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Title: Mohun, or, The Last Days of Lee

Author: John Esten Cooke

Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8424]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on July 9, 2003]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOHUN, OR, THE LAST DAYS OF LEE ***




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MOHUN

OR,

THE LAST DAYS OF LEE AND HIS PALADINS.



FINAL MEMOIRS

OF A

STAFF OFFICER SERVING IN VIRGINIA.

FROM THE MSS. OF

COLONEL SURRY, OF EAGLE'S NEST.



BY

JOHN ESTEN COOKE

AUTHOR OF "SURRY OF EAGLE'S NEST."



_Nec aspera terrent._




PROLOGUE.


On the wall over the mantel-piece, here in my quiet study at
Eagle's-Nest, are two crossed swords. One is a battered old sabre worn
at Gettysburg, and Appomattox; the other, a Federal officer's dress
sword captured in 1863.

It was a mere fancy to place them there, as it was a whim to hang upon
that nail yonder, the uniform coat with its stars and braid, which
Stuart wore on his famous ride around McClellan in 1862. Under the
swords hang portraits of Lee, Jackson, and Stuart. Jackson wears his
old coat, and his brow is raised as though he were looking out from
beneath his yellow old cadet cap. Stuart is seated, grasping his sabre,
with his plumed hat resting on his knee. His huge beard flows on his
breast, his eyes are clear and penetrating, and beneath the picture I
have placed a slip cut from one of his letters to me, and containing
the words, "Yours to count on, J.E.B. Stuart." Lastly, the gray
commander-in-chief looks with a grave smile over his shoulder, the eyes
fixed upon that excellent engraving of the "Good Old Rebel," a private
of the Army of Northern Virginia, seated on a log, after the war, and
reflecting with knit brows on the past and the present.

From this sketch of my surroundings, worthy reader, you will perceive,
that I amuse myself by recalling the old times when the Grays and Blues
were opposed to each other. Those two swords crossed--those pictures of
Lee, Jackson, Stuart, and the "Old Rebel"--you are certain to think
that the possessor of them is unreconstructed (terrible word!) and
still a rebel!

But is it wrong to remember the past? I think of it without bitterness.
God decreed it--God the all-wise, the all-merciful--for his own
purpose. I do not indulge any repinings, or reflect with rancor upon
the issue of the struggle. I prefer recalling the stirring adventure,
the brave voices, the gallant faces: even in that tremendous drama of
1864-5, I can find something besides blood and tears: even here and
there some sunshine!

In this last series of my memoirs I shall deal chiefly with that
immense campaign. In the first series which, I trust the reader of
these pages will have perused, I followed Jackson through his hard
battles to the fatal field of Chancellorsville. In this volume I shall
beg the reader first to go with Stuart from the great review of his
cavalry, in June, 1863, to the dark morning of May 11, 1864, at Yellow
Tavern. Then the last days will follow.

I open the drama with that fine cavalry review in June, 1863, on the
Plains of Culpeper.

It is a pleasure to return to it--for Gettysburg blackened the sunshine
soon. The column thundered by; the gay bugles rang; the great
banner floated. Where is that pageant to-day? Where the old moons of
Villon? Alas! the strong hours work their will. June, 1863, is long
dead. The cavalry horses, if they came back from the wars, are
ploughing. The rusty sabres stick fast in the battered old scabbards.
The old saddles are shabby--and our friends take them away from us. The
old buttons are tarnished, and an order forbids our wearing them. The
brass bands clash no more; and the bugles are silent. Where are the
drums and the bugles? Do they beat the long roll at the approach of
phantom foes, or sound the cavalry charge in another world? They are
silent to-day, and have long disappeared; but I think I hear them still
in my dreams!

It is in June, 1863, therefore, worthy reader, that I open my volume.
Up to that time I had gone with Jackson's "foot cavalry," marching
slowly and steadily to battle. Now, I was to follow the gay and
adventurous career of the Virginia Rupert--Stuart, the Knight of the
Black Plume! If you are willing to accompany me, I promise to show you
some animated scenes. You will hear Stuart laugh as he leads the
charge, or jest with his staff, or sing his gay cavalry songs. But,
alas! we shall not go far with him; and when he leaves us a sort of
shadow will fall upon the landscape. From that May, 1864, laughter will
seldom be heard. The light which shines on the great picture will be
red and baleful. Blood will gush on desperate fields--men will fall
like dry leaves in the winds of autumn.

The crimson torrent will sweep away a whole generation almost--and the
Red Cross flag will go down in blood.

The current of events will drag us to Petersburg, and those last months
which witnessed the final wrestle in this war of the giants.

Let us bask in the sunshine, before breasting the storm. The pages of
blood and mourning will soon be opened--meanwhile we will laugh.

In this June, 1863, faces smile still, and cheers resound. Bugles are
ringing, swords clashing, cannon thundering.

Lee's old army is full of ardor, and seventy thousand men shout!
"Pennsylvania! Pennsylvania!"




MOHUN;

OR,

THE LAST DAYS OF LEE AND HIS PALADINS.



BOOK I.


GETTYSBURG.




I.


THE CAVALRY REVIEW.


On a beautiful day of June, 1863, the plains of Culpeper, in Virginia,
were the scene of an imposing pageant.

Stuart's cavalry was passing in review before Lee, who was about to
commence his march toward Gettysburg.

Those of my readers who were fortunate enough to be present, will not
forget that scene. They will remember the martial form of Stuart at the
head of his _sabreurs_; how the columns of horsemen thundered by the
great flag; how the multitude cheered, brightest eyes shone, the merry
bands clashed, the gay bugles rang; how the horse artillery roared as
it was charged in mimic battle--while Lee, the gray old soldier, with
serene carriage, sat his horse and looked on.

Never had the fields of Culpeper witnessed a spectacle more
magnificent. The sunshine darted in lightnings from the long line of
sabres, lit up beautiful faces, and flashed from scarfs, and waving
handkerchiefs, rosy cheeks, and glossy ringlets. All was life, and joy,
and splendor. For once war seemed turned to carnival; and flowers
wreathed the keen edge of the sword.

Among the illustrious figures gazed at by the crowd, two were the
observed of all the observers--those of Lee and Stuart.

Lee sat his powerful horse, with its plain soldierly equipments,
beneath the large flag. He was clad in a gray uniform, almost without
mark of rank. Cavalry boots reached nearly to his knees; as usual he
wore no sword; over his broad brow drooped a plain brown felt hat,
without tassel or decoration. Beneath, you saw a pair of frank and
benignant, but penetrating eyes, ruddy cheeks, and an iron gray
mustache and beard, both cut close. In the poise of the stately head,
as in the whole carriage of his person, there was something calm,
august and imposing. This man, it was plain, was not only great, but
good;--the true type of the race of gentlemen of other times.

Stuart, the chief of cavalry of the army, was altogether different in
appearance. Young, ardent, full of life and abandon, he was the true
reproduction of Rupert, said to be his ancestor. The dark cavalry
feather; the lofty forehead, and dazzling blue eyes; his little
"fighting jacket," as he called it, bright with braid and buttons, made
a picture. His boots reached to the knee; a yellow silk sash was about
his waist; his spurs, of solid gold, were the present of some ladies of
Maryland; and with saber at tierce point, extended over his horse's
head, he led the charge with his staff, in front of the column, and
laughing, as though the notes of the bugle drove him forward.

In every movement of that stalwart figure, as in the glance of the blue
eyes, and the laughter curling the huge mustache, could be read youth
and joy, and a courage which nothing could bend. He was called a "boy"
by some, as Coriolanus was before him. But his Federal adversaries did
not laugh at him; they had felt his blows too often. Nor did the
soldiers of the army. He had breasted bullets in front of infantry, as
well as the sabre in front of cavalry. The civilians might laugh at
him--the old soldiers found no fault in him for humming his songs in
battle. They knew the man, and felt that he was a good soldier, as well
as a great general. He would have made an excellent private, and did
not feel "above" being one. Never was human being braver, if he did
laugh and sing. Was he not brave? Answer, old sabreurs, whom he led in
a hundred charges! old followers of Jackson, with whom he went over the
breastworks at Chancellorsville!

Some readers may regard this picture of Stuart as overdrawn; but it is
the simple truth of that brave soul. He had his faults; he loved
praise, even flattery, and was sometimes irascible--but I have never
known a human being more pure, generous and brave.

At sunset the review was over. The long columns of cavalry moved slowly
back to their camps. The horse artillery followed; the infantry who had
witnessed the ceremony sought their bivouacs in the woods; and the
crowd, on foot, on horseback, or in carriages, returned toward the
Court-House, whose spires were visible across the fields.

Stuart had approached the flag-staff and, doffing his plumed hat, had
saluted Lee, who saluted in return, and complimented the review. After
a few moments' conversation, they had then saluted a second time. Lee,
followed by his staff, rode toward his quarters; and Stuart set out to
return to his own.

We had ridden about half a mile, when Stuart turned his head and called
me. I rode to his side.

"I wish you would ride down toward Beverly's Ford, Surry," he said,
"and tell Mordaunt to keep a bright lookout to-night. They must have
heard our artillery on the other side of the river, and may want to
find out what it means."

I saluted, and turned my horse. Stuart cantered on singing.

In a few minutes he was out of sight, and I was riding toward the
Rappahannock.




II.


HOW I BECAME A MEMBER OF GENERAL STUART'S STAFF.


If the reader has done me the honor to peruse the first volume of my
memoirs, I indulge the vanity of supposing that he will like to be
informed how I became a member of General Stuart's staff.

When oaks crash down they are apt to prostrate the saplings growing
around them. Jackson was a very tall oak, and I a very humble sapling.
When the great trunk fell, the mere twig disappeared. I had served with
Jackson from the beginning of the war; that king of battle dead at
Chancellorsville, I had found myself without a commander, and without a
home. I was not only called upon in that May of 1863, to mourn the
illustrious soldier, who had done me the honor to call me his friend; I
had also to look around me for some other general; some other position
in the army.

I was revolving this important subject in my mind, when I received a
note from General J.E.B. Stuart, Jackson's friend and brother in arms.
"Come and see me," said this note. Forty-eight hours afterward I was at
Stuart's head-quarters, near Culpeper Court-House.

When I entered his tent, or rather breadth of canvas, stretched beneath
a great oak, Stuart rose from the red blanket upon which he was lying,
and held out his hand. As he gazed at me in silence I could see his
face flush.

"You remind me of Jackson," he said, retaining my hand and gazing
fixedly at me.

I bowed my head, making no other reply; for the sight of Stuart brought
back to me also many memories; the scouting of the Valley, the hard
combats of the Lowland, Cold Harbor, Manassas, Sharpsburg,
Fredericksburg, and that last greeting between Jackson and the great
commander of the cavalry, on the weird moonlight night at
Chancellorsville.

Stuart continued to gaze at me, and I could see his eyes slowly fill
with tears.

"It is a national calamity!" he murmured. "Jackson's loss is
irreparable!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

He remained for a moment gazing into my face, then passing his hand
over his forehead, he banished by a great effort these depressing
memories. His bold features resumed their habitual cheerfulness.

Our dialogue was brief, and came rapidly to the point.

"Have you been assigned to duty yet, my dear Surry?"

"I have not, general."

"Would you like to come with me?"

"More than with any general in the army, since Jackson's death. You
know I am sincere in saying that."

"Thanks--then the matter can be very soon arranged, I think. I want
another inspector-general, and want _you_."

With these words Stuart seated himself at his desk, wrote a note,
which, he dispatched by a courier to army head-quarters; and then
throwing aside business, he began laughing and talking.

For once the supply of red tape in Richmond seemed temporarily
exhausted. Stuart was Lee's right hand, and when he made a request, the
War Office deigned to listen. Four days afterward, I was seated under
the canvas of a staff tent, when Stuart hastened up with boyish ardor,
holding a paper.

"Here you are, old Surry,"--when he used the prefix "old" to any one's
name, he was always excellently well disposed toward them,--"the
Richmond people are prompt this time. Here is your assignment--send for
Sweeney and his banjo! He shall play 'Jine the Cavalry!' in honor of
the occasion, Surry!"

You see now, my dear reader, how it happened that in June, 1863, Stuart
beckoned to me, and gave me an order to transmit to General Mordaunt.




III.


BLUE AND GRAY PHANTOMS.


As I rode toward the Rappahannock to deliver Stuart's order to General
Mordaunt, the wide landscape was suddenly lit up by a crimson glare. I
looked over my shoulder. The sun was poised upon the western woods, and
resembled a huge bloodshot eye. Above it extended a long black cloud,
like an eyebrow--and from the cloud issued low thunder.

When a storm is coming, the civilian seeks shelter; but the soldier
carrying an order, wraps his cape around him, and rides on. I went on
past Brandy and Fleetwood Hill, descended toward the river, entered a
great belt of woods--then night and storm descended simultaneously. An
artillery duel seemed going on in the clouds; the flickering lightnings
amid the branches resembled serpents of fire: the wind rolled through
the black wood, tearing off boughs in its passage.

I pushed my horse to full speed to emerge from this scene of crashing
limbs and tottering trunks. I had just passed a little stream, when
from a by-road on my left came the trample of hoofs. It is good to be
on the watch in the cavalry, and I wheeled to the right,
listening--when all at once a brilliant flash of lightning showed me,
within fifty paces, a column of _blue_ cavalry.

"Halt!" rang out from the column, and a pistol-shot followed.

I did not halt. Capture was becoming a hideous affair in June, 1863. I
passed across the head of the column at full speed, followed by
bullets; struck into a bridle-path on the right, and pushed ahead,
hotly pursued.

They had followed me nearly half a mile, firing on me, and ordering me
to halt, when suddenly a sonorous "Halt!" resounded fifty yards in
front of me; and a moment afterward, a carbine ball passed through my
riding cape.

I drove on at full speed, convinced that these in front were friends;
and the chest of my horse struck violently against that of another in
the darkness.

"Halt, or you are dead!" came in the same commanding voice.

Another flash of lightning showed me a squadron of _gray_ cavalry: at
their head rode a cavalier, well mounted; it was his horse against
which I had struck, and he held a cocked pistol to my breast.

The lightning left nothing in doubt. Gray and blue quickly recognized
each other. The blue cavalry had drawn rein, and, at that moment, the
leader of the grays shouted--"Charge!" A rush of hoofs, and then a
quick clash of sabres followed. The adversaries had hurled together.
The wood suddenly became the scene of a violent combat.

It was a rough affair. For ten minutes the result was doubtful. The
Federal cavalry were apparently commanded by an officer of excellent
nerve, and he fought his men obstinately. For nearly a quarter of an
hour the wood was full of sabre-strokes, carbine-shots, and yells,
which mingled with the roll of the storm. Then the fight ended.

My friend of the cocked pistol threw himself, sabre in hand, upon the
Federal front, and it shook, and gave back, and retreated. The weight
of the onset seemed to sweep it, inch by inch, away. The blue squadron
finally broke, and scattered in every direction. The grays pressed on
with loud cheers, firing as they did so:--five minutes afterward, the
storm-lashed wood had swallowed pursuers and pursued.

The whole had disappeared like phantom horsemen in the direction of the
Rappahannock.




IV.


MOHUN AND HIS PRISONER.


Half an hour afterward, the storm had spent its fury, and I was
standing by a bivouac fire on the banks of the Rappahannock, conversing
with the officer against whom I had driven my horse in the darkness.

Mounted upon a powerful gray, he had led the attack with a sort of
fury, and I now looked at him with some curiosity.

He was a man of about thirty, of gaunt face and figure, wearing a hat
with a black feather, and the uniform of a colonel of cavalry. The
features were regular and might have been called handsome; the eyes,
hair, mustache, and imperial--he wore no beard--coal black; the
complexion so pale that the effect was startling. More curious than all
else, however, was the officer's expression. In the lips and eyes could
be read something bitterly cynical, mingled with a profound and
apparently ineradicable melancholy. After looking at my new
acquaintance for an instant, I said to myself: "This man has either
suffered some great grief, or committed some great crime."

His bearing was cold, but courteous.

"I recognized you as soon as I saw you, colonel," he said, in response
to my salute. "You probably do not know me, however, as I have just
been transferred from the Army of the West. Colonel Mohun, at your
service."

I exchanged a pressure of the hand with Colonel Mohun, or, speaking
more correctly, I grasped his. It did not return the pressure. I then
thanked him for his timely appearance, and he bowed coldly.

"It was lucky that my scout led me in this direction," he said, "that
party is whipped back over the river, and will give us no more trouble
to-night--the woods are full of their dead and wounded."

As he spoke he took a cigar case from his pocket, and presented it.

"Will you smoke, sir?" he said.

I bowed and selected a cigar. Colonel Mohun imitated me, and was about
to commence smoking, when two or three cavalry men were seen
approaching through the gloom, apparently escorting some one.

As they drew nearer the figures became plainer in the firelight. The
cavalry men had in charge a female prisoner.

She was a woman of petite figure, clad in a handsome gray riding-habit,
and mounted upon a superb horse, with rich equipments, apparently
belonging to a Federal officer of high rank. From the horse, I glanced
at the prisoner's face. It was a strange countenance. She was about
twenty-five--her complexion was dead white, except the lips which were
as red as carnations; her eyes were large and brilliant, her hair dark
and worn plain under a small riding-hat. In one delicately gauntleted
hand she held the rein of her horse--with the other, which was
ungloved, she raised a lace handkerchief to her lips. On the finger
sparkled a diamond.

There was something strange in the expression of this woman. She looked
"dangerous" in spite of her calmness.

She sat gazing at some one behind me, with the handkerchief still
raised to her lips. Then she took it away, and I could see a smile upon
them.

What was the origin of that smile, and at whom was she looking? I
turned, and found myself face to face with Colonel Mohun. His
appearance almost frightened me. His countenance wore the hue of a
corpse, his whole frame shook with quick shudders, and his eyes were
distended until the black pupils shone in the centres of two white
circles.

Suddenly his teeth clinched audibly; he passed his hand over his
forehead streaming with cold sweat; and said in a low voice:

"Then you are not dead, madam?"

"No, sir," the prisoner replied tranquilly.

Mohun gazed at her with a long, fixed look. As he did so his features
gradually resumed the cold and cynical expression which I had first
observed in them.

"This meeting is singular," he said.

A satirical smile passed over the lips of the prisoner.

"Our last interview was very different, was it not, sir?" she said.
"The Nottoway was higher than the Rappahannock is to-night, and you did
not expect to meet me again--so soon!"

Mohun continued to gaze at her with the same fixed look.

"No, madam," he said.

"You recall that agreeable evening, do you not, sir?"

Mohun coolly inclined his head.

"And you have not seen me since?"

"Never, madam."

"You are mistaken!"

"Is it possible that I could have forgotten so pleasing a circumstance,
madam?"

"Yes!"

"Where and when have I seen you since that time?"

"Everywhere, and at all times!--awake and asleep, day and night!"

Mohun shuddered.

"True," he said, with a bitter smile.

"You remember, then! I am not wrong!" exclaimed the prisoner, gazing
intently at him.

Mohun raised his head, and I could see the old cynical expression upon
his lips.

"Certainly I remember, madam," he said. "Do you think it possible for
any one to forget your charming ladyship? And could any thing be more
delightful than this interview between two old friends? But let us
reserve these sweet confidences, these gushing emotions! One thing only
is wanting, to perfect the happiness of this moment; the presence this
evening of _your dear brother_!--but he is doubtless detained
elsewhere!"

Mohun's expression was singular as he uttered these words. The prisoner
looked at him as he was speaking with an indescribable smile. I can
only compare it to that of the swordsman about to deliver a mortal
lunge.

"My brother," she said, in accents as soft as a flute; "detained
elsewhere, do you say, sir? You are mistaken in supposing so. He
commanded the cavalry with which you were fighting to-night!"

At these words, uttered in a strange, mocking voice, I saw Mohun start
as if a rattlesnake had bitten his heel. With all his self-possession
he could not restrain this exhibition of emotion.

"Impossible! You are deceiving me--"

The prisoner interrupted him with a gay laugh.

"So you do not believe me," she said; "you think, my dear sir, that
everybody is dead but yourself! Dismiss that idea from your mind! _I_
am not dead, since we have the pleasure of again meeting in the flesh.
_He_ is not dead! No! it was Colonel Mortimer Darke whom you fought
to-night. This is his horse which I borrowed to take a short ride. I have
been captured, but _he_ is neither dead nor captured, and you will
doubtless receive some friendly message from him soon."

Under the mocking accents and the satirical glance, it was easy to read
profound hatred. The speaker could not hide that. At that moment she
resembled a tigress about to spring.

Mohun had listened with absorbing attention as his companion spoke;
but, as on the first occasion, he speedily suppressed his agitation.
His face was now as cold and unmoved as though moulded of bronze.

"So be it, madam," he said; "I will respond as I best can to such
message as he may send me. For yourself, you know me well, and, I am
glad to see, indulge no apprehensions. The past is dead; let it sleep.
You think this interview is painful to me. You deceive yourself, madam;
I would not exchange it for all the wealth of two hemispheres."

And calling an officer, he said:--

"You will conduct this lady to General Stuart, reporting the
circumstances attending her capture."

Mohun made a ceremonious bow to the prisoner as he spoke, saluted me in
the same manner, and mounting his horse, rode back at the head of his
column.

The prisoner, escorted by the young officer, and still riding her fine
horse, had already disappeared in the darkness.




V.


STUART.


An hour afterward, I had delivered my message to Mordaunt, and was
returning by the road over Fleetwood Hill, thinking of the singular
dialogue between Mohun and the gray woman.

What had these worthies meant by their mysterious allusions? How had
Mohun found himself face to face on this stormy night, with two human
beings whom he thought dead?

These questions puzzled me for half an hour; then I gave up the
mystery, laughing. An hour afterward I had passed through Culpeper
Court-House, crossed the fields, and had reached General Stuart's
headquarters.

Stuart's tent, or rather the strip of canvas which he called one, was
pitched beneath a great oak on a wooded knoll about a mile south of the
little village. Above it drooped the masses of fresh June foliage;
around, were grouped the white canvas "flies" of the staff; in a glade
close by gleamed the tents d'abri of the couriers. Horses, tethered to
the trees, champed their corn in the shadow; in the calm, summer night,
the battle-flag drooped and clung to its staff. Before the tent of
Stuart, a man on guard, with drawn sabre, paced to and fro with
measured steps.

A glance told me that Mohun's singular prisoner had arrived. A courier
was holding her fine animal near the general's tent, and as I
dismounted, three figures' appeared in the illuminated doorway. These
were the figures of Stuart, the "gray woman," and a young aid-de-camp.

"Farewell, madam," said Stuart, bowing and laughing; "I am sorry to
have made your acquaintance under circumstances so disagreeable to you;
but I trust you will appreciate the situation, and not blame me."

"Blame you? Not in the least, general. You are a very gallant man."

And the gay words were accompanied by a musical laugh.

"You will have an opportunity of seeing the Confederate capital," said
Stuart, smiling.

The lady made a humorous grimace.

"And of abusing me upon the way thither; and afterward on the route to
Port Monroe and Washington, as you will not be detained, I am sure."

"I shall not abuse you, sir. You are the noblest gentleman I have ever
known."[1]

[Footnote 1: The real words of Stuart's prisoner]

And with mutual salutes they parted--the young aid-de-camp accompanying
the lady to her horse, and aiding her to mount. They then set forward
toward the Court-House. Stuart had ordered the prisoner to be conducted
thither, and detained at the village tavern, under guard, until
morning, when she would be sent to Richmond.

As they disappeared, I entered the general's tent, and found him
laughing. Leaning one hand upon his desk, covered with papers, upon
which rested his feather-decorated hat, he carelessly played with the
tassel of his yellow sash with the other hand. His blue eyes sparkled,
and his mustache curled with humor.

"That is really a beauty, Surry?" he said, "and I have laughed
heartily."

He threw himself on his red blanket as he spoke, and began playing with
his two setter pups, whose names were "Nip" and "Tuck." He had brought
them out of the lines on his saddle.

"Well, you are really a magician," I said. "You charm the evil spirit,
and make prisoners laugh."

Stuart laughed in reply.

"That is a curious person that Mohun sent me," he said; "at first she
was disdainful enough; but I paid her a few compliments, and now she is
in an excellent humor, as you saw."

"Yes."

"But what about the fight?"

I made my report of the events of the evening.

"Well, Mohun is a trump," said Stuart. "A new man, but seems made of
the right stuff--real steel. What does Mordaunt say of the attack?"

"Only a scout."

"Right, and this lady is our spoil! She is handsome, is she not? But a
more curious face I have never seen. White cheeks and red lips--a sort
of devil and angel mixed! Who is she, I wonder, and what was her
errand. Something is under it. She gave her name as 'Mrs. Darke,'--and
her horse made me break the tenth commandment, Surry! Lady and courser
are splendid."

"She is certainly a beauty."

"And what eyes!"

"Dangerous."

Stuart remained silent for some moments, and then I heard him sigh.

"Do you know, my dear Surry," he said, "that if people heard us talk in
this way, they would call us libertines--immoral--any thing? There are
two things that people will not disbelieve about me--that I am impure,
and a drunkard! Do you know what a good man was heard to say of me the
other day? 'Stuart would be one of the greatest soldiers in the army,
if he did not drink so hard!'[1] And others add: 'if he were not a
libertine.' Well, need I defend myself to _you_, from these charges? I
promised my mother in my childhood, never to touch ardent spirits, and
a drop has never passed my lips, except the wine of the communion.[2] I
know I need not tell you that I am equally guiltless of the other
imputation. That person does not live who can say that I ever did any
thing improper of that description. And yet I am a drunkard--a
libertine--I, who never touched drink, and love but one person in this
world!"

[Footnote 1: This was actually said of Stuart.]

[Footnote 2: His words]

Stuart's head sank, and he uttered a weary sigh.

"They will not let me alone," he muttered, "and yet I am here fighting
for my country. But I defy them to take my good name away from me,
Surry!"

And he rose to his feet.

"General Lee knows me! Jackson knew me! I have the regard of the one,
and I had the love of the other. What do I care? If my children only
will not hear these ignoble charges! _One_ can never hear them, Surry--
my beloved little Flora! She died while I was fighting near Middleburg
in the fall of '62--that nearly broke me down--"

And Stuart paused and covered his eyes with his hand. Between the
fingers I saw a tear.

For a moment his breast heaved--something like a sob issued from the
brave lip, whereon the heavy mustache trembled.

"I think of her often--I shall never get over her death, Surry!"[1] he
murmured. "They think me hard and cold, and bad perhaps--it is nothing.
Since she died I care less for men's opinion, and only try to do my
duty, till the ball comes that will end me."

[Footnote 1: His words.]

And dashing a tear from his eyes, Stuart walked to the door of his
tent, from which he gazed forth upon the stars.

Five minutes passed thus, and I did not speak. Then all at once I heard
Stuart call out: "Orderly!"

"Yes, sir," came from the man on post near the tent.

"Tell Sweeney to come and bring his banjo!"

And walking fifty steps, Stuart caressed the glossy neck of his mare
"Lady Margaret," who was tethered to a bough, and looked around
affectionately at her master.

When he returned he was humming "The dew lay on the blossom," and
following him was Sweeney--the same old Sweeney!--ever mild, courteous,
almost sad, doffing his cap, saluting with simple grace, and tuning his
banjo.

In a moment the tent, the wooded knoll, the whole vicinity was ringing
with the uproarious notes of the mirth-inspiring banjo; and Sweeney was
chanting, as only that great master _could_ chant, the mighty epic of
the sabreurs of Stuart:--

  "If you want to have a good time
  Jine the cavalry,
  Bully Boys, hey!"

The staff and couriers quickly assembled, the servants were grouped in
the starlight, the horses beneath the boughs turned their intelligent
heads--and leading in the uproarious chorus might have been heard the
sonorous and laughing voice of Stuart.





VI.


STUART'S INSTINCT.


The festivities were kept up until nearly midnight.

Then Stuart yawned; said with a laugh, "Good morning, gentle-_men_" as
was his habit when he wished to work; and the tent was soon deserted.

I retired to rest, but at three in the morning felt a hand upon my
shoulder.

"The general is going to move, colonel, and wishes to see you," said
the orderly.

I rose, made my brief toilet, and went toward Stuart's tent where a
light was shining. He was writing busily at his desk, as fresh and gay
as on the preceding evening. His enormous constitution defied fatigue.

All at once I saw that there was another personage in the tent. He was
a young man of about twenty, of slight figure, beardless face, and an
expression so shy and retiring that he seemed ready to blush if you
spoke to him. He wore, nevertheless, the uniform of a captain of
artillery; and I remember wondering how this girlish and shrinking
personage, with the large, sad eyes, had come to hold a commission.

"Captain Davenant, of my horse artillery, Colonel Surry," said Stuart.

The youth colored, and then with an air of painful embarrassment took a
step forward and pressed my hand. The grasp of the slender fingers was
like the grip of a steel vice.

"Davenant has been on a scout across the Rappahannock, to keep his hand
in," said Stuart, busily writing. "My horse artillery boys do a little
of every thing--and Davenant is a wild-cat, Surry, with a touch of the
bull dog, in spite of his looks!"

The young officer drew back blushing more than ever at these words. His
confusion seemed to deprive him of the power of utterance.

"I'll bet he's blushing now!" said Stuart, laughing and continuing to
write with his back turned, as he spoke. "He is blushing or
sighing--for the poor Yankees he has killed, doubtless!"

"You are laughing at me, general," said the young man timidly.  "Well,
my laughter won't hurt you, Davenant. I never joke with people I don't
like. But to business. The enemy are going to attack me, Surry. Get
ready, I am going to move."

"Ready, general."

"All right!--Hagan!"

"General!"

The voice came like an echo. Then at the door appeared the gigantic,
black-bearded Lieutenant Hagan, chief of the general's escort. Have you
forgotten him, my dear reader?--his huge figure, his mighty beard, the
deep thunder of his tones? I showed you the brave soldier in 1861 and
'62. In 1863 his beard was heavier, his voice more like thunder--when
the giant walked along he seemed to shake the ground.

"I am going to move in half an hour, Hagan," said Stuart, still writing
busily. "Head-quarters will be established on Fleetwood Hill, beyond
Brandy; my horse!"

Hagan saluted and vanished without uttering a word. In five minutes the
camp was buzzing, and "Lady Margaret" was led up.

"Come on, Surry! Come on, Davenant! I will beat you to the
Court-House!"

And Stuart buckled on his sword, drew on his gauntlets, and mounted his
horse. I was beside him. Not to be ready when Stuart was--was to be
left behind. He waited for nobody. His staff soon learned that.

As Davenant's horse was awaiting him, he was as prompt as Stuart
desired. In a minute we were all three riding at full speed toward the
village. Stuart was playing with his glove, which he had taken off and
dangled to and fro. His brows were knit, and he was reflecting. We did
not interrupt him, and in ten minutes we were all clattering over the
main street of the hamlet.

Stuart pushed on by the tavern, without pausing, in the direction of
Fleetwood, when just as he reached the eastern suburbs of the town a
small one-horse wagon, leaving the place, attracted his attention.
There was just sufficient light to make out the figures in the wagon.
There were two. One was a portly and plainly clad old countryman, with
a prominent nose, a double chin, and fat hands decorated with pinchbeck
rings. Beside him sat an old woman, as fat as himself, wearing a faded
calico gown, a "coal-scuttle" bonnet, and a huge ruffled cap beneath.

Stuart looked keenly at the wagon, called to the driver to halt, and
demanded whither he was going, and on what business. The old countryman
smiled. The question seemed to strike him as absurd, and his
explanation was simple and calculated to remove all suspicion. He
stated that his name was Brown--that he lived near the village; had
brought in a load of vegetables to sell, on the preceding evening--some
friends had persuaded him and "his old woman" to spend the night, and
they were now going home.

Stuart peered under the coal-scuttle bonnet.

"And this is your 'old woman' my friend," he said with a laugh.

"Jest so, sir," was the wheezy reply of the fat old countryman, smiling
sweetly. "You see she would come along, sir. Womankind is mighty
contrary!"

"A profound sentiment!" laughed Stuart, and riding on without further
words, he left the countryman free to proceed on his way.

We crossed a little stream, rode on toward Fleetwood, and had nearly
reached Brandy when Stuart suddenly reined in his horse.

"Do you know what I think," he said, "that I have done a foolish
thing?"

"What, general?"

"To let that old fellow go on. I don't like his looks."

"The old countryman?"

"Yes; I wish I had arrested him--him and his wife."

"Arrested them?"

Stuart nodded.

"I have an instinct about rascals, Surry; and something tells me that I
have been guilty of an imprudence."

"Was not his explanation satisfactory?"

"No."

"What could be wrong?"

"Everything."

"And his 'old woman,'" I said, laughing; "think of that highly
respectable dame."

"I like her least of all!"

"From instinct?"

"If you choose."

"I think your instinct misleads you this time, general."

"I think not."

"Well, we will see."

And we did see.

In two hours the head-quarters tents were pitched upon Fleetwood Hill
beyond Brandy, and Stuart sent his provost marshal to Culpeper
Court-House, with orders to conduct the prisoner taken by Mohun on the
preceding night, to General Lee, for examination.

An hour afterward the worthy provost returned in hot haste with the
astounding information that the fair lady was nowhere to be found. She
had disappeared from her chamber, none knew how, before daylight, and
as a notoriously suspected individual who had lately been hanging round
the tavern had disappeared too, it was probable that they had gone off
together. Upon this point, a note left by the lady directed to "General
Stuart" would probably give information. This had been found upon her
table. And the provost wound up by handing the note to Stuart.

He read it with an air of decided ill-humor. Then throwing it upon his
desk, burst into a laugh.

"Well, Surry," he said, "who is right and who is wrong, now? Read
that!"

And he pointed to the note, which I opened and read. It was in a
delicate female hand, and ran as follows:--

"General Stuart will pardon the attempt his captive is about to make,
to effect her escape. He made himself quite charming in their brief
interview, but liberty is sweet. Finding a friend unexpectedly in this
quarter of the world, I have made every arrangement with him; he is a
great master of disguises, and, though the travelling costume which I
shall adopt will make me look hideous, I hope it will enable me, before
sunrise, to pass a private ford, known to my friend alone, and reach
the opposite bank of the Rappahannock.

"Farewell, my dear general. If all the rebels were like yourself, I
might change my politics. I have but one other friend in your
army--Colonel Mohun, of the cavalry. Present my regards to him, and say
that _we will meet again_."

That was all. I raised my eyes from the paper, and looked at the
general with stupefaction.

"Then that 'old woman' was the lady?"

"Precisely."

"And we are fooled?"

"Completely. They are by this time on the other side of the
Rappahannock."

With these words, Stuart dismissed the whole subject, turned to his
desk, and in a moment was busy at his official writing.




VII.


THE BALL BEFORE THE BATTLE.


On the same evening I was riding with Stuart toward Culpeper
Court-House.

"Do you know where we are going, Surry?" he said, with a laugh.

"I can guess, I think."

"Try."

"To the ball given by the young officers to the Charlottesville belles
tonight."

"You are wrong, old fellow. I don't dare to go there."

"Don't dare?"

"Well, that is the word," he replied; "I am not afraid of the Yankees,
but I am of gossips--above all, of the valorous correspondents of the
newspapers."

"I begin to understand now."

"They are dangerous."

"Yes."

Stuart cantered on, playing with his glove as usual.  "Think of
Messieurs the bomb-proof critics!" he laughed. "They already say I
reviewed the cavalry with a wreath of flowers around my horse's neck."

"Is it possible?"

"They say so everywhere; and I will tell you the foundation for the
charge. In passing through the Court-House on the morning of the
review, a young lady friend of mine ran out from her house and threw a
wreath over the neck of my horse. Well, I think it is something to be
courteous in this world. I did not throw it off. I thanked her, rode
on, and only removed it when I got out of sight. Meeting General Lee, I
told him of it, laughing, and he said, with a smile: 'Why did you not
wear it?'[1] I might as well have done so, Surry, for you see I have
the credit of it. Why try to be temperate, and pure, and soldierly? I
am a drunkard, a libertine, and a popinjay! But I care nothing. I
intend to do my duty, old fellow, and the next few days will probably
show if I can fight."

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

With which words Stuart broke into a song, cantered on more rapidly,
and passing without drawing rein through the Court-House, soon reached
General Lee's head-quarters on an eminence beyond.

Here he remained for an hour, in private interview with the
commander-in-chief. Finally, they came out together. General Lee in his
plain uniform, with that sedate dignity of bearing which made the gray
old cavalier so superb. I had the honor to receive his salute, and to
press his hand, and then I set out with General Stuart for Fleetwood.

In passing through the Court-House we observed the windows of a large
building all ablaze with lights, and heard the merry notes of music.
Stuart drew rein.

"I think I will drop in for a few minutes, in spite of every thing!" he
said. "See the end of all my excellent resolutions, Surry!"

And rapidly dismounting, Stuart entered the ball-room. I followed.

If the review was imposing, the ball was charming. Youths and maidens
had assembled promptly at the sound of music, and, if I were a poet or
a penny-a-liner, my dear reader, I would compose a fine description of
the merry spectacle. But alas! I am neither; and feel unequal to the
"ornate" style of writing. I am only a battered old _militaire_, with a
number of great events to speak of. Look in the newspapers of that
period for an account of the assembly.

Let me say, however, in passing, that there was something sad as well
as joyful, gloomy as well as brilliant, in all that echoing laughter,
and the movements of these gay figures, on the eve of the bloody battle
of Fleetwood. Girls were smiling upon youths who in twelve hours would
be dead. Lips were shaping gallant compliments--soon they were going to
utter the death-groan. All went merry as a marriage-bell, and they
danced to the joyous music. Soon the cannon would begin to roll, and
the youths would charge to that stormy music as they danced to this.

