Into the woods we go to be met by a terrific fire. We charge and drive the foe from his breastworks, but can go no further. Heavily reinforced he advances with yells. There is a continuous roll of musketry. The Pennsylvania regiments on our right and left give ground. We are outflanked and enfiladed. Then comes the order to fall back. It must be done quickly if we would not be entirely cut off from the second line. Burdened as many of our men are by their knapsacks, and fatigued by the march, they can not run. Such is my condition. Although with only a blanket to carry, I am quite used up physically. The double-quick is beyond my powers, and with every disposition in the world to run I cannot to save my life. Suddenly, one leg refuses to move, and I fall. A call to my men is unheard, or if heard, unheeded. I try to regain my feet, but cannot. My leg seems paralyzed. Am I hit? wounded? A brother officer sees me; hears my call for assistance; and proffers aid; helps me to my feet, and I stagger along for a few paces. Meantime, we have been left far in the rear and are between two fires. The air is laden with missiles. It is madness to proceed, and so we both hug the ground. Doubtless our lives are saved by this device, but, although we had not the faintest idea then that such was the case, it involved our capture and imprisonment. “The combat deepens.” The din is awful. Line after line of Lee’s veterans surges forward; they intermingle; halt, yell, fire; then rush on like a mob. It is not until they have fairly run over us that we realize our position—that capture is inevitable. Two lines pass us unnoticed, when a squad of skirmishers who have hung on our flank come up and demand our surrender. There is no alternative, and that brand-new blade goes into the hands of a rebel sergeant whose straight, black hair runs up through a rent in his hat like a plume. We are taken to the rear amid a rain of shot from our batteries, three men helping me along and two keeping close guard over my companion. They seemed in a hurry to get out of range, and glad of the opportunity our capture afforded them of retiring with eclat from the strife. Soon we came upon Gen. Wilcox and staff nicely ensconced in a position not accessible to Yankee bullets. He questioned us, but not getting satisfactory replies, sent us still further to the rear (after his Adjutant-General had purchased my sword of the hatless sergeant), where we were placed under guard near a field hospital. Here I found, upon examination, that I was not injured, but that my inability to walk without help was due to fatigue and a slight abrasion on the hip, occasioned probably by a spent ball. We were courteously treated by our guards but could get no food, Stoneman’s raid having sadly interfered with the rebel commissariat. Next day we were taken to Spottsylvania court-house where we met nearly half of the 11th corps and learned for the first time the disaster that had befallen “Fighting Joe” Hooker. Of