THE WOMEN OF THE DEBATABLE LAND
Published in 1912. Written by
Alexander Hunter, CSA
the Black Horse Cavalry)
THE JESSIE SCOUTS
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was not a home within Mosby's Confederacy where the name of the Jessie
Scouts was not spoken with bated breath. They came and vanished; there
was a mystery about them that could not be fathomed; the crying children
were threatened into silence by them, as were the bairns of the Scottish
Lowlands hushed by their mothers telling them that Black Douglas would
catch them. They were an organized Union band from the frontier—scouts,
or rather spies, picked men, cool, fearless and utterly merciless. They
dressed up in the Confederate uniform, and operated inside our lines;
their chief aim was to kill dispatch-bearers, and send the papers to
the Federal headquarters; also do all the harm they could to the Rebels.
They were not regularly enlisted men, and examination at the War
Department shows that they were not borne on the rolls of the army,
but Mr. Staunton, Secretary of War, had a vast Secret Service fund at
his disposal, and they must have been highly paid, for the risks they
ran were so great that no ordinary men would undergo them for either
love or money.
outlaw organization was named for Jessie Fremont, the brilliant wife
of General Fremont, who commanded a detachment of U. S. Dragoons
on the frontier of the Far West in the fifties. Mrs. Fremont was
of the dashing type of woman, a splendid horsewoman, a good shot, and
often accompanied her husband on his campaigns against the Indians of
the plains. She was the idol of the troops and the backwoodsmen, and
a shining light in society in Washington in 1861 and 1862, when her husband
commanded the army in the Valley until he went down in defeat and oblivion
before Stonewall Jackson. The living survivors of Long-street's Corps,
who, in that never-to-be-forgotten forced march from Gordonsville to
Thoroughfare Gap in August, 1862, to unite with Jackson, will remember
the thrill which ran through them as they saw the body of a soldier clad
in gray, swinging from the branch of a big oak by the roadside. His face
was covered by a handkerchief, and the motionless figure swung and turned
in the passing breeze. As we filed past, not a whisper was heard in the
ranks. It was the first hanged man many of us had ever seen. After we
had passed every soldier in the line was inquiring the cause. We were
told by our officers that it was a Yankee spy who had been caught and
tried by drumhead court martial. It was a gruesome, awful sight. The
men of Long-street's Corps were veterans, and so familiar with death
that a prostrate, lifeless figure would receive only a passing glance
and no word of comment, but the sight of a man suspended between heaven
and earth deeply moved those dust-covered, foot-sore soldiers. In the
language of Holy Writ: "They looked, and they marveled greatly." It
was the body of a Jessie Scout! To state that yonder figure, swaying
on the oak tree, when animate came within an ace of destroying Lee's
Army, would be received with an ironic smile or a cynical sneer, and
the narrator accused of being a greater liar than Baron Munchhausen himself.
The idea of a nameless man disputing the conquering legions of Lee seems
not only improbable, but preposterous; and yet it is the very romance
of history, and is a historical fact.
word of explanation: After the battles around Richmond Lee sent Jackson
northward to attack Pope. The initial battle of Cedar Mountain, in Culpeper,
was fought, and the strategy of Lee was successful. The besieging army
of McClellan on the James River was hastily recalled for the defense
of Washington. Then Longstreet marched to unite with Jackson on the Rappahannock.
Lee conceived a bold stroke, but it was against all the principles of
military maxims: he cut his army in two and sent Stonewall Jackson by
a detour of more than sixty miles to get between Pope and Washington.
Like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, Pope found his communications cut
off, his base of supplies in the air, and his commissariat in flames.
Yes, there was a big blaze at Manassas that August day; trains of cars
loaded with provisions, hundreds of wagons jammed with supplies for the
army, depots crammed with ordnance stores, corrals of beef-cattle, and
better than all in Johnny Reb's eyes was the sutler town. Such a collection
of tents, shanties and stores was never seen outside the frontier. These
sutler-shops were filled with the delicacies of life, and it was a sight
indeed to see the gaunt, hungry foot-cavalry of Jackson's knocking
off the heads of the champagne bottles and eating canned fruits; they
satisfied aching stomachs that had been void for many a long day. In
Messinger's play of "A New Way to Pay Old Debts," Justice
Greedy exclaims: "Guts, croak no more, for you shall be filled." And
so it was with those famished gray-backs. Think of the thousands of starving
Rebs, whose regular rations were hardtack and rancid pork, filling up
on potted meat and champagne I
faced his army right about, and hurried to crush Jackson's isolated command.