I was gazing at the lively assemblage--at the undulating forms moving
to and fro, the gay uniforms, the fluttering scarfs, the snowy arms,
the rosy cheeks, when my attention was attracted by a figure which made
me lose sight of all else.

It was that of a young girl about twenty, tall, stately, and beautiful.
Her dark hair was carried back in glossy waves, and ended in profuse
curls. Her cheeks resembled blush roses; the eyes were large,
brilliant, and full of laughing hauteur; the lips red, and wreathed
into a dazzling smile, which was the perfection of satirical mirth.

I grow extravagant; but this young girl was superb. There was something
queen like and imposing in her movements and whole appearance. She
seemed to look down on the crowd with satirical disdain, and the gay
youths who surrounded her were every instant struck by the bright
shafts of a wit which spared nothing.

Who was this dangerous beauty, who received the attentions of the young
officers with so much careless disdain? I asked that question of a
friend and he replied:

"Miss Georgia Conway, a daughter of Judge William Conway."

"Ah," I said, "the statesman?--the successor of Randolph in bitter
oratory?"

"Yes, and yonder he is."

I looked in the direction indicated, and saw an elderly gentleman of
small stature, with long gray hair, and lips full of benignant smiles.
He wore a suit of black, and there was something courtly and attractive
in every movement of the slender figure. His low bow and sweet smile
were the perfection of old-time courtesy.

I was still looking at this gentleman, whose fame had extended
throughout Virginia and the whole South, when a familiar voice near me,
attracted my attention. It was that of Captain Davenant, the young
officer of the horse artillery, and glancing in the direction of the
voice I saw him bending over a young lady who was seated and conversing
with him. She was a girl of seventeen, with blue eyes, auburn hair, and
a complexion as fair as a lily. As Davenant addressed her in low tones,
she gazed up into his face with an expression of confiding affection.
In the eyes of the young officer I could read a profound and ardent
love.

Turning to my friend I inquired the name of the young lady, in turn.

"Miss Virginia Conway," he replied, "the only sister of Miss Georgia."

He had scarcely uttered the words, when Davenant's interview with the
young lady terminated in a very singular manner. Suddenly Judge Conway
passed through the crowd, reached the spot where the young people were
conversing, and darting a glance of positive fury at the youth--a
glance which made his eyes resemble coals of fire--offered his arm to
his daughter, and abruptly bore her away.

Davenant's face flushed crimson, and his eyes darted flame. He took a
step as though about to follow--but all at once he stopped.

Then from red his face became pale. The old expression of sadness
returned to his lips. With head bent down, and a faint color stealing
over his cheeks, he went toward the door, and passed though it, and
disappeared.

Before I had time to reflect upon this singular incident, I heard the
voice of Stuart.

"Come, Surry! to horse! unless you wish to remain!" he said.

"Ready, general!" I replied.

And in five minutes we were galloping toward Fleetwood.

"A gay ball," said Stuart, as we rode along; "but do you remember _my
instinct_, Surry?"

"Perfectly, general. Has it told you something on the present
occasion?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"You have heard of the famous ball at Brussells, broken up by the guns
of Waterloo?"

"Certainly."

"Well, I think that this one will prove similar--that cannon are going
to thunder before the music stops."

Stuart had scarcely spoken when rapid hoof-strokes were heard in front,
and a horseman shot by.

"Have you seen General Stuart?" said a voice in the darkness.

"Here I am--what news, Stringfellow?"

The horseman drew rein so suddenly that his horse was thrown upon his
haunches. "You will be attacked at daylight, general."

"Well,--what force?"

"The whole Yankee cavalry, with infantry and artillery supports."

"All right; ride back with me, and tell me every thing, Stringfellow."

In half an hour we were at head-quarters. Stuart dismounted and entered
his tent.

"You see I was right, Surry," he said turning toward me, "and there is
something in my _instinct_ after all!"




VIII.


FLEETWOOD.


At daylight a long thunder came up from the woods of the Rappahannock.
The greatest cavalry combat of the war had begun.

At that sound Stuart leaped to the saddle, and rode rapidly toward the
front. Fifteen minutes afterward his head-quarters had vanished. On the
green slope of Fleetwood not a tent was visible.

Is the reader familiar with the country along the Upper Rappahannock?
If so, he will remember that the river is crossed in Culpeper by
numerous fords. The principal--beginning on the left, that is to say,
up the river--are Welford's, Beverly's, the Railroad bridge, and
Kelly's fords.

Stuart's left, under William H.F. Lee, was opposite Welford's; his
centre, under Jones, opposite Beverly's; his right, under Hampton,
toward Kelly's; and a force under Robertson was posted in the direction
of Stevensburg, to guard the right flank. The whole amounted to about
seven or eight thousand cavalry.

The Federal column which now advanced to attack it, is said to have
embraced all the cavalry of General Hooker's army; and must have
numbered more than twelve thousand sabres.

Stuart rode on rapidly down Fleetwood Hill, and was soon opposite
Beverly's Ford where the enemy had crossed in force. General Jones was
heavily engaged, and the Napoleons of the horse artillery were roaring
steadily. Every moment the round shot crashed, or the shell tore
through the woods about three hundred yards in front of the pieces
where the dismounted cavalry of the enemy had effected a lodgment. They
kept up a hot fire at the cannoneers, and the steady rattle of carbines
further up the river told that Lee was also engaged.

In face of the bursting shell, the blue _tirailleurs_ could not
advance; and Stuart sent an order to Hampton to move in and attack on
the right.

The troopers of the Gulf States advanced at the word; their dense
column was seen slowly moving, with drawn sabre, across the plain; the
moment of decisive struggle seemed rapidly approaching, when suddenly a
heavy blow was struck at Stuart's rear.

I had been directed by him to ascertain if "every thing had been sent
off from Fleetwood," and to see that no papers had been dropped there
in the hurry of departure. Going back at a gallop I soon reached the
hill, and rode over the ground recently occupied by the head-quarters.
The spot seemed swept. Not a paper was visible. All that I could see
was a withered bouquet dropped by some young officer of the staff--a
relic, no doubt, of the last night's ball at the village.

I had already turned to ride back to Stuart, when my attention was
attracted by a column of cavalry advancing straight on Brandy--that is,
upon Stuart's rear. What force was that? Could it be the enemy? It was
coming from the direction of Stevensburg; but how could it have passed
our force there?

"Look!" I said to an officer of the horse artillery, one battery of
which was left in reserve on the hill, "look! what column is that?"

"It must be Wickham's," was his reply.

"I am sure they are Yankees!"

"Impossible!" he exclaimed.

But our doubts were soon terminated. From the rapidly advancing column
two guns shot out and unlimbered. Then two white puffs of smoke spouted
from their muzzles, and the enemy's shell burst directly in our faces.

The horse artillery returned the fire, and I hastened back with the
intelligence to Stuart.

"It is only a squadron, I suppose," he replied with great coolness. "Go
back and get all the cavalry you can, and charge the guns and bag
them!"[1]

[Footnote: His words]

It is impossible to imagine any thing calmer than the speaker's voice.
I knew, however, that the attack was more critical than he supposed;
hastened back; came up with two regiments; and they ascended the hill
at full gallop, leaping the ravines, and darting toward the crest.

Suddenly it blazed with staggering volleys. The Federal cavalry had
rushed straight across the fields toward the hill--ascended its western
slope as we ascended the eastern, and met us--coming on, in squadron
front, they struck the Confederates advancing in column of fours, and
in confusion from the rough ground--they recoiled--were thrown into
disorder; and with loud cheers the enemy swarmed all over Fleetwood
Hill.

The battle seemed lost. Stuart was cut off, and hemmed in between two
powerful bodies of Federal cavalry, supported by infantry and
artillery.

All that saved us at that moment, was the "do or die" fighting of the
cavalry and horse artillery.

On the crest of Fleetwood took place a bitter and obstinate struggle.
It was one of those fights of the giants, which once witnessed is never
forgotten. The cannoneers of the horse artillery fought as savagely,
hand to hand, as the regular cavalry; and the crest became the scene of
a mad wrestle, rather of wild beasts than men.

All at once the form of Davenant appeared amid the smoke. He had come
rapidly from the front, and now threw himself into the combat like the
bloodhound to which Stuart had compared him. His sad smile had
disappeared; his cheeks were flushed; his eyes fiery;--leaping from his
horse, he seized the sponge-staff of a gun, from which all the
cannoneers had been driven, and ramming home a charge of canister,
directed the gun upon a column of the enemy.

Before he could fire, a Federal cavalryman rode at him, and cut
furiously at his bare head, with the full weight of his sabre.

Davenant did not try to draw his sword--the attempt would have been
useless. In his hand he had a weapon; and with a swing of the rammer he
swept the cavalryman from the saddle.[1] He fell headlong, covered with
blood; and Davenant aimed and fired the charge of canister--leaped upon
his horse--and drawing his sword, plunged into the melee, his head
bare, his eyes flaming, his voice rising loud and inspiring, above the
combat.

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

It was a stubborn, a superb struggle. Three times the enemy's guns were
charged and captured; three times the Confederates were furiously
charged in turn, and the pieces recaptured by the enemy.[1] A final
charge of the gray cavalry carried all before it. The Federal artillery
was seized upon, and their cavalry driven back--but at that moment a
heavier force still was seen advancing upon Stuart from the direction
of Kelly's ford.

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

It was a splendid spectacle. They came on in solid column, and rapidly
formed line of battle on the slope of Fleetwood, with drawn sabres, and
flags floating. As they moved they seemed to shake the very ground. I
had never before seen so great a force of cavalry drawn up--and the
critical moment of the battle had plainly come.

At that instant the great field presented a remarkable appearance.
Cavalry were charging in every direction, and it was hard to tell
friend from foe. Stuart was fighting, so to say, from the centre
outwards. The enemy were in his front, in his rear, and on both his
flanks. If they closed in, apparently, he would be crushed as in a
vice. The iron hand would strangle him.

That moment tested the nerves. Stuart's "heart of oak" bore the strain.
He was aroused, stung, his cheeks burned, his eyes flamed--but the man
was sufficient for the work. I looked closely at him. "Do or die" was
plain on his face. From that instant I never had any doubts about
Stuart.

He rushed two pieces of artillery to a knoll in front of the line of
Federal horsemen. A moment afterward two reports were heard, and two
shell burst precisely in the middle of the line, making a wide gap in
it, and checking the charge which had begun.[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

All at once I saw a column of cavalry coming up from the river, and
turning to Stuart, said:--

"General, what cavalry is that?"

"Hampton's!" Stuart exclaimed. "Bring it up like lightning!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

I set out at full gallop, and soon reached the column. At the head of
it rode Young, the _beau sabreur_ of Georgia, erect, gallant, with his
brave eye and smile.

I pointed out the enemy and gave the order.

"All right!" exclaimed Young, and, turning to his men, he whirled his
sabre around his head and shouted,

"Forward!"

The column thundered on, and as it passed I recognized Mohun, his
flashing eye and burnished sabre gleaming from the dust-cloud.

In five minutes they were in front of the enemy--the men wheeled and
faced the Federal line.

"Charge!" rose from a hundred lips. Spurs were buried in the hot
flanks; the mass was hurled at the enemy; and clashing like thunder,
sword against sword, swept every thing before it. Not a single shot was
fired--the sabre only was used. The enemy were broken to pieces--what I
saw was a wild melee of whirling swords, flying horses, men cloven to
the chin, while others were seen throwing themselves from the saddle,
and raising their hands to escape the keen swordsmen slashing at
them.[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

The great force of the enemy sweeping down on Stuart's flank was thus
routed. The spectacle which followed was ludicrous as well as exciting.
The enemy fled in disorder. Never before had I seen the nails in the
hind shoes of hundreds of horses--myriads of horses' tails streaming
like meteors as they ran!

The force disappeared in the woods, hotly pursued by their foes. The
dust followed them in a great cloud--from that cloud arose yells and
cheers--cannon thundered; carbines rattled;--but that sound receded
more and more rapidly toward the river.

On our left the brave William H.F. Lee had been as successful. He had
charged and repulsed the enemy, falling wounded at the head of his men.
They had not again advanced upon him. Near the Barbour House he
presented an unbroken front to them.

Stuart held with his cavalry, indeed, the whole Fleetwood range. The
long thunder of his artillery said to the enemy,

"Come on!"

They did not come. They went back. Their cavalry had crossed the river
to ascertain the meaning of the great review. They had discovered
nothing, after heavy loss. The ground was strewed with their dead and
dying--they retired, shattered and bleeding.

Stuart's loss was also great--even his staff was not spared. One of my
brother staff officers was killed, another wounded, a third captured.

But Stuart had won the greatest cavalry fight of the war.




IX.


MOHUN FAINTS AT THE RIGHT MOMENT.


In a room of the "Barbour House" on Fleetwood Hill, Stuart was writing
a dispatch to General Lee.

It was nearly sunset, and the red light was streaming through the
windows. On the floor lay a number of wounded men, groaning piteously.
Busily attending to their wants were two young girls--the daughters of
Judge Conway, whom I had seen on the night of the ball.

The young ladies, I afterward discovered, had been on a visit to the
family occupying the Barbour House; had courageously remained during
the whole of the battle--and they were now busily attending to the
wants of the wounded.

I was gazing at the eldest--the superb beauty with the disdainful eyes,
who had held that wit-combat with her circle of admirers--when Stuart
finished his dispatches, and turned around.

"Any reports?" he said briefly to a member of his staff.

"None, general--except that Colonel Mohun is reported killed."

"Mohun! It is impossible! He drove the enemy, and was unhurt. I would
not swap him for a hundred, nor a thousand of the enemy!"

"Thank you, general!" said a sonorous voice behind us.

And Mohun entered, making the military salute as he did so.

In his bearing I could discern the same cool pride, mingled with
satire. There was only one change in him. He was paler than ever, and I
could see that his right shoulder was bloody.

As he entered, Miss Georgia Conway, who was bending over a wounded
soldier, raised her head and looked at him. Mohun's eye met her own,
and he bowed ceremoniously, taking no further notice of her.

At this exhibition of careless indifference I could see Miss Conway's
face flush. An expression of freezing hauteur came to the beautiful
lips; and the disdainful glance indicated that her _amour propre_ was
deeply wounded.

She turned her back upon him abruptly--but as Mohun had already turned
his, the movement failed in its object. The officer was looking at
Stuart, who had grasped his hand. He winced as the general pressed it,
and turned paler, but said nothing.

"Then you are not dead, Mohun!" exclaimed Stuart, laughing.

"Not in the least, general, I am happy to inform you," replied Mohun.

"I am truly glad to hear it! What news?"

"Our party is all over. We followed them up until they recrossed the
river--and I owed them this little piece of politeness for I recognized
an old acquaintance in the commander of the squadron."

"An acquaintance?"

"A certain Colonel Darke--a charming person, general." And Mohun
laughed.

"I recognized him yonder when we charged on the hill, and, at first, he
followed his men when they broke. As I got close to him, however, in
the woods, he recognized me in turn, and we crossed swords. He is
brave--no man braver; and he did his utmost to put an end to me. I had
somewhat similar views myself in reference to my friend, the colonel,
but his men interposed and prevented my carrying them out. They were
all around me, slashing away. I was nearly cut out of the saddle--I was
carried away from my friend in the melee--and the unkindest cut of all
was his parting compliment as he retreated through the river."

"What was that, Mohun?"

"A bullet from his pistol, which grazed my shoulder. A mere scratch,
but provoking. I saw him grin as he fired."

"An old friend on the Yankee side? Well, that happens," said Stuart--

"Frequently, general," said Mohun; "and this one was _very_ dear,
indeed--most tenderly attached to me, I assure you. My affection for
him is of the same endearing nature: and we only crossed sabres in
jest--a mere fencing bout for amusement. We would not hurt each other
for worlds!"

And Mohun's mustache curled with laughter. There was something restless
and sinister in it.

Suddenly his face grew paler, and his eyes were half closed.

"Well, Mohun," said Stuart, who was not looking at him; "I am going to
send you across the river on a reconnaissance to-night."

"All right, general."

And the officer made the military salute. As he did so, he staggered,
and Stuart raised his eyes.

"You are wounded!" he exclaimed.

"A trifle," laughed Mohun.

But as he spoke, his frame tottered; his face assumed the hue of a
corpse; and he would have fallen, had not Miss Georgia Conway started
up unconsciously from the wounded man whom she was attending to, and
supported the officer in her arms.

Mohun opened his eyes, and a grim smile came to his pale face.

"A pretty tableau!" I heard him murmur; "it would do to put in a
romance. A cup of tea--or a pistol--that would finish--"

As he uttered these singular words, the blood gushed from his wounded
shoulder, his eyes closed, and, his head falling on the bosom of the
young girl, he fainted.




X.


THE SLIM ANIMAL.


Fleetwood was the first gun of the great campaign which culminated on
the heights of Gettysburg. A week afterward, Lee's columns were in
motion toward Pennsylvania.

Was that invasion the dictate of his own judgment? History will answer.
What is certain is, that the country, like the army, shouted "Forward!"
The people were ablaze with wild enthusiasm; the soldiers flushed with
the pride of their great victories of Fredericksburg and
Chancellorsville. The authorities at Richmond shared the excitement,
and the commissary-general, with unwonted humor, or in sober earnest,
indorsed, it is said, upon a requisition for supplies: "If General Lee
wishes rations, let him seek them in Pennsylvania."

I doubt if the great commander shared the general agitation. I think he
aimed to draw Hooker out of Virginia, leaving the rest to Providence.
So he moved toward the Potomac.

The world had called Lee cautious. After this invasion, that charge was
not repeated. From first to last audacity seemed the sentiment
inspiring him.

With Hooker on the Rappahannock, threatening Richmond, Lee thrust his
advance force under Ewell through the Blue Ridge toward Maryland;
pushed Longstreet up to Culpeper to support him, and kept only A.P.
Hill at Fredericksburg to bar the road to the Confederate capital.

Hooker wished to advance upon it, but President Lincoln forbade him.
The dispatch was a queer official document.

"In case you find Lee coming to the north of the Rappahannock," Lincoln
wrote, "I would by no means cross to the south of it. I would not take
any risk of being entangled upon the river, _like an ox jumped half
over a fence, and liable to be torn by dogs, front and rear, without a
fair chance to gore one way or kick the other._"

Ludicrous perhaps, but to the point; the "Rail-Splitter" was not always
dignified, but often judicious. Chancellorsville had been defeat--Lee's
assault, foreboded thus by Lincoln, would be death.

Hooker fell back, therefore, in the direction of Washington. Lee had
foreseen that fact, and had given himself small anxiety. His three
corps were already in full motion toward the Potomac; and suddenly the
thunder of artillery came on the winds of the mountains.

Ewell, the head of the Southern spear, was driving at Milroy, holding
Winchester. The struggle was brief. General Milroy had put the iron
heel on the poor valley; had oppressed the unfortunate people beyond
the power of words--and suddenly the hand of Fate clutched and shook
him to death. Ewell stormed his "Star Fort" near Winchester, with the
bayonet; drove him to headlong flight; got in rear of him, capturing
nearly all his command; and poor Milroy scarce managed to escape, with
a small body-guard, beyond the Potomac.

"In my opinion Milroy's men will fight better _under a soldier!_"

It was his commanding officer, Hooker, who wrote those words a few days
afterward. From the hands of his own general came that unkindest cut!

Exit Milroy, thus amid hisses and laughter--the hornet's nest at
Winchester was swept away--and Ewell headed straight for Pennsylvania.

Longstreet came up rapidly to fill the gap in the line--Hill followed
Longstreet--and then the world beheld the singular spectacle of an army
extended in a long skirmish line over a hundred miles, with another
army massed not daring to assail it.

Hooker did not see his "opening;" but Lincoln did. One of his
dispatches has been quoted--here is another as amusing and as
judicious.

"If the head of Lee's army is at Martinsburg," Lincoln wrote Hooker,
"and the tail of it on the Plank road, between Fredericksburg and
Chancellorsville, _the animal must be very slim somewhere--could you
not break him?_"

But Hooker could not. He did not even try. Lee's movements seemed to
paralyze him--his chief of staff wrote:--

"We cannot go boggling round, until we know what we are going after."

"Boggling round" exactly described the movements of Hooker. He was
still in a grand fog, and knew nothing of his adversary's intent, when
a terrific cry arose among the well-to-do farmers of Pennsylvania. The
wolf had appeared in the fold. Ewell was rapidly advancing upon
Harrisburg.

Behind came the veteran corps of Hill and Longstreet. The gorges of the
Blue Ridge were alive with bristling bayonets. Then the waters of the
Potomac splashed around the waists of the infantry and the wheels of
the artillery carriages. Soon the fields of Maryland and Pennsylvania
were alive with "rebels," come, doubtless, to avenge the outrages of
Pope and Milroy. Throughout those commonwealths--through Philadelphia,
New York, and Boston--rang the cry, "Lee is coming!"

To return to the cavalry. The horsemen of Stuart were going to move in
an eccentric orbit. These are my _memoirs_, reader, not a history of
the war; I describe only what I saw, and am going to ask you now, to
"follow the feather" of Stuart.

Stuart was promptly in the saddle, and when Lee began to move, advanced
north of the Rappahannock, drawing a cordon of cavalry across the roads
above Middleburg, to guard the approaches to the mountain.

The result was that the infantry defiled through the Blue Ridge without
Hooker's knowledge. He knew that something was going on, but there his
information terminated. The troopers of Stuart kept watch over fifteen
miles of front, and through this wall of sabres the Federal eye could
not pierce.

Stuart is regarded by many as only a brave "raider." It was on
occasions like this, however, that he performed his greatest services.
Everywhere he confronted the enemy in stubborn battle; and the work was
hard. It was fighting, fighting, fighting--now, as in 1862, when he
covered Lee's retreat after Sharpsburg. Day and night the cavalry had
no rest. The crack of carbines, the clash of sabres, and the roar of
cannon were incessant. It was a war of giants which Fauquier and
Loudoun saw in those days--and not until the rear of Lee's column had
nearly reached the Potomac, did General Hooker by a desperate effort
succeed in driving Stuart back.

In these pages I must leave that obstinate struggle undescribed. It was
full of romantic scenes, and illustrated by daring courage: but all is
lost to view in the lurid smoke of Gettysburg.

With one scene in the hurrying drama I shall pass to greater events.

But first, I beg to introduce to the reader a very singular personage,
who is destined to play an important part in the history I am writing.




XI.


NIGHTHAWK.


It was the night of the 20th of June, 1863. Stuart's head-quarters had
been established in a house on the roadside above Middleburg.

We had been fighting all day; had returned only at nightfall: and I was
exchanging a few words with Stuart, before following the staff to rest,
when all at once a third personage, who seemed to have arisen from the
floor, stood before us.

His presence was so sudden and unexpected that I started. Then I looked
at him, curiously.

He was a man of about forty, thin, wiry, and with a nose resembling the
beak of a bird of prey. His eyes, half buried under bushy eyebrows,
twinkled like two stars. His mouth was large and smiling; his
expression exceedingly benignant. From the face I passed to the
costume. The worthy was clad in severe black, with a clerical white
cravat: wore a black beaver hat of the "stove-pipe" order; and
presented the appearance of a pious and peaceable civilian--almost that
of a clergyman, smiling benignantly upon all around him.

Stuart uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.

"Ah! Nighthawk, here you are!" he said.

And turning to me he introduced the new comer as "Mr. Nighthawk, one of
my 'private friends,' and true as steel."

Mr. Nighthawk bowed with an air of smiling respect--of benignant
sweetness.

"I am glad to know you, colonel, and hope I may have an opportunity of
being of service to you some day," he said.

The voice was low, soft, and accorded with the mild expression of the
countenance.

"Well, what news, Nighthawk?" asked Stuart; "experience tells me that
you have something of importance to communicate?"

"Ah, general!"

"Yes. You pass in the cavalry by the name of the 'man before the
battle,' for you always turn up then."

Mr. Nighthawk smiled.

"I try to give you information, general; and perhaps I have some news.
But first of my visits to Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and
Washington, where I saw many of our friends."

And in his low, quiet voice Mr. Nighthawk, who had taken a seat and
smoothed down his white cravat, proceeded to speak of his travels and
what he had seen.

The narrative astounded me. He spoke without reserve, for General
Stuart had informed him that he might do so before me; and I was
startled to find the number of private friends the South had in the
North. Mr. Nighthawk was evidently _au fait_ at his trade. He had a
perfect understanding plainly with persons of the highest political
position; and Stuart listened with the greatest interest to the
speaker, whose low voice never rose above the half-whisper by which I
had been impressed on his first opening his lips.

"So the summing up of all this," said Stuart, "that our friends are not
too hopeful?"

"They are not, general."

"They say Lee must win a great victory on the soil of Pennsylvania?"

"Yes, general. Without it there is no hope of peace, they declare."

"Well, I think they are right; and that we shall gain the victory."

Mr. Nighthawk made no reply; and Stuart reflected for some moments
without speaking. Then rousing himself:--

"I forgot," he said. "You have not given me your special information,
Nighthawk."

The worthy smiled.

"You know I am the 'man before the battle,' general?"

"Yes, go on, Nighthawk."

"I have just left General Hooker's head-quarters."

"Where are they?"

"Beyond Centreville."

"You saw him?"

"I conversed with him."

"Ah!"

"An hour, general, as the Rev. Mr. Ward, from Massachusett, of the
'Grand Union Sanitary Commission'."

And Mr. Nighthawk smiled.

"Of course I urged active movements, and General Hooker became quite
animated."

"He agreed with your views then?" said Stuart, laughing.

"Perfectly, general."

"And he intends--"

"There is the important thing. While we were conversing, General Hooker
was called for a moment out of his tent, and by accident, my eyes fell
upon an order which lay upon his desk."

"An order?"

"For two divisions of cavalry, one of infantry, and a full complement
of artillery, to advance and drive you back to the mountain."

"Ah! you saw that order?"

"I did, general; it was just ready to be sent."

"What day did it fix?"

"To-morrow, general."

"Ah, indeed! Two divisions of infantry and one of cavalry?"

Mr. Nighthawk inclined in assent.

"When did you leave Hooker's head-quarters?"

"This afternoon."

"And you came through the lines to-night?"

"Yes, general, in the usual way, by passing through the pickets. I was
on foot and nothing was easier."

Stuart knit his brows and reflected. Then he called to the orderly.

"Wake the adjutant-general, and have three couriers ready at once!"

Mr. Nighthawk arose.

"By-the-by, general," he said, "I saw Swartz, whom I have mentioned to
you."

"Yes; the best spy, you say, in the Federal army."

"I think he is, general. He is a wonderful man. He recently played a
trick upon you."

"Upon _me_?"

"At least he bore off a prisoner from you. It was a lady, captured by
Colonel Mohun, one night on the Rappahannock."

"Ah! Is it possible! So Swartz was the old countryman, driving the
wagon that morning."

"So he informed me, general."

"You are friends, then?"

"Close friends."

And Mr. Nighthawk smiled.

"We have an agreement--but that would not interest you, general. That
was really Swartz, and the old woman was the prisoner."

"Well," said Stuart, "that was a bold stroke, but the lady was handsome
enough to make friends. There is something between herself and Colonel
Mohun, is there not?"

Mr. Nighthawk glanced quickly at the face of the general. His eyes
resembled steel points, but the piercing glance at once sank.

"Something between them, general? What could have made you think that?
But here is Major McClellan. I will not detain you, general; I will
come back at daylight to receive your orders."

With these words, Mr. Nighthawk distributed a benignant smile, bowed in
a friendly manner, and disappeared, it was difficult to say how, from
the apartment. I had turned my eyes from him but an instant; when I
again looked he was gone.

"And now to work!" exclaimed Stuart. "We are going to fight tomorrow,
Surry, since the 'man before the battle' has made his appearance!"




XII.


HOW STUART FELL BACK.


At daybreak, Stuart was going at full gallop to the front.

A rapid fire of skirmishers, mingled with the dull roar of cannon,
indicated that Nighthawk had not been deceived.

All at once the sharp-shooters were seen falling back from the woods.

"Bring me a piece of artillery!" exclaimed Stuart, darting to the
front.

But the attack of the enemy swept all before it. Stuart was driven
back, and was returning doggedly, when the gun for which he had sent,
galloped up, and unlimbered in the road.

It was too late. Suddenly a solid shot screamed above us; the gun was
hurled from its carriage, and rolled shattered and useless in the wood;
the horses were seen rearing wild with terror, and trying to kick out
of the harness.

Suddenly one of them leaped into the air and fell, torn in two by a
second round shot.

"Quick work!" said Stuart, grimly.

And turning round to me, he said, pointing to a hill in rear--

"Post three pieces on that hill to rake all the roads."

The order, like the former, came too late, however. The enemy advanced
in overpowering force--drove Stuart back beyond his head-quarters,
where they captured the military satchel of the present writer--and
still rushing forward, like a hurricane, compelled the Confederate
cavalry to retire behind Goose Creek. On the high ground there, Stuart
posted his artillery; opened a rapid fire; and before this storm of
shell the Federal forces paused.

The spectacle at that moment was picturesque and imposing. The enemy's
force was evidently large. Long columns of cavalry, heavy masses of
infantry and artillery at every opening, right, left, and centre,
showed that the task of driving back Stuart was not regarded as very
easy. The sunshine darted from bayonet and sabre all along the great
line of battle--and from the heavy smoke, tinged with flame, came the
Federal shell. With their infantry, cavalry, and artillery, they seemed
determined to put an end to us. Stuart galloped to his guns, pouring a
steady fire from the lofty hill. Captain Davenant directed it in
person, and he was evidently in his right element. All his sadness had
disappeared. A cool and resolute smile lit up his features.

"All right, Davenant! Hold your ground!" exclaimed Stuart.

"I will do so, general."

"Can you keep them from crossing?"

"I can try, general."

A whirlwind of shell screamed around the two speakers. For the
hundredth time I witnessed that entire indifference to danger which was
a trait of Stuart. The fire at this moment was so terrible that I heard
an officer say:--

"General Stuart seems trying to get himself and everybody killed."

Nothing more inspiring, however, can be imagined than his appearance at
that moment. His horse, wild with terror, reared, darted, and attempted
to unseat his rider. Stuart paid no attention to him. He had no eyes or
thought for any thing but the enemy. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes
flamed--he resembled a veritable king of battle.

From Stuart my glances passed to Davenant. His coolness impressed me
deeply. While giving an order, a shell burst right in his face,
enveloping horse and rider in a cloud of smoke--but when the smoke
drifted away, he was sitting his horse unmoved, and giving the order as
quietly as before.

I have not invented this picture, reader, or fancied this character. I
had the honor to enjoy the friendship of the brave boy I describe. He
was remarkable, in an epoch crowded with remarkable characters.

Stuart held his ground for an hour on the high hills of Goose Creek,
but it then became plain that he was going to be driven back. The enemy
had felt him, and discovered that the game was in their own hands. Now
they rushed on his right, left and centre, at the same moment--cavalry,
infantry, and artillery rolling on like a torrent--crossed the stream,
charged the hill--in a moment a bitter and savage combat commenced for
the possession of the crest.

Stuart rushed toward the guns. As he reached them a cannon ball carried
off the head of a cannoneer, and his horse reared with fright, nearly
trampling on the headless trunk which spouted blood.  Davenant had
coolly drawn his sabre, but had given no order to retire.

"Move back the guns!" exclaimed Stuart.

"Is it necessary, general?" asked Davenant.

"Yes, they will be captured in five minutes!"

"It is a pity we can not remain, general. This is an excellent
position."

And he gave the order to limber up. The operation was performed amid a
hurricane of bullets, striking down the cannoneers.

Suddenly a column of Federal cavalry charged straight at the guns.
Davenant met them with his mounted men, armed with sabres, and a
stubborn combat followed. It was a hilt to hilt affair, and Davenant
was in the midst of it shouting:--

"You are fighting for your guns, boys! You promised to die by your
guns!"

The men answered with fierce shouts, and met the enemy with savage
resolution. Meanwhile, the guns had rushed at a gallop down the western
slope; a regiment came to Davenant's assistance; the fight grew
desperate, but was of no avail.

In fifteen minutes we were driven.

Driven! Do you know what that means, reader? Ask old soldiers if it is
pleasant. They will growl in reply!

We were forced back, step by step, with the enemy at our very heels. At
our backs came on the huge column, yelling and firing, mad with
triumph. Stuart the valiant, the obstinate, the unshrinking was driven!

We were forced back to Upperville, and there things looked stormy. On
the other roads, Stuart's right and left were rapidly retiring. His
centre at Upperville seemed devoted to destruction.

The enemy came on like a whirlwind, with a roaring shout. As far as the
eye could see, the great fields were dark with them. Their horse
artillery advanced at a gallop, unlimbered, and tore the retreating
columns with shot and shell.

I was ten yards from Stuart, just at the edge of the town, when a
picked body of Federal horsemen darted straight upon him.

They had evidently recognized him by his major-general's uniform and
splendid feather. Bullets hissed around him; blows were struck at him;
and for an instant I saw him in the midst of a wild huddle of enemies,
defending himself with his revolver only.

In an instant he would have been killed or captured, with his staff and
body-guard, when a resounding shout was heard.

I glanced over my shoulder, and saw the cavaliers of Hampton coming on
with drawn sabre.

Then a splendid spectacle was presented--that of Wade Hampton in one of
his great moments. This stalwart cavalier was leading his men, and in
an instant they had struck the enemy with a noise like thunder.

Suddenly a cavalier on a black horse rushed by like the wild huntsman,
and I recognized Mohun; who, spurring his animal to headlong speed,
drove straight at the leader of the Federal cavalry, almost in contact
with us.

Through a rift in the smoke I caught a glimpse of Mohun's opponent. He
was a man of low stature, but broad, heavy, and powerful. He came to
meet his adversary with the bridle of his horse resting on the animal's
neck, while both hands clutched a heavy broad-sword, raised over his
right shoulder.

I could only see that the two opponents hurled together like knights
tilting; their swords gleamed; they closed in, body to body; then the
smoke wrapped them. It was impossible to see more.




XIV.


MOSBY COMES TO STUART'S ASSISTANCE.


Sore and restive at the reverse which had come to balance his victory
of Fleetwood, Stuart bivouacked near Paris, that night, and made every
preparation to attack at dawn.

At daylight he was in the saddle, and spurred to the high ground
commanding Upperville.

All at once he checked his horse. The enemy had disappeared.

Stuart's blue eye flashed, and half an hour afterward he was advancing
at the head of his cavalry. Not a foe was visible. Pressing on through
Upperville, and over the trampled fields beyond, he continued to
advance upon Middleburg, and near that place came up with the rear of
the enemy. They showed little fight, however, and were driven beyond
the place. The gray troopers pursued them with shouts and cheers--with
which were mingled cries of rejoicing from the people of Middleburg.

An hour afterward the lines were re-established in triumph.

Stuart returned to his former head-quarters amid a drenching rain; and
this recalls an incident very honorable to the brave soldier. As night
descended, dark and stormy, Stuart gazed gloomily at the torrents of
rain falling.

"My poor fellows!" he said, with a sigh, "they will have a hard time
to-night."

Then suddenly turning to his servant, he added:--

"Spread my oil-cloth and blankets under that apple tree yonder. I will
keep them dry enough when I once get into them."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"You are not going to sleep out on such a night, general!" exclaimed a
staff officer.

"Certainly I am," was his reply, "I don't intend to fare better than my
men!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

And an hour afterward Stuart was asleep under the apple tree, with a
torrent pouring on him.

That was the act of a good officer and soldier, was it not, reader?

Before sunrise Stuart was up, and walking uneasily to and fro. As the
day wore on, he exhibited more and more impatience. All at once, at the
appearance of an officer, approaching rapidly from the front, he
uttered an exclamation of pleasure.

"Here is Mosby at last!" he said.

And he went to meet the new-comer. It was the famous chief of partisans
whose name by this time had become a terror to the enemy. He wore a
plain gray uniform, a brace of revolvers in a swaying belt, rode a
spirited gray mare, and I recognized at once the roving glance, and
satirical smile which had struck me on that night when he rescued
Farley and myself in Fauquier.

Stuart rapidly drew him into a private apartment; remained in
consultation with him for half an hour; and then came forth, with a
smile of evident satisfaction.

Mosby's intelligence must have pleased him. It at least dispelled his
gloom.

An hour afterward his head-quarters had disappeared--every thing was
sent toward the mountains. Stuart set out apparently to follow
them--but that was only a ruse to blind busybodies.

A quarter of a mile from head-quarters he leaped a fence, and doubled
back, going in the direction now of Manassas.

At daylight on the next morning he had forced his way through the Bull
Run mountain.

Two hours afterward he had made a sudden attack on the enemy's
infantry. It was the rear of Hancock's corps, which was the rear of
Hooker's army, then retiring toward the Potomac.




XV.


THE SUPPER NEAR BUCKLANDS.


Stuart's fight near Haymarket, here alluded to, was a gay affair; but I
pass over it, to a scene still gayer and decidedly more pleasant.

The fighting continued throughout the day, and at dusk a heavy rain
came on. We were all tired and hungry--the general no less so than his
staff--and when an invitation was sent to us by a gentleman near
Bucklands, to come and sup with him, we accepted it with fervor, and
hastened toward the friendly mansion.

A delightful reception awaited us. The house was full of young ladies,
passionately devoted to "rebels," and we were greeted with an
enthusiasm which passed all bounds. Delicate hands pressed our own;
bright eyes beamed upon us; rosy lips smiled; musical voices said
"welcome!"--and soon a savory odor, pervading the mansion, indicated
that the wants of the inner man were not forgotten.

