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 in it to surrender; and when they only lashed their horses into a wilder gallop he shot two with his revolver and brought in the three others. The usually gallant and elastic Southern infantry were so stupefied by fatigue and cowed by defeat that it seemed like a flock of animals, actually taking no notice of mounted men and officers from our army, who wandered into the wide confusion of its retreat. Lieutenant Gray, Company D, First Rhode Island Artillery, galloped up to a retreating battery and ordered it to face about. “I was told to go the rear as rapidly as possible,” remonstrated the sergeant in command. “You don't seem to know who I am,” answered Gray. “I am one of those d-d Yanks. Countermarch immediately!” The battery was countermarched, and Gray was leading it off alone, when a squadron of our cavalry came up and made the capture a certainty. The victory was pushed, as Sheridan has pushed all his victories, to the utmost possible limit of success, the cavalry halting that night at Fisher's Hill, but starting again at dawn, and continuing the chase to Woodstock, sixteen miles from Middletown. It was a gay evening at our headquarters, although we were worn out with fatigue, and as chilled, starved, and shelterless as the soldiers, our tents, baggage, rations, and cooks, having all gone to Winchester. Notwithstanding these discomforts, notwithstanding the thought of slain and wounded comrades, it was delightful to talk the whole day over, even of our defeat of the morning, because we could say, “All's well that ends well.” It was laughable to think of the fugitives who had fled beyond the hearing of our victory, and who
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