Whither we were going we knew not, nor cared.  Such matters had long since ceased to excite any interest.  A cavalryman soon recognizes as the least astonishing thing in his existence the signal to “Fall in!” and start somewhere.  He feels that he is the “Poor Joe” of the Army—­under perpetual orders to “move on.”

Down we wound over the road that zig-tagged through the forts, batteries and rifle-pits covering the eastern ascent to the Flap-past the wonderful Murrell Spring—­so-called because the robber chief had killed, as he stooped to drink of its crystal waters, a rich drover, whom he was pretending to pilot through the mountains—­down to where the “Virginia road” turned off sharply to the left and entered Powell’s Valley.  The mist had become a chill, dreary rain, through, which we plodded silently, until night closed in around us some ten miles from the Gap.  As we halted to go into camp, an indignant Virginian resented the invasion of the sacred soil by firing at one of the guards moving out to his place.  The guard looked at the fellow contemptuously, as if he hated to waste powder on a man who had no better sense than to stay out in such a rain, when he could go in-doors, and the bushwhacker escaped, without even a return shot.

Fires were built, coffee made, horses rubbed, and we laid down with feet to the fire to get what sleep we could.

Before morning we were awakened by the bitter cold.  It had cleared off during the night and turned so cold that everything was frozen stiff.  This was better than the rain, at all events.  A good fire and a hot cup of coffee would make the cold quite endurable.

At daylight the bugle sounded “Right forward! fours right!” again, and the 300 of us resumed our onward plod over the rocky, cedar-crowned hills.

In the meantime, other things were taking place elsewhere.  Our esteemed friends of the Sixty-fourth Virginia, who were in camp at the little town of Jonesville, about 40 miles from the Gap, had learned of our starting up the Valley to drive them out, and they showed that warm reciprocity characteristic of the Southern soldier, by mounting and starting down the Valley to drive us out.  Nothing could be more harmonious, it will be perceived.  Barring the trifling divergence of yews as to who was to drive and who be driven, there was perfect accord in our ideas.

Our numbers were about equal.  If I were to say that they considerably outnumbered us, I would be following the universal precedent.  No soldier-high or low-ever admitted engaging an equal or inferior force of the enemy.

About 9 o’clock in the morning—­Sunday—­they rode through the streets of Jonesville on their way to give us battle.  It was here that most of the members of the Regiment lived.  Every man, woman and child in the town was related in some way to nearly every one of the soldiers.

The women turned out to wave their fathers, husbands, brothers and lovers on to victory.  The old men gathered to give parting counsel and encouragement to their sons and kindred.  The Sixty-fourth rode away to what hope told them would be a glorious victory.