In May, 1863 the cavalry brigade of General Jenkins was transferred from the Greenbriar region of Western Virginia to the Shenandoah Valley and formed the advance of General Ewell’s corps in the Pennsylvania Campaign. After the return of our brigade to Hagerstown from the raid on Chambersburg, our regiment, commanded by Col. Wm. H. French, reported to General Early at Shepherdstown and acted under his orders and with his division from the Potomac to the Susquehanna and back to the bloody contest at Gettysburg.

Our route was by way of Waynesboro, Greenville, Gettysburg and York, to Wrightsville, some seventy-five miles from Philadelphia, if I remember correctly. The country through which we passed toward Gettysburg seemed to abound chiefly in Dutch women who could not speak English, sweet cherries, and apple butter. As we marched along the women and children would stand at the front gate with large loaves of bread and a crock of apple butter, and effectually prevent an entrance of the premises by the gray invaders. As I said before, the women could not talk much with us, but they knew how to provide "cut and smear", as the boys called it, in abundance.

The cherry crop was immense through this part of the state, and the great trees often overhung the highway laden with ripened fruit. The infantry would break off great branches and devour the cherries as they marched along. Regiments thus equipped reminded me of the scene in Macbeth, where "Birnam’s wood do come to Dunsinane."

Near Gettysburg we captured the camp and equipage of a force of Pennsylvania militia, and after an exciting chase of several miles our regiment succeeded in picking up over 300 of the "band box boys", as we called them. But few shots were fired by either side, but the yelling on our side would have done credit to a band of Comanche Indians.

The main body of the fleeing enemy kept together in the highway, but many, as they became exhausted, sought refuge in the fields, orchards, and farm buildings by the way, and many laughable incidents occurred as we gathered them in. Six were found hid among the branches of a large apple tree. One portly lieutenant, in attempting to crawl under a corn crib, had stuck fast by the head and shoulders, leaving the rest of his person exposed. Comrades Charlie Hyson and Morgan Feather had hard work to drag him out by the heels. But the most fun came when we dragged from a family bake oven a regimental officer, who, in his gold-laced uniform, was covered with soot and ashes. He was a sight to behold.

While returning from escorting a lot of prisoners to the rear, I met a large party of prisoners hurrying by, while a short distance behind them a little drummer boy was trying to keep up. He was bareheaded, wet and muddy, but he still retained his drum.

"Hello, my little Yank, where are you going?" I said.
"Oh, I am a prisoner and am going to Richmond" he replied.
"Look here" I said, "you are too little to be a prisoner; so pitch the drum into that fence corner, throw off your coat, get behind those bushes, and go home as fast as you can."
"Mister, don’t you want me for a prisoner?"
"No."
"Can I go where I please?"
"Yes."
"Then you bet I am going home to mother!"

Saying this as he threw his drum one way and his coat another, he disappeared behind a fence and some bushes, and I sincerely hope he reached home and mother.

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