An excellent supper was plainly in preparation for the bold Stuart and
his military family; and that gay and gallant cavalier, General Fitz
Lee having also been invited, the joy of the occasion was complete! The
house rang with clashing heels, rattling sabres, and clanking spurs. A
more charming sound still, however, was that made by jingling keys and
rattling china, and knives and forks. All was joy and uproar: jests,
compliments and laughter. Young ladies went and came; the odors grew
more inviting. In ten minutes the door of a large apartment opposite
the drawing-room was thrown open, and a magnificent, an enthralling
spectacle was revealed to every eye. Not to be carried away, however,
by enthusiasm, I will simply say that we saw before us a long mahogany
table covered with the most appetizing viands--broils, roasts, stews,
bread of every variety, and real coffee and tea in real silver! That
magical spectacle still dwells in my memory, reader, though the fact
may lower me in your good opinion. But alas! we are all "weak
creatures." The most poetical grow hungry. We remember our heroic
performances in the great civil war--but ask old soldiers if these
recollections are not the most vivid!

An incident connected with the repast made it especially memorable. The
servants of the house had deserted to their friends in blue; and as
there was thus a deficiency of attendants, the young ladies took their
places. Behind every chair stood a maiden--their faces wreathed with
smiles. We were shown to our seats, amid joyous laughter. The comedy
evidently afforded all engaged in it immense enjoyment--and the
cavaliers humoring the angelic maid-servants, gravely advanced toward
the table.

Stuart threw his plumed hat upon a chair, and drew near the foot of the
table. The light fell full on the ruddy face, the heavy beard and
mustache, and brilliant fighting jacket. He looked round with a gay
smile. "Was any one absent," asked the kind lady of the house, as she
saw the glance. Stuart made a low bow, and said:--

"All are here, madam!"

All at once, however, a voice at the door responded:--

"I think you are mistaken, general!"

And he who had uttered these words advanced into the apartment.

He was a young man, about twenty-three, of medium height, graceful, and
with a smile of charming good humor upon the lips. His hair was light
and curling; his eyes blue; his lips shaded by a slender mustache. His
uniform was brand new, and decorated with the braid of a lieutenant.
Yellow gauntlets reached his elbow, he wore a shiny new satchel, and in
his hand carried a brown felt hat, caught up with a golden star.

Stuart grasped his hand warmly.

"Here you are, old fellow!" he exclaimed.

And turning to the company, he added:--

"My new aid-de-camp, Lieutenant Herbert, ladies. A fop--but an old
soldier. Take that seat by Colonel Surry, Tom."

And every one sat down, and attacked the supper.

I had shaken hands with Tom Herbert, who was far from being a stranger
to me, as I had met him frequently in the drawing-rooms of Richmond
before the war. He was a fop, but the most charming of fops, when I
first knew him. He wore brilliant waistcoats, variegated scarfs,
diamond studs, and straw-colored kid gloves. In his hand he used to
flourish an ivory-headed whalebone cane, and his boots were of feminine
delicacy and dimensions. Such was Tom at that time, but the war had
"brought him out." He had rushed into the ranks, shouldered a musket,
and fought bravely. So much I knew--and I was soon to hear how he had
come to be Stuart's aid.

The supper was charming. The young girls waited on us with mock
submission and delighted smiles. Tom and I had fallen to the lot of a
little princess with golden ringlets; and Miss Katy Dare--that was her
name--acquitted herself marvellously. We supped as though we expected
to eat nothing for the next week--and then having finished, we rose,
and waited in turn on the fair waiters.

Behind every chair now stood an officer in uniform.

Bright eyes, rosy cheeks, jewelled hands, glossy curls--there was the
picture, my dear reader, which we beheld as we "waited" at that magical
supper near Buckland. When we wrapped our capes around us, and fell
asleep on the floor, the little maidens still laughed in our dreams![1]

[Footnote 1: A real incident.]




XVI.


AN HONEST FOP.


Stuart moved again at dawn. The scene of the preceding evening had
passed away like a dream. We were in the saddle, and advancing.

Riding beside Lieutenant Tom Herbert, I conversed with that worthy, and
found the tedious march beguiled by his gay and insouciant talk.

His "record" was simple. He had volunteered in the infantry, and at the
battle of Cold Harbor received a wound in the leg which disqualified
him for a foot-soldier thenceforward. His friends succeeded in
procuring for him the commission of lieutenant, and he was assigned to
duty as drill-master at a camp of instruction near Richmond.

"Here I was really in clover, old fellow," said Tom, laughingly "no
more toils, no more hardships, no bullets, or hard tack, or want of
soap. A snowy shirt every day--kid gloves if I wanted them--and the
sound of cannon at a very remote distance to lull me to repose, my boy.
Things had changed, they had indeed! I looked back with scorn on the
heavy musket and cartridge-box. I rode a splendidly groomed horse, wore
a new uniform shining with gold braid, a new cap covered with ditto,
boots which you could see your face in, a magnificent sash, and spurs
so long and martial that they made the pavement resound, and announced
my approach at the distance of a quarter of a mile! I say the pavement;
I was a good deal on the pavement--that of the fashionable Franklin
street being my favorite haunt. And as the Scripture says, it is not
good for man to be alone, I had young ladies for companions. My life
was grand, superb--none of your low military exposure, like that borne
by the miserable privates and officers in the field! I slept in town,
lived at a hotel, mounted my horse after breakfast, at the Government
stables near my lodgings and went gallantly at a gallop, to drill
infantry for an hour or two at the camp of instruction. This was a
bore, I acknowledge, but life can not be all flowers. It was soon over,
however--I galloped gallantly back--dined with all the courses at my
hotel, and then lit my cigar and strolled up Franklin. I wore my
uniform and spurs on these promenades--wild horses tearing me would not
have induced me to doff the spurs! They were so martial! They jingled
so! They gave a military and ferocious set-off to my whole appearance,
and were immensely admired by the fair sex! Regularly on coming back
from my arduous and dangerous duties at camp, I brushed my uniform, put
on my red sash, and with one hand resting with dignity on my new sword
belt, advanced to engage the enemy--on Franklin street."

Tom Herbert's laugh was contagious; his whole bearing so sunny and
_riante_ that he was charming.

"Well, how did you awake from your _dolce far niente?_" I said.

"By an effort of the will, old fellow--for I really could not stand
that. It was glorious, delightful--that war-making in town; but there
was a thorn in it. I was ashamed of myself. 'Tom Herbert you are not a
soldier, you are an impostor,' I said; 'you are young, healthy, as good
food for powder as anybody else, and yet here you are, safely laid away
in a bomb-proof, while your friends are fighting. Wake, rouse yourself,
my friend! The only way to regain the path of rectitude is to go back
to the army!"

"I said that, Surry," Tom continued, "and as I could not go back into
the infantry on account of my leg, I applied for an assignment to duty
in the cavalry. Then the war office had a time of it. I besieged the
nabobs of the red tape day and night, and they got so tired of me at
last that they told me to find a general who wanted an aid and they
would assign me."

"Well, as I was coming out of the den I met General Jeb Stuart going
in. I knew him well, and he was tenth cousin to my grandmother, which
you know counts for a great deal in Virginia."

"What's the matter, Tom?" he said.

"I want a place in the cavalry, general."

"What claim have you?"

"Shot in the leg--can't walk--am tired of drilling men in bomb-proof."

"Good!" he said. "That's the way to talk. Come in here."

"And he dragged me along. I found that one of his aids had just been
captured--he wanted another, and he applied for me. A month afterward
his application was approved--short for the war office. That was five
days ago. I got into the saddle,--pushed for the Rapidan--got to
Middleburg--and arrived in time for supper."

"That's my history, old fellow, except that I have just fallen in
love--with the young angel who waited on me at supper, Miss Katy Dare.
I opened the campaign in a corner last night--and I intend to win her,
Surry, or perish in the attempt!"




XVII.


STUART GRAZES CAPTURE.


As Tom Herbert uttered these words, a loud shout in front startled us.

Stuart had ridden on ahead of his column, through the immense deserted
camps around Wolf Run Shoals, attended only by two or three staff
officers.

As I now raised my head quickly, I saw him coming back at headlong
speed, directing his horse by means of the halter only, and hotly
pursued by a detachment of Federal cavalry, firing on him as they
pressed, with loud shouts, upon his very heels.

"Halt!" shouted the enemy. And this order was followed by "bang! bang!
bang!"

Stuart did not obey the order.

"Halt! halt!"

And a storm of bullets whistled around our heads. I had drawn my sword,
but before I could go to Stuart's assistance, Tom shot ahead of me.

He came just in time. Two of the enemy had caught up with Stuart, and
were making furious cuts at him. He parried the blow of one of the
Federal cavalry-men--and the other fell from the saddle, throwing up
his hands as he did so. Tom Herbert had placed his pistol on his
breast, and shot him through the heart.

But by this time the rest had reached us. A sabre flashed above Tom's
head; fell, cutting him out of the saddle nearly; and he would have
dropped from it, had I not passed my arm around him.

In another instant, all three would have been killed or captured. But
the firing had given the alarm. A thunder of hoofs was heard: a
squadron of our cavalry dashed over the hill: in three minutes the
enemy were flying, to escape the edge of the sabre.

Stuart led the charge, and seemed to enjoy it with the zest of a
fox-hunter. He had indeed escaped from a critical danger. He had pushed
on with a few of his staff, as I have said, to Fairfax Station, had
then stopped and slipped his bridle to allow his horse to eat some
"Yankee oats," and while standing beside the animal, had been suddenly
charged by the party of Federal cavalry, coming down on a
reconnaissance from the direction of the Court-House. So sudden was
their appearance that he was nearly "gobbled up." He had leaped on the
unbridled horse; seized the halter, and fled at full speed. The enemy
had pursued him; he had declined halting--and the reader has seen the
sequel.[1]

[Footnote 1: Real.]

Stuart pressed the party hotly toward Sanxter's, but they
escaped--nearly capturing on the way, however, a party of officers at a
blacksmith's shop. The general came back in high good humor. The chase
seemed to have delighted him.

"Bully for old Tom Herbert!" he exclaimed. "You ought to have seen him
when they were cutting at him, and spoiling his fine new satchel!"

Tom Herbert did not seem to participate in the general's mirth. He was
examining the satchel which a sabre stroke had nearly cut in two.

"What are you looking at?" asked Stuart.

"This hole, general," replied Tom, uttering a piteous sigh.

"Well, it is a trifle."

"It is a serious matter, general."

"You have lost something?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"A joint of my new flute."

And Tom Herbert's expression was so melancholy that Stuart burst into
laughter.

"You may have lost your flute, Tom," he said, leaning on his shoulder,
"but you have won your spurs at least, in the cavalry!"




XVIII.


DROWSYLAND.


At daylight, on the next morning, Stuart had crossed the Potomac into
Maryland.

He had advanced from Wolf Run Shoals to Fairfax Court House, where the
men rifled the sutlers' shops of tobacco, figs, white gloves, straw
hats, and every edible and wearable:--then the column pushed on toward
Seneca Falls, where the long wavering line of horsemen might have been
seen hour after hour crossing the moonlit river, each man, to prevent
wetting, holding above his head a shot or shell taken from the
caissons. Then the artillery was dragged through: the panting horses
trotted on, and the first beams of day saw the long column of Stuart
ready to advance on its perilous pathway to the Susquehanna, by the
route between the Federal army and Washington.

The word was given, and with the red flags fluttering, Stuart moved
toward Rockville, unopposed, save by a picket, which was driven off by
the advance guard. Without further incident, he then pushed on, and
entered the town in triumph.

A charming reception awaited him. The place was thoroughly Southern;
and the passage of the cavalry was greeted with loud cheers. Unbounded
was the delight, above all, of a seminary of young girls. Doors and
windows were crowded: bright eyes shone; red lips laughed; waving
handkerchiefs were seen everywhere; and when Stuart appeared in person,
he was received with wild rejoicing.

He bowed low, removing his plumed hat, but suddenly intelligence came
which forced him to push on. A long train of "government" wagons had
come up from Washington, and on discovering our presence, returned
toward the city at a gallop. But the ferocious rebels were after them.
Stuart led the charging column--the warlike teamsters were soon
halted--the trains became our spoil--and with countless kicking mules
driven onward in droves before them, the cavalry, escorting the
captured wagons, continued their way toward Pennsylvania.

Moving all that night, Stuart came to Westminster, where Fitz Lee, the
gallant, drove the enemy's cavalry from their camp, and the town fell
into the hands of Stuart.

Here scowls instead of smiles greeted us. Every face was glum and
forbidding, with a few exceptions. So we hastened to depart from that
"loyal" town, and were soon on the soil of Pennsylvania.

Approaching Hanover we suddenly waked up the hornets. Chambliss,
leading Stuart's advance, pushed ahead and drove in a picket. Then that
brave soldier rushed on, and seemed intent on taking the place, when I
was sent by Stuart to order him "not to go too far."

I came up with Chambliss as he was charging, but had scarcely given him
the order, when he was charged in turn by a heavy force and driven
back.

The enemy rushed on, firing volleys, and the road was full of tramping
horsemen. To avoid being carried away with them, I diverged into a
field, when all at once Stuart appeared, retreating at full gallop
before a party who were chasing him.

It was a serious matter then, but I laugh now, remembering that "good
run."

Stuart and myself retreated at a gallop, boot to boot; leaped ditches
and fences; and got off in safety.

A few moments afterward his artillery opened its thunders. From the
lofty hill, that hardy captain of the horse artillery, Breathed, roared
obstinately, driving them back. Hampton's guns on the right had opened
too--and until night, we held the heights, repulsing every advance of
the enemy.

It was truly a fine spectacle, that handsome town of Hanover as I
looked at it, on the afternoon of the fair June day. In front extended
green fields; then the church spires rose above the roofs of the town;
behind, a range of mountains formed a picturesque background. It is
true, the adjuncts of the scene were far from peaceful. The green
fields were full of blue sharp-shooters; in the suburbs were posted
batteries; down the mountain road behind, wound a long compact column
of cavalry.

Breathed fought hard that day. From the waving field of rye on the
upland his guns thundered on--in the face of that fire, the enemy could
not, or would not, advance.

So the night came on, and Stuart's great train moved.

Those wagons were a terrible encumbrance to us on the march. But Stuart
determined not to abandon them, and they were dragged on--a line
stretched to infinity!

Thenceforth, dear reader, the march was a sort of dream to me. How can
I relate my adventures--the numerous spectacles and events of the time?
I know not even now if they were events or mere dreams, seeing that,
all the long way, I was half asleep in the saddle! It was a veritable
Drowsyland that we moved through on horseback! The Dutchmen, the
"fraus," the "spreading," the sauer-kraut--the conestogas, the red
barns, the guttural voices, the strange faces--were these actual
things, or the mere fancies of a somnambulist? Was I an officer of real
cavalry making a real march; or a fanciful being, one of a long column
of phantoms?

I seem dimly to remember a pretty face, whose owner smiled on me--and a
faint memory remains of a supper which she gave me. If I am not
mistaken I was left alone in the town of Salem--hostile faces were
around me--and I was falling asleep when Hampton's cavalry came up.

I think, then, I rode on with him--having been left to direct him. That
we talked about horses, and the superiority of "blood" in animals; that
at dawn, Hampton said, "I am perishing for sleep!" and that we lay
down, side by side, near a haystack.

All that is a sort of phantasmagoria, and others were no better than
myself. Whole columns went to sleep, in the saddle, as they rode along;
and General Stuart told me afterward, that he saw a man attempt to
climb over a fence, half succeed only, and go to sleep on the top rail!

Some day I promise myself the pleasure of travelling in Pennsylvania.
It possesses all the attractions to me of a world seen in a dream!

But after that good sleep, side by side with the great Carolinian,
things looked far more real, and pushing on I again caught up with
Stuart.

He advanced steadily on Carlisle, and in the afternoon we heard
artillery from the south.

I looked at my military map, and calculated the distance. The result
was that I said:--

"General, those guns are at a place called Gettysburg on this map."

"Impossible!" was his reply. "They can not be fighting there. You are
certainly wrong."

But I was right.

Those guns were the signal of the "First day's fight at Gettysburg."




XIX


CARLISLE BY FIRELIGHT.


It can not be said that we accomplished very enormous results at
Carlisle. The enemy defended it bravely.

Stuart sent in a flag, demanding a surrender: this proposition was
politely declined; and for fear that there might possibly remain some
doubts on the subject, the Federal commander of the post, opened with
artillery upon the gray cavalry.

That was the signal for a brisk fight, and a magnificent spectacle
also.

As soon as the enemy's response to the flag of truce had been received,
Stuart advanced his sharp-shooters, replied with his artillery to their
own, and dispatched a party to destroy the extensive United States
barracks, formerly used as cantonments for recruits to the army.

In ten minutes the buildings were wrapped in flames; and the city of
Carlisle was illumined magnificently. The crimson light of the
conflagration revealed every house, the long lines of trees, and made
the delicate church spires, rising calmly aloft, resemble shafts of
rose-tinted marble.

I recall but one scene which was equally picturesque--the "doomed city"
of Fredericksburg, on the night of December 11, 1862, when the church
spires were illumined by the burning houses, as those of Carlisle were
in June, 1863.

So much for this new "Siege of Carlisle." Here my description ends. It
was nothing--a mere picture. An hour afterward Stuart ceased firing,
the conflagration died down; back into the black night sank the fair
town of Carlisle, seen then for the first and the last time by this
historian.

The guns were silent, the cavalry retired; and Stuart, accompanied by
his staff, galloped back to a great deserted house where he established
his temporary head-quarters.

On the bold face there was an expression of decided ill-humor. He had
just received a dispatch, by courier, from General Lee.

That dispatch said, "Come, I need you urgently here," and the "here" in
question, was Gettysburg, at least twenty miles distant. Now, with
worn-out men and horses, twenty miles was a serious matter. Stuart's
brows were knit, and he mused gloomily.

Suddenly he turned and addressed me.

"You were right, Surry," he said, "those guns were at Gettysburg. This
dispatch, sent this morning, reports the enemy near there."

I bowed; Stuart reflected for some moments without speaking. Then he
suddenly said:--

"I wish you would go to General Lee, and say I am coming, Surry. How is
your horse?"

"Worn-out, general, but I can get another."

"Good; tell General Lee that I will move at once to Gettysburg, with
all my force, and as rapidly as possible!"

"I will lose no time, general."

And saluting, I went out.

From the captured horses I selected the best one I could find, and
burying the spurs in his sides, set out through the black night.




XX.


THE HOUSE BETWEEN CARLISLE AND GETTYSBURG.


You know when you set out, the proverb says, but you know not when you
will arrive.

I left Carlisle, breasting the night, on the road to Gettysburg, little
thinking that a curious incident was to occur to me upon the way--an
incident closely connected with the destinies of some personages who
play prominent parts in this history.

I had ridden on for more than an hour, through the darkness, keeping a
good look-out for the enemy, whose scouting parties of cavalry were
known to be prowling around, when all at once, my horse, who was going
at full speed, struck his foot against a sharp point of rock, cropping
out from the surface.

The animal stumbled, recovered himself, and went on as rapidly as
before. A hundred yards further his speed relaxed; then he began to
limp painfully; then in spite of every application of the spur I could
not force him out of a slow limping trot.

It was truly unfortunate. I was the bearer of an important message, and
was surrounded by enemies. The only chance was to pass through them,
under shadow of the darkness; with light they would perceive me, and my
capture be certain.

A hundred yards further, and I found I must decide at once upon the
course to pursue. My horse seemed about to fall. At every stroke of the
spur he groaned piteously, and his limp had become a stagger.

I looked around through the trees, and at the distance of a quarter of
a mile I saw the glimmer of a light. To obtain another horse was
indispensable under the circumstances; and looking to see that my
revolver was loaded and capped, I forced my tottering animal toward the
mansion in which the light glimmered.

My design was simply to proceed thither, "impress" a fresh horse at the
pistol's muzzle; throw my saddle upon him; leave my own animal, and
proceed on my way.

Pushing across the fields, and dismounting to let down the fences which
my limping animal could not leap, I soon approached the light. It shone
through the window of a house of some size, with ornamental grounds
around it, and apparently the abode of a man of means.

At fifty paces from it I dismounted and tethered my horse in the shadow
of some trees. A brief reconnaissance under the circumstances was
advisable; and approaching the mansion silently, without allowing my
sabre to make any clatter, I gained the long portico in front, and went
to a window reaching down to the flooring of the verandah.

Through the half-closed venetians I could see into a large apartment,
half library, half sitting-room, as the easy chairs, mantel ornaments,
desks, and book-cases showed. On the centre-table burned a brilliant
lamp--and by its light I witnessed a spectacle which made me draw back
in the shadow of the shutter, and rivet my eyes on the interior.

Before me, in the illuminated apartment, I saw the woman whom Mohun had
captured on the Rappahannock; and beside her the personage with whom
she had escaped that morning in the wagon from Culpeper Court-House. I
could not mistake him. The large, prominent nose, the cunning eyes, the
double chin, the fat person, and the chubby hands covered with
pinchbeck rings, were still fresh in my memory.

The name of this personage had been revealed by Nighthawk. Swartz, the
secret agent, blockade-runner, and "best spy in the Federal army" was
before me.

A glance at the woman revealed no change in her appearance. Before me
was the same lithe and graceful figure, clad as before in a gray dress.
I saw the same snow-white cheeks, red lips, and large eyes burning with
a latent fire.

The two were busily engaged, and it was not difficult to understand
their occupation. The desks, drawers and chests of the apartment were
all open; and the female with rapid hands was transferring papers from
them to Swartz, who methodically packed them in a leathern valise.
These papers were no doubt important, and the aim to remove them to
some place of safety beyond the reach of the Confederates.

I gazed for some moments, without moving, upon the spectacle of these
two night-birds at their work. The countenance of the lady was
animated; her motions rapid; and from time to time she stopped to
listen. Swartz, on the contrary, was the incarnation of phlegmatic
coolness. His face wore an expression of entire equanimity; and he
seemed to indulge no fears whatever of intruders.

All at once, however, I saw his eyes glitter as they fell upon a paper
which she handed him to pack away with the rest. It was carefully
folded, but one of the folds flew open as he received it, and his eyes
were suddenly fixed intently upon the sheet.

Then his head turned quickly, and he looked at his companion. She was
bending over a drawer, and did not observe that glance. Thereupon
Swartz folded up the paper, quietly put it in his pocket, and went on
packing the valise with his former coolness; only a slight color in his
face seemed to indicate concealed emotion.

As he pocketed the paper, his companion turned round. It was plain that
she had not perceived the manoeuvre.

At the same moment I heard the sound of hoofs in rear of the house, and
the clatter of a sabre as a cavalier dismounted. A few indistinct
words, apparently addressed to a servant or orderly, followed. Then the
door of the apartment opposite the front window was thrown open, and a
man entered.

In the new-comer I recognized Mohun's adversary at Upperville--Colonel
Darke, of the United States Cavalry.




XXI.


FALLEN.


Darke entered the apartment abruptly, but his appearance seemed to
occasion no surprise. The spy retained his coolness. The lady went on
with her work. You would have said that they had expected the officer,
and recognized his step.

Their greeting was brief. Darke nodded in apparent approbation of the
task in which the man and woman were engaged, and folding his arms in
front of the marble mantel, looked on in silence.

I gazed at him with interest, and more carefully than I had been able
to do during the fight at Upperville, when the smoke soon concealed
him. Let me draw his outline. Of all the human beings whom I
encountered in the war, this one's character and career were perhaps
the most remarkable. Were I writing a romance, I should be tempted to
call him the real hero of this volume.

He was a man approaching middle age; low in stature, but broad,
muscular, and powerful. He was clad in the full-dress uniform of a
colonel of the United States Cavalry, wore boots reaching to the knee
and decorated with large spurs; and his arms were an immense sabre and
a brace of revolvers in black leather holsters attached to his belt.
His face was swarthy, swollen by excess in drink apparently, and half
covered by a shaggy beard and mustache as black as night. The eyes were
deep-set, and wary: the poise of the head upon the shoulders, haughty;
the expression of the entire countenance cold, phlegmatic, grim.

Such was this man, upon the surface. But there was something more about
him which irresistibly attracted attention, and aroused speculation. At
the first glance, you set him down as a common-place ruffian, the prey
of every brutal passion. At the second glance, you began to doubt
whether he was a mere vulgar adventurer--you could see, at least, that
this man was not of low birth. There was in his bearing an indefinable
something which indicated that he had "seen better days." The surface
of the fabric was foul and defiled, but the texture beneath was of
velvet, not "hodden gray."

"That brute," I thought, "was once a gentleman, and crime or drink has
destroyed him!"

Darke continued to gaze at Swartz and the gray woman as they plied
their busy work; and once or twice be pointed to drawers which they had
failed to open. These directions were promptly obeyed, and the work
went on. The few words which the parties uttered came in an indistinct
murmur only through the window at which I was stationed.

Such was the scene within the mansion, upon which I gazed with strong
curiosity: suddenly the neigh of a horse was heard in a clump of woods
beyond the front gate; and Darke quickly raised his head, and then came
out to the portico.

He passed within three feet of me, but did not perceive me, as I was
concealed by one of the open venetians. Then he paused and listened.
The wind sighed in the foliage, and a distant watch-dog was
barking--that was all. No other noise disturbed the silence of the July
night.

Darke remained upon the portico for some moments, listening
attentively. Then turned and re-entered the house. Through the window,
I could see him make his appearance again in the illuminated apartment.
In response to the glances of inquiry from his companions he made a
gesture only, but that said plainly:--

"Nothing is stirring. You can go on with your work."

In this, however, he was mistaken. Darke had scarcely re-entered the
apartment, when I discerned the hoof-strokes of horses beyond the front
gate--then the animals were heard leaping the low fence--a moment
afterward two figures came on at full gallop, threw themselves from the
saddle, and rapidly approached the house.

The rattle of a sabre which one of them wore attracted Darke's
attention. He reached the door of the room at a single bound--but at
the same instant the new comers rushed by me, and burst in.

As they passed I recognized them. One was Mohun, the other Nighthawk.




XXII.


DARKE AND MOHUN.


What followed was instantaneous.

The adversaries were face to face, and each drew his pistol and fired
at the same moment.

Neither was struck: they drew their swords; and, through the cloud of
smoke filling the apartment, I could see Darke and Mohun close in, in a
hand to hand encounter.

They were both excellent swordsmen, and the struggle was passionate and
terrible. Mohun's movements were those of the tiger springing upon his
prey; but Darke met the attack with a coolness and phlegm which
indicated unshrinking nerve; his expression seemed, even, to indicate
that crossing swords with his adversary gave the swarthy giant extreme
pleasure. His face glowed, and a flash darted from beneath the shaggy
eyebrows. I could see him smile; but the smile was strange.

From the adversaries my glance passed quickly to the gray woman. She
was leaning against the wall, and exhibited no emotion whatever; but
the lurid blaze in the great dark eyes, as she looked at Mohun, clearly
indicated that a storm was raging in her bosom. Opposite the woman
stood Nighthawk--motionless, but grasping a pistol. As to Swartz, that
worthy had profited by an open window near, and had glided through it
and disappeared.

To return to the combatants. The passionate encounter absorbed all my
attention. Mohun and Darke were cutting at each other furiously. They
seemed equally matched, and the result was doubtful. One thing only
seemed certain--that in a few minutes one of the adversaries would be
dead.

Such was the situation of affairs when shots were heard without, the
clash of sabres followed, and the door behind Darke was burst open
violently by his orderly, who rushed in, exclaiming:--

"Look out, colonel! The enemy are on you!"

As he uttered these words, the man drew a revolver and aimed at Mohun's
breast.

Before he could fire, however, an explosion was heard, and I saw the
man suddenly drop his weapon, which went off as it escaped from his
nerveless grasp. Then he threw up his hands, reeled, took two uncertain
steps backward, and fell at full length on the floor. Nighthawk had
shot him through the heart.

All this had taken place in far less time than it has taken to write
it. I had made violent efforts to break through the window; and finding
this impossible, now ran to the door and burst into the apartment.

The singular scene was to have as singular a denouement.

Darke evidently realized the great danger which he ran, for the house
was now surrounded, nearly, and his capture was imminent.

From the black eyes shot a glare of defiance, and advancing upon Mohun,
he delivered a blow at him which nearly shattered his opponent's sword.
Mohun struck in turn, aiming a furious cut at Darke; but as he did so,
he stumbled over the dead orderly, and nearly fell. For the moment he
was at Darke's mercy.

I rushed forward, sword in hand, to ward off the mortal stroke which I
was certain his adversary would deliver, but my intervention was
useless.

Darke recoiled from his stumbling adversary, instead of striking at
him. I could scarcely believe my own eyes, but the fact was
unmistakable.

Then the Federal colonel looked around, and his eye fell upon the
woman.

"Kill him!" she said, coldly. "Do not mind me!--only kill him!"

"No!" growled Darke. And seizing the woman in his arms:--

"They shall not take you prisoner!" he said.

And the swarthy Hercules passed through the door in rear at a single
bound, bearing off the woman like a feather.

A moment afterward the hoof-strokes of a horse were heard.

Darke had disappeared with the gray woman.

I turned to look at Mohun. He was standing perfectly motionless, and
looking after Darke with a strange expression of gloom and
astonishment.

"You are unhurt!" I said.

He turned quickly, and held out his hand.

"Slightly wounded--but I am not thinking of that."

"Of what, then?"

"I remember only one thing--that this man might have buried his sword
in my heart, and did not."

An hour afterward the skirmish was over; I had explained my presence at
the house to Mohun, parted with him, promising to see him soon again;
and, mounted upon a fresh animal which Mohun presented to me from among
those captured, was once more on my way to Gettysburg.

It was hard to realize that the scenes of the night were actual
occurrences. They were more like dreams than realities.




XXIII.


GETTYSBURG.


I came in sight of Gettysburg at sunrise.

Gettysburg!--name instinct with so many tears, with so much mourning,
with those sobs which tear their way from the human heart as the lava
makes its way from the womb of the volcano!

There are words in the world's history whose very sound is like a sigh
or a groan; places which are branded "accursed" by the moaning lips of
mothers, wives, sisters, and orphans. Shadowy figures, gigantic and
draped in mourning, seem to hover above these spots: skeleton arms with
bony fingers point to the soil beneath, crowded with graves: from the
eyes, dim and hollow, glare unutterable things: and the grin of the
fleshless lips is the gibbering mirth of the corpse torn from its
cerements, and erect, as though the last trump had sounded, and the
dead had arisen. No fresh flowers bloom in these dreary spots; no merry
birds twitter there; no streamlets lapse sweetly with musical murmurs
beneath the waterflags or the drooping boughs of trees. See! the
blighted and withered plants are like the deadly nightshade--true
flowers of war, blooming, or trying to bloom, on graves! Hear the
voices of the few birds--they are sad and discordant! See the
trees--they are gnarled, spectral, and torn by cannon-balls. Listen!
The stream yonder is not limpid and mirthful like other streams. You
would say that it is sighing as it steals away, soiled and ashamed. The
images it has mirrored arouse its horror and make it sad. The serene
surface has not given back the bright forms of children, laughing and
gathering the summer flowers on its banks. As it sneaks like a culprit
through the scarred fields of battle, it washes bare the bones of the
dead in crumbling uniforms--bringing, stark and staring, to the upper
air once more, the blanched skeleton and the grinning skull.

Names of woe, at whose utterance the heart shudders, the blood curdles!
Accursed localities where the traveller draws back, turning away in
horror! All the world is dotted with them; everywhere they make the
sunlight black. Among them, none is gloomier, or instinct with a more
nameless horror, than the once insignificant village of Gettysburg.

I reached it on the morning of July 2, 1863.

The immense drama was in full progress. The adversaries had clashed
together. Riding across the extensive fields north of the town, I saw
the traces of the combat of the preceding day--and among the dying I
remember still a poor Federal soldier, who looked at me with his stony
and half-glazed eye as I passed; he was an enemy, but he was dying and
I pitied him.

A few words will describe the situation of affairs at that moment.

Lee had pressed on northward through the valley of the Cumberland, when
news came that General Meade, who had succeeded Hooker, was advancing
to deliver battle to the invaders.

At that intelligence Lee arrested his march. Meade menaced his
communications, and it was necessary to check him. Hill's corps was,
therefore, sent across the South Mountain, toward Gettysburg; Ewell,
who had reached York, was ordered back; and Lee made his preparations
to fight his adversary as soon as he appeared.

The columns encountered each other in the neighborhood of
Gettysburg--a great centre toward which a number of roads converge,
like the spokes of a wheel toward the hub.

The head of Hill's column struck the head of Reynolds's--then the
thunder began.

The day and scene were lovely. On the waving wheat-fields and the
forests in full foliage, the light of a summer sun fell in flashing
splendor. A slight rain had fallen; the wind was gently blowing; and
the leaves and golden grain were covered with drops which the sunshine
changed to diamonds. Over the exquisite landscape drooped a beautiful
rainbow.

Soon blood had replaced the raindrops, and the bright bow spanning the
sky was hidden by lurid smoke, streaming aloft from burning buildings,
set on fire by shell.

I give but a few words to this first struggle, which I did not witness.

The Federal forces rushed forward, exclaiming:---

"We have come to stay!"

"And a very large portion of them," said one of their officers, General
Doubleday, "never left that ground!"

Alas! many thousands in gray, too, "came to stay."

Hill was hard pressed and sent for assistance. Suddenly it appeared
from the woods on his left, where Ewell's bayonets were seen, coming
back from the Susquehanna.

Rodes, the head of Ewell's corps, formed line and threw himself into
the action.

Early came up on the left; Rodes charged and broke through the Federal
centre. Gordon, commanding a brigade then, closed in on their right
flank, and the battle was decided.

The great blue crescent was shattered, and gave way. The Confederates
pressed on, and the Federal army became a rabble. They retreated
pellmell through Gettysburg, toward Cemetery Hill, leaving their
battle-flags and five thousand prisoners in our hands.

Such was the first day's fight at Gettysburg. Lee's head of column had
struck Meade's; each had rapidly been reinforced; the affair became a
battle, and the Federal forces were completely defeated.

That was the turning point of the campaign. If this success had only
been followed up--if we could only have seized upon and occupied
Cemetery Hill!

Then General Meade would have been compelled to retire upon Westminster
and Washington. He would doubtless have fought somewhere, but it is a
terrible thing to have an army flushed with victory "after" you!

Cemetery Range was not seized that night. When the sun rose the next
morning, the golden moment had passed. General Meade was ready.

From right to left, as far as the eye could reach, the heights bristled
with blue infantry and artillery. From every point on the ridge waved
the enemy's battle flags. From the muzzles of his bronze war-dogs,
Meade sent his defiant challenge to his adversary to attack him.

"Come on!" the Federal artillery seemed to mutter fiercely.

And Lee's guns from the ridge opposite thundered grimly in reply,

"We are coming!"




XXIV.


THE ARMY.


Alas!--

That is the word which rises to the lips of every Southerner, above all
to every Virginian, who attempts to describe this terrible battle of
Gettysburg.

The cheeks flush, the voice falters, and something like a fiery mist
blinds the eyes. What comes back to the memory of the old soldiers who
saw that fight is a great picture of heroic assaults, ending in
frightful carnage only,--of charges such as the world has rarely seen,
made in vain,--of furious onslaughts, the only result of which was to
strew those fatal fields with the dead bodies of the flower of the
Southern race.

And we were so near succeeding! Twice the enemy staggered; and one more
blow--only one more! promised the South a complete victory!

When Longstreet attacked Round Top Hill, driving the enemy back to
their inner line, victory seemed within our very grasp--but we could
not snatch it. The enemy acknowledge that, and it is one of their own
poets who declares that

"The century reeled When Longstreet paused on the slope of the hill."

Pickett stormed Cemetery Heights, and wanted only support. Five
thousand men at his back would have given him victory.

There is a name for the battle of Gettysburg which exactly suits
it--"The Great Graze!"

You must go to the histories, reader, for a detailed account of this
battle. I have not the heart to write it, and aim to give you a few
scenes only. In my hasty memoirs I can touch only upon the salient
points, and make the general picture.

The ground on which the battle was fought, is familiar to many
thousands. A few words will describe it. Cemetery Ridge, where General
Meade had taken up his position, is a range of hills running northward
toward Gettysburg, within a mile of which place it bends off to the
right, terminating in a lofty and rock-bound crest.

This crest was Meade's right. His line stretched away southward then,
and ended at Round Top Hill, the southern extremity of the range, about
four miles distant.  From one end to the other of the extensive range,
bayonets glistened, and the muzzles of cannon grinned defiance.

Opposite the Cemetery Range was a lower line of hills, called Seminary
Range. Upon this Lee was posted, Ewell holding his left, A. P. Hill his
centre, and Longstreet his right.

Between the two armies stretched a valley, waving with grain and dotted
with fruit-trees, through which ran the Emmettsburg road, on the
western side of a small stream. The golden grain waved gently; the
limpid water lapsed away beneath grass and flowers; the birds were
singing; the sun was shining--it was the strangest of all scenes for a
bloody conflict.

I rode along the line of battle, and curiously scanned the features of
the landscape. There is a frightful interest connected with ground
which is soon going to become the arena of a great combat. A glance
told me that the enemy's position was much the stronger of the two.
Would Lee attack it?

From the landscape I turned to look at the army. Never had I seen them
so joyous. It would be impossible to convey any idea of the afflatus
which buoyed them up. Every man's veins seemed to run with quicksilver,
instead of blood. Every cheek was glowing. Every eye flashed with
superb joy and defiance. You would have supposed, indeed, that the
troops were under the effect of champagne or laughing gas. "I never
even imagined such courage," said a Federal officer afterward; "your
men seemed to be drunk with victory when they charged us!"

That was scarce an exaggeration. Already on the morning of battle they
presented this appearance. Lying down in line of battle, they laughed,
jested, sang, and resembled children enjoying a holiday. On the faces
of bearded veterans and boy-soldiers alike was a splendid pride. The
victories of Fredericksburg, and Chancellorsville had electrified the
troops. They thought little of a foe who could be so easily driven;
they looked forward to victory as a foregone conclusion--alas! they did
not remember that they held the heights at Fredericksburg; and that
Meade on Cemetery Hill was an adversary very different from Hooker in
the Spottsylvania Wilderness!

