nkets,
overcoats, or pants, while others, who looked more to actual gain in
dollars and cents, had invaded the suttler's tents and were fairly
laden down with such articles as they could find readiest sale for. I
saw one man with a stack of wool hats on his head, one pressed in
the other, until it reached more than an arm's length above his head.
Frying-pans were enviable utensils in the army, and tin cups--these
articles would be picked up by the first who came along, to be thrown
aside when other goods more tempting would meet their sight.

After getting the various brigades in as much order as possible,
a general forward movement was made, the enemy making only feeble
attempts at a stand, until we came upon a stone fence, or rather a
road hedged on either side by a stone fence, running parallel to our
line of battle. Here we were halted to better form our columns. But
the halt was fatal--fatal to our great victory, fatal to our army,
and who can say not fatal to our cause. Such a planned battle, such
complete success, such a total rout of the enemy was never before
experienced--all to be lost either by a fatal blunder or the greed
of the soldier for spoils. Only a small per cent comparatively was
engaged in the plundering, but enough to weaken our ranks. It was late
in the day. The sharpshooters (Third Battalion) had been thrown out
in a cornfield several hundred yards in our front. The men lay in the
road behind the stone fence without a dream of the enemy ever being
able to rally and make an advance. Some were inspecting their captured
plunder; others sound asleep, after our five miles' chase. The sun was
slowly sinking in the west. Oh, what a glorious victory! Men in
their imagination were writing letters home, telling of our brilliant
achievements--thirty pieces of artillery captured, whole wagon trains
of ordnance, from ten to twenty thousand stands of small arms, horses
and wagons, with all of Sheridan's tents and camp equippage--all was
ours, and the enemy in full retreat!

But the scenes are soon to be shifted. Sheridan had been to
Winchester, twenty miles away. He hears the firing of guns in the
direction of Fisher's Hill, mounts his black charger, and with none
to accompany him but an orderly, he begins his famous ride from
Winchester. Louder and louder the cannon roar, faster and faster his
faithful steed leaps over the stoney pike, his rider plunging the
steel rowels into the foaming sides. Now he is ne