On we rode, night and day, with the briefest possible halts.  At one point we nearly captured a railroad train, and might easily have succeeded had not the station and warehouses been in flames.  As it was, the train approached us closely, then backed, the shrieking engine itself giving the impression of being startled to the last degree.

On a dreary, drizzling, foggy day we passed a milestone on which was lettered, “Four miles to Richmond.”  It was still “on to Richmond” with us what seemed a long way further, and then came a considerable period of hesitancy, in which the command was drawn up for the final dash.  The enemy shelled a field near us vigorously, but fortunately, or unfortunately, the fog was so dense that neither party could make accurate observations or do much execution.

For reasons that have passed into history, the attack was not made.  We withdrew six miles from the city and went into camp.

I had scarcely begun to enjoy much-needed rest before the Confederates came up in the darkness and shelled us out of such quarters as we had found.  We had to leave our boiling coffee behind us—­one of the greatest hardships I have ever known.  Then followed a long night-ride down the Peninsula, in driving sleet and rain.

The next morning the sun broke out gloriously, warming and drying our chilled, wet forms.  Nearly all that day we maintained a line of battle confronting the pursuing enemy.  One brigade would take a defensive position, while the other would march about five miles to a commanding point, where it in turn would form a line.  The first brigade would then give way, pass through the second, and take position well to the rear.  Thus, although retreating, we were always ready to fight.  At one point the enemy pressed us closely, and I saw a magnificent cavalry charge down a gentle descent in the road.  Every sabre seemed tipped with fire in the brilliant sunshine.

In the afternoon it became evident that there was a body of troops before us.  Who or what they were was at first unknown, and for a time the impression prevailed that we should have to cut our way through by a headlong charge.  We soon learned, however, that the force was a brigade of colored infantry, sent up to cover our retreat.  It was the first time we had seen negro troops, but as the long line of glistening bayonets and light-blue uniforms came into view, prejudices, if any there were, vanished at once, and a cheer from the begrimed troopers rang down our line, waking the echoes.  It was a pleasant thing to march past that array of faces, friendly though black, and know we were safe.  They represented the F.F.V.’s of Old Virginia, we then wished to see.  On the last day of the march my horse gave out, compelling me to walk and lead him.