvas
mutual. "Why, Percy!" exclaimed Wheat; "why, Bob! "stammered the
other, and then they sat down in a fence corner and talked of the good old times
they had had together in Italy under Garibaldi. The Federal officer was Colonel
Percy Wyndham, an Englishman, in command of the First New Jersey Cavalry.
He had persistently followed Ashby for days, and Ashby had expressed his
admiration for the daring cavalryman who had given him so much annoyance.
But poor Wyndham had ventured too far and had met his Waterloo, for not only
himself but sixty-three of his men were captured and many killed and wounded,