the sorrel from the Old Dominion. Word had gone out among
all the troopers that a race was up, and all lovers of the sport came
in groups, companies, and regiments to the place of rendezvous. Men
seemed to come from everywhere, captains, colonels, and even generals
graced the occasion with their presence. Never before in our army
had so many distinguished individuals congregated for so trivial an
occasion. There was Wheat, fat, clean shaven, and jolly, his every
feature indicating the man he was--bold as a lion, fearless, full of
life and frolic as a school boy, but who had seen war in almost every
clime under the sun. There was Turner Ashby, his eyes flashing fire
from under his shaggy eyebrows, his long black beard and flowing
locks, looking more like a brigand than one of the most daring
cavaliers of the Confederate Army. Fitzhugh Lee, too, was there, with
colonels, majors, and captains without number. Nothing seemed farther
from the horizon of these jolly men than thoughts of the triumphs of
war. Captain Mitchell's horse was more on the pony order than a racer,
but it was said by those who knew that on more occasions than one
the pony had thrown dirt into the eyes of the fastest horse in the
Crescent City, and the Louisianans were betting on him to a man. The
wiry sorrel was equally a favorite with the Virginians, while the
South Carolinians were divided between the two. After a great amount
of jockeying, usual on such occasions, judges were appointed, distance
measured, horses and riders in their places, and hundreds of men
stretched along the side of the road to witness the heated race.
No little amount of Confederate money had been put upon the race,
although it was understood to be merely a friendly one, and for
amusement only. When the drum sounded, the two horses almost leaped
into the air, and sped away like the wind, "little grey" shooting
away from her larger adversary like a bullet, and came flying down the
track like a streak, about a length ahead of the Virginia horse. The
favorites on the Louisianan rent the air with their yells, hats went
into the air, while the friends of the Virginian shouted like mad to
the rider: "Let him out, let him out." When the distance was about
half run he was "let out;" the rowels went into the side and the whip
came down upon the flanks of the thoroughly aroused racer, and the
Virginian began forging to the front, gaining at every leap. Now he is
neck and neck, spur and whi