If there ever was a time when minutes were precious, that was the time.
Jackson found that the combined armies of McClellan and Pope were closing
in on his front and on his right and left flanks. Then Jackson performed
a piece of strategy unique in the annals of war: he split his corps in
two parts, and planted A. P. Hill in the center of the enemy's line.
Pope seeing this, consolidated his whole command and telegraphed to Halleck
that "he would bag Jackson and his whole crowd." Jackson then
made a forced march to the right, reached Centerville, and finding
the left flank of the Union Army drawn in, ordered Hill to leave his
campfires burning and slip off in the night and join him at Grovetown.
The next morning Pope, having made his dispositions, hurled his whole
force at the Rebel Army in his rear, and found—nothing. This caused
Pope to make a new plan of battle, and this proved of infinite value
to Jackson's men, giving his broken-down soldiers six hours of sleep.
At Grovetown, near Thoroughfare Gap, Jackson's Corps of 17,300 men
awaited the onset of Pope's Army of 55,600 rank and file. The odds were
hopeless. Jackson had only a limited supply of ammunition,
and that gone, surrender was inevitable. Napoleon never prayed for
Grouchy's advance guard as did Jackson for the sight of Longstreet's
skirmish line. A high mountain separated him from his promised succor,
with only one narrow gap where a thousand men could hold an army at bay.
If this gap was seized by Pope, Jackson's doom was written.
the meantime, Longstreet made the greatest forced march of his life to
reach the gap and join his forces to Jackson's. The fate of the campaign
hung upon a few hours—it might be minutes. Jackson, at bay at Grovetown,
had successfully repulsed one great assault of Pope's, but he had fought
to the limit and could do no more than lie in line of battle and struggle
on until the last shell of the artillery and the last ball cartridge
of the infantry had been expended.
whether Pope had bargained with the Jessie Scouts to delay Longstreet's
advance will never be known. There was some prominent soldier in the
plot who had thoroughly coached the spy, and the scheme, desperate as
it seemed, missed success by the turning of a hair.
John Cussons of Glen Allen, Va., was, at that time, captain of the Confederate
Scouts, and wrote down word for word that scene in the mighty war drama
of which he was the witness. He vividly describes the occurrence in a
little pamphlet. This is Cusson's narrative:
way I General Hood," said the guide, gracefully saluting and
pointing northward as the head of Longstreet's column swung towards the
cast. The guide, well-mounted and wearing the uniform of a Confederate
cavalryman, was at the forks of the road near the village of White Plains,
in Fauquier County, Va.
road which General Hood was taking leads to Thoroughfare Gap in Bull
Run Mountain, and is the only practicable approach to the field of Manassas
where Stonewall Jackson was then struggling with the army of General
halted his column and closely questioned the guide, feeling certain that
he was in error; and yet it would seem that the guide must be right;
he was intelligent, confident, definite, certain of his instructions,
and prompt and clear in his replies. He was a handsome young fellow,
with bold, frank eyes and a pleasant voice, and the precision of his
statements gave weight to his words. The situation was critical; no exigency
of war could be more so; it was not merely the issue of a battle, but
the fate of a campaign which hung in the balance!
time was 10 A. M., August 28, 1862.
General Jackson give you these instructions?" asked General Hood.
four hours ago; I left soon after sunrise." "What route did
of the mountain, General, by way of Gum Springs; there is no other road."
you know where Stuart is?"
saw most of his command this morning; he is pushing, with his main body,
for Sudley, to cover Jackson's rear. The brigade has gone north
to guard the trains on the Aldie road."
on the Aldie road!" exclaimed Hood; "what trains are you talking
Jackson's trains, General; he is pushing them towards Aldie, where I
supposed you would join him."
have heard nothing of all this," said the General.
I'll tell you what it is, General Hood; those devilish Jessie Scouts
are at it again—cutting off Stuart's couriers. Jackson has heard
nothing from Longstreet since yesterday morning, and he's afraid you'll
follow the old order and try to join him by Thoroughfare Gap."
is Jackson?" asked General Hood.
left him a little south of Sudley Springs, on the high ground commanding
is he doing?"
his lines, General. You see Porter turned our right at Grovetown last
night, and McDowell took Thoroughfare Gap, and Pickett was sent
to attack Buford's cavalry, who had seized the pass at Hopewell; at least
that's what Stuart's scouts told me."
say Jackson's left is at Sudley Springs?"
