se, belonging to one of the
members of my command. This horse was not captured with me, and was
taken possession of by the owner, but I had a horse that I had left with
my brother Gerard to recuperate, and when I reached there I expected to
use this horse in getting home. Imagine my disappointment when I was
told that he was dead. His rest and good pasture had put fresh blood in
his veins and vigorous life in his body, and one day, as he was sporting
in the field and performing various gymnastic stunts, he broke a blood
vessel, and bled to death.

My brother John, who was then in prison, had a horse there also. I
pressed that horse into service, and started for home late in the fall.
I got safely through the enemy's lines, and received a warm welcome by
the folks at home. I was still a paroled prisoner, and had to refrain
from going on any of the expeditions that were making Mosby and his men
famous and a terror to the authorities in Washington, although I was
strongly tempted to do so. The winter was spent pretty much as the one I
have already described. The life of the Confederacy, for whose existence
we had suffered and lost so much, was hanging in the balance. Every
family was mourning the loss of one or more dead or maimed; food and
clothing could hardly be obtained at any price. To add to the
distressed condition, a decree had gone out from Washington that all the
mills, barns, provender for beast and food for man was to be burned, and
all cattle and horses of every description found, driven off. This
decree had been carried out with a cruelty that in the light of
present-day civilization seems incredible.

The armies, "like the locust of Egypt," went out from Washington, swept
down the rich valley of Virginia beyond Staunton and destroyed or
carried off everything except the homes and the old men and women and
children who occupied them. Many of these homes were destroyed by
catching fire from the burning barns and mills. Every part of Virginia
within reach of the Northern armies suffered the same devastation.

While I write this, a gentleman sits in my office who was in the
Northern army and took part in the burning. I have just read the
foregoing to him and asked him if it were not true. "Yes," said he,
"every word of it."

Notwithstanding this condition of things, everywhere might be heard the
cry, "On with the dance, let joy be unconfined." Mosby's fame as a
daring raider had spread far and wide, and his