leaving Moorefield, on the 30th of December, I with two orderlies rode ahead about a mile to the South Branch of the Potomac to examine the ford, as we had no pontoons, and, having crossed the river, awaited the approach of the wagon train and its guard, which was to take the advance, as no enemy was known to be in that direction. As the head of the train reached the ford Captain J. H. McNeil (whose home was near by), with about fifty of his guerilla band, attacked it by emerging from ambush on the Moorefield side of the river. A short fight ensued, during which I recrossed the river and joined in it. McNeil was driven off with little loss, but for a brief time I was in much danger of capture, at least. On this day a colored boy, an escaped slave, whom we named Andrew Jackson, joined me. He became my servant to the end of the war. He was always faithful, honest, good-natured, and brave. He was a full-blood African, and during a battle would voluntarily take a soldier's arms and fight with the advance lines. He became widely known throughout the Army of the Potomac and other armies in which I served, and was kindly treated and welcomed wherever he went. He resided after the war in Springfield, Ohio, and died there (1895) of an injury resulting from the kick of a horse. On the night of December 31, 1862, the command bivouacked on the western slope of the Alleghany Mountains in a fierce snow-storm, and early the next morning my troops led the way in the continuing storm over the summit. Shortly after the head of the column commenced the eastern descent, and when the chilling winter blasts had caused the lowest ebb of human enthusiasm to be reached, shouts were heard by me, at first indistinctly, then nearer and louder. This was so unusual and unexpected under the depressing circumstances that I ordered the column to halt until I could go back and ascertain the cause. My first impression was that a sudden attack had been made on the rear of the troops, but as the shouts came nearer I took them to be for a great victory, news of which had just arrived. When I reached the crest of the mountain I descried, through the flying snow, General Milroy riding along the line of troops and halting at intervals as though to briefly address the men. I awaited his approach, and on his arrival accosted him with the inquiry, "What is the matter, General?" He had his hat and sword in his right hand, and with the other guided his horse at a reckless gallop through the snow, his tall form, shocky white hair fluttering in the storm, and evident agitation making a figure most picturesque and striking. He pulled up his horse abruptly to answer my question. A natural impediment in his speech, affecting him most when excited, caused some delay in his first vehement utterance. He said: "_Colonel, don't you know that this is Emancipation Day, when all slaves will be made free?_" He then turned to the halted troops and again broke forth: