“Charge, and cut them down!” shouted Stuart, his drawn sword flashing as he forced his horse over fallen trees and the debris of the great deserted camp. A fine spectacle followed. As the Federal infantry double-quicked up a slope, Baylor charged. As his men darted upon them, they suddenly halted, came to a front-face, and the long line of gun-barrels fell, as though they were parts of some glittering war-machine. The muzzles spouted flame, and the cavalry received the fire at thirty yards. It seemed to check them, but it did not. They had come to an impassable ditch. In another moment, the infantry broke, every man for himself, and making a detour, the cavalry pursued, and captured large numbers. For the second time Stuart had charged infantry and broken them. Pushing on now through the great deserted camps of Stonehouse Mountain, he descended upon Culpeper. The enemy’s cavalry retreated, made a stand on the hills beyond, with their artillery; and seemed to have resolved to retreat no farther. Suddenly the thunder of artillery came up from the Rapidan. I was sitting my horse near Stuart and Gordon. They were both laughing--indeed, Stuart seemed laughing throughout the campaign. “That is Fitz Lee!” he said; “he has crossed and driven them.” And turning round,-- “I wish you would go to General Lee, Surry--you will find him toward Griffinsburg--and tell him we are driving the enemy, and Fitz Lee seems to be coming up.” I saluted, and left the two generals laughing as before. In half an hour I had found General Lee. He was in camp on the Sperryville road, and was talking to Ewell. It was a singular contrast. Lee, robust, ruddy, erect, with his large frank eye--Ewell, slight, emaciated, pale, with small piercing eyes, and limping on his crutch. “Thank you, colonel,” General Lee said, with his grave but charming courtesy; “tell General Stuart to continue to press them back toward the river.” And turning to Ewell:-- “You had better move on with your command, general,” he said, in his measured voice. Ewell bowed and turned to obey--I returned to Stuart. He was pushing the Federal cavalry “from pillar to post.” Driven back from the hill, where they had planted their artillery, they had retreated on Brandy; Stuart had followed like a fate; Gordon, sent round to the left, struck their right flank with his old sabreurs; Fitz Lee, coming up on the right, thundered down on their left--and in the woods around Brandy took place one of those cavalry combats which, as my friends, the novelists say, “must be seen to be appreciated!” If the reader will imagine, in the dusk of evening, a grand hurly-burly made up of smoke, dust, blood, yells, clashing swords, banging carbines, thundering cannon, and wild cheers, he will have a faint idea of that “little affair” at Brandy. A queer circumstance made this fight irresistibly comic.