my studies, and spent the remainder of the term at the Union
Theological Seminary of New York. My regiment would not get
another chaplain, so I again returned to it. In November I
received a month's leave of absence, and was married to Miss Anna
P. Sands, of New York City. Our winter quarters in 1864 were at
Stevensburg, between the town of Culpeper and the Rapidan River.
During the pleasant days of late February several of the officers
were enjoying the society of their wives. Mrs. Roe having
expressed a willingness to rough it with me for a week, I sent for
her, and one Saturday afternoon went to the nearest railroad
station to meet her. The train came, but not my wife; and, much
disappointed, I found the return ride of five miles a dreary one
in the winter twilight. I stopped at our colonel's tent to say to
him and his wife that Mrs. Roe had not come, then learned for the
first time very startling tidings.

"Chaplain," said the colonel, "we are going to Richmond to-morrow.
We are going to wade right through and past everything in a neck-
or-nothing ride, and who will come out is a question."

His wife was weeping in her private tent, and I saw that for the
first time in my acquaintance with him he was downcast. He was one
of the bravest of men, yet now a foreboding of evil oppressed him.
The result justified it, for he was captured during the raid, and
never fully rallied after the war from the physical depression
caused by his captivity. He told me that on the morrow General
Kilpatrick would lead four thousand picked cavalry men in a raid
on Richmond, having as its special object the release of our
prisoners. I rode to the headquarters of the general, who
confirmed the tidings, adding, "You need not go. Non-combatants