ninety-five men, all armed with
carbines, revolvers, and sabres.

General Bayard received orders that evening to mass his cavalry on the
open ground to the left of the Gainesville pike and prepare for a grand
charge and night attack on Jackson's right flank. Bayard, knowing that
my men were familiar with that flank, sent me orders to retire quietly
and report to him at the Burnt Chimneys, near the Bull Run bridge. This
having been done, we were taken along the flank of the brigade to the
head of the column and were told what we were expected to do,--to lead
the charge and strike directly for the enemy's artillery, destroy its
usefulness, if possible, and come out at the point where we had been
picketing during the day, while Bayard was to lead the brigade in
person down the right and left centres of the main lines. The signal
for this charge was to be three artillery shots over our heads at
intervals of one minute each, and when the third shot was fired I was
to move at a walk to within a short distance of the rebel skirmish
line, then hurl my squadron in column of platoons upon the enemy,
sweeping along their extreme right. Imagine the thoughts that passed
through my mind,--home, mother, sisters, brothers, and sweetheart all
jumbled in my head at once. The suspense was awful! The men were
admonished to follow their leader, and if he should fall to continue on
and carry out his orders. The first shot was fired; then came a long
delay. Wondering what could be the cause of this, I rose in my saddle,
looked to the rear, and found that all the supports had retired and
that we had been left alone. Suddenly Bayard rode up to me and, with
choked voice, said, "Thank God, you are saved! The orders have been
countermanded, and you can take up your old position over on the left."
I must acknowledge that tears trickled down my cheeks while I was on
the way to my old position. What would have been the result had this
charge been made? Directly in our front, as we discovered next day, was
a deep gully or washout, though Bayard had been assured that it was a
clear, open field. Here would have been another "sunken road" as at
Waterloo, and perhaps another Victor Hugo writing of the charge, while
we poor souls would have been hurled to death, trampled beneath the
hoofs of the horses of those who followed us.

On the afternoon of the last day of the battle of Second Bull Run I
observed that the enemy were massing a large body of troops