General Hood; I intended to say that his left was near Sudley Springs,
about a half-mile south. Kearney and Hooker attacked there in column
last night, doubling us up, and the enemy now holds both the road and
that would make Jackson's position untenable."
General, that's the reason he's falling back. They say McClellan has
abandoned the James, and now covers Washington, and that Burnside has
arrived from the coast. Within twenty-four hours—the way they figure
it—Pope will have over a hundred thousand men. When I left there
at sunrise Jed Hotchkiss had all the pioneers out; he was cutting roads
and clearing fords, and bridging Catharpin Run, for that's the only way
did you learn all these things?" asked General Hood, and there
was a note of severity in his voice.
them from the atmosphere, I suppose," answered the guide rather
and what are you?" demanded General Hood, who was perplexed and
anxious, yet scarcely suspicious of treachery, the guide was so bland
and free and unconstrained.
am Frank Lamar of Athens, Georgia, enrolled with the cavalry of Hampton's
Legion, but now detailed on courier service at the headquarters
of Stonewall Jackson."
captured a handsome pistol from a Yankee officer at Port Republic, and
have discarded my sabre."
me see your pistol." It was a very fine silver-mounted Colt's revolver;
one chamber was empty.
did you fire that shot?”
morning, General Hood; J shot a turkey-buzzard sitting on the fence."
Hood handed the pistol to Captain Cussons, commander of scouts. Cussons
scrutinized the pistol, and the guide scrutinized Captain Cussons. As
the Captain drew General Hood's attention to the fact that the powder
was still moist, showing that the pistol had been recently fired, the
guide interposed, saying that he had reloaded after yesterday's practice,
and had fired the shot in question at another buzzard just before the
column came in sight, but that he didn't suppose General Hood would be
interested in such a matter.
guide was mistaken. General Hood was decidedly interested in the
matter! Guides do not practice marksmanship when on duty between
that man!" exclaimed General Hood, impatiently; for the General
was baffled and still uncertain. All his life had been passed in
active service, yet this was a new experience to him.
search revealed strange things. In the guide's haversack were little
packages of prepared coffee and blocks of condensed soup and good store
of hardtack, which facts the guide pleasantly dismissed with the remark: "It's
a poor sort of Reb that can't forage on the enemy."
next discovery had a deeper meaning. In the lining of his vest were found
the insignia of a Confederate captain, the three gold bars being
secured to a base which had a thin strip of flexible steel running lengthwise
through it and slightly projecting at the ends. Further search revealed
minute openings in the collar of his jacket, and into those openings
the device was readily slipped and firmly held.
is the meaning of that?" asked General Hood, sternly.
was an air of boyish diffidence and a touch of reproach in the young
man's reply. Its demure humor was half playful, yet modest and natural,
and its effect on the spectators was mainly ingratiating.
General Hood," he said, "you ask me such embarrassing questions.
But I will tell you. It was just this way. Our girls, God bless them,
are as devoted and patriotic as can be, but you couldn't imagine
the difference they make between a commissioned officer and a private
as the guide was, the General could not read him. He might be an honest
youth whose callow loquacity sprung from no worse a source than that
of inexperience and undisciplined zeal, or he might be one of the most
daring spies that ever hid supernal subtlety beneath the mask of guileness.
the precious moments were slipping by 1 —the fateful moments; moments
on which hung the tide of war; the fortunes of a great campaign; the
doom perhaps of a new-born nation.
there at the parting of the ways sat our boyish guide—frank, communicative,
well-informed—leaning on the pommel of his saddle with the negligent
grace of youth and replying with perfect good humor to all our questioning.
had every reason to believe that Stonewall Jackson at that moment
was beset by overwhelming numbers, and nothing seemed to us more
likely than that the enemy would attempt to cut off our approach by the
seizure of Thoroughfare Gap. If Jackson's left flank was really at Sudley
Springs, and his right at Grove-town, his right would be "in the
air," and a movement to turn it would virtually support an occupancy
of the mountain passes. This would naturally drive Jackson northward,
toward Aldie, as our guide had stated.
whole situation was perilous in the extreme, and our doubts were agonizing.