Such was the spectacle which I witnessed, when after delivering my
message to General Lee, I rode along the Southern line. I think the
great commander shared in some measure the sentiment of his troops. His
bearing was collected; in his eye you could read no trace of
excitement; the lips covered by the gray mustache were firm and
composed; and he greeted me with quiet courtesy:--but in the cheeks of
the great soldier a ruddy glow seemed to betray anticipated victory.

I confess I shared the general sentiment. That strange intoxication was
contagious, and I was drunk like the rest with the thought of triumph.
That triumph would open to us the gates of Washington and bring peace.
The North scarcely denied that then--though they may deny it to-day.
The whole country was completely weary of the war. There seemed to be
no hope of compelling the South to return to the Union. A victory over
Meade, opening the whole North to Lee, promised a treaty of peace. The
day had arrived, apparently when the army of Northern Virginia, musket
in hand, was about to dictate the terms of that document.

"Lee has only to slip the leash," I thought, as I gazed at the army,
"and these war-dogs will tear down their prey!"

Alas! they tore it, but were torn too! they did all at Gettysburg that
any troops could do.

What was impossible, was beyond even their strength.




CHAPTER XXV.


THE WRESTLE FOR ROUND TOP HILL.


From the morning of the second of July to the evening of the third, the
fields south of Gettysburg were one great scene of smoke, dust, uproar,
blood; of columns advancing and returning; cannon thundering; men
shouting, yelling, cheering, and dying; blue mingled with gray in
savage and unrelenting battle.

In that smoke-cloud, with the ears deafened, you saw or heard little
distinctly. But above the confused struggle rose two great incidents,
which on successive days decided every thing.

The first of them was Longstreet's assault on the enemy's left wing, in
front of Round Top Hill.

Lee had displayed excellent soldiership in determining upon this
movement, and it will be seen that it came within an inch of success.
Standing upon Seminary Range, near his centre, he had reconnoitered
General Meade's position through his field-glass, with great attention;
and this examination revealed the fact that the Federal line was
projected forward in a salient in front of Round Top Hill, a jagged and
almost inaccessible peak, near which rested General Meade's extreme
left.

If this weak point could be carried, "it appeared" said Lee, "that its
possession would give facilities for assailing and carrying the more
elevated ground and crest beyond."

As to the importance of that crest--namely Round Top Hill--hear General
Meade:--

"If they had succeeded in occupying that, it would have prevented me
from holding any of the ground which I subsequently held to the last."

Lee determined to attack the salient, making at the same time a heavy
demonstration--or a real assault--upon the Federal right, opposite
Ewell.

All his preparations were not made until the afternoon. Then suddenly,
Longstreet's artillery opened its thunders.

At that moment the spectacle was grand. The heights, the slopes, the
fields, and the rugged crest opposite, were enveloped in smoke and fire
from the bursting shell. The sombre roar ascended like the bellowing of
a thousand bulls, leaped back from the rocks, and rolled away, in wild
echoes through the hills. All the furies seemed let loose, and yet this
was only the preface.

At four in the evening the thunder dropped to silence, and along the
lines of Hood and McLaws, which formed the charging column, ran a wild
cheer, which must have reached the ears of the enemy opposite.

That cheer told both sides that the moment had come. The word was
given, and Longstreet hurled his column at the blue line occupying a
peach-orchard in his front.

The blow was aimed straight at the salient in the Federal line, and in
spite of a brave resistance it was swept away; McLaws advancing rapidly
toward the high ground in its rear. At one blow the whole left wing of
General Meade's army seemed thrown into irretrievable confusion, and
Hood pressing forward on McLaws's right, hastened to seize upon the
famous Round Top, from which he would be able to hurl his thunder upon
the flank and rear of the Federal line of battle.

The scene, like the conflict which now took place, was wild and
singular. The crest of Round Top Hill was a mass of rock, which rose
abruptly from the rough and jagged slope. It was unoccupied--for the
sudden overthrow of the force in front of it had not been
anticipated--and one headlong rush on the part of Hood alone seemed
necessary to give him possession of the real key of the whole position.

Hood saw that at a glance, and dashed up the slope at the head of his
men. It was scarcely an order of battle which his troops presented at
this moment. But one thought burned in every heart. The men swarmed up
the hill-side; the woods gave back the rolling thunder of their cheers;
already the Southern battle-flags carried by the foremost were
fluttering on the crest.

The mass rushed toward the red flags; for an instant the gray figures
were seen erect upon the summit--then a sudden crash of musketry
resounded--and a mad struggle began with a Federal brigade which had
hastened to the spot.

This force, it is said, was hurried up by General Warren, who finding
the Federal signal-officers about to retire, ordered them, to remain
and continue waving their flags to the last; and then, seizing on the
first brigade he could find, rushed them up the slope to the crest.

They arrived just in time. Hood's men were swarming on the crest. A
loud cheer arose, but all at once they found themselves face to face
with a line of bayonets, while beyond were seen confused and struggling
masses, dragging up cannon.

What followed was a savage grapple rather than an ordinary conflict.
Only a small part of Hood's force had reached the summit, and this was
assailed by a whole brigade. The fight was indescribable. All that the
eye could make out for some moments in the dust and smoke, was a
confused mass of men clutching each other, dealing blows with the
butt-ends of muskets, or fencing with bayonets--men in blue and gray,
wrestling, cursing, falling, and dying, in the midst of the crash of
small-arms, and the thunder of cannon, which clothed the crest in
flame.

When the smoke drifted, it was seen that the Confederates had been
repulsed, and driven from the hill. Hood was falling back slowly, like
a wounded tiger, who glares at the huntsman and defies him to the last.
The slope was strewed with some of his bravest. The Federal cannon
roaring on Round Top Hill, seemed to be laughing hoarsely.

McLaws, too, had fallen back after nearly seizing upon the crest in his
front. The enemy had quickly re-enforced their left, with brigades,
divisions, and corps, and the Confederates had been hotly assailed in
their turn. As night descended, the whole Southern line fell back. The
pallid moonlight shone on the upturned faces of the innumerable dead.

Longstreet sat on a fence, cutting a stick with his penknife, when an
English officer near him exclaimed:--

"I would not have missed this for any thing?"

Longstreet, laughed grimly.

"I would like to have missed it very much!"[1] he said.

[Footnote 1: His words.]




XXVI.


THE CHARGE OF THE VIRGINIANS.


Lee's great blow at the enemy's left had failed. He had thrown his
entire right wing, under Longstreet, against it. The enemy had been
driven; victory seemed achieved;--but suddenly the blue lines had
rallied, they had returned to the struggle, their huge masses had
rolled forward, thrown Longstreet back in turn, and now the pale moon
looked down on the battlefield where some of the bravest souls of the
South had poured out their blood in vain.

Lee had accomplished nothing, and one of his great corps was panting
and bleeding. It was not shattered or even shaken. The iron fibre would
stand any thing almost. But the sombre result remained--Longstreet had
attacked and had been repulsed.

What course would Lee now pursue? Would he retire?

Retire? The army of Northern Virginia lose heart at a mere rebuff?
Lee's veteran army give up the great invasion, after a mere repulse?
Troops and commander alike shrunk from the very thought. One more trial
of arms--something--an attack somewhere--not _a retreat_!

That was the spirit of the army on the night of the second of July.

A flanking movement to draw the enemy out of their works, or a second
attack remained.

Lee determined to attack.

Longstreet and Ewell had accomplished nothing by assailing the right
and left of the enemy. Lee resolved now to throw a column against its
centre--to split the stubborn obstacle, and pour into the gap with the
whole army, when all would be over.

That was hazardous, you will say perhaps to-day, reader. And you have
this immense argument to advance, that it failed. Ah! these arguments
_after the event_! they are so fatal, and so very easy.

Right or wrong, Lee resolved to make the attack; and on the third of
July he carried out his resolution.

If the writer of the South shrinks from describing the bloody repulse
of Longstreet, much more gloomy is the task of painting that last
charge at Gettysburg. It is one of those scenes which Lee's old
soldiers approach with repugnance. That thunder of the guns which comes
back to memory seems to issue, hollow and lugubrious, from a thousand
tombs.

Let us pass over that tragedy rapidly. It must be touched on in these
memoirs--but I leave it soon.

It is the third of July, 1863. Lee's line of battle, stretching along
the crest of Seminary Ridge, awaits the signal for a new conflict with
a carelessness as great as on the preceding day. The infantry are
laughing, jesting, cooking their rations, and smoking their pipes. The
ragged cannoneers, with flashing eyes, smiling lips, and faces
blackened with powder, are standing in groups, or lying down around the
pieces of artillery. Near the centre of the line a gray-headed officer,
in plain uniform, and entirely unattended, has dismounted, and is
reconnoitring the Federal position through a pair of field-glasses.

It is Lee, and he is looking toward Cemetery Heights, the Mount St.
Jean of the new Waterloo--on whose slopes the immense conflict is going
to be decided.

Lee gazes for some moments through his glasses at the long range
bristling with bayonets. Not a muscle moves; he resembles a statue.
Then he lowers the glasses, closes them thoughtfully, and his calm
glance passes along the lines of his army. You would say that this
glance penetrates the forest; that he sees his old soldiers, gay,
unshrinking, unmoved by the reverses of Longstreet, and believing in
themselves and in him! The blood of the soldier responds to that
thought. The face of the great commander suddenly flushes. He summons a
staff officer and utters a few words in calm and measured tones. The
order is given. The grand assault is about to begin.

That assault is going to be one of the most desperate in all history.
Longstreet's has been fierce--this will be mad and full of headlong
fury. At Round Top blood flowed--here the earth is going to be soaked
with it. Gettysburg is to witness a charge recalling that of the six
hundred horsemen at Balaklava. Each soldier will feel that the fate of
the South depends on him, perhaps. If the wedge splits the tough grain,
cracking it from end to end, the axe will enter after it--the work will
be finished--the red flag of the South will float in triumph over a
last and decisive field.

Pickett's division of Virginia troops has been selected for the
hazardous venture, and they prepare for the ordeal in the midst of a
profound silence. Since the morning scarce a gunshot has been heard.
Now and then only, a single cannon, like a signal-gun, sends its growl
through the hills.

Those two tigers, the army of Northern Virginia and the army of the
Potomac, are crouching, and about to spring.

At one o'clock the moment seems to have arrived. Along the whole front
of Hill and Longstreet, the Southern artillery all at once bursts
forth. One hundred and forty-five cannon send their threatening thunder
across the peaceful valley. From Cemetery Heights eighty pieces reply
to them; and for more than an hour these two hundred and twenty-five
cannon tear the air with their harsh roar, hurled back in crash after
crash from the rocky ramparts. That thunder is the most terrible yet
heard in the war. It stirs the coolest veterans. General Hancock, the
composed and unexcitable soldier, is going to say of it, "Their
artillery fire was most terrific...it was the most terrific cannonade
I ever witnessed, and the most prolonged.... It was a most terrific and
appalling cannonade, one possibly hardly ever equalled."

For nearly two hours Lee continues this "terrific" fire. The Federal
guns reply--shot and shell crossing each other; racing across the blue
sky; battering the rocks; or bursting in showers of iron fragments.

Suddenly the Federal fire slackens, and then ceases. Their ammunition
has run low,[1] or they are silenced by the Southern fire. Lee's guns
also cease firing. The hour has come.

[Footnote: This was the real reason.]

The Virginians, under Pickett, form in double line in the edge of the
woods, where Lee's centre is posted. These men are ragged and
travel-worn, but their bayonets and gun-barrels shine like silver. From
the steel hedge, as the men move, dart lightnings.

From the Cemetery Heights the enemy watch that ominous apparition--the
gray line of Virginians drawn up for the charge.

At the word, they move out, shoulder to shoulder, at common time.
Descending the slope, they enter on the valley, and move steadily
toward the heights.

The advance of the column, with its battle-flags floating proudly, and
its ranks closed up and dressed with the precision of troops on parade,
is a magnificent spectacle. Old soldiers, hardened in the fires of
battle, and not given to emotion, lean forward watching the advance of
the Virginians with fiery eyes. You would say, from the fierce clutch
of the gaunt hands on the muskets, that they wish to follow; and many
wish that.

The column is midway the valley, and beginning to move more rapidly,
when suddenly the Federal artillery opens. The ranks are swept by round
shot, shell, and canister. Bloody gaps appear, but the line closes up,
and continues to advance. The fire of the Federal artillery redoubles.
All the demons of the pit seem howling, roaring, yelling, and
screaming. The assaulting column is torn by a whirlwind of canister,
before which men fall in heaps mangled, streaming with blood, their
bosoms torn to pieces, their hands clutching the grass, their teeth
biting the earth. The ranks, however, close up as before, and the
Virginians continue to advance.

From common time, they have passed to quick time--now they march at the
double-quick. That is to say, they run. They have reached the slope;
the enemy's breastworks are right before them; and they dash at them
with wild cheers.

They are still three hundred yards from the Federal works, when the
real conflict commences, to which the cannonade was but child's play.
Artillery has thundered, but something more deadly succeeds it--the
sudden crash of musketry. From behind a stone wall the Federal infantry
rise up and pour a galling fire into the charging column. It has been
accompanied to this moment by a body of other troops, but those troops
now disappear, like dry leaves swept off by the wind. The Virginians
still advance.

Amid a concentrated fire of infantry and artillery, in their front and
on both flanks, they pass over the ground between themselves and the
enemy; ascend the slope; rush headlong at the breastworks; storm them;
strike their bayonets into the enemy, who recoil before them, and a
wild cheer rises, making the blood leap in the veins of a hundred
thousand men.

The Federal works are carried, and the troops are wild with enthusiasm.
With a thunder of cheers they press upon the flying enemy toward the
crest.

Alas! as the smoke drifts, they see what is enough to dishearten the
bravest. They have stormed the first line of works only! Beyond, is
another and a stronger line still. Behind it swarm the heavy reserves
of the enemy, ready for the death-struggle. But the column can not
pause. It is "do or die." In their faces are thrust the muzzles of
muskets spouting flame. Whole ranks go down in the fire. The survivors
close up, utter a fierce cheer, and rush straight at the second tier of
works.

Then is seen a spectacle which will long be remembered with a throb of
the heart by many. The thinned ranks of the Virginians are advancing,
unmoved, into the very jaws of death. They go forward--and are
annihilated. At every step death meets them. The furious fire of the
enemy, on both flanks and in their front, hurls them back, mangled and
dying. The brave Garnett is killed while leading on his men. Kemper is
lying on the earth maimed for life. Armistead is mortally wounded at
the moment when he leaps upon the breastworks:--he waves his hat on the
point of his sword, and staggers, and falls. Of fifteen field officers,
fourteen have fallen. Three-fourths of the men are dead, wounded, or
prisoners. The Federal infantry has closed in on the flanks and rear of
the Virginians--whole corps assault the handful--the little band is
enveloped, and cut off from succor--they turn and face the enemy,
bayonet to bayonet, and die.

When the smoke drifts away, all is seen to be over. It is a panting,
staggering, bleeding remnant only of the brave division that is coming
back so slowly yonder. They are swept from the fatal hill--pursued by
yells, cheers, cannon-shot, musket-balls, and canister. As they
doggedly retire before the howling hurricane, the wounded are seen to
stagger and fall. Over the dead and dying sweeps the canister. Amid
volleys of musketry and the roar of cannon, all but a handful of
Pickett's Virginians pass into eternity.




CHAPTER XXVII.


THE GREAT MOMENT OF A GREAT LIFE.


I was gazing gloomily at the field covered with detachments limping
back amid a great whirlwind of shell, when a mounted officer rode out
of the smoke. In his right hand he carried his drawn sword--his left
arm was thrown around a wounded boy whom he supported on the pommel of
his saddle.

In the cavalier I recognized General Davenant, whom I had seen near the
village of Paris, and who was now personally known to me. In the boy
I recognized the urchin, Charley, with the braided jacket and jaunty
cap.

I spurred toward him.

"Your son--!" I said, and I pointed to the boy.

"He is dying I think, colonel!" was the reply in a hoarse voice. The
gray mustache trembled, and the eye of the father rested, moist but
fiery, on the boy.

"Such a child!" I said. "Could _he_ have gone into the charge?"

"I could not prevent him!" came, in a groan, almost from the old
cavalier. "I forbade him, but he got a musket somewhere, and went over
the breastworks with the rest. I saw him then for the first time, and
heard him laugh and cheer. A moment afterward he was shot--I caught and
raised him up, and I have ridden back through the fire, trying to
shield him--but he is dying! Look! his wound is mortal, I think--and so
young--a mere child--never was any one braver than my poor child--!"

A groan followed the words: and bending down the old cavalier kissed
the pale cheek of the boy.

I made no reply; something seemed to choke me.

Suddenly a grave voice uttered some words within a few paces of us, and
I turned quickly. It was General Lee--riding calmly amid the smoke, and
re-forming the stragglers. Never have I seen a human being more
composed.

General Davenant wheeled and saluted.

"We are cut to pieces, general!" he said, with something like a fiery
tear in his eye. "We did our best, and we drove them!--but were not
supported. My brigade--my brave old brigade is gone! This is my boy--I
brought him out--but he is dying too!"

The hoarse tones and fiery tears of the old cavalier made my heart
beat. I could see a quick flush rise to the face of General Lee. He
looked at the pale face of the boy, over which the disordered curls
fell, with a glance of inexpressible sympathy and sweetness. Then
stretching out his hand, he pressed the hand of General Davenant, and
said in his deep grave voice:--

"This has been a sad day for us, general--a sad day, but we cannot
expect always to gain victories. Never mind--all this has been _my_
fault. It is _I_ who have lost this fight, and you must help me out of
it in the best way you can."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

As he uttered these measured words, General Lee saluted and disappeared
in the smoke.

General Davenant followed, bearing the wounded boy still upon his
saddle.

Ten minutes afterward, I was riding to find General Stuart, who had
sent me with a message just before the charge.

I had gloomy news for him. The battle of Gettysburg was lost.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


UNSHAKEN.


The sun was sinking red and baleful, when I reached Stuart, beyond the
left wing of the army.

From the afternoon of the second to this night of the third of July,
the cavalry had met that of the enemy in stubborn conflict. The columns
had hurled together. General Hampton had been severely wounded in a
hand-to-hand encounter with sabres, while leading his men. Stuart had
narrowly escaped death or capture in the melee; and Fitz Lee had fought
hilt to hilt with the Federal horsemen, repulsing them, and coming back
laughing, as was his wont.

All these scenes I have passed over, however. The greater drama
absorbed me. The gray horsemen were fighting heroically; but what was
that encounter of sabres, when the fate of Gettysburg was being decided
at Cemetery Hill?

So I pass over all that, and hasten on now to the sequel. Memory finds
few scenes to attract it in the days that followed Gettysburg.

But I beg the reader to observe that I should have no scenes of a
humiliating character to draw. Never was army less "whipped" than that
of Lee after this fight! Do you doubt that statement, reader? Do you
think that the Southerners were a disordered rabble, flying before the
Federal bayonets? a flock of panic-stricken sheep, hurrying back to the
Potomac, with the bay of the Federal war-dogs in their ears?

That idea--entertained by a number of our Northern friends--is entirely
fanciful.

Lee's army was not even shaken. It was fagged, hungry, out of
ammunition, and it retired,--but not until it had remained for
twenty-four hours in line of battle in front of the enemy, perfectly
careless of, even inviting, attack.

"I should have liked nothing better than to have been attacked," said
Longstreet, "and have no doubt I should have given those who tried, as
bad a reception as Pickett received."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

It may be said that this is the boast of the defeated side. But General
Meade, when interrogated before the war committee, stated the exact
facts.

"My opinion is now," said Meade "that General Lee evacuated that
position, not from the fear that he would be dislodged from it by any
active operations on my part, but that he was fearful a force would be
sent to Harper's Ferry to cut off his communications.... That was what
caused him to retire."

"Did you discover," asked one of the committee, "after the battle of
Gettysburg, any symptoms of demoralization in Lee's army?"

"No, sir," was General Meade's reply, "I saw nothing of that kind."[1]

[Footnote 1: General Meade's testimony may be found in the Report on
the Conduct of the War. Part I., p. 337.]

That statement was just, and General Meade was too much of a gentleman
and soldier to withhold it. He knew that his great adversary was still
unshaken and dangerous--that the laurels snatched on Round Top and
Cemetery Heights might turn to cypress, if the wounded lion were
assailed in his own position.

After the repulse of Pickett's column on the third of July, Lee had the
choice of two courses--to either attack again or retire. Meade was
evidently determined to remain on the defensive. To engage him, Lee
must once more charge the Cemetery Heights. But a third failure might
be ruinous; the Confederate ammunition was nearly exhausted; the
communications with the Potomac were threatened,--and Lee determined to
retire.

That is the true history of the matter.

The force which fell back before Meade was an army of veterans, with
unshaken nerves. It required only a glance to see that these men were
still dangerous. They were ready to fight again, and many raged at the
retreat. Like Lee's "old war horse," they were anxious to try another
struggle, to have the enemy return the compliment, and come over to
charge _them_!

Then commenced that singular retreat.

The trains retired in a long line stretching over many miles, by the
Chambersburg road, while the army marched by the shorter route, between
the trains and the enemy, ready to turn and tear the blue huntsmen if
they attempted to pursue.

So the famous army of Northern Virginia--great in defeat as in
victory--took its slow way back toward the soil of Virginia. Never was
spectacle stranger than that retreat from Gettysburg. The badly wounded
had been sent with the army trains; but many insisted upon keeping
their places in the ranks. There was something grim and terrible in
these bandaged arms, and faces, and forms of Lee's old soldiers--but
you did not think of that as you looked into their pale faces. What
struck you in those eyes and lips was the fire, and the smile of an
unconquerable courage. Never had I witnessed resolution more splendid
and invincible. In the ragged foot soldiers of the old army I could see
plainly the evidences of a nerve which no peril could shake. Was it
race--or the cause--or confidence, through all, in Lee? I know not, but
it was there. These men were utterly careless whether the enemy
followed them or not. They were retreating unsubdued. The terrible
scenes through which they had passed, the sights of horror, the ghastly
wounds, the blood, agony, death of the last few days had passed away
from their memories; and they went along with supreme indifference,
ready to fight at any moment, and certain that they could whip any
enemy who assailed them.

General Meade did not attempt that. He kept Lee at arm's-length, and
followed so slowly that the civilians were in enormous wrath, and
looked _*de haut en bas_ on him--on this timid soldier who had not cut
Lee to pieces.


[Illustration: MEETING OF GENERALS LEE AND DAVENANT.]

Between Meade, however, and the bold civilians, there was this enormous
difference. The soldier knew the mettle of the man and the army
retiring from Gettysburg. The civilians did not. Meade retained the
fruits of his victory over Lee. The civilians would have lost them.

At Williamsport, Lee halted and drew up his army in line of battle. The
Potomac, swollen by rains, presented an impassable obstacle.

Meade, following slowly, was met at every step by Stuart's cavalry; but
finally faced his adversary.

Every thing presaged a great battle, and Lee's cannon from the hills
south of Hagerstown laughed,

"Come on!"

But General Meade did not come. Lee, standing at bay with the army of
Northern Virginia, was a formidable adversary, and the Federal
commander had little desire to charge the Confederates as they had
charged him at Gettysburg--in position.

Day after day the adversaries remained in line of battle facing each
other.

Lee neither invited nor declined battle.

At last the Potomac subsided: Lee put his army in motion, and crossing
on a pontoon at Falling Waters took up his position on the south bank
of the river.

Stuart followed, bringing up the rear with his cavalry column; and the
whole army was once more on the soil of Virginia.

They had come back after a great march and a great battle.

The march carried their flags to the south bank of the Susquehanna; the
battle resulted in their retreat to the south bank of the Potomac. Thus
nothing had been gained, and nothing lost. But alas! the South had
counted on a great and decisive victory. When Lee failed to snatch that
from the bloody heights of Gettysburg--when, for want of ammunition,
and to guard his communications, he returned to the Potomac--then the
people began to lose heart, and say that, since the death of Jackson,
the cause was lost.

Gettysburg in fact is the turning point of the struggle. From that day
dated the decadence of the Southern arms.

At Chancellorsville, the ascending steps of victory culminated--and
stopped.

At Gettysburg, the steps began to descend into the valley of defeat,
and the shadow of death.

What I shall show the reader in this final series of my memoirs, is Lee
and his paladins--officers and privates of the old army of Northern
Virginia--fighting on to the end, true in defeat as in victory, in the
dark days as in the bright--closing up the thin ranks, and standing by
the colors to the last.

That picture may be gloomy--but it will be sublime, too.





BOOK II.




THE FLOWER OF CAVALIERS.




I.


UNDER "STUART'S OAK."

Crossing to the south bank of the Potomac, Stuart established his
headquarters at "The Bower," an old mansion on the Opequon.

The family at the ancient hall were Stuart's cherished friends, and our
appearance now, with the red flag floating and the bugle sounding a gay
salute as we ascended the hill, was hailed with enthusiasm and
rejoicing.

All at the "Bower," loved Stuart; they love him to-day; and will love
him always.

His tents were pitched on a grassy knoll in the extensive grounds,
beneath some ancient oaks resembling those seen in English parks. It
was a charming spot. Through the openings in the summer foliage you saw
the old walls of the hall. At the foot of the hill, the Opequon stole
away, around the base of a fir-clad precipice, its right bank lined
with immense white-armed sycamores. Beyond, extended a range of hills:
and in the far west, the North Mountain mingled its azure billows with
the blue of the summer sky.

Such was the beautiful landscape which greeted our eyes: such the spot
to which the winds of war had wafted us. Good old "Bower," and good
days there! How well I remember you! After the long, hard march, and
the incessant fighting, it was charming to settle down for a brief
space in this paradise--to listen idly to the murmur of the Opequon, or
the voice of the summer winds amid the foliage of the century oaks!

The great tree on the grassy knoll, under which Stuart erected his own
tent, is called "Stuart's Oak" to this day. No axe will ever harm it, I
hope; gold could not purchase it; for tender hearts cherish the gnarled
trunk and huge boughs, as a souvenir of the great soldier whom it
sheltered in that summer of 1863.

So we were anchored for a little space, and enjoyed keenly the repose
of this summer nook on the Opequon. Soon the bugle would sound again,
and new storms would buffet us; meanwhile, we laughed and sang,
snatching the bloom of the peaceful hours, inhaling the odors,
listening to the birds, and idly dreaming.

For myself, I had more dreams than the rest of the gray people there!
The Bower was not a strange place to me. My brethren of the staff used
to laugh, and say that, wherever we went, in Virginia, I found
kins-people. I found near and dear ones at the old house on the
Opequon; and a hundred spots which recalled my lost youth. Every object
carried me back to the days that are dead. The blue hills, the stream,
the great oaks, and the hall smiled on me. How familiar the portraits,
and wide fireplaces, and deers' antlers. The pictures of hawking
scenes, with ladies and gentlemen in the queerest costumes; the
engravings of famous race-horses, hanging between guns, bird-bags and
fishing-rods in the wide hall--these were not mere dead objects, but
old and long-loved acquaintances. I had known them in my childhood;
looked with delight upon them in my boyhood; now they seemed to salute
me, murmuring--"Welcome! you remember us!"

Thus the hall, the grounds, the pictures, the most trifling object
brought back to me, in that summer of 1863, a hundred memories of the
years that had flown. Years of childhood and youth, of mirth and joy,
such as we felt before war had come to harass us; when I swam in the
Opequon, or roamed the hills, looking into bright eyes, where life was
so fresh and so young. The "dew was on the blossom" then, the flower in
the bud. Now the bloom had passed away, and the dew dried up in the hot
war-atmosphere. It was a worn and weary soldier who came back to the
scenes of his youth.

Suddenly, as I mused thus, dreaming idly under the great oak which
sheltered me, I heard a voice from Stuart's tent, sending its sonorous
music on the air. It was the great cavalier singing lustily--

  "The dew is on the blossom!"

At all hours of the day you could hear that gay voice. Stuart's
headquarters were full of the most mirthful sounds and sights. The
knoll was alive with picturesque forms. The horses, tethered to the
boughs, champed their bits and pawed impatiently. The bright
saddle-blankets shone under the saddles covered with gay decorations.
Young officers with clanking sabres and rattling spurs moved to and
fro. In front of the head-quarters tent the red battle-flag caught the
sunshine in its dazzling folds.

Suddenly, a new charm is added to the picturesque scene. Maiden figures
advance over the grassy lawn; bright eyes glimmer; glossy ringlets are
lifted by the fingers of the wind; tinkling laughter is heard;--and
over all rings the wild sonorous music of the bugle!

The days pass rapidly thus. The nights bring merriment, not sleep. The
general goes with his staff to the hospitable mansion, and soon the
great drawing-room is full of music and laughter. The song, the dance,
the rattling banjo follow. The long hours flit by like a flock of
summer birds, and Sweeney, our old friend Sweeney, is the king of the
revel.

For Sweeney rattles as before on his banjo; and the "Old Gray Horse"
flourishes still in imperishable youth! It is the same old Sweeney,
with his mild and deferential courtesy, his obliging smile, his
unapproachable skill in "picking on the string." Listen! his voice
rings again as in the days of '61 and '62. He is singing still "Oh
Johnny Booker, help this nigger!" "Stephen, come back, come back,
Stephen!" "Out of the window I did sail!" "Sweet Evelina," and the
grand, magnificent epic which advises you to "Jine the Cavalry!"

Hagan listens to him yonder with a twinkle of the eye--Hagan the
black-bearded giant, the brave whose voice resembles thunder, the
devotee and factotum of Stuart, whom he loves. And Sweeney rattles on.
You laugh loud as you listen. The banjo laughs louder than all, and the
great apartment is full of uproar, and mirth, and dance.

Then the couples sink back exhausted; a deep silence follows; Sweeney
has made you laugh, and is now going to make you sigh. Listen! You can
scarcely believe that the singer is the same person who has just been
rattling through the "Old Gray Horse." Sweeney is no longer mirthful;
his voice sighs instead of laughing. He is singing his tender and
exquisite "Faded Flowers." He is telling you in tones as soft as the
sigh of the wind in the great oaks, how

  "The cold, chilly winds of December,
  Stole my flowers, my companions from me!"

Alas! the cold, chilly winds of the coming winter will blow over the
grave of the prince of musicians! Sweeney, the pride and charm of the
cavalry head-quarters, is going to pass away, and leave his comrades
and his banjo forever!

You would say that the future throws its shadow on the present.
Sweeney's tones are so sweet and sorrowful, that many eyes grow
moist--like Rubini, he "has tears in his voice." The melting strains
ascend and sigh through the old hall. When they die away like a wind in
the distance, the company remain silent, plunged in sad and dreamy
revery.

Suddenly Stuart starts up and exclaims:--

"Stop that, Sweeney! you will make everybody die of the blues. Sing the
'Old Gray Horse' again, or 'Jine the Cavalry!'"

Sweeney smiles and obeys. Then, the gay song ended, he commences a
reel. The banjo laughs; his flying fingers race over the strings;
youths and maidens whirl from end to end of the great room--on the
walls the "old people" in ruffles and short-waisted dresses, look down
smiling on their little descendants!

O gay summer nights on the banks of the Opequon! you have flown, but
linger still in memory!



In the autumn of 1867, I revisited the old hall where those summer days
of 1863 had passed in mirth and enjoyment; and then I wandered away to
the grassy knoll where "Stuart's oak" still stands. The sight of the
great tree brought back a whole world of memories. Seated on one of its
huge roots, beneath the dome of foliage just touched by the finger of
autumn, I seemed to see all the past rise up again and move before me,
with its gallant figures, its bright scenes, and brighter eyes. Alas!
those days were dust, and Stuart sang and laughed no more. The grass
was green again, and the birds were singing; but no martial forms moved
there, no battle-flag rippled, no voice was heard. Stuart was
dead;--his sword rusting under the dry leaves of Hollywood, and his
battle-flag was furled forever.

That hour under the old oak, in the autumn of 1867, was one of the
saddest that I have ever spent.

The hall was there as before; the clouds floated, the stream murmured,
the wind sighed in the great tree, as when Stuart's tent shone under
it. But the splendor had vanished, the laughter was hushed--it was a
company of ghosts that gathered around me, and their faint voices
sounded from another world!




II.


BACK TO THE RAPIDAN.


But this is a book of incident, worthy reader. We have little time for
musing recollections. The halts are brief; the bugle is sounding to
horse; events drag us, and we are again in the saddle.

Those gay hours on the Opequon were too agreeable to last. The old hall
was a sort of oasis in the desert of war only. We paused for an
instant; rested under the green trees; heard the murmur of the
waters--then the caravan moved, breasting the arid wastes once more,
and the coming simoom.

Stuart's head-quarters disappeared--we bade our kind friends
good-bye--and, mounting, set out for the Lowland, whither Lee's column
was then marching.

The short lull had been succeeded by new activity. Meade was advancing
along the east slope of the Blue Ridge to cut Lee off from Richmond.
But the adventure succeeded no better now than in 1862. Meade failed,
as McClellan had failed before him.

The army passed the Blue Ridge; drove back the force sent to assail
them in flank as they moved; and descended to Culpeper, from which they
withdrew behind the Rapidan. Here Lee took up his position, crowned the
south bank with his artillery, and, facing General Meade, occupying the
north bank, rested.

Such had been the result of the great campaign, in its merely military
aspect.

Lee had invaded the North, delivered battle on the territory of the
enemy, suffered a repulse, retired, and was again occupying nearly the
same ground which he had occupied before the advance. Moving backward
and forward on the great chessboard of war, the two adversaries seemed
to have gained or lost nothing. The one was not flushed with victory;
the other was not prostrated by defeat. Each went into camp, ceased
active operations, and prepared for the new conflict which was to take
place before the end of the year.

I shall record some incidents of that rapid and shifting campaign,
beginning and ending in the month of October; then I pass on to the
more important and exciting pages of my memoirs: the mighty struggle
between Lee and Grant.

To return for a moment to the cavalry. It held the front along the
Rapidan and Robertson rivers, from Madison Court-House on the left, to
Chancellorsville on the right. Stuart kept his lynx-eye on all the
fords of the two rivers, having his head-quarters in the forks of the
streams not far from their junction.

I should like to speak of the charming hours spent at the hospitable
mansion near which head-quarters had been established. The sun shone
bright, at the house on the grassy hill, but not so bright as the eyes
which gave us friendly welcome. Years have passed since that time--all
things have changed--but neither time or the new scenes will banish
from some hearts the memory of that beautiful face, and the music of
that voice! We salute to-day as we saluted in the past--health and
happiness attend the fair face and the kindly heart!

I saw much of Mohun in those days, and became in course of time almost
his intimate friend. He exhibited still a marked reserve on the subject
of his past life: but I thought I could see that the ice was melting.
Day by day he grew gayer--gradually his cynicism seemed leaving him.
Who was this singular man, and what was his past history? I often asked
myself these questions--he persisted in giving me no clue to the
secret--but I felt a presentiment that some day I should "pluck out the
heart of his mystery."

So much, in passing, for my relations with Mohun. We had begun to be
friends, and the chance of war was going to throw us together often. I
had caught one or two glimpses of a past full of "strange matters"--in
the hours that were coming I was to have every mystery revealed.

Meanwhile Lee was resting, but preparing for another blow. His army was
in the highest spirits. The camps buzzed, and laughed, and were full of
mirth. Gettysburg was forgotten, or if remembered, it only served to
inflame the troops, and inspire them with a passionate desire to "try
again." In the blaze of a new victory, the old defeat would disappear.

Such was the condition of things in the army of Northern Virginia in
the first days of October, 1863.




III.


THE OPENING OF THE HUNT.


It soon became obvious that Lee had resolved to strike a blow at his
adversary.

How to do so with advantage seemed a hard problem. Between the
opponents lay the Rapidan, which would be an ugly obstacle in the path
of an army retreating after defeat--and the same considerations which
deterred General Meade from attacking Lee, operated to prevent a like
movement on the part of his adversary.

Thus an advance of the Southern army on the enemy's front was far too
hazardous to be thought of--and the only course left was to assail
their flank. This could either be done by crossing lower down, and
cutting the enemy off from the Rappahannock, or crossing higher up, and
cutting him off from Manassas. Lee determined on the latter--and in a
bright morning early in October the great movement began.

Leaving Fitz Lee's cavalry and a small force of infantry in the works
on the Rapidan fronting the enemy, General Lee put his columns in
motion for the upper fords.

The men hailed the movement with cheers of delight. As they wound
along, with glittering bayonets, through the hills and across the
river, you could easily see that the old army of Northern Virginia was
still in full feather--that Gettysburg had not shaken it--and that Lee
could count on it for new campaigns and harder combats than any in the
past.

The head of the column was directed toward Madison Court-House, which
would enable Lee either to advance directly upon the enemy's flank by
the Sperryville road, or continue his flank movement, pass the
Rappahannock, and cut off his opponent from Washington.

The advance was an inspiring spectacle. The weather was magnificent,
and the crimson foliage of the wood rivalled the tints of the red
battle-flags, fluttering above the long glittering hedge of bayonets.

Stuart's cavalry had moved out on the right flank to protect the column
from the observation of the enemy. The campaign of October, 1863, had
opened.

It was to be one of the briefest, but most adventurous movements of the
war. Deciding little, it was yet rich in incident and dramatic scenes.
A brilliant comedy, as it were--just tinged with tragedy--was that
rapid and shifting _raid_ of Lee's whole army, on Meade. Blood, jests,
laughter, mourning--these were strangely mingled, in the cavalry
movements at least: and to these I proceed.

