They
understood
also,
however,
that
the
war
was
never going
to
be
won
by
the
aimless
sort
of
maneuverings
which had
been
going
on
during
the
last
three
weeks.
Direct
action might
not
be
so
bad
if
the
man
who
was
directing
it
knew what
he
was
doing.
As
one
man
wrote,
"We
knew
we
were there
for
other
purposes
than
a
traveling
procession,
and the
cause
had
been
for
a
long
time
a
failing
one."
12
So
here
was
Sheridan,
and
they
would
see
about
him.
The
first
things
they
saw
were
the
little
things.
When
the army
marched
Sheridan
was
always
up
near
the
front,
taking personal
charge.
If
traffic
jams
or
road
blocks
developed,
the officer
who
galloped
up
to
straighten
matters
out
was
Sheridan
himself.
Sometimes
he
stormed
and
swore,
and
sometimes,
when
others
were
excited,
he
was
controlled
and
soft-spoken;
either
way,
he
struck
sparks
and
got
action.
If
infantry
was
ordered
to
march
in
the
fields
and
woods
so
that wagons
and
guns
could
have
the
road,
Sheridan
got
off
the road
too
and
went
with
the
foot
soldiers.
Marches
went
more smoothly,
and
camp
life
ran
as
if
someone
was
in
charge again,
and
it
began
to
dawn
on
the
men
that
many
of
the pesky
little
annoyances
of
military
existence
were
disappearing.
Before
long,
VI
Corps
veterans
were
paying
Sheridan one
of
the
highest
compliments
they
knew.
Having
him
in command,
they
said,
was
almost
as
good
as
having
Uncle John
Sedgwick
back.
13
It
was
noticed,
too,
that
army
headquarters
was
managed without
fuss
and
feathers.
Headquarters
in
the
Army
of
the Potomac
had
been
elaborate
and
formal—many
tents,
much pomp
and
show,
honor
guards
in
fussy
Zouave
uniforms,
a gaudy
headquarters
flag
bearing
a
golden
eagle
in
a
silver wreath
on
a
solferino
background;
the
whole
having
caused U.
S.
Grant,
the
first
time
he
saw
it,
to
rein
in
his
horse and
inquire
if
Imperial
Caesar
lived
anywhere
near.
Sheridan made
do
with
two
tents
and
two
tent
flies,
and
he
had
no honor
guard.
Instead
he
had
a
collection
of
two-gun
scouts dressed
in
Confederate
uniforms,
who
were
probably
the toughest
daredevils
in
the
army.
There
were
perhaps
a
hundred
of
them,
the
outgrowth
of a
small
detail
originally
selected
for
special
jobs
from
the 17th
Pennsylvania
Cavalry.
They
were
a
peculiar
combination
of
intelligence
operatives,
communications
experts,
counterespionage
men,
and
sluggers.
They
spent
nearly
as
much time
within
the
Rebel
lines
as
in
their
own—they
had
"learned to
talk
the
Southern
language,"
as
one
of
them
put
it,
and they
made
themselves
familiar
with
every
regiment,
brigade, and
division
in
Early's
army—and
the
biggest
part
of
their job
was
to
keep
Sheridan
at
all
times
up
to
date
on
the enemy's
strength,
movements,
and
dispositions.
If
captured, of
course,
they
could
expect
nothing
better
than
to
be
hanged to
the
nearest
tree,
and
they
always
ran
a
fair
chance
of
being potted
by
Yankee
outposts,
since
they
did
look
like
Rebels. They
tended
to
be
an
informal
and
individualistic
lot.
14
In
part,
the
existence
of
this
group
reflected
one
of
Sheridan's
pet
ideas—that
daring
and
quick
reflexes
were
worth more
than
muscle.
Standing
by
a
campfire
with
his
staff
one evening,
Sheridan
remarked
that
the
ideal
cavalry
regiment would
consist
of
men
between
eighteen
and
twenty-two
years of
age,
none
weighing
more
than
130
pounds
and
not
one
of them
married.
Little,
wiry
men
could
stand
the
pounding better
than
the
big
husky
ones,
Sheridan
felt,
and
a
Pennsyl
vanian
who
heard
him
agreed.
He
had
noticed
that
skinny little
chaps
from
the
coal
breakers
usually
outlasted
the brawny
deer
hunters
and
bear
trappers
who
came
down
from the
mountains.
And
only
young
bachelors
were
properly reckless.
15
Even
more,
however,
these
scouts
were
the
product
of
the kind
of
war
that
was
developing
in
the
Valley.
Yankee
soldiers here
were
not
only
up
against
Early's
troops.
They
were
also up
against
guerillas,
some
of
them
Colonel
Mosby's,
some
of them
answering
to
nobody
but
themselves,
and
guerilla
warfare
was
putting
an
edge
on
the
fighting
that
had
been
seen nowhere
else
in
Virginia.