If the Federals occupied the pass at Thoroughfare they could easily hold
it against our assault, and if Jackson should attempt to join us there,
they could destroy him. On the other
if Jackson had really retreated toward Aldie we must at once change our
course and join him by a forced march northward, and to do that would
be not merely to abandon the campaign as planned, but also to relinquish
to the enemy the short line and the open way to Richmond!
his first moment of misgiving General Hood had taken measures to verify
or discredit the guide's story. Swift reconnaissance was made in each
direction, but the roads were ambushed by Jessie Scouts and infested
with detachments of Buford's cavalry. Priceless moments were thus lost,
and although we felt that Stonewall must be sore beset, yet we could
not guess which road would take us to his battle or lead us away from
diligent questioning went on by staff officers and couriers, the
benefit of every doubt being freely accorded, for many of us believed,
almost to the last, that the guide was a true man.
General Hood first halted his column a number of troops had strayed
into the fields and woods to pick berries, and it was afterwards remembered
that the guide's attention seemed to follow the soldiers, especially
such of them as wandered toward a certain thicket near the edge of the
forest. We were soon to learn the meaning of this, for in that thicket
a frightful secret was hidden—a secret which, if discovered, would
doom that guide to a shameful death—a death of infamy—of
nameless horror, his sepulchre the gibbet, his unburied flesh a loathsome
meal for those evil birds which banquet on the dead. Was there some pre-vision
of this in that swift glance which he cast toward the open country as
he half turned in his saddle and took a firmer grasp on the reins? There
were those among us who thought so afterwards. Yet he must have known
that escape by flight was impossible.
a moment, however, the startled gesture was gone, and there was again
about him that same air of negligent repose, that same tranquility
of spirit which was
enhanced rather than impaired by the amused and half scornful smile
with which he regarded the scrutiny of those around him.
we thus observed him, there was a sudden commotion among the troops.
Soldiers with grave faces, and some with flashing eyes, were hurrying
from the eastward road. They had found a dying man, a Confederate dispatch-bearer,
who had been dragged into the bushes and evidently left for dead. He
had gasped out a few broken words, managing to say that his dispatches
had been taken—torn from his breast pocket; and that he had been "shot
by one of our own men!"
situation now was plain enough! That pretended Southern guide
was in reality a Northern spy! He had taken his life in his hand and
boldly flung it into the scale of war. The chances against him were infinite,
yet so superb was his courage, so sedate his daring, that but for those
unconsidered mishaps he would have won his perilous way; he would have
blasted, at its fruition, the matchless strategy of Lee ; he would smilingly
have beckoned that magnificent army to its doom! Never, perhaps, in all
the tide of time did consequences so vast pivot upon incidents so trivial.
Had General Hood followed the spy and turned to the left, a certain trend
of events would have been inevitable. Stonewall's beleaguered detachment
would have perished; Longstreet's corps would have lost its base; Richmond
would have fallen; John Pope would have been the nation's hero; the seat
of war would have drifted toward the Gulf States, and the great tides
of American history would have flowed along other courses.
Hood drew his brigadiers aside. The guide, or rather the spy, glanced
toward them, but remained unshaken; there was a certain placid fortitude
in his manner which seemed incompatible with ruthless deeds; there was
something of devotion in it, and self-sacrifice, relieved, indeed, by
just a touch of bravado, but without a trace of fear. None knew
better than he that that group of stern-faced men was a drumhead court,
and none knew better what the award of that court would be; he had played
boldly for a mighty stake. He had lost, and was ready for the penalty!
was a strip of forest where the roads forked, and among the trees was
a large post oak with spreading branches.
General Hood pointed to the tree, saying, that any of its limbs
would do. A Texas soldier remarked that there was no better scaffold
than the back of a horse, and the spy, approving the suggestion, sprang
lightly up and stood on the saddle. Half a dozen men were soon busy in
the tree, fastening a bridle-rein at one end and adjusting a loop at
the other. As they slipped the noose over his head the spy raised his
exclaimed, "I have three words more for you. I am neither Frank
Lamar of Georgia, nor Harry Brooks of Virginia. I am Jack Sterry of the
Jessie Scouts. I did not kill that rebel, but I was with those that did.
