Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from "True: The Man's Magazine," December 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
It was almost midnight, on January 2, 1863, and the impromptu party atthe Ratcliffe home was breaking up. The guest of honor, General J. E.B. Stuart, felt that he was overstaying his welcome—not at theRatcliffe home, where everybody was soundly Confederate, but inFairfax County, then occupied by the Union Army.
About a week before, he had come raiding up from Culpepper with astrong force of cavalry, to spend a merry Christmas in northernVirginia and give the enemy a busy if somewhat less than happy NewYear's. He had shot up outposts, run off horses from remount stations,plundered supply depots, burned stores of forage; now, beforereturning to the main Confederate Army, he had paused to visit hisfriend Laura Ratcliffe. And, of course, there had been a party. Therewas always a party when Jeb Stuart was in any one place long enough toorganize one.
They were all crowding into the hallway—the officers of Stuart'sstaff, receiving their hats and cloaks from the servants and bucklingon their weapons; the young ladies, their gay dresses showing only thefirst traces of wartime shabbiness; the matrons who chaperoned them;Stuart himself, the center of attention, with his hostess on his arm.
"It's a shame you can't stay longer, General," Laura Ratcliffe wassaying. "It's hard on us, living in conquered territory, under enemyrule."
"Well, I won't desert you entirely, Miss Ratcliffe," Stuart told her."I'm returning to Culpepper in the morning, as you know, but I mean toleave Captain Mosby behind with a few men, to look after the loyalConfederate people here until we can return in force and in victory."
Hearing his name, one of the men in gray turned, his hands raised tohook the fastening at the throat of his cloak. Just four days short ofhis thirtieth birthday, he looked even more youthful; he wasconsiderably below average height, and so slender as to give theimpression of frailness. His hair and the beard he was wearing at thetime were very light brown. He wore an officer's uniform withoutinsignia of rank, and instead of a saber he carried a pair of1860-model Colt .44's on his belt, with the butts to the front so thateither revolver could be drawn with either hand, backhand orcrossbody.
There was more than a touch of the dandy about him. The cloak he wasfastening was lined with scarlet silk and the gray cock-brimmed hatthe slave was holding for him was plumed with a squirrel tail. Atfirst glance he seemed no more than one of the many young gentlemen ofthe planter class serving in the Confederate cavalry. But then onelooked into his eyes and got the illusion of being covered by a pairof blued pistol muzzles. He had an aura of combined ruthlessness, selfconfidence, good humor and impudent audacity.
For an instant he stood looking inquiringly at the general. Then herealized what Stuart had said, and the blue eyes sparkled. This wasthe thing he had almost given up hoping for—an independent commandand a chance to operate in the enemy's rear.
In 1855, John Singleton Mosby, newly graduated from the University ofVirginia, had opened a law office at Bristol, Washington County,Virginia, and a year later he had married.
The son of a well-to-do farmer and slave-owner, his boyhood had beendevoted to outdoor sports, especially hunting, and he was accounted anexpert horseman and a dead shot, even in a society in which skill withguns and horses was taken for granted. Otherwise, the outbreak of the