Mounting, I rode at a gallop. That was the only gait which Stuart tolerated, except in going _away_ from the enemy. As I rode out of camp I heard “Boots and Saddles” sounded from all the bugles of all the regiments. I knew then that “something was up.” “Boots and Saddles” always meant something when Stuart gave the order. When I dismounted at headquarters, Stuart himself was waiting, although it was three o’clock in the morning. His plume and golden spurs gleamed through the dark. “Tell me quick!” was all he had to say. I answered sententiously: “Three rockets went up: red to right, white to left, and blue in the middle.” “You mean _our_ right and left, or the enemy’s?” he asked eagerly. “Ours,” I answered. He turned quickly and gave hurried orders to staff-officers, orderlies, and couriers. Then turning to me, he said: “_You ride with me._” I appreciated the attention. Five minutes later a great column of cavalrymen were riding at a gallop towards the front. And just as daylight dawned we broke into a charge upon a heavy force of the enemy. The hostile force was slowly advancing, not expecting us, and we struck it in flank, taking it completely by surprise. The demoralization of the Manassas, or Bull Run panic had not even yet gone out of the Northern troops. We made short work of their advance and sent them quickly into disorderly retreat. One of Stuart’s couriers was killed in the charge. I remember, because he rode beside me, and his head fell clean from his body, and the sight sickened me, so that I fought harder for the minute than I thought I could. As the enemy broke, Stuart stopped his horse, slapped his thigh, and turning to me laughing, and with that indifference to rank which always characterized him under excitement, exclaimed: “They haven’t got over it yet, have they?” The Manassas panic always did impress Stuart as an irresistible joke. A moment later he said: “I’m glad you reported those rockets. Always report whatever you see. Even a shooting star may mean something at headquarters.” But I have never ceased to wonder why we guards that night had no orders to look out for red, white, and blue rockets, since they meant so much. If they had not been reported by a tired and lonely sentinel, we should have been run over in our tents by a force of ten thousand men. A celebrated writer says: “War is a hazard of possibilities, probabilities, luck, and ill luck.” It was luck that night that a sentry was tired of singing “Juanita” under his breath. SCRUGGS Scruggs lived throughout the war in that debatable land between the lines in Northern Virginia, where it was always a wonder that anybody could live at all. And Scruggs lived well, too. He was not able to work, because in order to keep out of the army he had found or feigned a physical disability of some kind.