His dispatches by this time are safe enough! I should like my comrades
to know that I palavered with your army for a good half-hour, while General
Pope was battering down your precious old Stonewall. Now, men, I am ready!—and
in parting I will simply ask you to say, if you ever should speak of
this, that Jack Sterry, when the Rebels got him, died as a Jessie Scout
should!" He folded his arms, and his horse was led from beneath
his feet. General Hood turned aside, and, in subdued voice, gave the
order of march, and the column moved on.
writhing figure swung for a little while in the soft morning air, and
was still, and there had gone forth to the God who gave it as dauntless
a spirit as ever throbbed in mortal clay.
distinguished and widely known Confederate surgeon, Dr. B. F. Ward of
Winona, Miss., writes in a Jackson (Miss.) paper that he had read Cussons'
account of the hanging of the spy, and said:
know it to be literally true, because I was present and witnessed the
execution of Jack Sterry, who had baffled General Hood, and told him
that the Federal General McDowell had possession of Thoroughfare Gap,
and General Stonewall Jackson had sent him to join him at Gum Spring
by taking the left-hand road, but Hood was too old a soldier to be caught."
Ward was captured and made friends with a Federal surgeon, and further
says: "Through his intercession I was given the liberty of
the city without any restraint except my promise to return to headquarters
at night. This explains why I was walking about the city without a guard.
One day I was strolling aimlessly along Broadway, cautious not to
get off very far for fear I might be lost, when a man stepped in front
of me, bowed gracefully, and said 'Good morning!' He was at least six
feet in stature and would have weighed 18o pounds; he was very erect,
with square shoulders, and the carriage of a trained soldier. He was
elegantly dressed, his hair black, his eyes large, dark and penetrating,
while a heavy black moustache drooped gracefully around the corners of
his mouth. His lower jaw was rather broad and firmly set, and as he showed
his white teeth and smiled at me, he seemed to say, 'Now I have you.'
I was uncomfortable; he saw it, and was evidently amused. He said, 'I
think I know you.' I replied, 'No, sir; you do not, and I certainly do
not know you.' He said, 'Yes, I met you once.' I asked where? He said,
Two years ago I took dinner with you in Strasburg, at the house of a
widow lady, Mrs. Eberle; you had three friends with you. While you were
at dinner two cavalrymen came in and took seats at the table. I sat directly
in front of you on the opposite side of the table, and my companion
sat next to you on your right. You asked me what cavalry we belonged
to, and I told you Ashby's command. You then asked me a number of questions
about Ashby, where he was, the size of his command, etc.' Then looking
me straight in the eyes, he said in a low, measured, somewhat incisive
tone, 'My friend who sat on your right was hung by your people.' The
announcement went through me like a dagger of ice. I not only remembered
the two cavalrymen, in their bright, new unsoiled uniforms, and the conversation,
but I vividly recalled the features of the man who stood before me, and
I realized with a shiver that the handsome young fellow who sat by my
side at dinner was none other than the dashing and fearless Jack Sterry,
whom I had seen hanged at White Plains."
Cussons continues his narrative. He says:
August 31, 1862, I fell into the hands of the enemy at Bull Run, and
while my captors rested at a spring by the roadside a squadron of Federal
cavalry rode up. They were as gay-looking a lot of dare-devils as I ever
beheld, but what struck me even more than the dashing recklessness of
the troopers was the splendid quality of the horses they rode; many
of the animals appeared to be thoroughbred; all were superb. There were
perhaps a score of these troopers, and as they drew rein around the spring
their bugler sounded 'Peas on trencher,' and in an instant—as by
a stroke of magic —their whole appearance changed! the troop of
Union cavalry had vanished, and there in its place was as jolly a group
of rebels as ever sang 'Jine the Cavalry' for the delectation of that
prince of cavaliers, the gallant and mirth-loving Jeb Stuart. This sudden
and complete transformation was achieved by their simply flinging off
their butternut-lined blue overcoats and disclosing the rebel gray beneath.
All other clothing was practically common to the troopers of either
side. Both Federal and Confederate horsemen wore a service-stained sombrero,
and each had his dusty trousers stuck in his still dustier boots, so
that by merely pulling on or throwing off his blue overcoat he could
in an instant be either a Northern or Southern soldier.
organization had rather the freedom of a hunting party than the disciplined
regularity of war, so that it was not easy to mark their leader. But
one of them, apparently in command, presently threw himself on the wet
grass and asked in a free yet courteous way what rank I held in Secessia,
for I was in scouting dress. This led to an exchange of badinage which
provoked plenty of laughter and a fair share of soldierly good feeling.
