"Hustle your prisoner along lively, men, and one of you stand over him
with a cocked gun; if he so much as opens his mouth, let him have it."

Rapidly as we moved, we were scarcely all under cover before the
advance cavalry guard came in sight, the light fringe of troopers,
dust-begrimed and weary, resting heavily in their saddles, and
apparently thoughtless as to any possibility of meeting with the enemy.
There were not more than a troop of them all told, yet their short gray
jackets and wide-brimmed light hats instantly told the story of their
service. Their rear rank was yet in sight when we heard the heavy tread
of the approaching column, together with the dull tinkle of steel which
always accompanies marching troops. Peering forth as much as I dared
from behind the thick brush where I had been roughly thrown face
downward, I saw the head of that solid, sturdy column swing around the
sharp bend in the road, and in double front, spreading from rock to
rock, come sweeping down toward us.

The command was moving forward rapidly at the rout step, that long,
easy, swinging stride so peculiar to the Southern infantry, with the
merest semblance of order in formation, which is the inevitable result
of hard, rapid marching. Every movement bespoke them veteran troops.
They were covered with dust, their faces fairly caked with it, their
uniforms almost indistinguishable; their drums silent, their colors
cased, their wide-brimmed hats pulled low over their eyes, their guns
held in any position most convenient for carrying, and with stern,
wearied faces set doggedly upon the road in their front. No pomp and
circumstance of glorious war was here, but these were fighting men.
Never before, save as I watched Pickett's charging line sweep on to
death at Gettysburg, did I feel the stern manliness of war as now.