From the heights, whence you see only the "great events," the movements
of armies, and the decisive battles, let us now descend into the
lowland, good reader. I will lay before you some incidents, not to be
found in the "official reports;" and I promise to carry you on rapidly!




IV.


THE GAME A-FOOT.


It was a magnificent morning of October,

Stuart leaped to saddle, and, preceded by his red flag rippling gayly
in the wind, set out from his head-quarters in the direction of the
mountains.

He was entering on his last great cavalry campaign--and it was to be
one of his most successful and splendid.

The great soldier, as he advanced that morning, was the beau ideal of a
cavalier. His black plume floated proudly; his sabre rattled; his eyes
danced with joy; his huge mustache curled with laughter; his voice was
gay, sonorous, full of enjoyment of life, health, the grand autumn, and
the adventurous and splendid scenes which his imagination painted. On
his brow he seemed already to feel the breath of victory.

It was rather an immense war-machine, than a man which I looked at on
that morning of October, 1863. Grand physical health, a perfectly
fearless soul, the keenest thirst for action, a stubborn dash which
nothing could break down--all this could be seen in the face and form
of Stuart, as he advanced to take command of his column that day.

On the next morning at daylight he had struck the enemy.

Their outposts of cavalry, supported by infantry, were at Thoroughfare
Mountain, a small range above the little village of James City. Here
Stuart came suddenly upon them, and drove in their pickets:--a moment
afterward he was galloping forward with the gayety of a huntsman after
a fox.

A courier came to meet him from the advance guard, riding at full
gallop.

"Well!" said Stuart.

"A regiment of infantry, general."

"Where?"

"Yonder in the gap."

And he pointed to a gorge in the little mountain before us.

Stuart wheeled and beckoned to Gordon, the brave North Carolinian, who
had made the stubborn charge at Barbee's, in 1862, when Pelham was
attacked, front and rear, by the Federal cavalry.

"We have flushed a regiment of infantry, Gordon. Can you break them?"

"I think I can, general."

The handsome face of the soldier glowed--his bright eyes flashed.

"All right. Get ready, then, to attack in front. I will take Young, and
strike them at the same moment on the right flank!"

With which words Stuart went at a gallop and joined Young.

That gay and gallant Georgian was at the head of his column; in his
sparkling eyes, and the smile which showed the white teeth under the
black mustache, I saw the same expression of reckless courage which I
had noticed on the day of Fleetwood, when the young Georgian broke the
column on the hill.

Stuart explained his design in three words:--

"Are you ready?"

"All ready, general!"

And Young's sabre flashed from the scabbard.

At the same instant the crash of carbines in front, indicated Gordon's
charge.

Young darted to the head of his column.

"Charge!" he shouted.

And leading the column, he descended like a thunderbolt on the enemy's
flank.

As he did so, Gordon's men rushed with wild cheers into the gorge.
Shouts, carbine-shots, musket-shots, yells resounded. In five minutes
the Federal infantry, some three hundred in number, were scattered in
headlong flight, leaving the ground strewed with new muskets, whose
barrels shone like burnished silver.

"Good!" Stuart exclaimed, as long lines of prisoners appeared, going to
the rear, "a fair beginning, at least!"

And he rode on rapidly.




V.


THE CHASE.


The cavalry pressed forward without halting and reached the hills above
James City--a magniloquent name, but the "city" was a small affair--a
mere village nestling down amid an amphitheatre of hills.

On the opposite range we saw the enemy's cavalry drawn up; and, as we
afterward learned, commanded by General Kilpatrick.

They presented a handsome spectacle in the gay autumn sunshine; but we
did not attack them. Stuart's orders were to protect the march of Ewell
from observation; and this he accomplished by simply holding the
Federal cavalry at arm's-length. So a demonstration only was made.
Skirmishers advanced, and engaged the enemy. The whole day thus passed
in apparent failure to drive the Federals.

A single incident marked the day. Stuart had taken his position, with
his staff and couriers, on a hill. Here, with his battle-flag floating,
he watched the skirmishers,--and then gradually, the whole party,
stretched on the grass, began to doze.

They were to have a rude waking. I was lying, holding my bridle, half
asleep, when an earthquake seemed to open beneath me. A crash like
thunder accompanied it. I rose quickly, covered with dust. A glance
explained the whole. The enemy had directed a gun upon the tempting
group over which the flag rose, and the percussion-shell had fallen and
burst in our midst.

Strangest of all, no one was hurt.

Stuart laughed, and mounted his horse.

"A good shot!" he said, "look at Surry's hat!" which, on examination, I
found covered half an inch deep with earth.

In fact, the shell had burst within three feet of my head--was a "line
shot," and with a little more elevation, would have just reached me.
Then, exit Surry! in a most unmilitary manner, by the bursting of a
percussion-shell.

At nightfall the enemy was still in position, and Stuart had not
advanced.

We spent the night at a farm-house, and were in the saddle again at
dawn.

The hills opposite were deserted. The enemy had retreated. Stuart
pushed on their track down the Sperryville road, passed the village of
Griffinsburg, and near Stonehouse Mountain came on, and pushed them
rapidly back on Culpeper Court-House.

All at once quick firing was heard on our right.

"What is that?" Stuart asked.

"An infantry regiment, general!" said Weller, one of our couriers,
galloping quickly up.

The words acted upon Stuart like the blow of a sword. A wild excitement
seemed to seize him.

"Bring up a squadron!" he shouted--for we were riding ahead without
support; "bring up the cavalry! I am going to charge! Bring me a
squadron!"

And drawing his sword, Stuart rushed at full gallop, alone and
unattended, toward the Federal infantry, whose gun-barrels were seen
glittering in the woods.

Never had I seen him more excited. He was plainly on fire with the idea
of capturing the whole party.

The staff scattered to summon the cavalry, and soon a company came on
at full gallop. It was the "Jefferson Company," under that brave
officer, Captain George Baylor.

"Charge, and cut them down!" shouted Stuart, his drawn sword flashing
as he forced his horse over fallen trees and the debris of the great
deserted camp.

A fine spectacle followed. As the Federal infantry double-quicked up a
slope, Baylor charged.

As his men darted upon them, they suddenly halted, came to a
front-face, and the long line of gun-barrels fell, as though they were
parts of some glittering war-machine.

The muzzles spouted flame, and the cavalry received the fire at thirty
yards.

It seemed to check them, but it did not. They had come to an impassable
ditch. In another moment, the infantry broke, every man for himself,
and making a detour, the cavalry pursued, and captured large numbers.

For the second time Stuart had charged infantry and broken them.
Pushing on now through the great deserted camps of Stonehouse Mountain,
he descended upon Culpeper.

The enemy's cavalry retreated, made a stand on the hills beyond, with
their artillery; and seemed to have resolved to retreat no farther.

Suddenly the thunder of artillery came up from the Rapidan. I was
sitting my horse near Stuart and Gordon. They were both
laughing--indeed, Stuart seemed laughing throughout the campaign.

"That is Fitz Lee!" he said; "he has crossed and driven them."

And turning round,--

"I wish you would go to General Lee, Surry--you will find him toward
Griffinsburg--and tell him we are driving the enemy, and Fitz Lee seems
to be coming up."

I saluted, and left the two generals laughing as before.

In half an hour I had found General Lee. He was in camp on the
Sperryville road, and was talking to Ewell.

It was a singular contrast. Lee, robust, ruddy, erect, with his large
frank eye--Ewell, slight, emaciated, pale, with small piercing eyes,
and limping on his crutch.

"Thank you, colonel," General Lee said, with his grave but charming
courtesy; "tell General Stuart to continue to press them back toward
the river."

And turning to Ewell:--

"You had better move on with your command, general," he said, in his
measured voice.

Ewell bowed and turned to obey--I returned to Stuart.

He was pushing the Federal cavalry "from pillar to post." Driven back
from the hill, where they had planted their artillery, they had
retreated on Brandy; Stuart had followed like a fate; Gordon, sent
round to the left, struck their right flank with his old sabreurs; Fitz
Lee, coming up on the right, thundered down on their left--and in the
woods around Brandy took place one of those cavalry combats which, as
my friends, the novelists say, "must be seen to be appreciated!" If the
reader will imagine, in the dusk of evening, a grand hurly-burly made
up of smoke, dust, blood, yells, clashing swords, banging carbines,
thundering cannon, and wild cheers, he will have a faint idea of that
"little affair" at Brandy.

A queer circumstance made this fight irresistibly comic.

Fitz Lee had repulsed Buford on the Rapidan; followed him on his
retreat, harassing him at every step--when, just as Buford reached
Brandy, with Fitz Lee at his heels, Kilpatrick descended on Fitz Lee's
rear by the Sperryville road, and Stuart thundered down on _his_!

Thus Fitz Lee was pursuing Buford; Kilpatrick, Fitz Lee; and Stuart,
Kilpatrick! It was a grand and comic jumble--except that it came very
near being any thing but comic to that joyous cavalier, "General Fitz,"
as we called him--caught as he was between Generals Buford and
Kilpatrick!

General Fitz was the man for a "tight place," however--and "his
people," as he called his cavalry, soon cut through to Stuart.

It was a tough and heavy fight.

"Old Jeb cut off more than he could _chaw_, that time!" said a veteran
afterward, in describing the fight. And at one time it seemed that the
enemy were going to hold their ground.

Fleetwood, beyond, was lined with bayonets, and every knoll was crowned
with cannon: when night fell, however, the whole force had retreated
and crossed the Rappahannock, leaving the ground strewed with their
dead and wounded.

In the dusky woods near Brandy, Stuart sat his horse, looking toward
the Rappahannock, and laughing still. He was talking with brave Fitz
Lee, whose stout figure, flowing beard, and eyes twinkling with humor,
were plain in the starlight. I shall show you that gallant figure more
than once in this volume, reader. You had but to look at him to see
that he was the bravest of soldiers, and the best of comrades.

So night fell on a victory. Stuart had driven the enemy at every step.
He had charged their infantry, cavalry, and artillery, routing
all,--and he was once more in sight of Fleetwood Hill, where he had
defeated them in the preceding June.

Singular current of war! It used to bear us onward; but be taken with a
sudden fancy to flow back to the old spots! See Manassas,
Fredericksburg, Cold Harbor, Chancellorsville!

Fleetwood takes its place with them--twice bloody and memorable. In
sight of it took place two of Stuart's hardest combats--and both were
victories.




VI.


THE RUSE.


By sunrise Stuart was pushing rapidly up the bank of the Rappahannock
toward Warrenton Springs.

Meade had retreated from Culpeper, and was falling back rapidly. Lee
was pressing on to cut him off in the vicinity of Auburn.

A hot fight took place at Jeffersonton, a little village beyond Hazel
River; and here the enemy fought from house to house, but finally
retreated.

Stuart followed, and came up with their rear retreating over the bridge
at Warrenton Springs.

On the northern bank the Federal sharp-shooters were posted in double
line.

Stuart turned, and saw, not far from him, the Jefferson Company who had
charged so gallantly at Stonehouse Mountain. A movement of his hand,
and they were charging over the bridge.

Suddenly they recoiled. The head files had stopped,--the horses
rearing. The flooring in the centre of the bridge had been torn up--it
was impossible to cross.

The men wheeled and came back under a hot fire of sharp-shooters.
Stuart's face was fiery.

"To the ford!" he shouted.

And placing himself in front of the men, sword in hand, he led them
through the ford, in face of a heavy fire, charged up the opposite
slope, and the Federal skirmishers scattered in wild flight.

The Twelfth Virginia Cavalry followed them, and they were cut down or
captured.

As the column moved on, Stuart galloped along the line toward the
front.

He had just faced death with these men, and at sight of him they raised
a cheer.

"Hurrah for old Jeb!" rose in a shout from the column.

Stuart turned: his face glowed: rising in his stirrups, he took off his
hat and exclaimed:---

"Bully for the old Twelfth!"

The words were unclassic, it may be, reader, but they raised a storm.

"I felt like I could die for old Jeb after that," one of the men said
to me.

Stuart disappeared, followed by tumultuous cheers, and his column
continued to advance upon Warrenton ahead of the army.  He had ridden
on for a quarter of an hour, when he turned to me, and said:--

"I am getting uneasy about things at Culpeper. I wish you would ride
back to Rosser, who is there with two hundred men, and tell him to call
on Young, if he is pushed."  I turned my horse.

"You know where Young is?"

"On the Sperryville road."

"Exactly--Rosser can count on him. I am going on toward Warrenton."

And the general and myself parted, riding in opposite directions.

I returned toward Hazel River; passed that stream, and the long rows of
army wagons; and as the sun was sinking, drew near Culpeper.

As I pressed on, I heard the long thunder of cannon coming up from the
direction of Brandy.

What could that sound mean? Had the enemy again advanced and assailed
the small force of cavalry there?

Going on now at full speed, I heard the cannon steadily approaching
Culpeper Court-House. All at once, as I drew near the village, I heard
a tremendous clatter in the streets; a column of cavalry was advancing
to the front--soon the crack of carbines was heard beyond the town.

A short ride brought me to the field, and all was explained. Colonel
Rosser had been attacked by a whole corps of Federal infantry, and two
divisions of cavalry--while his own force was about two hundred men,
and a single gun.

He had offered an obstinate resistance, however, fallen back slowly,
and when about to be driven into the town, Young had come to his aid.

Then followed one of the gayest comedies of the war. Young was the
author of it. You laugh sometimes still, do you not, old comrade, at
the trick you played our friends on that October evening?

Young threw himself into the fight with the true cavalry elan.
Dismounting his whole brigade, he opened a rapid fire on the advancing
enemy; and this obstinate resistance evidently produced a marked effect
upon their imaginations. They had been advancing--they now paused. They
had been full of audacity, and now seemed fearful of some trap. It was
evident that they suspected the presence of a heavy force of
infantry--and night having descended, they halted.

This was the signal for the fifth act of the comedy. Young kindled
camp-fires along two miles of front; brought up his brass band and
played "The Bonnie Blue Flag," and "Dixie." It was obvious to the enemy
that at least a corps of Lee's infantry was there in their front, ready
to renew the action at dawn!

The finale was comic--I shared the blankets of the gallant Georgian
that night--when we rose the enemy's whole force had disappeared.

Such had been the result of the ruse, and I always regarded the affair
as one of the gayest incidents of the war.

When I left the brave Young, he was laughing in triumph.

If your eye meets this page, old comrade, it may give you another laugh
--and laughter is something in this dull epoch, is it not?

But whether you laugh or sigh, and wherever you may be, health and
happiness attend you!

In the afternoon, I was at Warrenton.




VII.


STUART CAUGHT IN THE TRAP.


I found the general moving toward Auburn, on a reconnoissance.

Meade had been delayed much by uncertainty as to his adversary's
designs--had scarcely advanced beyond the Rappahannock--and the object
of Stuart was to discover his position and intentions.

That was the work always assigned to the "Eyes and Ears" of the army
Stuart's cavalry; and the stout cavalier, now at the head of his
column, was on for the railroad, along which the enemy must retreat.

Another comedy was to follow--which came near being a tragedy.

Stuart steadily advanced, and about sunset had passed Auburn, when, as
he was riding at the head of his column, a messenger rode up hastily
from Gordon, holding the rear.

"Well!" said Stuart.

"The enemy are in your rear, general!"

"Impossible!"

"General Gordon sent me to say so."

Stuart turned and galloped back. Gordon came to meet him.

"The Yankee army are in our rear, general," said Gordon. "Come, and I
will show you."

And riding to an eminence he pointed out across the fields, in the
gathering gloom, long lines of infantry and artillery moving toward
Manassas.

Stuart gazed at them keenly. As he sat looking toward them, a staff
officer from the front came up rapidly.

"Well, captain!"

"The enemy are in front, general."

"Infantry?"

"Yes, with artillery."

Stuart looked at Gordon.

"A real trap," he said coolly, knitting his brows.

"Have they seen you, Gordon?" he asked.

"I think not, general."

"Well, so far all is well. There is nothing to do but to lay low, and
take the chances of getting out."

Stuart's voice was never cooler. He looked quietly at the huge column
cutting off his retreat.

"A splendid chance to attack them!" he all at once exclaimed.

And tearing a leaf out of his dispatch-book, he wrote a hasty note to
General Lee. I afterward knew what it contained. Stuart described his
situation, and proposed that Rodes, then near Warrenton, should attack
at dawn--when he would open with his artillery, charge with his
horsemen, and cut his way out.

"A good man in blue uniform now, Gordon."

Gordon sent off an aid, and the man soon appeared. From top to toe he
was of irreproachable blue; and he listened keenly to his instructions.

Five minutes afterward he had dismounted, given his horse to a comrade,
and was stealing on foot through the thicket toward the Federal column.
A moment afterward he had mingled with their column and disappeared.

Other messengers, also in Federal uniform, were dispatched: the whole
force of cavalry was massed, and concealed in the woods: then darkness
descended; and the long night of anxiety began.

The situation was not agreeable. Stuart was caught in a veritable trap.
On both sides--in his rear and his front--were passing heavy corps of
Federal infantry; their numerous artillery; and their long-drawn
columns of cavalry. Discovery was destruction; the only hope was that
the enemy would not suspect our proximity. If we were once known to be
lurking there, good-bye to Stuart and his men!

So the long night commenced. The hours passed on, and still we were not
discovered. It seemed miraculous that some noise did not betray
Stuart's hiding-place; but an Unseen Eye seemed to watch over him, and
an Unseen Hand to guard him.

More than once the neigh of a horse rang out on the air of night; and
two or three times the discordant bray of a mule attached to the
artillery startled the silence of the woods. But these sounds were
unheeded. They evidently attracted no attention from the enemy.

Leaning down in their saddles, the men, half overcome by sleep, but
afraid of a rough waking, passed sleepless hours, looking for the dawn.

Stuart was never cooler. On his horse, at the head of his men, he
betrayed no emotion. You would not have known, except for his subdued
tones when speaking to some one, that he and his command were in a
veritable "tight place." Cool and resolute, he was equal to any event.
Certain capture or destruction of his whole force was imminent.

Thus the night glided away. We had not been discovered. Over the trees
was seen the yellow streak of dawn.

I looked round. The men's faces were haggard from want of sleep. But
they evidently felt perfect confidence in Stuart.

He hastened to justify it.

No sooner had light come than he placed his artillery in position. As
it grew and broadened, the enemy were seen just on a hill in front of
us, busily cooking their breakfasts.

Suddenly a single cannon sent its long thunder, dull and reverberating,
through the woods, from the direction of Warrenton.

Stuart rose erect in his saddle, and looked in the direction of the
sound, his eyes glowing.

Another followed; then another; then a long, continuous bellow of
artillery, making the hills echo.

There was no longer any doubt about the fate of the messengers. Lee had
received the dispatches; Rodes had opened on the Federal columns,
attacking as that good soldier knew how to attack.

Stuart darted to his guns. On his countenance was a grim smile.

"Attention!" he exclaimed.

The cannoneers ran to their posts, a cheer rose, the next instant the
guns spouted flame; shell after shell in rapid succession screamed
through the woods--and bursting in the midst of the blue groups, threw
them into the wildest disorder.

Stuart did not allow the panic to subside. His sharp-shooters opened at
the same instant a determined fire; the great cavalier went at full
speed to the head of his column:--then rushing like an avalanche,
troopers and artillery, charged the column in front, burst through,
trampling it as he went, and at a gallop the gray horsemen, with guns
following, broke out; and were again free.

Stuart was out of the trap. From one of the "tightest places" that a
commander was ever in he had extricated his whole command.

Once in safety, he turned like a wild boar on his enemies. In ten
minutes his artillery had taken a new position--its thunders had
opened--its roar told the army, that his feather still floated, his
star was still in the ascendant.

Such was that queer affair of Auburn. Few more curious incidents
occurred in the war.

A brave officer of the infantry had accompanied us as an amateur.

"I've got enough of the cavalry," he said, laughing; "I am going back
to the infantry. It is safer!"




VIII.


GENERAL MEADE'S "EYE-TEETH."


Stuart came back laughing from his adventure.

The army hailed his reappearance with joy and cheers.

They had already split the air with shouts in honor of the cavalry, on
that evening at Warrenton Springs, when Stuart charged through the
ford.

"Hurrah for Stuart!" was now the exclamation everywhere. And let me add
that the stout cavalier keenly enjoyed his popularity. He was brave and
fond of glory--approbation delighted him. In his ears, praise,
sympathy, admiration, sounded sweet.

General Lee continued to press forward, but the golden moment for
intercepting Meade had fled.

He had not been cut off in Culpeper; he had not been cut off at
Warrenton; he was not going to be cut off at Bristoe, near Manassas.
Hill had been sent in that direction to intercept the enemy's retreat,
but on the afternoon succeeding the adventure of Stuart, an ugly blow
was dealt him on the banks of Deep Run.

He came up with the enemy's rear guard under their brave General
Warren; assailed it in front of an embankment furiously, and suffered a
heavy repulse.

General Cooke was shot down at the head of his men; the brigade was
nearly cut to pieces; and Warren retreated across Deep Run, in grim
triumph, carrying off several pieces of Hill's artillery.

It was a grievous blow, and affected the brave Hill deeply. General Lee
was no less melancholy; it is said that he was both gloomy and restive.
It was reported, I know not upon what authority, that when he and
General Hill were riding over the field, and Hill essayed to explain
the unfortunate affair, the commander-in-chief shook his head, and said
in grave tones:--

"Say no more, general--have these poor dead soldiers buried."

From the hill above Bristoe, General Lee, accompanied by Stuart, looked
out in the direction of Manassas. Not a blue coat was to be seen. Meade
had made good his retreat. Everywhere he had eluded the blows of his
great adversary--and in parting from him, finally, at Bristoe, had left
blood in his foot-steps--the blood of some of Lee's best soldiers.

It is said that General Meade made this retreat under protest--and that
he was everywhere looking for a position to fight. A Northern
correspondent described how, sitting with him by the camp-fire, General
Meade had said:--

"It was like pulling out my eye-teeth not to have had a fight!"

Did he say that? Then he was out-generalled.

But he had succeeded in retreating safely. He was behind the works of
Centreville: Lee had stopped the pursuit.

There was nothing more, indeed, to be done. Lee must retire, or attack
the enemy behind their earth-works. That was not very promising, and he
fell back toward his old camps, on the Rapidan.

Nothing prevented the cavalry, however, from "feeling" the enemy in
their new position; and Stuart rapidly advanced to Bull Run, across
which Fitz Lee drove the Federal horsemen.

A raid toward their rear, by Stuart, followed. He moved toward
Groveton; deflected to the left, and crossed the Catharpin in a violent
storm; advanced next day toward Frying-Pan; then striking the Second
Corps of Meade, and throwing it into confusion, by producing the
impression that his force was Lee's whole army, he quietly retired by
the way he had come.

His disappearance revealed all. The enemy perceived that the attack was
only a "cavalry raid," and were seized with immense indignation. A
picked division was sent out in pursuit of the daring raiders--and this
force of horsemen, about three thousand in number, hurried across Bull
Run to punish Stuart.

They were commanded by the ardent General Kilpatrick:--what followed is
known as the "Buckland Races."




IX.


WHAT THE AUTHOR HAS OMITTED.


Such is a rapid summary of the cavalry operations succeeding the action
of Bristoe.

Those readers who cry out for "movement! movement!" are respectfully
requested to observe that I have passed over much ground, and many
events in a few paragraphs:--and yet I might have dwelt on more than
one scene which, possibly, might have interested the worthy reader.

There was the gallant figure of General Fitz Lee, at the head of his
horsemen, advancing to charge what he supposed to be the enemy's
artillery near Bristoe, and singing as he went, in the gayest voice:--

  "Rest in peace! rest in peace!
  Slumb'ring lady love of mine;
  Rest in peace! rest in peace!
  Sleep on!"

There was the charge over the barricade near Yates's Ford, where a
strange figure mingled just at dusk with the staff, and when arrested
as he was edging away in the dark, coolly announced that he belonged to
the "First Maine Cavalry."

There was the march toward Chantilly, amid the drenching storm, when
Stuart rode along laughing and shouting his camp songs, with the rain
descending in torrents from his heavy brown beard.

There was the splendid advance on the day succeeding, through the rich
autumn forest, of all the colors of the rainbow.

Then the fight at Frying-Pan; arousing the hornets' nest there, and the
feat performed by Colonel Surry, in carrying off through the fire of
the sharp-shooters, on the pommel of his saddle, a beautiful girl who
declared that she was "not at all afraid!"

These and many other scenes come back to memory as I sit here at
Eagle's Nest. But were I to describe all I witnessed during the war, I
should never cease writing. All these must be passed over--my canvas is
limited, and I have so many figures to draw, so many pictures to paint,
that every square inch is valuable.

That is the vice of "memoirs," reader. The memory is an immense
receptacle--it holds every thing, and often trifles take the prominent
place, instead of great events. You are interested in those trifles,
when they are part of your own experience; but perhaps, they bore your
listener and make him yawn--a terrible catastrophe!

So I pass to some real and _bona fide_ "events." Sabres are going to
clash now, and some figures whom the reader I hope has not forgotten
are going to ride for the prize in the famous Buckland Races.




X.


I FALL A VICTIM TO TOM'S ILL-LUCK.


Stuart had fallen back, and had reached the vicinity of Buckland.

There was a bright light in his blue eyes, a meaning smile on his
mustached lip, which in due time I was going to understand.

Kilpatrick was following him. From the rear guard came the crack of
skirmishers. It seemed hard to understand, but the fact was perfectly
evident, that Stuart was retreating.

I had fallen out of the column, and was riding with Tom Herbert. Have
you forgotten that worthy, my dear reader? Has the roar of Gettysburg
driven him quite from your memory? I hope not. I have not mentioned him
for a long time, so many things have diverted me--but we had ridden
together, slept together, fought together, and starved together! Tom
had come to be one of my best friends, in fact, and his charming good
humor beguiled many a weary march. To hear him laugh was real
enjoyment; and when he would suddenly burst forth with,

  "Oh look at the riggings
  On Billy Barlo--o--o--ow!"

the sternest faces relaxed, the sourest personages could not but laugh.

Brave and honest fop! Where are you to-day, _mon garcon_! I wish I
could see you and hear you sing again!

But I am prosing. Riding beside Tom, I was looking down and thinking of
a certain young lady, when an exclamation from my companion made me
raise my head.

"By George! there's the house, old fellow!"

"The house?"

"Of the famous supper."

"So it is!"

"And my inamorata, Surry! I wonder if she is still there?"

"Inamorata? What is her other name?"

Tom laughed, and began to sing in his gayest voice,

  "Oh, Katy! Katy!
     Don't marry any other;
  You'll break my heart, and kill me dead,
     And then be hanged for murder!"

"That is answer enough," I said, laughing.

"Suppose we go and see if they are still alive," Tom said, blushing;
"ten minutes will take us to the house."

In fact, I saw across the fields, embowered in foliage, the hospitable
mansion in which we had eaten the famous supper, on the route to
Pennsylvania.

"It is risky," I said, hesitating.

"But pleasing," retorted Tom, with a laugh.

And I saw, from his flushed face, that he had set his heart on the
visit.

That conquered me. I never could refuse Tom Herbert any thing; and we
were soon cantering toward the house.

Leaving our horses in a little grove, near the mansion, in order that
they might not attract the attention of any of the enemy's vedettes, we
hastened up the steps.

As we reached the door, it opened, and Miss Katy Dare, the heroine of
Tom's dreams, very nearly precipitated herself into our arms.

"Oh, I am so glad to see you!" she exclaimed, with her auburn ringlets
dancing, her eyes sparkling,--and taking care to look at _me_ as she
uttered the words.

Then a whole bevy of young ladies hastened out to welcome us.

Where had we been? Why were we going back? Could General Stuart intend
to leave them in the Yankee lines again? Oh, no! he could not! He could
not have the heart to! Was he coming to see them? Oh, the sight of gray
uniforms was HEAVENLY!!!

And the young damsels positively overwhelmed me with exclamations and
interrogatories. Eyes danced, lips smiled, cheeks glowed--they hung
around me, and seemed wild with enthusiasm and delight.

Around _me_, I say--for Tom and Miss Katy had accidentally strolled
into a conservatory near at hand. A glass door gave access to it, and
they had "gone to examine the flowers," the young ladies said, with
rapturous smiles and little nods.

Meanwhile, "the wants of the soldiers" were by no means forgotten. Busy
hands brought in china, silver, and snowy napkins. On the table the
waiter was soon deposited, containing a splendid, miraculous array of
edibles, and these were flanked by decanters containing excellent
home-made wine.

This consumed half an hour--but at last the repast was ready, and one
of the young ladies hastened toward the conservatory, uttering a
discreet little "ahem!" which made her companions laugh.

In an instant Tom made his appearance with a decided color in his
cheeks; and Miss Katy--well, Miss Katy's face was the color of a peony,
or a carnation.

Shall I reveal to you, gentle reader, what Tom told me long afterward?
He had advanced and been repulsed--had attacked and been "scattered."
Pardon the slang of the army, and admire the expeditious operations of
the gentlemen of the cavalry!

Tom was blushing, but laughing too. He was game, if he _was_
unfortunate. He did not even decline the material enjoyment of lunch,
and having led in the young Miss Katy, with a charmingly foppish air,
took his seat at the table, which promised so much pleasure of another
description.

The fates frowned on us. Tom was unlucky that day, and I was drawn into
the vortex of bad fortune.

Suddenly a clatter of hoofs came from the grass plat in front of the
house; the rattle of sabres from a company of cavalry followed; and the
young ladies had just time to thrust us into the conservatory, when the
door opened, and an officer in blue uniform, accompanied by a lady,
entered the apartment.




XI.


I OVERHEAR A SINGULAR CONVERSATION.


I recognized the new-comers at a glance. They were Darke, and the gray
woman.

There was no mistaking that powerful figure, of low stature, but
herculean proportions; that gloomy and phlegmatic face, half-covered
with the black beard; and the eye glancing warily, but with a reckless
fire in them, from beneath the heavy eye-brows.

The woman wore an elegant gray riding habit--gray seemed a favorite
with her. Her cheeks were as white as ever, and her lips as red. Her
bearing was perfectly composed, and she advanced, with the long riding
skirt thrown over her arm, walking with exquisite grace.

All this I could easily see. The glass door of the conservatory had
been left ajar in the hurry of our retreat, and from behind the
lemon-trees and flower-bushes, we could see into the apartment without
difficulty.

There was evidently little danger of our discovery. The new-comers had
plainly entered the house with no design to search it. Darke advanced
into the apartment; made the ladies a bow, which more than ever
convinced me that he had been familiar with good society; and requested
food for the lady. She had tasted none for many hours, and was faint.
He would not ask it for himself, inasmuch as he was an enemy.

He bowed again as he spoke, and was silent.

The young ladies had listened coldly. As he finished, they pointed to
the waiter, and without speaking, they left the apartment.

Darke was left alone with the woman in gray. She seemed to have
regarded ceremony as unnecessary. Going to the table, she had already
helped herself, and for some moments devoured, rather than ate, the
food before her.

Then she rose, and went and took her seat in a rocking-chair near the
fire. Darke remained erect, gazing at her, in silence.

The lady rocked to and fro, pushed back her dark hair with the snowy
hand, and looking at her companion, began to laugh.

"You are not hungry?" she said.

"No," was his reply.

"And to think that a romantic young creature like myself _should_ be!"

"It was natural. I hoped that you would have given up this fancy of
accompanying me. You can not stand the fatigue."

"I can stand it easily," she said. "When we have a cherished object,
weariness does not count."

"A cherished object! What is yours?"

"Sit down, and I will tell you. I am tired. You can rejoin the column
in ten minutes."

"So be it," said Darke, gloomily.

And he sat down near her.

"You wish to be informed of my object in going with you everywhere,"
she said. And her voice which had at first been gay and careless,
assumed a mocking accent, making the nerves tingle. "I can explain in a
very few words my romantic desire. I wish to see _him_ fall."

"Humph!" ejaculated Darke, coldly; "you mean--"

"That man--yes. You promised to kill him, when you next met. Did you
not promise me that?"

Darke looked at the speaker with grim admiration.

"You are a singular woman," he said; "you never forget a wrong. And yet
the wrong, people might say, was committed by _you_--not _him_."

"Do _you_ say that?" exclaimed the woman with sudden venom in her
voice.

"I say nothing, madam," was the gloomy reply. "I only declare that you
hate much more strongly than I do. I hate him--and hate him honestly.
But I would not take him at disadvantage. You would strike him,
wherever you met him--in the dark--in the back--I think you would dance
the war-dance around him, when he was dying!"

And Darke uttered a short jarring laugh.

"You are right," said the woman, coolly. "I wish to see that man die--I
expected you to kill him on that night in Pennsylvania. You promised to
do it;--redeem your promise!"

"I will try to do so, madam," said Darke, coolly.

"And I wish to be present on the occasion."

Darke laughed as before.

"That doubtless has prevented you from having our good friend
Mohun--well--assassinated!"

The woman was silent for a moment. Then she said:---

"No, I have tried that."

"Ah!--recently?"

"Yes."

"By what means--who was your agent?"

"Swartz."

Darke waited, listening.

"He has three times waylaid _him_ behind the rebel lines, and fired on
him as he was riding at night through the woods," added the woman.

"Bah!" said Darke; "Swartz told you that?"

"He has done so."

"Hatred blinds you; I do not believe that story. But I design nothing
of that description against Colonel Mohun. I will fight him wherever I
meet him in battle--kill him, if I can--but no assassination."

A mocking smile came to the woman's lips.

"You seem to dislike the idea of--assassination," she said.

Darke uttered a sound resembling the growl of a wild animal, and a
moment after, seizing the decanter, he dashed some of its contents into
a glass, and raised it to his lips.

"Cursed stuff!" he suddenly exclaimed, setting the glass down
violently. "I want drink--real drink--to-day!"

The woman looked at him curiously, and said quietly:--

"What is the matter?"

Her companion's brows were knit until the shaggy masses united over the
gloomy eyes. Beneath burned a lurid fire.

"I have seen _him_ again--General Davenant," he said, in a low voice;
"it is the second time."

As he uttered these words, Darke seemed the prey of some singular
emotion.

"It was at Gettysburg first," he continued. "He was leading the charge,
on the third day, against Cemetery Heights. I was there by accident.
They were repulsed. When he rode back, he was carrying a bleeding boy
in his arms through the smoke. I recognized his tall form and gray
hair; and heard his voice in the midst of the cannon, as he cheered on
his men."

The speaker's face had flushed. His breast rose and fell.

"That was the first time," he said. "The second was the other day when
he was riding among the enemy's guns near Bristoe--I made him out with
my glasses."

Darke bent down, and gazed at the floor in silence. The fire in the
dark eyes had deepened. His heavy under lip was caught in the large,
sharp teeth.

All at once a ringing laugh disturbed the silence. There was a mocking
intonation in it which was unmistakable.

"General Davenant!" exclaimed the woman. "Well, who is General
Davenant?"

Darke looked at the mocking speaker sidewise.

"Who is General Davenant?" he said. "Is it necessary that I enlighten
you, madam? He is my bugbear--my death's head! The sight of him poisons
my life, and something gnaws at me, driving me nearly mad! To see that
man chills me, like the hand of death!"

The woman looked at him and then began to laugh.

"You do unbend your noble strength, my lord!" she said, "to think so
brainsickly of things!" throwing into the word, "brainsickly,"
exaggerated stage-rant.

"One would say," she continued, "that the brave Colonel Darke had the
blues to-day! Take care how you meet Colonel Mohun in this mood! The
result might be unfortunate."

Darke made no reply for some moments. He was gazing with knit brows
upon the floor. Then he raised his head.

"You return to the subject of your friend," he said, coldly.

"Yes. The subject is agreeable."

"Well, I can give you intelligence of him--unless Swartz has
anticipated me."

"What intelligence?"

"Your friend Mohun is in love--again!"

The woman's face flushed suddenly.

"With whom?" she said.

"Ah! there is the curious part of the affair, madam!" returned Darke.

And in a low tone he added:--

"The name of the young lady is--Georgia Conway."

The woman half rose from her chair, with flashing eyes, and said:--

"Who told you that?"

Darke smiled. There was something lugubrious in that chilly mirth.

"An emissary on whom I can rely, brought me the intelligence," he said,
"Colonel Mohun was wounded in the battle of Fleetwood, and entering a
house where _she_ was nursing the wounded, fainted, and was caught in
her arms. From that moment the affair began. She nursed him, and he was
soon healed. I had myself inflicted the wound with a pistol
ball--but the hurt was trifling. He got well in a few days--and was
ready to meet me again at Upperville--but in those few days the young
lady and himself became enamored of each other. She is proud, they say,
and had always laughed at love--he too is a woman-hater--no doubt from
some old affair, madam!--but both the young people suddenly changed
their views. Colonel Mohun became devoted; the young woman forgot her
sarcasm. My emissary saw them riding out more than once near Culpeper
Court-House; and since the return of the army, they have been billing
and cooing like two doves, quite love sick! That's agreeable, is it
not, madam?"

And Darke uttered a singular laugh. As for the woman she had grown so
pale, I thought she would faint.

"Do you understand, madam?" continued Darke. "Colonel Mohun is in love
_again_; and the name of his friend is--Georgia Conway!"

The woman was silent; but I saw that she was gnawing her nails.

"My budget is not exhausted, madam," continued Darke. "The young lady
has a sister; her name is Virginia. She too has a love affair with a
young officer of the artillery. His name is William Davenant!"

And the speaker clutched the arm of a chair so violently that the wood
cracked in his powerful grasp.

"That is all!" he added. "The Mohuns, Davenants and Conways, are about
to intermarry, you see! Their blood is going to mingle, their hands to
clasp, in spite of the gulf of fire that divides their people! All is
forgotten, or they care nothing. They are yonder, billing, and cooing,
and kissing! the tender hearts are throbbing--all the world is bright
to them--while I am here, and you, tearing our hearts out in despair!"