Then came a pause, and looking steadily into my eyes he distinctly called
me by my Indian name. Yet why did I not know him? That seemed so strange.
He was familiar with Albert Sydney Johnson's Utah march in 1857, yet
he had never met the general and knew no member of his staff. He recounted
Summers' exploit with the Sioux at Ash Hollow, yet did not know Rubadeau
or Big Phil or Louis Provo. He recounted particulars of the killing of
Mat-tpne Io-wa on North Platte, and the swift vengeance of the Dakotahs;
yet he knew no member of the Laramie garrison. He was quite familiar
with life on the plains during the fifties, and though I probably knew
and was known by every hunter and trapper and ranchman between the Sweetwater
and Fort Bridges, yet I could in no way identify this mysterious plainsman.
Finally the conviction settled in my mind that he had belonged to
the robber band of Vasquez—a crew of bandits and cattle thieves
whose caches extended from the Wild River Mountains to New Mexico,
and who were known only by the dark trail of their remorseless deeds.
For years that little band of robbers—some thirty in number—had
been pursued with unrelenting zeal by the army of the United States,
but it was like a combat between a prize ox and a gadfly. The robbers
had their supplies secreted at short intervals throughout a vast and
unpeopled region, and the Government troops could neither surround,
nor starve, nor snow-blockade, nor trail them. The little band could
cover a hundred miles without making a fire or leaving a sign; they could
scatter in pairs and assemble at will wherever they would. The birds
of the air were not more free.
the horsemanship of those Jessie Scouts was so noticeable. Most of them
wore the Mexican spur and carried a buckskin lariat. Their scat was snug
with the knee grip of the buffalo hunter, and many of their saddles had
the double girth and threaded cinch seen only on the plains. As a matter
of fact these Jessie Scouts were not scouts at all, but spies—spies
who wore our uniform, impersonated guides, and slew our dispatch bearers
without mercy. And yet the daring fellows were not common criminals.
They had standards of their own—an esprit de corps and point of
honor which were absolute. They were immeasurably more dangerous than
mere law-breakers, for they were adventurous and brave, and though doubtless
they led evil lives, yet they could die well."
have given much space to the Jessie Scouts for the reason that they turned
their attention to Mosby's Confederacy, and they would have been
a deadly menace to the partisans, for they could call to their aid any
detachment of Bluecoats nearest them. Their design was to mix with the
people as far as they could without detection, and find out when and
where the partisans would strike, and then warn the Federals so that
they would be ready for them. Then again, they would mark the houses
where the scouts made their headquarters, and send the Bluecoats
on a night-raid and gobble them up. Doubtless, they had high hopes of
cleaning out Mosby's Confederacy, and their schemes might have worked
had it not been for the women. The Jessies tried again and again to pose
as Confederate cavalrymen at the different homes they visited, but
in vain; no matter how perfect they were in details relating to Mosby's
battalion, no matter how they accounted for their presence, they
could not deceive the maids and matrons. One thing, their accent betrayed
them; again, it was their make-up, and a certain indescribable difference
that caused the women to stamp them as spies. Once the natives' suspicion
was aroused they became as close as clams, and would refuse in most instances
to give them anything to eat. As soon as the people learned of the Jessie
Scouts, they became exceedingly circumspect, and they would far
prefer to see a squad of Bluecoats ride up to the door than have a couple
of spurious Graybacks enter the house. When two Confederate cavalrymen,
unknown to each other, met, explanations and proof were required at pistol
point, and to refuse to answer was to meet death.
times in one day, when going along the road from Orleans to Salem, I
was halted by Mosby's men, and not knowing who they were I watched them
with a cocked pistol in my hand, while they read my transfer to the Black
tells in his book of meeting a party of Jessie Scouts. He states:
the evening of the 13th, on the turnpike, we saw a detachment of cavalry
dressed in gray. We viewed them with suspicion for some time, and finally
Colonel Mosby ordered Lieutenant Grogan to take a few scouts and meet
them. Discovering them to be Jessie Scouts Grogan called out: 'Come on
boys, we will ride over them.' But the Jessies did not wait; they broke
and ran, leaving one dead and one prisoner."