rtainly a very sad experience--a disheartening
commencement of operations.

_April 16._--The Harris Light was relieved from picket, and moved to
Bealeton, leaving Beverly Ford at four o'clock A. M. The roads are
almost impassable. The rain has continued almost uninterruptedly for
forty-eight hours, making our sojourn in these parts very disagreeable.
But, notwithstanding the mud, on the seventeenth a squadron of the
Harris Light, composed of Companies E and F, in command of Captain
Charles Hasty, left our bivouac at Bealeton, early in the morning, with
instructions to proceed to Warrenton, and, if possible, to occupy the
place until four o'clock P. M. When we had approached to within three
miles of the place the Captain learned that the famous Black Horse
Cavalry, under Captain Randolph, was in possession of the village, and
would undoubtedly give us a splendid entertainment.

The boys were unanimously pleased at the prospect of an opportunity to
cross sabres with those heroes of Bull Run, and, concluding from their
worldwide reputation that nothing short of a desperate fight would
ensue, we made preparations accordingly. The squadron was formed in
column of platoons, and two detachments, consisting each of a sergeant
and eight men, were instructed to advance upon the town from two
parallel streets, thus giving our small force the appearance of being
only the vanguard of a very large army.

It was my privilege to command one of these detachments; and, on
entering the village, we found the foe formed into line of battle on
Main street, with the apparent intention of giving us a warm reception.
They had been notified of our approach by a sentinel posted in a
prominent church-steeple, and were, therefore, ready for us. We
immediately drew sabres and bore down upon them with the usual yell;
and, strange as it may seem to those who laud the daring of the Southern
Black Horse, they advanced to receive us, fired a few shots, unsheathed
their bloodless sabres, but wheeled about suddenly and dashed away to
the rear at a breakneck pace, without even halting to pay us the
compliment of an affectionate farewell. Actually it seemed as though
they did not so much as look behind them until fairly out of the range
of our best carbines. It was quite evident to us that they agreed
perfectly with that most ungallant poet, who sings:

"He who fights and runs away,
Will live to fight another day."

The beautiful and aristocrat