Darke stopped, uttering a sound between a curse and a groan. The woman
had listened with a bitter smile. As he finished, she rose and
approached him. Her eyes burned in the pale face like coals of fire.

"There is a better thing than despair!" she said.

"What?"

"Vengeance!"

And grasping his arm almost violently:--

"That man is yonder!" she said, pointing with the other hand toward
Warrenton, "Go and meet him, and kill him, and end all this at once!
Remember the banks of the Nottaway!--That sword thrust--that grave!
Remember, he hates you with a deadly hatred--has wounded you, laughed
at you,--driven you back, when you met him, like a hound under the
lash! Remember me!--your oath! Break that oath and I will go and kill
him myself!"

As she uttered these words a cannon shot thundered across the woods.

"Listen!" the woman exclaimed.

Darke rose suddenly to his feet.

"You are right!" he said, gloomily. "You keep me to the work. I do not
hate him as you do--but he is an enemy, and I will kill him. Why do I
yield to you, and obey you thus? What makes me love you, I wonder!"

Suddenly a second gun roared from beyond Buckland.

"We will talk of that afterward," said the woman, with flushed cheeks;
"think of one thing only now--that _he_ is yonder."

"Good!" said Darke, "and I hope that in an hour one of us will be dead,
I care not which--come, madam--but you must not expose yourself!"

"What am I!"

"All I have left!" he said.

And with a gloomy look he rushed from the house, followed by the gray
woman.




XII.


THE BUCKLAND RACES.


In a moment the voice of Darke was heard, ordering "to horse!" a
clatter of sabres followed; and the company of cavalry sat out at full
gallop toward the firing.

At their head I saw Darke's burly figure. The woman, escorted by an
orderly, rode toward the rear.

In a few minutes the company of cavalry had entered a belt of woods and
disappeared.

We had hastened into the apartment--Tom and myself, and looked now
toward the highway. It was dark with a long column of Federal cavalry
which seemed to be in great agitation.

The column, as well as I could make out, numbered at least a division.
Neither the head nor the tail of the blue serpent was visible--only the
main body, with its drawn sabres glittering like silver scales in the
sun.

I hesitated not many seconds. Something was evidently going on, and our
present whereabouts dangerous.

With a hasty salute to the young ladies who had hurried in, I made a
sign to Tom, and ran to my horse.

My companion did not join me for at least five minutes. Impatience
began to master me, when he appeared, laughing, and flourishing a knot
of red ribbon, which I had observed in Miss Katy's hair.

With a bound he was in the saddle--I saw him turn and make a gay salute
toward the ladies on the steps, and then we set out at full speed
across the fields to rejoin Stuart.

He was evidently engaged with the enemy. From the front came quick
carbine shots and shouts. From the woods, on the left flank and in rear
of the enemy, was heard the rapid thunder of cannon.

Suddenly every thing flashed upon me. I remembered Stuart's significant
smile; the absence of Fitz Lee; a trap had evidently been laid, and
General Kilpatrick had fallen into it.

I was not deceived. The gallant Fitz Lee had suggested the ruse. He was
to move toward Auburn, while Stuart retreated upon Warrenton, pursued
by Kilpatrick. Then Fitz Lee was to attack the enemy in flank and rear,
from the direction of Auburn--his cannon would be the signal for Stuart
to turn. General Kilpatrick, thus assailed in front, flank and rear,
_sauve qui pent_ would, probably, be the order of the day with him.

Every thing turned out exactly as it had been arranged. Stuart retired
steadily on Warrenton. When the Federal rear approached Buckland, Fitz
Lee came in on their left flank, and then Stuart turned like a tiger,
and bore down on the head of their column.

That gun we had heard was the signal of Fitz Lee's attack. Those
carbine shots came from Stuart as his men charged.

We had set out at full speed to rejoin Stuart, as I have said; but he
saved Tom and myself the trouble of riding very far. He came to meet
us, at full gallop, with drawn sabre, driving the Federal troopers in
disorder before him.

The affair that succeeded was one of the most animated of the war.

The enemy were completely dumbfoundered, but a part of Kilpatrick's
force made a hard fight. Sabres clashed, carbines cracked, Fitz Lee's
artillery roared--the fields and woods around Buckland were full of
tumult and conflict.

In ten minutes we had caught up with Stuart. He was leading his column
in person. At the head of the front regiment rode Mohun, with drawn
sabre, and pressing his magnificent gray to headlong speed. In his eye
was the splendid joy of combat; his cheeks glowed; his laughing lips
revealed the white teeth under the black mustache. It was difficult to
recognize in this gay cavalier, the pale, bitter and melancholy cynic
of the previous June.

"Look, Surry!" exclaimed Mohun, "we are driving our friend Kilpatrick!
Stuart is down on him like a lion!"

"You are driving a personal friend of yours, besides!" I said. "Yonder
he is--Colonel Darke!"

Mohun's smile disappeared suddenly. He looked at Darke, whose burly
figure was seen at the head of the charging column; and that glance was
troubled and doubtful.

"I am sorry to meet him," he said, in a low tone.

"Why?"

"He would not strike me yonder, in Pennsylvania, when I was in his
power."

"But he has sworn to kill you to-day!" I exclaimed. "I have just heard
him swear that! Look out, Mohun! here they are!"

In an instant the two columns had clashed together, like thunder. What
followed was a fierce and confused struggle--sabres clashing, carbines
banging, men shouting, groaning, and falling from their horses, which
trampled over the dead and wounded alike.

I was close beside Mohun as he closed in with Darke. The latter had
plainly resolved on his enemy's destruction; and in an instant the two
men were cutting furiously at each other with their sabres. They were
body to body--their faces flamed--it was rather a wrestle on horseback,
than a sword fight.

Suddenly Mohun delivered a blow which fell upon his opponent's sword
hand, nearly cutting through the fingers. Darke's arm instinctively
fell, and he was at his adversary's mercy.

Instead of plunging his sword into Darke's breast, however, as he might
have done, Mohun let its point fall, and said:--

"Take your life! Now I am even with you, sir!"

Darke recoiled, and a furious flash darted from his eyes. Then his left
hand went to his hilt; he drew a pistol; and spurring close up to
Mohun, placed the weapon on his enemy's breast, and fired.

The bullet passed through Mohun's breast, but at the same instant Darke
uttered a fierce cry. Mohun had driven his sword's point through the
Federal officer's throat--the blood spouted around the blade--a moment
afterward the two adversaries had clutched, dragged each other from
their rearing horses, and were tearing each other with hands and teeth
on the ground, wet with their blood.

One of Mohun's men leaped from horseback and tore them apart.

"A sword! give me a sword," exclaimed Mohun, hoarsely.

And rising to his feet, he clutched at an imaginary weapon,--his lips
foamed with blood,--and reeling, he fell at full length on the body of
his adversary, who was bathed in blood, and seemed to be dying.

What is here described, all took place in a few minutes. In that time
the enemy's column had been broken, and hurled back. Suddenly the wild
Southern cheer rang above the woods. Stuart and Fitz Lee had united
their forces; in one solid column they pressed the flying enemy,
banging and thundering on their rear with carbines and cannon.

Kilpatrick was defeated; his column in hopeless rout.

"Stuart boasts of having driven me from Culpeper;" he is reported to
have said just before the fight, "and now I am going to drive _him_."

But Stuart was not driven. On the contrary, he drove Kilpatrick. Some
of the enemy's column did not stop, it is said, before they reached the
banks of the Potomac.

Such was the dramatic termination of the last great cavalry campaign of
Stuart.

The affair came to be known as "The Buckland Races," and Stuart's old
sabreurs still laugh as they recall the comedy.




XIII.


TWO SCENES IN DECEMBER, 1863.


The campaign of October, 1863, was over. Lee was behind the Rapidan.

In December General Meade struck a blow, in turn, at his adversary.

Shall we glance, in passing, at that affair of Mine Run? I saw a
spectacle there--and a sad one, too--which I am tempted to describe,
though aware it has little to do with my narrative. I have left
Colonels Mohun and Darke in a bloody embrace yonder near Buckland. I
ought to relate at length how they were not dead, and how they in due
time recovered, but for the moment I think of a fine sight, and a
weeping face, which I saw in the woods below Verdiersville.

Let us ride thither, reader, it will not take long.

In December, then, General Meade crossed the lower Rapidan, and
advanced to assail General Lee in his works above.

A fiasco followed. Meade marched toward Verdiersville; found his
adversary behind earth-works, near that place; reconnoitered them, felt
them, moved backward and forward before them--and then, one morning,
before General Lee was aware of the fact, quietly disappeared,
returning to the north bank of the Rapidan.

You see I have no battles to describe on this occasion, reader. We had
some hard fighting in the cavalry, but I shall not dwell upon that. It
is some handsome fire-necklaces, and a talk with an old woman, which I
shall speak of.

The fire-necklaces were manufactured by General Meade's troops, just
before their retreat. The men had fallen into line at the word; moved
silently toward the Rapidan, and had not taken the trouble, in leaving
the rebel woods, to extinguish their bivouac fires, amid the thickets,
carpeted with leaves. The result was a splendid spectacle. The fires
had gradually burned outward, devouring the carpet of dry leaves. Great
circles of flame were seen everywhere in the woods, and these dazzling
fire-necklaces grew larger and larger, twined together, became
entangled, twisted about, sparkled, crackled,--of all the sights I ever
saw I think this was the most curious!

From time to time the flames crawled along and reached the foot of some
tall tree, festooned with dry vines. Then the vine would catch; the
flame would dart through the festoons; climb the trunk; stream from the
summit,--and above the blazing rings, twisting in endless convolutions,
would roar a mighty tongue of flame, crimson, baleful, and menacing.

It was a new "torch of war," invented by General Meade.

Such was the picturesque spectacle which rose a moment ago to my
memory.

Now for the sad scene which I witnessed, as I rode back with Stuart.

Passing a small house, a poor woman came out, and with eyes full of
tears, exclaimed, addressing Stuart:--

"Oh, child! stop a minute! Are they coming back? They have took every
thing I had--they are _not_ coming back!"[1]

[Footnote 1: Her words.]

Stuart stopped. He was riding at the head of his staff, preceded by his
battle-flag. Not a trace of amusement was seen on his features, as he
heard himself addressed in that phrase, "Oh, child!"

"Have they treated you so badly?" he said, in his grave, kind voice.

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the poor woman, weeping bitterly, "they have took
every hog, cow, and ear of corn I have, and every thing from my
daughter; she is a widow, and lives near us. These are her children, my
grandchildren, come to get out of the way."[1]

[Footnote 1: Her words.]

And she pointed to two or three little girls, with frightened faces,
and eyes wet with tears.

Stuart seemed deeply affected. Under that stout heart, which never
shrunk, was a wealth of sweetness and kindness.

"Well, they are not coming back, my good woman," he said, in a voice of
deep feeling. "You need not be afraid--they are gone now."

The poor woman clasped her hands.

"Oh! do you believe that, child!"[1] she said; "do you believe they'll
never come back?"

[Footnote 1: Her words.]

"I hope not, at least," Stuart replied, in a low tone.

"She clasped her hands, and for the third time addressing him as
'child,' sobbed:--

"Oh! if they will only never come back!"

That scene affected me deeply. The poor woman's tears brought something
into my throat which seemed to choke me. This time the Northern
soldiers had been impartial in their marauding. They had not only
destroyed the property, and carried off the slaves of the wealthy
proprietors, the "bloated aristocrats;" they had taken the bread out of
the mouths of the widow and the fatherless--leaving them bare and
starving in that bleak December of '63.

War conducted in that manner is barbarous--is it not, reader? The cry
of that widow and her children must have gone up to Heaven.

Stuart returned to his bivouac in the pine wood near Verdiersville,
where he had slept without tents, by his camp-fire, all these freezing
nights. Then the army began to move; soon it resumed its former
position; the cavalry was sent to watch the fords of the Rapidan; and
Stuart returned to his own head-quarters near Orange Court-House, gayly
singing, as he had left them to advance and meet the enemy.




XIV.


STUART'S WINTER QUARTERS.


COON HOLLOW!--


What gay memories are evoked by that familiar name! How we laughed and
sang in that hollow in the hills near Orange, in the cold winter of
1863!

Stuart called his head-quarters "Wigwam Independence," but the officers
of his staff gave them the sobriquet of "Coon Hollow;" and I adopt in
my memoirs the old familiar designation.

Never were soldiers more comfortable than the inhabitants of Coon
Hollow!--and Stuart's tent was the most comfortable of all. He had
stretched a large canvas beneath some sheltering trees; and filling up
the opening at each end with a picturesque wicker-work of evergreens,
ensconced himself there in his sylvan lodge, like some Robin Hood, or
ranger of the greenwood in old times. The woodland haunt and open air
life seemed, at first, to charm the bold cavalier; nothing seemed
wanting to his happiness, lost here in the forest: but soon the
freezing airs "demoralized" even the stout cavalryman, and he exchanged
his canvas for a regular tent of the largest description, with a plank
floor, a camp-couch, and a mighty chimney, wherein sparkled, ere long,
a cheerful fire of hickory, driving away the blasts of the cold winter
nights, which were sent on their way with song.

Such was Stuart's own domicile. The staff tents were grouped around,
with their solid chimneys of rock. The "cavalry head-quarters" was
complete--a warm nest in the woods. Couriers came and went; sabres
rattled; spurs jingled; the horses whinnied from their stables, woven
of pine boughs, near by; and in and out of the general's tent played
his two boisterous setters, Nip and Tuck, the companions of his idle
hours. We all messed together, under a broad canvas, at one table:
music resounded; songs were sung; Sweeney, soon, alas! to be dead, was
yet king of the woodland revels; Stuart joined in his songs, to the
music of the banjo; and not seldom did the bright faces of fair ladies
shine on us, bringing back all the warmth of the summer days--the blue
sky, the sunshine, and the smiles!

Such was good old "Coon Hollow." I recall it with delight. The chill
airs cut you to the bone when you ventured out on horseback from the
sheltered nook; but in Coon Hollow all was warm and bright. In the
woods on the crest above, the winds sighed: but in the hollow below,
the banjo rattled; laughter resounded; great fires roared; and, as
though in open defiance of winter and its tempests, Stuart, carolled in
his clear and sonorous voice, his favorite ditty,

  "The dew is on the blossom."

So we sang and laughed all those long winter evenings. The winds
carried away the sound of jests, and banjo notes. The long hours of
winter thus flew by like birds lost, one by one, in the night of the
past. Happy days! happy nights! I remember them still. Stuart is
dead--more than one of my dear companions have followed him--but their
voices sound again, their eyes again flash, their friendly smiles
linger in memory.

So the days fled by--and I wonder if our friends across the Rapidan,
who were going to crush us, were as gay as the folk about to be
crushed? The future looked stormy, but we laughed--and we did right,
did we not, friend? That mirth was not unseemly--not unworthy of
approval. It is evidence at least of "game," _non fractum esse fortuna
et retinere in rebus asperis, dignitatem_--is it not? Good fortune,
wealth, and success, are nothing compared to that. For my part, I would
rather have the equal mind in arduous things, than money in my purse,
or victory. The army of Northern Virginia had that in the winter of
1863, as they had had it in 1861 and '62, and were going to have it in
the dark year and black winter preceding April, 1865.

But I linger too long on those days at "Coon Hollow." The wave of war
had wafted us to that quiet nook; for a time, we laughed and sang; but
the storm was coming. Soon it struck us; and we left the harbor, driven
by the tempest.

So I dismiss Coon Hollow, lost amid the hills of Orange. The spot is
desolate to-day, and the bleak wood is silent. But for me, Stuart is
singing there now as then--and will sing in my memory forever!




XV.


LEE'S "RAGGED REGIMENTS."


It required a stout heart to laugh and sing, _con amore_, in the last
days of that winter, and the first days of spring, 1864.

Those very figures, "1864," tell the story, and explain this. Do they
not, reader?

Each year of the war has its peculiar physiognomy.

1861--that is mirth, adventure, inexperience, bright faces, wreaths of
flowers, "boxes" from home, and "honorable mention" in reports, if you
only waved your sword and shouted "Hurrah!" Then you heard the brass
bands playing, the drum gayly rolling, the bugles sending their joyous
notes across the fields and through the forests--blooming fields,
untouched forests!--and that music made the pulses dance. Gayly-clad
volunteers marched gallantly through the streets; the crowds cheered;
the new flags, shaped by fair hands, fluttered;--not a bullet had torn
through them, not a rent was seen in the new uniforms. As the trains
swept by with the young heroes on board, bevies of lovely girls
cheered, waved handkerchiefs, and threw nosegays. Eyes were sparkling,
lips smiling, cheeks glowing in '61. The youths had havelocks to ward
off the sun; gaiters to keep out the dust; woollen belts to prevent
rheumatism; fanciful shirt bosoms, and pretty needle-cases and tobacco
pouches of silk and velvet, decked with beads and gay needle-work, by
the dearest fingers in the world!

So they went to the wars--those stout and ruddy youths. Every one
anxious to have his head taken off by a cannon ball, all for the honor
and glory of it. They marched along cheering, as the white
handkerchiefs waved; they proudly kept step to the tap of the drum, or
moved briskly beside the cannon, or cantered by on their glossy and
spirited horses.

The epoch was agitated, but joy coursed in every vein. And when the
first successes came, those small affairs were greeted with "thunders
of applause."

General Spoons marched to Bethel; took a look at the gray people; fired
a gun or two before retreating--and a thousand Southern journalists
shouted "lo, triumphe!--a grand victory!" The brave Del. Kemper fired a
shot at the Federal train approaching Vienna, and the journalists
cried, "we have driven back the whole Federal army!"

Then some real fighting came, and the applause was again tremendous.
When the news of the first Manassas flashed over the wires, the
Southern people stood upon their heads, and went wild. The war was
ended--the affair was over--the brass bands, and rolling drums, and
dazzling uniforms had speedily done the business. The power of the
North was broken. She had run upon the breakers. The great hulk was
lying stranded, the waves were beating her, and she was about to go to
pieces.

Such was 1861--an era of mirth, inexperience, inflated views, brilliant
pageants, gay adventures, ruddy cheeks, sparkling eyes and splendid
banners, floating proudly in the sunshine of victory!

1862 came, and with it a new phase of the war. Sweat, dust, and blood
had replaced the music and wreaths of roses. Faces, were not so
ruddy--they began to look war-worn. The rounded cheeks had become
gaunt. The bright uniforms were battle-soiled. Smoke had stained them,
the bivouac dimmed them, the sun had changed the blue-gray to a sort of
scorched yellow. Waving handkerchiefs still greeted the troops--as they
greeted them to the end of the war. But few flowers were thrown
now--their good angels looked on in silence, and prayed for them.

They were no longer holiday soldiers, but were hardened in battle. They
knew the work before them, and advanced to it with the measured tramp
of veterans. They fought as well as soldiers have ever fought in this
world. Did they not? Answer, Cold Harbor, Malvern Hill, Cedar Mountain,
Manassas, Boonsboro', Sharpsburg, and Fredericksburg! And every battle,
nearly, was a victory. In the lowlands and the mountains--in Virginia
and Maryland--they bore aloft the banner of the South in stalwart
hands, and carried it forward with unshrinking hearts, to that baptism
of blood awaiting it. That was the great year for the South. The hour
was dark--a huge foe fronted us--but wherever that foe was met, he
seemed to reel before the mailed hand that buffeted his front. All
frippery and decoration had long been stripped from the army. The
fingers of war--real war--had torn off the gaudy trappings; and the
grim lips had muttered, "What I want is hard muscle, and the brave
heart--not tinsel!" The bands were seldom heard--the musicians were
tending the wounded. The drums had ceased their jovial rattle, and were
chiefly used in the "long roll," which said "Get ready, boys! they are
coming!"

So in the midst of smoke and dust,--with yells of triumph, or groans of
agony, in place of the gay cheering--passed that year of battles, 1862.

The South was no longer romantic and elated on the subject of the war.
The soldiers no longer looked out for adventures, or for the glorious
cannonball to carry off their heads, and make their names immortal. At
home, the old men were arming, and the women sending words of cheer to
their husbands and sons, and praying. In the camps, the old soldiers
had forgotten the wreaths of roses. Their havelocks were worn out, and
they no longer minded the sun. Gray flannel had replaced the "fancy"
shirt bosoms; they carried tobacco in their pockets; and you saw them,
seated on some log, busy sewing on buttons, the faces once so round and
ruddy, now gaunt and stained with powder.

1863 came, and it was an army of veterans that struck Hooker at
Chancellorsville. It was no longer a company of gay gallants marching
by, amid music, waving scarfs, and showers of nosegays from fairy
hands. It was a stormy wave of gaunt warriors, in ragged clothes and
begrimed faces, who clutched their shining muskets, rushed headlong
over the breastworks, and, rolling through the blazing and crackling
woods, swept the enemy at the point of the bayonet, with the hoarse and
menacing cry, "Remember Jackson!" Gettysburg followed--never was
grapple more fierce than that, as we have seen; and when the veterans
of Lee were hurled back, the soil of the continent seemed to shake.
They were repulsed and retreated, but as the lion retreats before the
huntsman, glaring back, and admonishing him not to follow too closely,
if he would consult his own safety. At Williamsport the wounded lion
halted and turned--his pursuer did not assail him--and he crossed the
Potomac, and descended to the Rapidan, to strike in turn that dangerous
blow in October, when Meade was nearly cut off from Washington.

With that campaign of Bristoe, and the fiasco of Mine Run, the year of
1863 ended.

It left the South bleeding, and what was worse,--discouraged. Affairs
were mismanaged. The army had scarcely sufficient meat and bread to
live on. The croakers, clad in black coats, and with snowy shirt
bosoms, began to mutter under their breath, "It is useless to struggle
longer!"--and, recoiling in disgust from the hard fare of "war times,"
began to hunger for the flesh-pots of Egypt. Manna was tasteless now;
the task-master was better than the wilderness and the scant fare. Oh!
to sit by the flesh-pots and grow fat, as in the days when they did eat
thereof! Why continue the conflict? Why waste valuable lives? Why think
of still fighting when flour was a hundred dollars a barrel, coffee
twenty dollars a pound, cloth fifty dollars a yard, and good whiskey
and brandy not to be purchased at any price? Could patriotism live amid
trials like that? Could men cling to a cause which made them the
victims of Yankee cavalry? Why have faith any longer in a government
that was bankrupt--whose promises to pay originated the scoffing
proverb, "as worthless as a Confederate note!" Meat and drink was the
religion of the croakers in those days. Money was their real divinity.
Without meat and drink, and with worthless money, the Confederacy, in
their eyes, was not the side to adhere to. It was unfortunate--down
with it! Let it be anathema-maranatha!

The croakers said that--and the brave hearts whom they insulted could
not silence them. There were stout souls in black coats--but the
croakers distilled their poison, working busily in the darkness. It was
the croakers who bought up the supplies, and hoarded them in garrets,
and retailed them in driblets, thereby causing the enormous prices
which, according to them, foretold the coming downfall. They evaded the
conscript officers; grew fat on their extortions; and one day you would
miss them from their accustomed haunts--they had flitted across the
Potomac, and were drinking their wine in New York, London, or Paris.

Meanwhile, three classes of persons remained faithful to the
death:--the old men, the army, and the women.

The gray-beards were taking down their old guns and swords, and forming
home-battalions, to fight the enemy to the death when his cavalry came
to lay waste the country.

The women were weaving homespun, knitting socks, nursing the wounded,
and praying. They had never ceased to pray, nor had they lost the heart
of hope. The croakers believed in success, and their patron saint was
Mammon. The women believed in the justice of the cause, and in God. In
1861, they had cheered the soldiers, and waved their handkerchiefs, and
rained bouquets. In 1862, they had sent brave words of encouragement,
and bade their sons, and brothers, and husbands fight to the end. In
1863, they repeated that--sent the laggards back to the ranks--and when
they were not sewing, or nursing the sick, were praying. O women of
Virginia, and the great South to her farthest limits, there is nothing
in all history that surpasses your grand record! You hoped, in the dark
days as in the bright;--when bearded men shrunk, you fronted the storm
unmoved! Always you hoped, and endured, and prayed for the land. Had
the rest done their duty like the women and the army, the red-cross
flag would be floating to-day in triumph!

The army--that was unshaken. Gettysburg had not broken its strength,
nor affected its stout manhood. Lee's old soldiers believed in him
after Gettysburg, in the winter of '63, as they had believed in him
after Fredericksburg, in the winter of '62. They had confidence still
in their great leader, and in their cause. The wide gaps in their ranks
did not dismay them; want of food did not discourage them; hunger,
hardships, nakedness, defeat,--they had borne these in the past, they
were bearing them still, they were ready to bear them in the future.
War did not fright them--though the coming conflict was plainly going
to be more bitter than any before. The great array of Grant on the
north bank of the Rapidan did not depress them--had they not met and
defeated at Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville a force as great, and
could not they do it again?

So they lay in their camps on the Rapidan, in that cold winter of
1863--a little army of ragged and hungry men, with gaunt faces, wasted
forms, shoeless feet; with nothing to encourage them but the cause,
past victories, and Lee's presence. That was much; what was enough,
however, was the blood in their veins; the inspiration of the great
race of fighting men from whom they derived their origin. Does any one
laugh at that? The winner will--but the truth remains.

That ragged and famished army came of a fighting race. It was starving
and dying, but it was going to fight to the last.

When the cannon began to roar in May, 1864, these gaunt veterans were
in line, with ragged coats, but burnished bayonets. When Lee, the gray
cavalier, rode along their lines, the woods thundered with a cheer
which said, "Ready!"




XVI.


HAMMER AND RAPIER.


I pass to the great collision of armies in the first days of May.

Why say any thing of that dark episode called "Dahlgren's raid?" A full
account would be too long--a brief sketch too short. And whatever our
Northern friends may think, it is not agreeable to us to dwell on that
outrage. Was that _war_? Was it civilized warfare to march in the
darkness upon a city full of women and children--to plan the
assassination of the Southern President and his cabinet; the
destruction of the city by the torch; the release of the Federal
prisoners at Belle Isle, to be let loose afterward with fire and sword
on Richmond?

Alas! all that was planned. The orders were captured, and exist still.
Was that war? I repeat. Answer, friends of the North. Or, did you think
us mere wild beasts?

I omit all that, passing on to the real fighting.

General Ulysses S. Grant had been appointed commander-in-chief of the
armies of the United States, and had taken command in person of the
army of the Potomac, confronting Lee on the Rapidan.

Before the curtain rises, and the cannon begin to roar, let us glance
at the relative numbers, and the programme of the Federal leader.

Grant's "available force present for duty, May 1, 1864," was, according
to the report of the Federal Secretary of War, 141,166 men.

Lee's force, "present for duty," as his army rolls will show, was
52,626 men. That is to say, rather more than one-third of his
adversary's.

Lee afterward received about 10,000 re-enforcements from Beauregard's
columns. Grant received about 50,000.

With about 62,000 men Lee repulsed the attacks of Grant with about
200,000 men, from the Rapidan to Petersburg--inflicting a loss on his
adversary, by the Federal statement of more than 60,000 men.

These numbers may be denied, but the proof is on record.

The programme of General Grant in the approaching campaign was one of
very great simplicity. He intended to "hammer continuously" as he wrote
to President Lincoln, and crush his adversary at whatever expense of
money and blood. From 1861 to 1864, war had been war, such as the world
understands it. Pitched battles had been fought--defeats sustained--or
victories gained.

Then the adversaries rested before new pitched battles: more defeats or
victories. General Grant had determined to change all that. It had been
tried, and had failed. He possessed a gigantic weapon, the army of the
United States. In his grasp was a huge sledge-hammer--the army of the
Potomac. He was going to clutch that tremendous weapon, whirl it aloft
like a new Vulcan, and strike straight at Lee's crest, and try to end
him. If one blow did not suffice, he was going to try another. If that
failed, in its turn, he would strike another and another. All the year
was before him; there were new men to fill the places of those who
fell; blood might gush in torrents, but the end was worth the cost.
Would it hurl a hundred thousand men into bloody graves? That was
unfortunate, but unavoidable. Would the struggle frighten and horrify
the world? It was possible. But these things were unimportant. The
rebellion must be crushed. The sledge-hammer must strike until Lee's
keen rapier was shattered. Hammer and rapier were matched against each
other--the combat was _a l'outrance_--the hammer must beat down the
rapier, or fall from the grasp of him who wielded it.

Such was the programme of General Grant. It was not war exactly, in the
old acceptation of the term. It was not taught by Jomini, or practised
by Napoleon. You would have said, indeed, at the first glance, that it
rejected the idea of generalship _in toto_. Let us give General Grant
his just dues, however. He was not a great commander, but he _was_ a
man of clear brain. He saw that brute force could alone shatter the
army of Northern Virginia; that to wear it away by attrition, exhaust
its blood drop by drop, was the only thing left--and he had the courage
to adopt that programme.

To come back to events on the Rapidan in the month of May, 1864.

Lee is ready for the great collision, now seen to be inevitable. His
right, under Ewell, occupies the works on the southern bank of the
Rapidan, above Chancellorsville. His centre, under A.P. Hill, lies near
Orange Court-House. His left, under Longstreet, is in reserve near
Gordonsville.

The army of Northern Virginia is thus posted in echelon of corps,
extending from Gordonsville, by Orange, toward the fords of the
Rapidan.

When the enemy cross on their great advance, Ewell is ready to face
east; Hill will close in on his right; and Longstreet in the same
manner on Hill's right. Then the army will be in line, ready to strike
at Grant's flank as he moves through the Wilderness.

For Lee is going to strike at him. The fifty thousand are going to
order the one hundred and forty thousand to halt.

Stuart's cavalry is watching. It extends from Madison Court-House,
along Robertson River, on the left of the army; and on the right, from
Ewell's camps, past Chancellorsville, to Fredericksburg.

Such was the situation on the first of May. The two tigers were
watching each other--and one was about to spring.




XVII.


FORT DELAWARE.


To descend now from the heights of generalization to the plains of
incident and personal observation.

For this volume is not a history of the war in Virginia, but the
memoirs of a staff officer belonging to Stuart's cavalry.

May, 1864, had come; we were soon to be in the saddle; the thundering
hammer of General Grant was about to commence its performances.

One night--it was the night of the first of May--I was sitting in
General Stuart's tent, looking into his blazing log fire, and musing.
In this luxury I was not interrupted. It was nearly midnight, and the
rest of the staff had retired. Stuart was writing at his desk, by the
light of a candle in a captured "camp candlestick," and from time to
time, without turning his head, ejaculated some brief words upon any
subject which came into his head.

After writing ten minutes, he now said briefly:--

"Surry."

"General," was my as brief response."

"I think Mohun was a friend of yours?"

"Yes, general, we became intimate on the march to Gettysburg."

"Well, I have just received his commission--"

"You mean as--"

"Brigadier-general. You know I long ago applied for it."

"I knew that--pity he has not been exchanged."

"A great pity,--and you miss a pleasure I promised myself I would give
you."

"What pleasure, general?"

"To take Mohun his commission with your own hands."

"I am truly sorry I can not. You know he was terribly wounded, and we
had to leave him in Warrenton; then the enemy advanced; for a long time
we thought him dead. Thus I am sorry I am debarred the pleasure you
offer. Some day I hope to accept your offer."

"Accept it now, colonel," said a benignant voice at the door. I turned
suddenly, as did the general. At the opening of the tent, a head was
seen--the head passed through--was followed by a body,--and Mr.
Nighthawk, private and confidential emissary, glided in with the
stealthy step of a wild-cat.

He was unchanged. His small eyes were as piercing, his smile as
benignant, his costume--black coat, white cravat, and "stove-pipe"
hat--as clerical as before.

"Good evening, gentlemen," said Mr. Nighthawk, smiling sweetly; "I
bring news of Colonel Mohun."

"And fly in like an owl, or your namesake!" laughed Stuart.

"An owl? I am told that is the bird of wisdom, gentlemen!"

"You hit the nail on the head, when you said 'gentlemen!'"[1] replied
Stuart, laughing; "but how about Mohun? Is he exchanged, Nighthawk?"

[Footnote 1: A favorite phrase of Stuart's.]

And Stuart wheeled round and pointed to a chair.

Nighthawk sat down modestly.

"Not exchanged, exactly, general; but safe!" he said.

"He escaped?"

"Exactly, general."

"And you helped him?"

"I believe so."

"Good! You really are a trump, Nighthawk--and you seem to have a
peculiar fancy for Mohun."

"He is the best friend I have in the world, general."

"Well, that accounts for it. But how did he escape?"

"I will tell you in a few words, general. I rather pride myself on the
manner in which I conducted the little affair. You remember, Colonel
Mohun was very badly wounded when you defeated Kilpatrick at Buckland.
It was in a fight with Colonel Darke, of the Federal cavalry, who was
also wounded and left dying, as was erroneously supposed, at a small
house on the roadside, when you fell back. Colonel Mohun was left at
Warrenton, his wound being so severe that he could not be brought
farther in his ambulance, and here he staid until he was convalescent.
His recovery was miraculous, as a bullet had passed through his breast;
but he is a gentleman of vigorous constitution, and he rallied at last,
but, unfortunately, to find himself a prisoner. General Meade had
reoccupied the country, and Colonel Mohun was transferred from hospital
to Fort Delaware, as a prisoner of war.

"I have informed you, general," continued Mr. Nighthawk, smiling, and
turning the rim of his black hat between his fingers, "that Colonel
Mohun was one of my best friends. For that reason, I went to see him at
Warrenton, and had arranged a very good plan for his escape, when,
unfortunately, he was all at once sent away, thereby disappointing all
my schemes. I followed, however, saw that he was taken to Fort
Delaware, and proceeded thither at once. You have probably not visited
this place, general, or you, colonel. It is a fort, and outside is a
pen, or stockade as it is called, covering two or three acres. Inside
are cabins for the prisoners, in the shape of a semicircle, and grounds
to walk in, except in the space marked off by the 'dead line.' If any
prisoner crosses that he is shot by the sentries, whose beat is on a
platform running round upon the top of the stockade.

"Well, I went to the place, and found that Colonel Mohun was confined
with other officers in the pen, where they had the usual Federal ration
of watery soup, bad meat, and musty crackers. For a gentleman, like
himself, accustomed before the war to every luxury that unbounded
wealth could supply, this was naturally disagreeable, and I determined
to omit no exertion to effect his escape.

"Unfortunately, the rules of Fort Delaware are very strict, however. To
cross the 'dead line' is death; to attempt to burrow is confinement in
irons, and other degrading punishments; and to bribe the sentinels
invariably resulted in having the whole affair revealed, after they had
received the money. It really seemed as if Colonel Mohun were doomed to
the living death of a filthy prison until the end of the war, since
exchanges had ceased, and it was only by devising a ruse of very great
risk that I accomplished the end in view."

"What was your plan, Nighthawk?" said Stuart, rising and moving to the
fireplace, where he stood basking in the warmth. "Original, I lay my
life, and--quiet."

"Exactly that, general."

And Nighthawk smiled sweetly.




XVIII.


THE UNIFORM.


"I have always observed, general," said Mr. Nighthawk, raising his eyes
in pious meditation, as it were, "that there is no better rule for a
man's conduct in life than to make friends with the mammon of
unrighteousness--people in power."

"A profound maxim," laughed Stuart; "friends are useful--that was your
principle?"

"Yes, general; and I made one of the quartermaster of the post--a
certain major Woodby--who was exceedingly fond of the 'root of all
evil.' I made that gentleman's acquaintance, applied for the place of
sutler in _the pen_; and this place I acquired by agreeing to pay a
heavy bonus in thirty days.

"This was Saturday night. On Monday morning I presented myself before
the gate, and demanded admittance as the newly appointed sutler of the
pen.

"I was admitted, and taken before the officer of the day, in his
quarters.

"'Who are you?' he asked, gruffly.

"'The new sutler, lieutenant.'

"'Where are your papers?'

"I had them ready, and presented them to him. He read them carefully,
looked at me superciliously, and said:--

"'That is wholly informal.'

"I looked at him. He had a red nose.

"'I have some excellent French brandy, captain,' I said, promoting him.

"At sight of the portly flask which I drew half from my pocket and
exhibited to him, I saw his face relax.

"'You are a keen fellow, and know the world, I perceive,' he said.

"And taking the flask, he poured out nearly a glass full of the brandy,
and drank it.

"'Do you intend to keep that article of brandy?' he said.

"'For my friends, captain,' I replied, with a wink which he evidently
understood.

"'Let me see your papers again.'

"I unfolded them, and he glanced at them.

"'All right--they are in regular form. There is the key of the sutler's
shop, on that nail. Take possession.'

"And my friend the captain emptied a second glass of the brandy, and
made me a sign that I could go.

"I bowed profoundly; took the key; and went and opened the sutler's
shop; after which I strolled out to look at the prisoners in the area.
The sentinel had seen me visit the officer of the day, and go to the
sutler's shop.

"Thus he did not interfere with me when I went into the area, as I was
obviously a good Union man and an employee of the post.

"Such was the manner in which I secured a private interview with
Colonel Mohun: we could talk without the presence of a corporal; and we
soon arranged the plan for his escape.

"I had determined to procure a Federal uniform, to be smuggled in to
him, and an hour afterward, I left him, promising to see him again as
soon as I could visit Wilmington, and return with the intended
disguise.

"A strange piece of good fortune aided me, or rather accomplished my
purpose at once. I had scarcely returned to the sutler's shop, and
spread some blankets to sleep upon, when the officer of the day came
in, and I saw at a glance that he was half intoxicated, in consequence
of the large amount of brandy which he had swallowed. In a thick and
husky voice he cursed the 'stuff' vended at the post, extolled 'the
article' I carried, and demanded another pull at the flask. I looked at
him--saw that a little more would make him dead-drunk--and all at once
resolved on my plan.

