The want of alertness on the part of the enemy threw our pickets off their guard.  Colonel Maffett was lounging under the shade of a tree in the rear of the skirmish line, with a few of the reserves, while those on the picket line lay at convenient distances, some with their coats off, others lying under the shade of trees or in the corners of a fence, all unconscious of an approaching enemy.  The Federals had surveyed the field, and seeing our pickets so lax, and in such bad order for defense, undertook to surprise them.  With a body of cavalry, concealed by the forest in their front, they made their way, under cover of a ravine, until within a short distance of the unsuspecting pickets.  Then, with a shout and a volley, they dashed upon the line and over it, capturing nearly all, made their way to the rear, and there captured lieutenant Colonel Maffett and many of his reserves.

Commotion struck our camp.  Drums beat, men called to arms, line of battle formed, and an advance at double-quick was made through the old field, in the direction of our unfortunate friends.  But all too late.  The surprise had been complete and the captured prisoners had been hurried to the rear.  Colonel Maffett’s horse, which was grazing near the scene of the skirmish, galloped through the enemy’s disorganized lines, some trying to head him off, others to capture him, but he galloped defiantly on to camp.  The enemy amused themselves by throwing a few shells into our lines.

The horse of Colonel Maffett was carried home by his faithful body servant, Harry, where both lived to a ripe old age.  Not so with the unfortunate master.  Reared in the lap of luxury, being an only son of a wealthy father and accustomed to all the ease and comforts that wealth and affluence could give, he could not endure the rigor and hardships of a Northern prison, his genial spirits gave way, his constitution and health fouled him, and after many months of incarceration he died of brain fever.  But through it all he bore himself like a true son of the South.  He never complained, nor was his proud spirit broken by imprisonment, but it chafed under confinement and forced obedience to prison rule and discipline.  The Confederacy lost no more patriotic, more self-sacrificing soldier than Lieutenant Colonel Robert Clayton Maffett.

On the 27th we marched to Princeton, and remained until the 31st, picketing on the Opequan River, then returned to Charlestown.  On the day before, the Third Regiment went out on the Opequan, being in hearing of the church bells and in sight of the spires of Washington.  What an anomaly!  The Federals besieging the Confederate capital, and the Confederates in sight of Washington.