"This was," continued Mr. Nighthawk, with modest simplicity, and
smiling as he spoke, "to make my friend, the officer of the day,
dead-drunk, and then borrow his uniform; and I succeeded. In half an
hour he was maudlin. In three-quarters of an hour, drunk. Five minutes
afterward he fell out of his chair, and began to snore, where he lay.

"I secured the door tightly, stripped off his uniform, then my own
clothing; put on his, and then replaced my own citizen's dress over
all, concealed his cap and boots beneath my overcoat, wrapped the
prostrate lieutenant in my blankets for fear he would take cold, and
going out, locked the door and proceeded to the quarters of the
prisoners. Again the sentinel took no notice of me. I found Colonel
Mohun in his 'bunk.' Ten minutes afterward he had replaced his gray
uniform with that of the Federal lieutenant, and, watching the moment
when the back of the sentinel was turned, we walked together toward the
gate of the pen.

"That was the moment of real danger. Outside the narrow gate another
sentinel was posted, and the man might be personally acquainted with
the officer of the day, or have noticed his appearance. Luckily, the
guard had been relieved about an hour before--the new sentinel had not
seen the officer of the day--and when Colonel Mohun put his head
through the little window beside the gate, ordering 'Open!' the gate
flew open, the sentinel presented arms as he passed, and I followed
modestly--the door banging-to behind us."[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]




XIX.


THE NOTE.


"Thus the colonel was out of the pen," continued Nighthawk, smiling.
"The rest was not very dangerous, unless the alarm were given. They
might miss the locked-up officer--he might have been seen to go into
the sutler's shop--and I admonished Colonel Mohun, in a low tone, to
proceed as rapidly as possible in a direction which I pointed out.

"The path indicated led to a spot on the island where I had concealed a
small boat among some willows--and, once across on the mainland, I
hoped that the danger would be over.

"In spite of my admonitions, Colonel Mohun took his time. He is a cool
one! He even turned and walked toward the fort, which he carefully
examined--counting the guns, observing the ditches, and the ground
around it.

"'That place could be taken, Nighthawk!' he said, with a laugh. And he
continued to stroll around the place, receiving at every moment
respectful salutes from passing soldiers, which he returned with the
utmost coolness, and an air of authority which I never have seen
surpassed. I declare to you, general, that it made the sweat burst out
on my forehead, and it was fully an hour before we reached the boat. I
sprung in and seized the oars, for I saw a dozen soldiers approaching
us from the direction of the fort.

"'For heaven's sake, sit down, colonel,' I exclaimed; 'in five minutes
we will be lost!'

"He did not reply. He was feeling in the pockets of the lieutenant's
coat; and drew out a note-book with a pencil attached. Then, as the men
came toward us, he began to write. I looked over his shoulder--a bad
habit I acknowledge, general--and I read these words:---

"'Colonel Mohun, C.S.A., presents his compliments to the commanding
officer of Fort Delaware, and recommends the 10-inch Columbiad in place
of the 30-lb. Parrotts on the bastion near the southern angle of the
work.

"'As Colonel M. is _en route_ for Richmond _via_ Wilmington, and the
train will soon pass, he is compelled to refrain from other suggestions
which occur to him.

"'The commandant of the post will pardon the want of ceremony of his
departure. This distressing separation is dictated by necessity.'"

Nighthawk smiled as he repeated the words of _Mohun's note_.

"Did you ever hear of a cooler hand, general? But I must end my long
story. The colonel wrote this note while the soldiers were coming
toward us. When they had come within ten steps, he beckoned to one of
them--the man came up, saluting--and the colonel said, 'Take this note
to the commandant--go at once.'

"My heart had jumped to my throat, general! The next moment I drew a
good long breath of real relief. The Federal soldier touched his cap,
took the note, and went back toward the fort. Without further delay, I
pushed out and rowed across to the mainland, where we soon arrived.

"Then we left the boat, struck into the fields, and pushed for the
nearest station on the railroad. On the way, I could not refrain from
upbraiding the colonel with his imprudence. He only laughed, however,
and we went on without stopping. An hour afterward we reached the
station, and the northern train soon came. We got in, the cars started,
and we were _en route_ for Baltimore. Suddenly the dull sound of a
cannon-shot came from the direction of Fort Delaware. A moment
afterward came another, and then a third.

"'A prisoner has escaped from Fort Delaware,' said one of the
passengers near us, raising his eyes from a newspaper. Colonel Mohun
laughed, and said carelessly, without sinking his voice in the least,
'Ten to one they have found your friend, the lieutenant, Nighthawk!'
Such a man, general! It was enough to make your blood run cold! I
thought _I_ was cool, but I assure you, I never imagined a man could
equal _that_.

"We reached Baltimore, made the connection with the train going west to
Wheeling, and disembarked at Martinsburg. There the colonel procured a
horse--rode to a friend's on the Opequon--changed his blue dress for a
citizen's suit, and proceeded to Staunton, thence to Richmond, and
yesterday rejoined his regiment, near Chancellorsville."




XX.


GENERAL GRANT'S PRIVATE ORDER.


Stuart kicked a log, which had fallen on the hearth, back into the
fire, and said:--

"Well, Nighthawk, your narrative only proves one thing."

"What, general?"

"That the writer who hereafter relates the true stories of this war,
will be set down as a Baron Munchausen."

"No doubt of that, general."

"This escape of Colonel Mohun, for instance, will be discredited."

"No matter, it took place; but I have not told you what brought me
over, general."

"Over?"

"Yes, across the Rapidan. I did not go from Martinsburg to Richmond
with Colonel Mohun. I thought I would come down and see what was going
on in Culpeper. Accordingly I crossed the Blue Ridge at Ashby's Gap,
reached Culpeper--and last night crossed the Rapidan opposite
Chancellorsville, where I saw Colonel Mohun, before whom I was carried
as a spy."

"You bring news, then?" said Stuart, with sudden earnestness and
attention.

"Important news, general. The Federal army is about to move."

"To cross?"

"Yes."

"Where--when!--what force!"

"One hundred and forty thousand of all arms. I answer the last question
first."

"And--"

"The army will advance in two columns. The right--of Sedgwick's and
Warren's corps--will cross at Germanna Ford. The left, consisting of
Hancock's corps, at Ely's ford below. They have pontoon and bridge
trains--and the movement will commence at midnight on the third--two
days from now."

Stuart knit his brows, and buried his hand in his beard. Suddenly he
called out to the orderly:--

"Have two horses saddled in five minutes!" And seizing his hat, he
said:--

"Get ready to ride to General Lee's head-quarters with me, Nighthawk!"

The clerical looking emissary put on his respectable black hat.

"You are certain of this intelligence?" Stuart said, turning with a
piercing glance to him.

"Quite certain, general," said Mr. Nighthawk, serenely.

"You were in the camps?"

"In all, I believe, and at army head-quarters."

"You overheard your intelligence?"

"No, I captured it, general."

"How?"

"A courier was sent in haste--I saw the commander-in-chief speaking to
him. I followed--came up with him in a hollow of the woods--and was
compelled to blow his brains out, as he would not surrender. I then
searched his body, and found what I wanted. There it is general."

And Nighthawk drew forth a paper.

"What is it?" exclaimed Stuart.

"Grant's confidential order to his corps commanders, general, directing
the movements of his army."

Stuart seized it, read it hastily, and uttered an exclamation of
satisfaction. Ten minutes afterward he was going at full speed,
accompanied by Nighthawk, toward General Lee's head-quarters.




XXI.


"VIRGINIA EXPECTS EVERY MAN TO DO HIS DUTY!"


Soon after daylight, on the next morning, Stuart was up, and writing
busily at his desk.

He was perfectly cool, as always, and his manner when I went in
exhibited no sort of flurry. But the couriers going and coming with
dispatches indicated clearly that "something was in the wind."

I was seated by the fireplace when Stuart finished a dispatch and came
toward me. The next moment he threw himself upon a chair, leaned his
head upon my shoulder, and began to caress one of his dogs, who leaped
into his lap.

"Well, Surry, old fellow, we are going to get into the saddle. Look out
for your head!"

"Excellent advice," I replied. "I recommend you to follow it."

"You think I expose myself, do you?"

"In the most reckless manner."

"For instance--come, an instance!" he laughed.

I saw Stuart was talking to rest himself.

"Well, at Mine Run, when you rode up to that fence lined with
sharpshooters--and they fired on us at ten paces, nearly."

"In fact, you might have shot a marble at them--but I am not afraid of
any ball _aimed_ at me."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"Then you believe in _chance_, general?"

"There is no chance, Surry," he said, gravely. "God rules over all
things, and not a sparrow, we are told, can fall without his
permission. How can I, or you, then?"

"You are right, general, and I have always been convinced of your
religious faith."

"I believe in God and our Saviour, with all my heart," said Stuart,
solemnly. "I may not show it, but I feel deeply."

"On the contrary, you show it--to me at least--even in trifles," I
said, moved by his earnestness. "Do you remember the other day, when an
officer uttered a sneer at the expense of a friend of his who had
turned _preacher_? You replied that the calling of a minister was the
noblest in which any human being could engage[1]--and I regretted at
that moment, that the people who laugh at you, and charge you with
vicious things, could not hear you."

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Stuart shook his head, smiling with a sadness on his lips which I had
never seen before.

"They would not believe me, my dear Surry; not one would give me credit
for a good sentiment or a pure principle! Am I not a drunkard, because
my face is burned red by the sun and the wind? And yet I never touched
spirit in all my life! I do not know the taste of it![1] Am I not given
to women? And yet, God knows I am innocent,--that I recoil in disgust
from the very thought! Am I not frivolous, trifling,--laughing at all
things, reverencing nothing? And yet my laughter is only from high
health and animal spirits. I am young and robust; it is natural to me
to laugh, as it is to be pleased with bright faces and happy voices,
with colors, and music, and approbation. I am not as religious as I
ought to be, and wish, with all my heart, I had the deep and devout
piety of that good man and great military genius,[2] Stonewall Jackson.
I can lay no claim to it, you see, Surry; I am only a rough soldier, at
my hard work. I am terribly busy, and my command takes every energy I
possess; but I find time to read my Bible and to pray. I pray for
pardon and forgiveness, and try to do my duty, and leave the rest to
God. If God calls me--and He may call me very soon--I hope I will be
ready, and be able to say, 'Thy will be done.' I expect to be killed in
this war;[3]--Heaven knows, I would have my right hand chopped off at
the wrist to stop it![4]--but I do not shrink from the ordeal before
me, and I am ready to lay down my life for my country."[5]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

[Footnote 3: His words.]

[Footnote 4: His words.]

[Footnote 5: His words.]

Stuart paused, and leaned his arm upon the rude shelf above the
fireplace, passing his hand over his forehead, as was habitual with
him.

"A hard campaign is coming, Surry," he said, at length, more
cheerfully; "I intend to do my duty in it, and deserve the good opinion
of the world, if I do not secure it. I have perilled my life many
times, and shall not shrink from it in future. I am a Virginian, and I
intend to live or die for Old Virginia! The tug is coming; the enemy
are about to come over and 'try again!' But we will meet them, and
fight them like men, Surry! Our army is small, but with strong hands
and brave hearts much can be done. We must be up and doing, and do our
duty to the handle.[1] For myself, I am going to fight whatever is
before me,--to win victory, with God's blessing, or die trying! Once
more, Surry, remember that we are fighting for our old mother, and that
Virginia expects every man to do his duty!"

[Footnote 1: His words.]

His face glowed as he spoke; in his dazzling blue eyes burned the fire
of an unconquerable resolution, a courage that nothing seemed able to
crush.

Years have passed since then, a thousand scenes have swept before me;
but still I see the stalwart cavalier, with his proud forehead raised,
and hear his sonorous voice exclaim:--

"Virginia expects every man to do his duty!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]




XXII.


WHAT OCCURRED AT WARRENTON.


This conversation took place at an early hour of the morning. Two hours
afterward, I was in the saddle and riding toward Chancellorsville, with
the double object of inspecting the pickets and taking Mohun his
commission.

I have described in my former _Memoirs_ that melancholy country of the
Wilderness; its unending thickets; its roads, narrow and deserted,
which seem to wind on forever; the desolate fields, here and there
covered with stunted bushes; the owls flapping their dusky wings; the
whip-poor-will, crying in the jungle; and the moccasin gliding
stealthily amid the ooze, covered with its green scum.

Strange and sombre country! lugubrious shades where death lurked!
Already two great armies had clutched there in May, 1863. Now, in May,
'64, the tangled thicket was again to thunder; men were going to
grapple here in a mad wrestle even more desperate than the former!

Two roads stretch from Orange Court-House to Chancellorsville--the old
turnpike, and the plank road--running through Verdiersville.

I took the latter, followed the interminable wooden pathway through the
thicket, and toward evening came to the point where the Ely's Ford road
comes in near Chancellorsville. Here, surrounded by the rotting
weapons, bones and skulls of the great battle already fought, I found
Mohun ready for the battle that was coming.

He commanded the regiment on picket opposite Ely's Ford; and was
pointed out to me at three hundred yards from an old torn down house
which still remains there, I fancy.

Mohun had dismounted, and, leaning against the trunk of a tree, was
smoking a cigar. He was much thinner and paler than when I had last
seen him; but his eye was brilliant and piercing, his carriage erect
and proud. In his fine new uniform, replacing that left at Fort
Delaware, and his brown hat, decorated with a black feather, he was the
model of a cavalier, ready at a moment's warning to meet the enemy.

We exchanged a close grasp of the hand. Something in this man had
attracted me, and from acquaintances we had become friends, though
Mohun had never given me his confidence.

I informed him of Nighthawk's visit and narrative, congratulated him on
his escape, and then presented him with his appointment to the grade of
brigadier-general.

"Hurrah for Stuart! He is a man to count on!" exclaimed Mohun, "and
here inclosed is the order for me to take command of four regiments!"

"I congratulate you, Mohun."

"I hope to do good work with them, my dear Surry--and I think they are
just in time."

With which words Mohun put the paper in his pocket.

"You know the latest intelligence?" he said.

"Yes; but do not let us talk of it. Tell me something about
yourself--but first listen to a little narrative from me."

And I described the visit which I had made with Tom Herbert to the
house near Buckland; the scene between Darke and his companion; and, to
keep back nothing, repeated the substance of their conversation.

Mohun knit his brows; then burst into a laugh.

"Well!" he said, "so those two amiable characters are still bent on
making mince-meat of me, are they? Did you ever hear any thing like it?
They are perfect tigers, thirsting for blood!"

"Nothing more nor less," I said; "the whole thing is like a romance."

"Is it not?"

"A perfect labyrinth."

"The very word!"

"And I have not a trace of a key."

Mohun looked at me for some moments in silence. He was evidently
hesitating; and letting his eyes fall, played with the hilt of his
sword.

Then he suddenly looked up.

"I have a confidence to make you, Surry," he said, "and would like to
make it this very day. But I cannot. You have no doubt divined that
Colonel Darke is my bitter enemy--that his companion is no less, even
more, bitter--and some day I will tell you what all that means. My life
has been a strange one. As was said of Randolph of Roanoke's, 'the
fictions of romance cannot surpass it.' These two persons alluded to
it--I understand more than you possibly can--but I do _not_ understand
the allusions made to General Davenant. I am _not_ the suitor of his
daughter--or of any one. I am not in love--I do not intend to be--to be
frank with you, friend, I have little confidence in women--and you no
doubt comprehend that this strange one whom you have thrice met, on the
Rappahannock, in Pennsylvania, and near Buckland, is the cause."

"She seems to be a perfect viper."

"Is she not? You would say so, more than ever, if I told you what took
place at Warrenton."

And again Mohun's brows were knit together. Then his bitter expression
changed to laughter.

"What took place at Warrenton!" I said, looking at him intently.

"Exactly, my dear friend--it was a real comedy. Only a poignard played
a prominent part in the affair, and you know poignards belong
exclusively to tragedy."

Mohun uttered these words with his old reckless satire. A sort of grim
and biting humor was plain in his accents.

"A poniard--a tragedy--tell me about it, Mohun," I said.

He hesitated a moment. "Well, I will do so," he said, at length. "It
will amuse you, my guest, while dinner is getting ready."

"I am listening."

"Well, to go back. You remember my fight with Colonel Darke near
Buckland?"

"Certainly; and I was sure that you had killed each other."

"You were mistaken. He is not dead, and you see I am not. He was
wounded in the throat, but my sabre missed the artery, and he was taken
to a house near at hand, and thence to hospital, where he recovered. My
own wound was a bullet through the chest; and this gave me so much
agony that I could not be carried in my ambulance farther than
Warrenton, where I was left with some friends who took good care of me.
Meanwhile, General Meade had again advanced and occupied the place--I
was discovered, and removed as soon as possible to the Federal
hospital, where they could have me under guard. Faith! they are smart
people--our friends the Yankees! They are convinced that 'every little
helps,' and they had no idea of allowing that tremendous Southern
paladin, Colonel Mohun, to escape! So I was sent to hospital. The
removal caused a return of fever--I was within an inch of the
grave--and this brings me to the circumstance that I wish to relate for
your amusement.

"For some days after my removal to the Federal hospital, I was
delirious, but am now convinced that much which I then took for the
wanderings of a fevered brain, was real.

"I used to lie awake a great deal, and one gloomy night I saw, or
dreamed I saw, as I then supposed, _that woman_ enter my ward, in
company with the surgeon. She bent over me, glared upon me with those
dark eyes, which you no doubt remember, and then drawing back said to
the surgeon:--

"'Will he live?'

"'Impossible to say, madam,' was the reply. 'The ball passed through
his breast, and although these wounds are almost always mortal, men do
now and then recover from them.'

"'Will this one?'

"'I cannot tell you, madam, his constitution seems powerful.'

"I saw her turn as he spoke, and fix those glaring eyes on me again.
They were enough to burn a hole in you, Surry, and made me feel for
some weapon. But there was none--and the scene here terminated--both
retired. The next night, however, it was renewed. This time the surgeon
felt my pulse, touched my forehead, placed his ear to my breast to
listen to the action of the heart, and rising up said, in reply to
madam's earnest glance of inquiry:--

"'Yes, I am sure he will live. You can give yourself no further anxiety
about your cousin, madam.'

"_Her cousin_! That was not bad, you see. She had gained access, as I
ascertained from some words of their conversation, by representing
herself as my cousin. I was a member of her family who had 'gone
astray' and embraced the cause of the rebellion, but was still dear to
her! Womanly heart! clinging affection! not even the sin of the
prodigal cousin could sever the tender chord of her love! I had
wandered from the right path--fed on husks with the Confederate swine;
but I was wounded--had come back; should the fatted calf remain
unbutchered, and the loving welcome be withheld?

"'_You can give yourself no further uneasiness about your cousin,
madam_!'

"Such was the assurance of the surgeon, and he turned away to other
patients, of whom there were, however, very few in the hospital, and
none near me. As he turned his back, madam looked at me. Her face was
really diabolical, and I thought at the moment that she was a
nightmare--that I _dreamed her_! Closing my eyes to shut out the
vision, I kept them thus shut for some moments. When I reopened them
she was gone.

"Well, the surgeon's predictions did not seem likely to be verified. My
fever returned. Throughout the succeeding day I turned and tossed on my
couch; as night came, I had some hideous dreams. A storm was raging
without, and the rain falling in torrents. The building trembled, the
windows rattled--it was a night of nights for some devil's work; and I
remember laughing in my fever, and muttering, 'Now is the time for
delirium, bad dreams, and ugly shapes, to flock around me!'

"I fell into a doze at last, and had, as I thought, a decidedly bad
dream--for I felt certain that I was dreaming, and that what I
witnessed was the sport of my fancy. What I saw, or seemed to see, was
this: the door opened slowly--a head was thrust in, and remained
motionless for an instant; then the head moved, a body followed; madam,
the lady of the dark eyes, glided stealthily toward my cot. It was
enough to make one shudder, Surry, to have seen the stealthy movement
of that phantom. I gazed at it through my half-closed eyelids--saw the
midnight eyes burning in the white face half covered by a shawl thrown
over the head--and, under that covering, the right hand of the phantom
grasped something which I could not make out.

"In three quick steps _it_ was beside me. I say _it_, for the figure
resembled that of a ghost, or some horrible _thing_. From the eyes two
flames seemed to dart, the lips opened, and I heard, in a low mutter:--

"'Ah! he is going to recover, then!'

"As the words left the phantom's lips, it reached my cot at a bound;
something gleamed aloft, and I started back only in time to avoid the
sharp point of a poniard, which grazed my head and nearly buried itself
in the pillow on which I lay.

"Well, I started up and endeavored to seize my assailant; but she
suddenly broke away from me, still clutching her weapon. Her clothing
was torn from her person--she recoiled toward the door--and I leaped
from my couch to rush after and arrest her. I had not the strength to
do so, however. I had scarcely taken three steps when I began to
stagger.

"'Murderess!' I exclaimed, extending my arms to arrest her flight.

"It was useless. A few feet further I reeled--my head seemed turning
round--and again shouting 'Murderess!' I fell at full length on the
floor, at the moment when the woman disappeared.

"That was curious, was it not? It would have been a tragical dream--it
was more tragical in being no dream at all, but a reality. What had
taken place was simple, and easy to understand. That woman had come
thither, on this stormy night, to murder me; and she had very nearly
succeeded. Had she found me asleep, I should never have waked.
Fortunately, I was awake. Some noise frightened her, and she
disappeared. A moment afterward one of the nurses came, and finally the
surgeon.

"When I told him what had taken place, he laughed.

"'Well, colonel, go back to bed,' he said, 'such dreams retard your
recovery more than every thing else.'

"I obeyed, without taking the trouble to contradict him. My breast was
bleeding again, and I did not get over the excitement for some days.
The phantom did not return. I slowly recovered, and was taken in due
time to Fort Delaware--the rest you know.

"I forgot to tell you one thing. The surgeon almost persuaded me that I
had been the victim of nightmare. Unfortunately, however, for the
theory of the worthy, I found a deep hole in my pillow, where the
poniard had entered.

"So you see it was madam, and not her ghost, who had done me the honor
of a visit, Surry."




XXIII.


THE GRAVE OF ACHMED.


An hour afterward I had dined with Mohun at his head-quarters, in the
woods; mounted our horses; and were making our way toward the Rapidan
to inspect the pickets.

This consumed two hours. We found nothing stirring. As sunset
approached, we retraced our steps toward Chancellorsville. I had
accepted Mohun's invitation to spend the night with him.

As I rode on, the country seemed strangely familiar. All at once I
recognized here a tree, there a stump--we were passing over the road
which I had followed first in April, 1861, and again in August, 1862,
when I came so unexpectedly upon Fenwick, and heard his singular
revelation.

We had been speaking of Mordaunt, to whose brigade Mohun's regiment
belonged, and the young officer had grown enthusiastic, extolling
Mordaunt as 'one of the greatest soldiers of the army, under whom it
was an honor to serve.'

"Well," I said, "there is a spot near here which he knows well, and
where a strange scene passed on a night of May, 1863."

"Ah! you know the country, then?" said Mohun.

"Perfectly well."

"What are you looking at?"

"That hill yonder, shut in by a thicket. There is a house there."

And I spurred on, followed by Mohun. In five minutes we reached the
brush-fence; our horses easily cleared it, and we rode up the hill
toward the desolate-looking mansion.

I surveyed it intently. It was unchanged, save that the porch seemed
rotting away, and the window-shutters about to fall--that on the window
to the right hung by a single hinge. It was the one through which I had
looked in August, 1862. There was the same door through which I had
burst in upon Fenwick and his companion.

I dismounted, threw my bridle over a stunted shrub, and approached the
house. Suddenly I stopped.

At ten paces from me, in a little group of cedars, a man was kneeling
on a grave, covered with tangled grass. At the rattle of my sabre he
rose, turned round--it was Mordaunt.

In a moment we had exchanged a pressure of the hand; and then turning
to the grave:--

"That is the last resting-place of poor Achmed," he said; adding, in
his deep, grave voice:--

"You know how he loved me, Surry."

"And how you loved _him_, Mordaunt. I can understand your presence at
his grave, my dear friend."

Mordaunt sighed, then saluted Mohun, who approached.

"This spot," he said, "is well known to Colonel Surry and myself,
Mohun."

Then turning to me, he added:--

"I found a melancholy spectacle awaiting me here."

"Other than Achmed's grave?"

"Yes; come, and I will show you."

And he led the way into the house. As I entered the squalid and
miserable mansion, the sight which greeted me made me recoil.

On a wretched bed lay the corpse of a woman; and at a glance, I
recognized the woman Parkins, who had played so tragic a part in the
history of Mordaunt. The face was hideously attenuated; the eyes were
open and staring; the lower jaw had fallen. In the rigid and bony hand
was a dry and musty crust of bread.

"She must have starved to death here," said Mordaunt, gazing at the
corpse. And, approaching it, he took the crust from the fingers. As he
did so, the teeth seemed grinning at him.

"Poor creature!" he said; "this crust was probably all that remained to
her of the price of her many crimes! I pardon her, and will have her
buried!"

As Mordaunt turned away, I saw him look at the floor.

"There is Achmed's blood," he said, pointing to a stain on the plank;
"and the other is the blood of Fenwick, who was buried near his
victim."

"I remember," I murmured. And letting my chin fall upon my breast, I
returned in thought to the strange scene which the spot recalled so
vividly.

"There is but one other actor in that drama of whom I know nothing,
Mordaunt!"

"You mean--"

"Violet Grafton."

Mordaunt raised his head quickly. His eyes glowed with a serene
sweetness.

"She is my wife," he said; "the joy and sunlight of my life! I no
longer read _Les Miserables_, and sneer at my species--I no longer
scowl, Surry, and try to rush against the bullet that is to end me. God
has rescued a lost life in sending me one of his angels; and it was she
who made me promise to come hither and pray on the grave of our dear
Achmed!"

Mordaunt turned toward the door as he spoke, and inviting me to ride
with him, left the mansion. As I had agreed to stay with Mohun, I was
obliged to decline.

Five minutes afterward he had mounted, and with a salute, the tall form
disappeared in the forest.

We set out in turn, and were soon at Mohun's bivouac.




XXIV.


A NIGHT BIRD.


I shared Mohun's blankets, and was waked by the sun shining in my face.

My companion had disappeared, but I had scarcely risen when he was seen
approaching at full gallop.

Throwing himself from his horse, he grasped my hand, his face beaming.

"All right, Surry!" he exclaimed; "I have seen Mordaunt; my command is
all arranged; I have four superb regiments; and they are already in the
saddle."

"I congratulate you, my dear general! Make good use of them--and I
think you are going to have the opportunity at once."

"You are right--the enemy's cavalry are drawn up on the north bank of
the river."

"Any firing in front?"

"They are feeling at all the fords."

"Are you going there?"

"At once."

"I will go with you."

And I mounted my horse which stood saddled near by.

Swallowing some mouthfuls of bread and beef as we rode on, we soon
reached Mohun's command. It consisted of four regiments, drawn up in
column, ready to move--and at sight of the young _sabreur_, the men
raised a shout.

Mohun saluted with drawn sabre, and galloped to the front.

A moment afterward the bugle sounded, and the column advanced toward
the Rapidan, within a mile of which it halted--Mohun and myself riding
forward to reconnoitre at Germanna Ford, directly in our front.

The pickets were engaged, firing at each other across the river. On the
northern bank were seen long columns of Federal cavalry, drawn up as
though about to cross.

I rode with Mohun to the summit of the lofty hill near the ford, and
here, seated on his horse beneath a tree, we found Mordaunt. It was
hard to realize that, on the evening before, I had seen this stern and
martial figure, kneeling in prayer upon a grave--had heard the brief
deep voice grow musical when he spoke of his wife. But habit is every
thing. On the field, Mordaunt was the soldier, and nothing but the
soldier.

"You see," he said, "the game is about to open," pointing to the
Federal cavalry. "You remember this spot, and that hill yonder, I
think."

"Yes," I replied, "and your charge there when we captured their
artillery in August, '62."

As he spoke, a dull firing, which we had heard for some moments from
the direction of Ely's Ford, grew more rapid. Five minutes afterward,
an officer was seen approaching from the side of the firing, at full
speed.

When he was within a hundred yards, I recognized Harry Mordaunt. He was
unchanged; his eyes still sparkled, his plume floated, his lips were
smiling.

He greeted me warmly, and then turned to General Mordaunt, and reported
the enemy attempting to cross at Ely's.

"I will go, then; will you ride with me, Surry? Keep a good look out
here, Mohun."

I accepted Mordaunt's invitation, and in a moment we were galloping,
accompanied by Harry, toward Ely's.

"Glad to see you again, colonel!" exclaimed the young man, in his gay
voice, "you remind me of old times, and a young lady was speaking of
you lately."

"A certain Miss Fitzhugh, I will wager!"

"There's no such person, colonel."

"Ah! you are married!"

"Last spring; but I might as well be single! That's the worst of this
foolishness,--I wish they would stop it! I don't mind hard tack, or
fighting, or sleeping in the rain; what I do mind is never being able
to go home! I wish old Grant would go home and see _his_ wife, and let
me go and see _mine_! We could then come back, and blaze away at each
other with some satisfaction!"

Harry was chattering all the way, and I encouraged him to talk; his gay
voice was delightful. We talked of a thousand things, but they
interested me more than they would interest the reader, and I pass on
to matters more important.

Pushing rapidly toward Ely's, we soon arrived, and found the enemy
making a heavy demonstration there. It lasted throughout the day, and I
remained to witness the result. At sunset, however, the firing stopped,
and, declining Mordaunt's invitation to share the blankets of his
bivouac, I set out on my way back to Orange.

Night came almost before I was aware of it, and found me following the
Brock road to get on the Orange plank road.

Do you know the Brock road, reader? and have you ever ridden over it on
a lowering night? If so, you have experienced a peculiar sensation. It
is impossible to imagine any thing more lugubrious than these strange
thickets. In their depths the owl hoots, and the whippoorwill cries;
the stunted trees, with their gnarled branches, are like fiends
reaching out spectral arms to seize the wayfarer by the hair.
Desolation reigns there, and you unconsciously place your hand on your
pistol as you ride along, to be ready for some mysterious and unseen
enemy.

At least, I did so on that night. I had now penetrated some distance,
and had come near the lonely house where so many singular events had
occurred.

I turned my head and glanced over my shoulder, when, to my surprise, I
saw a light glimmering through the window. What was its origin? The
house was certainly uninhabited, even by the dead--for Mordaunt had
informed me that a detail had, that morning, buried the corpse.

There was but one means of solving the mystery, and I leaped the fence,
riding straight toward the house; soon reaching it, I dismounted and
threw open the door.

What should greet my eyes, but the respectable figure of Mr. Nighthawk,
seated before a cheerful blaze, and calmly smoking his pipe!




XXV.


THE APPOINTMENT.


As I entered, Mr. Nighthawk rose politely, without exhibiting the least
mark of astonishment.

"Good evening, colonel," he said, smiling, "I am glad to see you."

"And I, never more surprised to see any one than you, here, Nighthawk!"

"Why so, colonel?"

I could not help laughing at his air of mild inquiry.

"Did I not leave you at our head-quarters?"

"That was two days ago, colonel."

"And this is your residence, perhaps?"

"I have no residence, colonel; but am here, temporarily, on a little
matter of business."

"Ah! a matter of business!"

"I think it might be called so, colonel."

"Which it would be indiscreet to reveal to me, however. That is a pity,
for I am terribly curious, my dear Nighthawk!"

Nighthawk looked at me benignly, with a philanthropic smile.

"I have not the least objection to informing you, colonel. You are a
gentleman of discretion, and have another claim on my respect."

"What is that?"

"You are a friend of Colonel Mohun's."

"A very warm one."

"Then you can command me; and I will tell you at once that I am
awaiting the advance of General Grant."

"Ah! Now I begin to understand."

"I was sure you would at the first word I uttered, colonel. General
Grant will cross the Rapidan to-night--by to-morrow evening his whole
force will probably be over--and I expect to procure some important
information before I return to General Stuart. To you I am Mr.
Nighthawk, an humble friend of the cause, employed in secret
business,--to General Grant I shall be an honest farmer, of Union
opinions, who has suffered from the depredations of his troops, and
goes to head-quarters for redress. You see they have already stripped
me of every thing," continued Mr. Nighthawk, waving his arm and
smiling; "not a cow, a hog, a mule, or a mouthful of food has been left
me. They have destroyed the very furniture of my modest dwelling, and I
am cast, a mere pauper, on the cold charities of the world!"

Mr. Nighthawk had ceased smiling, and looked grave; while it was I who
burst into laughter. His eyes were raised toward heaven, with an
expression of meek resignation; he spread out both hands with the
eloquence of Mr. Pecksniff; and presented the appearance of a virtuous
citizen accepting meekly the most trying misfortunes.

When I had ceased laughing, I said:--

"I congratulate you on your histrionic abilities, Nighthawk. They
deserve to be crowned with success. But how did you discover this
house?"

"I was acquainted with its former owner, Mrs. Parkins. She was a sister
of a friend of mine, whom I think you have seen, colonel."

"What friend?"

"His name is Swartz, colonel."

"Not the Federal spy?"

"The same, colonel."

"Whom we saw last in the house between Carlisle and Gettysburg?"

"I saw him the other day," returned Mr. Nighthawk, smiling sweetly.

"Is it possible!"

"Near Culpeper Court-House, colonel. And, to let you into a little
secret, I expect to see him to-night."

I looked at the speaker with bewilderment.

"That man will be here!"

"If he keeps his appointment, colonel."

"You have an appointment?"

"Yes, colonel."

"In this house?"

"To-night."

"With what object, in heaven's name!"

Nighthawk hesitated for some moments before replying.

"The fact is, colonel," he said, "that I inadvertently mentioned my
appointment with Swartz without reflecting how singular it must appear
to you, unless I gave you some explanation. But I am quite at my ease
with you--you are a friend of Colonel Mohun's--and I will explain, as
much of my business as propriety will permit. To be brief, I am anxious
to procure a certain document in Swartz's possession."

"A certain document?" I said, looking intently at the speaker.

"Exactly, colonel."

"Which Swartz has?"

"Precisely, colonel."

"And which he stole from the papers of Colonel Darke on the night of
Mohun's combat with Darke, in the house near Carlisle?"

Mr. Nighthawk looked keenly at me, in turn.

"Ah! you know that!" he said, quickly.

"I saw him steal it, through the window, while the woman's back was
turned."

"I am deeply indebted to you, colonel," said Mr. Nighthawk, gravely,
"for informing me of this fact, which, I assure you, is important.
Swartz swore to me that he had the paper, and had procured it in that
manner, but I doubted seriously whether he was not deceiving me. He is
a _very_ consummate rascal, knows the value of that document, and my
appointment with him to-night is with an eye to its purchase from him."

"Do you think he will come?"

"I think so. He would sell his soul for gold."

"And that woman? he seems to be her friend."

"He would sell _her_ for _silver_!"

After uttering which _bon mot_, Mr. Nighthawk smiled.

This man puzzled me beyond expression. His stealthy movements were
strange enough--it was singular to meet him in this lonely house--but
more singular still was the business which had brought him. What was
that paper? Why did Nighthawk wish to secure it? I gave up the inquiry
in despair.

"Well," I said, "I will not remain longer; I might scare off your
friend, and to eaves-drop is out of the question, even if you were
willing that I should be present."

"In fact, colonel, I shall probably discuss some very private matters
with my friend Swartz, so that--"

"You prefer I should go."

Mr. Nighthawk smiled; he was too polite to say "yes."

"You are not afraid to meet your friend in this lonely place?" I said,
rising.

"Not at all, colonel."

"You are armed?"

Mr. Nighthawk opened his coat, and showed me a brace of revolvers.

"I have these; but they are unnecessary, colonel."

"Unnecessary?"

"I have an understanding with Swartz, and he with me."

"What is that?"

"That we shall not employ the carnal weapon; only destroy each other by
superior generalship."

"You speak in enigmas, Nighthawk!"

"And yet, my meaning is very simple. If I can have Swartz arrested and
hung, or he me, it is all fair. But we have agreed not to fight."

"So, if you caught him to-night, you could have him hung as a spy?"

"Yes, colonel; but nothing would induce me to betray him."

"Ah!"

"I have given him my parol, that he shall have safe conduct!"

I laughed, bade Nighthawk good-bye, and left him smiling as I had found
him. In ten minutes I was again on the Brock road, riding on through
the darkness, between the impenetrable thickets.




XXVI.


STUART SINGS.


My reflections were by no means gay. The scenes at the lonely house had
not been cheerful and mirth-inspiring.

That grinning corpse, with the crust of bread in the bony fingers; that
stain of blood on the floor; the grave of Achmed; lastly, the
appointment of the mysterious Nighthawk with the Federal spy; all were
fantastic and lugubrious.

Who was Nighthawk, and what was his connection with Mohun? Who was
Mohun, and what had been his previous history? Who was this youth of
unbounded wealth, as Nighthawk had intimated, in whose life personages
supposed to be dead, but still alive, had figured?

"Decidedly, Mohun and Nighthawk are two enigmas!" I muttered, "and I
give the affair up."

With which words I spurred on, and soon debouched on the Orange plank
road, leading toward Mine Run.

As I entered it, I heard hoof-strokes on the resounding boards, and a
company of horsemen cantered toward me through the darkness. As they
came, I heard a gay voice singing the lines:--

  "I wake up in the morning,
  I wake up in the morning,
  I wake up in the morning,
  Before the break o' day!"

There was no mistaking that gay sound. It was Stuart, riding at the
head of his staff and couriers.

In a moment he had come up, and promptly halted me.

"Ah! that's you, Surry!" he exclaimed with a laugh, "wandering about
here in the Wilderness! What news?"

I reported the state of things in front, and Stuart exclaimed:--

"All right; we are ready for them! Coon Hollow is
evacuated--head-quarters are in the saddle! Hear that whippoorwill! It
is a good omen. Whip 'em well! Whip 'em well!--and we'll do it too!"[1]
Stuart laughed, and began to sing--

  "Never mind the weather
  But get over double trouble!
  We are bound for the Happy land of Lincoln!"

[Footnote 1: His words.]

As the martial voice rang through the shadowy thickets, I thought, "How
fortunate it is that the grave people are not here to witness this
singular 'want of dignity' in the great commander of Lee's cavalry!"

Those "grave people" would certainly have rolled their eyes, and
groaned, "Oh! how undignified!" Was not the occasion solemn? Was it not
sinful to laugh and sing? No, messieurs! It was right; and much better
than rolling the eyes, and staying at home and groaning! Stuart was
going to fight hard--meanwhile he sang gayly. Heaven had given him
animal spirits, and he laughed in the face of danger. He laughed and
sang on this night when he was going to clash against Grant, as he had
laughed and sung when he had clashed against Hooker--when his proud
plume floated in front of Jackson's veterans, and he led them over the
breastworks at Chancellorsville, singing, "Old Joe Hooker, will you
come out of the Wilderness!"

Stuart cantered on: we turned into the Brock road, and I found myself
retracing my steps toward the Rapidan.

As I passed near the lonely house, I cast a glance toward the
glimmering light. Had Nighthawk's friend arrived?

We soon reached Ely's Ford, and I conducted Stuart to Mordaunt's
bivouac, which I had left at dusk. He had just wrapped his cloak around
him, and laid down under a tree, ready to mount at a moment's warning.

"What news, Mordaunt?" said Stuart, grasping his hand.

"Some fighting this evening, but it ceased about nightfall, general."

Stuart looked toward the river, and listened attentively.

"I hear nothing stirring."

And passing his hand through his beard he muttered half to himself:--

"I wonder if Grant can have made any change in his programme?"

"The order at least was explicit--that brought by Nighthawk," I said.

Stuart turned toward me suddenly.

"I wonder where he could be found? If I knew, I would send him over the
river to-night, to bring me a reliable report of every thing."

I drew the general aside.

"I can tell you where to find Nighthawk."

"Where."

"Shall I bring him?"

"Like lightning, Surry! I wish to dispatch him at once!"

Without reply I wheeled my horse, and went back rapidly toward the
house in the Wilderness. I soon reached the spot, rode to the window,
and called to Nighthawk, who came out promptly at my call.

"Your friend has not arrived?" I said.

"He will not come till midnight, colonel."

"When, I am afraid, he will not see you, Nighthawk--you are wanted."

And I explained my errand. Nighthawk sighed--it was easy to see that he
was much disappointed.

"Well, colonel," he said, in a resigned tone, "I must give up my
private business--duty calls. I will be ready in a moment."

And disappearing, he put out the light--issued forth in rear of the
house--mounted a horse concealed in the bushes--and rejoined me in
front.

"Swartz will not know what to think," he said, as we rode rapidly
toward the river; "he knows I am the soul of punctuality, and this
failure to keep my appointment will much distress him."

"Distress him, Nighthawk?"

"He will think some harm has happened to me."

And Mr. Nighthawk smiled so sadly, that I could not refrain from
laughter.

We soon reached the spot where Stuart awaited us. At sight of Nighthawk
he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction, and explained in brief words
his wishes.

"That will be easy, general," said Nighthawk.

"Can you procure a Federal uniform?"

"I always travel with one, general."

And Mr. Nighthawk unstrapped the bundle behind his saddle, drawing
forth a blue coat and trousers, which in five minutes had replaced his
black clothes. Before us stood one of the "blue birds." Nighthawk was
an unmistakable "Yankee."

Stuart gave him a few additional instructions, and having listened with
the air of a man who is engraving the words he hears upon his memory,
Nighthawk disappeared in the darkness, toward the private crossing,
where he intended to pass the river.

Half an hour afterward, Stuart was riding toward Germanna Ford. As we
approached, Mohun met us, and reported all quiet.

Stuart then turned back in the direction of Chancellorsville, where
Nighthawk was to report to him, before daylight, if possible.




XXVII.


MOHUN RIDES.


I lingered behind a moment to exchange a few words with Mohun.
Something told me that he was intimately connected with the business
which had occasioned the appointment between Nighthawk and Swartz--and
at the first words which I uttered, I saw that I was not mistaken.

Mohun raised his head quickly, listened with the closest attention, and
when I had informed him of every thing, said abruptly:--

"Well, I'll keep Nighthawk's appointment for him!"

"You!" I said.

"Yes, my dear Surry--this is a matter of more importance than you
think. The business will not take long--the enemy will not be moving
before daylight--and you said, I think, that the appointment was for
midnight?"

"Yes."

Mohun drew out his watch; scratched a match which he drew from a small
metal case.

"Just eleven," he said; "there is time to arrive before midnight, if we
ride well--will you show me the way?"

I saw that he was bent on his scheme, and said no more. In a few
moments we were in the saddle, and riding at full speed toward the
house where the meeting was to take place.

Mohun rode like the wild huntsman, and mile after mile disappeared
behind us--flitting away beneath the rapid hoofs of our horses. During
the whole ride he scarcely opened his lips. He seemed to be reflecting
deeply, and to scarcely realize my presence.

At last we turned into the Brock road, and were soon near the lonely
house.

"We have arrived," I said, leaping the brushwood fence. And we galloped
up the knoll toward the house, which was as dark and silent as the
grave.

Dismounting and concealing our horses in the bushes, we opened the
door. Mohun again had recourse to his match-case, and lit the candle
left by Nighthawk on an old pine table, and glanced at his watch.

"Midnight exactly!" he said; "we have made a good ride of it, Surry."

"Yes; and now that I have piloted you safely, Mohun, I will discreetly
retire."

"Why not remain, if you think it will amuse you, my dear friend?"

"But you are going to discuss your private affairs, are you not?"

"They are not private from you, since I have promised to relate my
whole life to you."

"Then I remain; but do you think our friend will keep his appointment?"

"There he is," said Mohun, as hoof-strokes were heard without. "He is
punctual."




XXVIII.


THE SPY.


A moment afterward we heard the new-comer dismount. Then his steps were
heard on the small porch. All at once his figure appeared in the
doorway.

It was Swartz. The fat person, the small eyes, the immense double chin,
and the chubby fingers covered with pinchbeck rings, were unmistakable.

He was clad in citizens' clothes, and covered with dust as from a long
ride.

Mohun rose.

"Come in, my dear Mr. Swartz," he said coolly; "you see we await you."

The spy recoiled. It was plain that he was astonished beyond measure at
seeing us. He threw a glance behind him in the direction of his horse,
and seemed about to fly.

Mohun quietly drew his revolver, and cocked it.

"Fear nothing, my dear sir," he said, "and, above all, do not attempt
to escape."

Swartz hesitated, and cast an uneasy glance upon the weapon.

"Does the sight of this little instrument annoy you?" said Mohun,
laughing. "It shall not be guilty of that impoliteness, Mr. Swartz."

And he uncocked the weapon, and replaced it in its holster.

"Now," he continued, "sit down, and let us talk."

Swartz obeyed. Before Mohun's penetrating glance, his own sank. He took
his seat in a broken-backed chair; drew forth a huge red bandanna
handkerchief; wiped his forehead; and said quietly:--

"I expected to meet a friend here to-night, gentlemen, instead of--"

"Enemies?" interrupted Mohun. "We are such, it is true, my dear sir,
but you are quite safe. Your friend Nighthawk is called away; he is
even ignorant of our presence here."

"But meeting him would have been different, gentlemen. I had his safe
conduct!"

"You shall have it from me."

"May I ask from whom?" said Swartz.

"From General Mohun, of the Confederate army."

Swartz smiled this time; then making a grotesque bow, he replied:--

"I knew you very well, general--that is why I am so much at my ease. I
am pleased to hear that you are promoted. When I last saw you, you were
only a colonel, but I was certain that you would soon be promoted or
killed."

There was a queer accent of politeness in the voice of the speaker. He
did not seem to have uttered these words in order to flatter his
listener, but to express his real sentiment. He was evidently a
character.

"Good!" said Mohun, with his habitual accent of satire. "These little
compliments are charming. But I am in haste to-night--let us come to
business, my dear sir. I came hither to ask you some questions, and to
these I expect plain replies."

Swartz looked at the speaker intently, but without suspicion. His
glance, on the contrary, had in it something strangely open and
unreserved.

"I will reply to all your questions, general," he said, "and reply
truthfully. I have long expected this interview, and will even say that
I wished it. You look on me as a Yankee spy, and will have but little
confidence in what I say. Nevertheless, I am going to tell you the
whole truth about every thing. Ask your questions, general, I will
answer them."

Mohun was leaning one elbow on the broken table. His glance, calm and
yet fiery, seemed bent on penetrating to the most secret recess of the
spy's heart.

"Well," he said, "now that we begin to understand each other, let us
come to the point at once. Where were you on the morning of the
thirteenth of December, 1856?"

Swartz replied without hesitation:--

"On the bank of Nottoway River, in Dinwiddie, Virginia, and bound for
Petersburg."

"The object of your journey?"

"To sell dried fruits and winter vegetables."

"Then you travelled in a cart, or a wagon?"

"In a cart, general."

"You reached Petersburg without meeting with any incident on the way?"

"I met with two very curious ones, general. I see you know something
about the affair, and are anxious to know every thing. I will tell you
the whole truth; but it will be best to let me do it in my own way."

"Do so, then," said Mohun, fixing his eyes more intently upon the spy.

Swartz was silent again for more than a minute, gazing on the floor.
Then he raised his head, passed his red handkerchief over his brow, and
said:--

"To begin at the beginning, general. At the time you speak of,
December, 1856, I was a small landholder in Dinwiddie, and made my
living by carting vegetables and garden-truck to Petersburg. Well, one
morning in winter--you remind me that it was the thirteenth of
December,--I set out, as usual, in my cart drawn by an old mule, with a
good load on board, to go by way of Monk's Neck. I had not gone two
miles, however, when passing through a lonely piece of woods on the
bank of the river, I heard a strange cry in the brush. It was the most
startling you can think of, and made my heart stop beating. I jumped
down from my cart, left it standing in the narrow road, and went to the
spot. It was a strange sight I saw. On the bank of the river, I saw a
woman lying drenched with water, and half-dead. She was richly dressed,
and of very great beauty--but I never saw any human face so pale, or
clothes more torn and draggled."

The spy paused. Mohun shaded his eyes from the light, with his hands,
and said coolly:--

"Go on."

"Well, general--that was enough to astonish anybody--and what is more
astonishing still, I have never to this day discovered the meaning of
the woman's being there--for it was plain that she was a lady. She was
half-dead with cold, and had cried out in what seemed to be a sort of
delirium. When I raised her up, and wrung the wet out of her clothes,
she looked at me so strangely that I was frightened. I asked her how
she had come there, but she made no reply. Where should I take her? She
made no reply to that either. She seemed dumb--out of her wits--and, to
make a long story short, I half led and half carried her to the cart in
which I put her, making a sort of bed for her of some old bags.

"I set out on my way again, without having the least notion what I
should do with her--for she seemed a lady--and only with a sort of idea
that her friends might probably pay me for my trouble, some day.

"Well, I went on for a mile or two farther, when a new adventure
happened to me. That was stranger still--it was like a story-book; and
you will hardly believe me--but as I was going through a piece of
woods, following a by-road by which I cut off a mile or more, I heard
groans near the road, and once more stopped my cart. Then I listened. I
was scared, and began to believe in witchcraft. The groans came from
the woods on my left, and there was no doubt about the sound--so,
having listened for some time, I mustered courage to go in the
direction of the sound. Can you think what I found, general?"

"What?" said Mohun, in the same cool voice; "tell me."

"A man lying in a grave;--a real grave, general--broad and deep--a man
with a hole through his breast, and streaming with blood."

"Is it possible?"

And Mohun uttered a laugh.

"Just as I tell you, general--it is the simple, naked truth. When I got
to the place, he was struggling to get out of the grave, and his breast
was bleeding terribly. I never saw a human being look paler. 'Help!' he
cried out, in a suffocated voice like, when he saw me--and as he spoke,
he made such a strong effort to rise, that his wound gushed with blood,
and he fainted."

"He fainted, did he? And what did you do?" said Mohun.

"I took him up in my arms, general, as I had taken the woman, carried
him to my cart, when I bound up his breast in the best way I could, and
laid him by the side of the half-drowned lady."

"To get a reward from _his_ friends, too, no doubt?"

"Well, general, we must live, you know. And did I not deserve something
for being so scared--and for the use of my mule?"

"Certainly you did. Is not the laborer worthy of his hire? But go on,
sir--your tale is interesting."

"Tale, general? It is the truth--on the word of Swartz!"

"I no longer doubt now, if I did before," said Mohun; "but tell me the
end of your adventure."

"I can do that in a few words, general. I whipped up my old mule, and
went on through the woods, thinking what I had best do with the man and
the woman I had saved, I could take them to Petersburg, and tell my
story to the mayor or some good citizen, who would see that they were
taken care of. But as soon as I said 'mayor' to myself, I thought 'he
is the chief of police.' _Police_!--that is one of the ugliest words in
the language, general! Some people shiver, and their flesh crawls, when
you cut a cork, or scratch on a window pane--well, it is strange, but I
have always felt in that way when I heard, or thought of, the word,
_police_! And here I was going to have dealings with the said _police_!
I was going to say 'I found these people on the Nottoway--one half-
drowned, and the other in a newly dug grave!' No, I thank you! We never
know what our characters will stand, and I was by no means certain that
mine would stand that! Then the reward--I wished to have my lady and
gentleman under my eye. So, after thinking over the matter for some
miles, I determined to leave them with a crony of mine near Monk's
Neck, named Alibi, who would take care of them and say nothing. Well, I
did so, and went on to Petersburg, where I sold my truck. When I got
back they were in bed, and on my next visit they were at the point of
death. About that time I was taken sick, and was laid up for more than
three months. When I went to see my birds at Monk's Neck, they had
flown!"

"Without leaving you their adieux?"

"No, they were at least polite. They left me a roll of bank notes--more
than I thought they had about them."

"You had searched them, of course, when they were lying in your cart,"
said Mohun.

Swartz smiled.

"I acknowledge it, general--I forgot to mention the fact. I had found
only a small amount in the gentleman's pocket-book--nothing on the
lady--and I never could understand where he or she had concealed about
their persons such a considerable amount of money--though I suppose, in
a secret pocket."

Mohun nodded.

"That is often done--well, that was the last of them?"

Swartz smiled, and glanced at Mohun.

"What is the use of any concealment, my dear Mr. Swartz?" said the
latter. "You may as well tell the whole story, as you have gone this
far."

"You are right, general, and I will finish. The war broke out, and I
sold my truck patch, and invested in a better business--that is,
running the blockade across the Potomac, and smuggling in goods for the
Richmond market. On one of these trips, I met, plump, in the streets of
Washington, no less a person than the lady whom I had rescued. She was
richly dressed, and far more beautiful, but there was no mistaking her.
I spoke to her; she recognized me, took me to her house, and here I
found _the gentleman_, dressed in a fine new uniform. He was changed
too--his wound had long healed, he was stout and strong, but I knew
him, too, at a glance. Well, I spent the evening, and when I left the
house had accepted an offer made me to combine a new business with that
of blockade runner."

"That of spy, you mean?" said Mohun.

Swartz smiled.

"You speak plainly, general. We call ourselves 'secret agents'--but
either word expresses the idea!"




XXIX.


THE PAPER.


Mohun raised his head, and looked Swartz full in the face. His glance
had grown, if possible, more penetrating than before, and a grim smile
responded to the unctuous expression of the spy.

"Well, my dear Mr. Swartz," he said coolly, "that is a curious history.
Others might doubt its accuracy, but I give you my word that I do not!
I did well to let you proceed in your own way, instead of questioning
you--but I have not yet done; and this time shall return to the method
of interrogation."

"At your orders, general," said Swartz, whose quick glance showed that
he was on his guard, and foresaw what was coming.

Mohun leaned toward the spy.

"Let us proceed to 'call names,'" he said. "The man you rescued from
the grave was Colonel Darke?"

"Exactly, general."

"Is that his real name, or a false one?"

Swartz hesitated; then replied:--

"A false one."

"His real name?"

"Mortimer."

"And the lady is--?"

"His wife, general."

"Good," said Mohun, "you are well informed, I see, my dear Mr. Swartz;
and it is a pleasure to converse with a gentleman who knows so much,
and knows it so accurately."

"You flatter my pride, general!"

"I do you justice--but to the point. Your story was cut off in the
middle. After the interview in Washington, you continued to see Colonel
Darke and his wife?"

"I saw them frequently, general."

"In the army--and at their home, both?"

"Yes, general."

"Where did they live?"

"Near Carlisle, Pennsylvania."

"Where you were on a visit, just before the battle of Gettysburg?"

"Yes, general."

"Very good!"

And rising quickly, Mohun confronted the spy, who drew back
unconsciously.

"Where is the paper that you stole from the woman that night?" he said.

Swartz was unable to sustain the fiery glance directed toward him by
Mohun.

"Then Nighthawk has told you all!" he exclaimed.

"Colonel Surry saw you hide the paper."

Swartz looked suddenly toward me--his smiles had all vanished.

"The paper! give me the paper!" exclaimed Mohun; "you shall have gold
for it!"

"I have left it in Culpeper, general."

"Liar!--give me the paper!"

Swartz started to his feet.

Mohun caught at his throat--the spy recoiled--when suddenly a quick
firing was heard coming rapidly from the direction of Germanna Ford.

"The enemy have crossed, Mohun!" I cried.

Mohun started, and turned his head in the direction of the sound.

"They are advancing!" I said, "but look out!--the spy!--"

Mohun wheeled, drawing his pistol.

Swartz had profited by the moment, when our attention was attracted by
the firing, to pass through the door, gain his horse at a bound, and
throw himself into the saddle, with an agility that was incredible in
one so fat.

At the same moment Mohun's pistol-shot responded, but the bullet
whistled harmlessly over the spy's head. In an instant he had
disappeared in the woods.

Mohun rushed to his horse, I followed, and we were soon riding at full
speed in the direction of the firing.

As we advanced, however, it receded. We pushed on, and reached the bank
of the Rapidan just as Mohun's men had driven a party of the enemy
over.

It was only a small body, who, crossing at a private ford and
surprising the sleepy picket, had raided into the thicket, to retire
promptly when they were assailed.

The affair was nothing. Unfortunately, however, it had enabled the
Federal spy to elude us.

Swartz had disappeared like a bird of the night; and all pursuit of him
in such a wilderness was impossible.

An hour afterward, I had rejoined Stuart.




XXX.


GRANT STRIKES HIS FIRST BLOW.


Such were the singular scenes which I witnessed, amid the shadows of
the Spottsylvania Wilderness, in the first days of May, 1864.

The narrative has brought the reader now to an hour past midnight on
the third of May.

An hour before--that is to say, at midnight precisely--the Federal
forces began to move: at six in the morning, they had massed on the
north bank of the Rapidan; and as the sun rose above the Wilderness,
the blue columns began to cross the river.

General Grant, at the head of his army of 140,000 men, had set forth on
his great advance toward Richmond--that advance so often tried, so
often defeated, but which now seemed, from the very nature of things,
to be destined to succeed.

Any other hypothesis seemed absurd. What could 50,000 do against nearly
thrice their number? What could arrest the immense machine rolling
forward to crush the Confederacy? A glance at Grant's splendid array
was enough to make the stoutest heart sink. On this 4th day of May,
1864, he was crossing the Rapidan with what resembled a countless host.
Heavy masses of blue infantry, with glittering bayonets--huge parks of
rifled artillery, with their swarming cannoneers--long columns of
horsemen, armed with sabre and repeating carbines, made the earth
shake, and the woods echo with their heavy and continuous tramp,
mingled with the roll of wheels.

In front of them, a little army of gaunt and ragged men, looked on and
waited, without resisting their advance. What did that waiting mean?
Did they intend to dispute the passage of that multitude toward
Richmond? It seemed incredible, but that was exactly the intention of
Lee.

It is now known that General Grant and his officers felicitated
themselves greatly on the safe passage of the Rapidan, and were
convinced that Lee would hasten to retreat toward the South Anna.

Instead of retreating, Lee advanced and delivered battle.

The first collision took place on the 5th of May, when the Federal army
was rapidly massing in the Wilderness.

Ewell had promptly advanced, and about noon was forming line of battle
across the old turnpike, when he was vigorously attacked by Warren, and
his advance driven back. But the real obstacle was behind. Ewell's rear
closed up--he advanced in his turn; assailed Warren with fury; swept
him back into the thicket; seized two pieces of his artillery, with
about 1,000 prisoners; and for the time completely paralyzed the
Federal force in his front.

Such was the first blow struck. It had failed, and General Grant turned
his attention to A.P. Hill, who had hastened up, and formed line of
battle across the Orange plank road, on Ewell's right.

Hancock directed the assault here, and we have General Lee's testimony
to the fact, that the Federal attempts to drive back Hill were
"repeated and desperate." All failed. Hill stubbornly held his ground.
At night the enemy retired, and gave up all further attempts on that
day to make any headway.

Grant had expected to find a mere rear-guard, while Lee's main body was
retreating upon Richmond.

He found two full corps in his front; and there was no doubt that a
third--that of Longstreet--was approaching.

Lee was evidently going to fight--his aim was, plainly, to shut up
Grant in the Wilderness, and drive him back beyond the Rapidan, or
destroy him.




XXXI.


THE REPORT.


It was twilight and the fighting was over.

The two tigers had drawn back, and, crouching down, panted
heavily,--resting and gathering new strength for the fiercer conflict
of the next day.

From the thickets rose the stifled hum of the two hosts. Only a few
shots were heard, now and then, from the skirmishers, and these
resembled the last drops of a storm which had spent its fury.

I had been sent by General Stuart with an order to General Hampton, who
commanded the cavalry on Hill's right.

Hampton was sitting his horse in a field extending, at this point,
between us and the enemy; and, if it were necessary, I would draw his
outline. It is not necessary, however; every one is familiar with the
figure of this great and faithful soldier, in his old gray coat, plain
arms and equipments, on his large and powerful war-horse,--man and
horse ready for battle. In the war I saw many great figures,--Hampton's
was one of the noblest.

Having delivered my message to General Hampton, who received it with
his air of grave, yet cordial courtesy, I turned to shake hands with
Captain Church--a thorough-bred young officer, as brave as steel, and
one of my best friends--when an exclamation from the staff attracted my
attention, and looking round, I saw the cause.

At the opposite extremity of the extensive field, a solitary horseman
was seen darting out of the woods occupied by the Federal infantry, and
this man was obviously a deserter, making his way into our lines.

At a sign from General Hampton, Captain Church went to meet him, and as
my horse was fresh, I accompanied my friend in his ride.

The deserter came on at full speed to meet us, and for a moment, his
horse skimmed the dusky expanse like a black-winged bird.[1] Then, all
at once, his speed moderated; he approached at a jog-trot, and through
the gathering gloom I recognised, above the blue uniform, the sweetly
smiling countenance of Nighthawk!

[Footnote 1: This scene is real.]

"Good evening, colonel," said Nighthawk; "I am glad to see you again,
and hope you are well."

"So you have turned deserter, Nighthawk?" I said, laughing heartily.

"Precisely, colonel. I could not get off before. Will you inform me
where I can find General Stuart?"

"I will take you to him."

And riding back with Captain Church and Nighthawk, I soon found myself
again in presence of General Hampton.

A word from me explained the real character of the pseudo-deserter.
General Hampton asked a number of questions, Nighthawk replied to them,
and then the latter begged me to conduct him to General Stuart. I did
so without delay, and we soon reached Stuart's bivouac, where he was
talking with his staff by a camp-fire.

At sight of the blue figure he scarcely turned; then suddenly he
recognized Nighthawk, and burst into laughter.

"Well, my blue night-bird!" he exclaimed, "here you are at last! What
news? Is Grant going to cross the river?"

Nighthawk hung his head, and sighed audibly.

"I could not help it, general."

"Why didn't you come before?"

"It was impossible, general."

Stuart shook his head.

"Strike that word out of your dictionary, my friend."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"That is good advice, general; but this time they nonplussed me. They
blocked every road, and I had to join their army."

"Well, I hope you got the $600 bounty," said Stuart, laughing.

"That was another impossibility, general; but I enjoyed the very best
society yonder."

"What society, Nighthawk?"

"That of Grant, Meade, and Sedgwick."

"Ah! my old friend, General Sedgwick! But where are Grant's
headquarters, Nighthawk? Tell me every thing!"

"At Old Wilderness Tavern, general."

"And you saw him there?"

"In the midst of his generals,--I was temporarily one of his couriers."

"I understand. Well, their intended movements?"

Nighthawk shook his head.

"I could have foretold you those of to-day, general."

"How?"

"I heard General Meade dictating his order, through the window of his
head-quarters, and can repeat it _verbatim_, if you desire."

"By all means, Nighthawk,--it will reveal his programme. But is it
possible that you can do so?"

"I can, general; I engraved every word on my memory."

And, fixing his eyes intently upon vacancy, Nighthawk commenced in a
low, monotonous voice:--

"The following movements are ordered for the 5th May, 1864. General
Sheridan, commanding cavalry corps, will move with Gregg's and
Torbert's divisions against the enemy's cavalry, in the direction of
Hamilton's Crossing. General Wilson, with the Third cavalry division,
will move at 5 A.M., to Craig's meeting-house, on the Catharpin road.
He will keep out parties on the Orange Court-House pike, and plank
road, the Catharpin road, Pamunkey road, and in the direction of
Troyman's store and Andrew's store, or Good Hope church. 2. Major-
General Hancock, commanding Second Corps, will move at 5 A.M., to Shady
Grove church, and extend his right toward the Fifth Corps at Parker's
store. 3. Major-General Warren, commanding Fifth Corps, will move at 5
A.M., to Parker's store, on the Orange Court-House plank road, and
extend his right toward the Sixth Corps at Old Wilderness Tavern. 4.
Major-General Sedgwick, commanding Sixth Corps, will move to the Old
Wilderness Tavern, on the Orange Court-House pike, as soon as the road
is clear."

The monotonous voice stopped. I had listened with astonishment, and
found it difficult to credit this remarkable feat of memory, though it
took place before my eyes, or rather, in my ears.

"It is really wonderful," said Stuart, gravely.

"You see," said Nighthawk, returning to his original voice, so to
speak, "you see, general, this would have been of some importance
yesterday."

"It is very important now," said Stuart; "it indicates Grant's
programme--his wish to get out of the Wilderness. He is at Old
Wilderness Tavern?"

"He was this morning, general, with Meade and Sedgwick."

"You were there?"

"I was, general."

"What did you gather, Nighthawk?"

"Little or nothing, general. True, I heard one or two amusing things as
I loitered among the couriers near."

"What?"

"General Grant came out talking with Meade, Sedgwick, and Warren.
General Meade said, '_They have left a division to fool us here, while
they concentrate, and prepare a position toward the North
Anna,--and what I want is to prevent these fellows from getting back to
Mine Run._'"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Stuart laughed.

"Well,'these fellows' don't appear to be going back. What did Grant
say?"

"He smoked, general."

"And did not open his lips?"

"Only once, when General Meade said something about 'manoeuvring.'"

"What did he say?"

"I can give you his words. He took his cigar from his lips--puffed out
the smoke--and replied, '_Oh! I never manoeuvre_!'"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"So much the better," said Stuart: "the general that does not manoeuvre
sacrifices his men: and I predict that General Grant will soon alter
his programme."

Stuart had ordered his horse to be saddled, and now mounted to go to
General Lee's head-quarters.

"By the bye," he said, "did you hear Warren or Sedgwick say any thing,
Nighthawk?"

Nighthawk smiled.

"I heard Sedgwick utter a few words, general."

"What?"

"He said to Warren, '_I hear Hood is to take Stuart's place. I am glad
of it, for Stuart is the best cavalry officer ever foaled in North
America_!'"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]




XXXII.


THE UNSEEN DEATH.


The morning of the 6th of May was ushered in with thunder.

The battle of the preceding day had been a sort of "feeler"--now the
real struggle came.

By a curious coincidence, Grant and Lee both began the attack and at
the same hour. At five o'clock in the morning the blue and gray ranks
rushed together, and opened fire on each other. Or rather, they fired
when they heard each others' steps and shouts. You saw little in that
jungle.

I have already spoken more than once of this sombre country--a land of
undergrowth, thicket, ooze; where sight failed, and attacks had to be
made by the needle, the officers advancing in front of the line with
drawn--compasses!

The assaults here were worse than night fighting; the combats strange
beyond example. Regiments, brigades, and divisions stumbled on each
other before they knew it; and each opened fire, guided alone by the
crackling of steps in the bushes. There was something weird and
lugubrious in such a struggle. It was not a conflict of men, matched
against each other in civilized warfare. Two wild animals were
prowling, and hunting each other in the jungle. When they heard each
others' steps, they sprang and grappled. One fell, the other fell upon
him. Then the conqueror rose up and went in pursuit of other game--the
dead was lost from all eyes.

In this mournful and desolate country of the Spottsylvania Wilderness,
did the bloody campaign of 1864 begin. Here, where the very landscape
seemed dolorous; here, in blind wrestle, as at midnight, did 200,000
men, in blue and gray, clutch each other--bloodiest and weirdest of
encounters.

War had had nothing like it. Destruction of life had become a science,
and was done by the compass.

The Genius of Blood, apparently tired of the old common-place mode of
killing, had invented the "Unseen Death," in the depths of the jungle.

On the morning of May 6th, Lee and Grant had grappled, and the battle
became general along the entire line of the two armies. In these rapid
memoirs I need only outline this bitter struggle--the histories will
describe it.

Lee was aiming to get around the enemy's left, and huddle him up in the
thicket--but in this he failed.

Just as Longstreet, who had arrived and taken part in the action, was
advancing to turn the Federal flank on the Brock road, he was wounded
by one of his own men; and the movement was arrested in mid career.

But Lee adhered to his plan. He determined to lead his column in
person, and would have done so, but for the remonstrances of his men.

"To the rear!" shouted the troops, as he rode in front of them; "to the
rear!"

And he was obliged to obey.

He was not needed.

The gray lines surged forward: the thicket was full of smoke and quick
flashes of flame: then the woods took fire, and the scene of carnage
had a new and ghastly feature added to it. Dense clouds of smoke rose,
blinding and choking the combatants: the flames crackled, soared aloft,
and were blown in the men's faces; and still, in the midst of this
frightful array of horrors, the carnival of destruction went on without
ceasing.

At nightfall, General Lee had driven the enemy from their front line of
works--but nothing was gained.

What _could_ be gained in that wretched country, where there was
nothing but thicket, thicket!

General Grant saw his danger, and, no doubt, divined the object of his
adversary,--to arrest and cripple him in this tangle-wood, where
numbers did not count, and artillery could not be used.

There was but one thing to do--to get out of the jungle.

So, on the day after this weird encounter, in which he had lost nearly
20,000 men, and Lee about 8,000, Grant moved toward Spottsylvania.

The thickets of the Wilderness were again silent, and the blue and gray
objects in the undergrowth did not move.

The war-dogs had gone to tear each other elsewhere.




XXXIII.


BREATHED AND HIS GUN.


In the din and smoke of that desperate grapple of the infantry, I have
lost sight of the incessant cavalry combats which marked each day with
blood.

And now there is no time to return to them. A great and sombre event
drags the pen. With one scene I shall dismiss those heroic fights--but
that scene will be superb.

Does the reader remember the brave Breathed, commanding a battalion of
the Stuart horse artillery? I first spoke of him on the night preceding
Chancellorsville, when he came to see Stuart, at that time he was
already famous for his "do-or die" fighting. A Marylander by birth, he
had "come over to help us:" had been the right-hand man of Pelham; the
favorite of Stuart; the admiration of the whole army for a courage
which the word "reckless" best describes;--and now, in this May, 1864,
his familiar name of "Old Jim Breathed," bestowed by Stuart, who held
him in high favor, had become the synonym of stubborn nerve and _elan_,
unsurpassed by that of Murat. To fight his guns to the muzzles, or go
in with the sabre, best suited Breathed. A veritable bull-dog in
combat, he shrank at nothing, and led everywhere. I saw brave men in
the war--none braver than Breathed. When he failed in any thing, it was
because reckless courage could not accomplish it.

He was young, of vigorous frame, with dark hair and eyes, and tanned by
sun and wind. His voice was low, and deep; his manners simple and
unassuming; his ready laugh and off-hand bearing indicated the born
soldier; eyes mild, friendly, and full of honesty. It was only when
Breathed was fighting his guns, or leading a charge, that they
resembled red-hot coals, and seemed to flame.

To come to my incident. I wish, reader, to show you Breathed; to let
you see the whole individual in a single exploit. It is good to record
things not recorded in "history." They are, after all, the real glory
of the South of which nothing can deprive her. I please myself, too,
for Breathed was my friend. I loved and admired him--and only a month
or two before, he had made the whole army admire--and laugh with--him
too.

See how memory leads me off! I am going to give ten words, first, to
that incident which made us laugh.

In the last days of winter, a force of Federal cavalry came to make an
attack on Charlottesville--crossing the Rapidan high up toward the
mountains, and aiming to surprise the place. Unfortunately for him,
General Custer, who commanded the expedition, was to find the Stuart
horse artillery in winter quarters near. So sudden and unexpected was
Custer's advance, that the artillery camps were entirely surprised. At
one moment, the men were lying down in their tents, dozing, smoking,
laughing--the horses turned out to graze, the guns covered, a profound
peace reigning--at the next, they were running to arms, shouting, and
in confusion, with the blue cavalry charging straight on their tents,
sabre in hand.

Breathed had been lounging like the rest, laughing and talking with the
men. Peril made him suddenly king, and, sabre in hand, he rushed to the
guns, calling to his men to follow.

With his own hands he wheeled a gun round, drove home a charge, and
trained the piece to bear upon the Federal cavalry, trampling in among
the tents within fifty yards of him.

"Man the guns!" he shouted, in his voice of thunder. "Stand to your
guns, boys! You promised me you would never let these guns be
taken!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

A roar of voices answered him. The bull-dogs thrilled at the voice of
the master. Suddenly the pieces spouted flame; shell and canister tore
through the Federal ranks. Breathed was everywhere, cheering on the
cannoneers. Discharge succeeded discharge; the ground shook: then the
enemy gave back, wavering and losing heart.

Breathed seized the moment. Many of the horses had been caught and
hastily saddled. Breathed leaped upon one of them, and shouted:--

"Mount!"

The men threw themselves into the saddle--some armed with sabres,
others with clubs, others with pieces of fence-rail, caught up from the
fires.

"Charge!" thundered Breathed.

At the head of his men, he lead a headlong charge upon the Federal
cavalry, which broke and fled in the wildest disorder, pursued by the
ragged cannoneers, Breathed in front, with yells, cheers, and cries of
defiance.

They were pursued past Barboursville to the Rapidan, without pause.
That night Stuart went after them: their officers held a council of
war, it is said, to decide whether they should not bury their artillery
near Stannardsville, to prevent is capture. On the day after this, they
had escaped.

In passing Barboursville, on their return from Charlottesville, one of
the Federal troopers stopped to get a drink of water at the house of a
citizen.

"What's the matter?" asked the citizen.

"Well, we are retreating."

"Who is after you?"

"Nobody but old Jim Breathed and his men, armed with fence-rails."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Such was one of a dozen incidents in Breathed's life. Let me come to
that which took place near Spottsylvania Court-House.

Grant had moved, as we have seen, by his left flank toward that place.
General Fitzhugh Lee opposed him on the way, and at every step harassed
the head of the Federal column with his dismounted sharp-shooters and
horse artillery. Near Spottsylvania Court-House, it was the stand made
by Fitz Lee's cavalry that saved the position, changing the aspect of
the whole campaign.

Sent by Stuart with a message to the brave "General Fitz," I reached
him near Spottsylvania Court-House, at the moment when he had just
ordered his cavalry to fall back slowly before the advancing enemy, and
take a new position in rear.

Two guns which had been firing on the enemy were still in battery on a
hill; upon these a heavy Federal skirmish line was steadily moving: and
beside the guns, Breathed and Fitzhugh Lee sat their horses, looking
coolly at the advancing line.

"Give them a round of canister, Breathed!" exclaimed General Fitz Lee.

Breathed obeyed, but the skirmish line continued bravely to advance.
All at once, there appeared in the woods behind them, a regular line of
battle advancing, with flags fluttering.

To remain longer on the hill was to lose the guns. The bullets were
whizzing around us, and there was but one course left--to fall back.

"Take the guns off, Breathed!" exclaimed the general; "there is no time
to lose! Join the command in the new position, farther down the road!"

Breathed looked decidedly unwilling.

"A few more rounds, general!"

And turning to the men, he shouted:--

"Give them canister!"

At the word, the guns spouted flame, and the canister tore through the
line of skirmishers, and the Federal line of battle behind; but it did
not check them. They came on more rapidly, and the air was full of
balls.

"Look out for the guns, Breathed! Take them off!" exclaimed the
general.

Breathed turned toward one of the pieces, and ordered:--

"Limber to the rear!"

The order was quickly obeyed.

"Forward!"

The piece went off at a thundering gallop, pursued by bullets.

"Only a few more rounds, general!" pleaded Breathed; "I won't lose the
guns!"

"All right!"

As he spoke, the enemy rushed upon the single gun.

Breathed replied by hurling canister in their faces. He sat his horse,
unflinching. Never had I seen a more superb soldier.

The enemy were nearly at the muzzle of the piece.

"Surrender!" they were heard shouting; "surrender the gun!"  Breathed's
response was a roar, which hurled back the front rank.

Then, his form towering amid the smoke, his eyes flashing, his drawn
sabre whirled above his head, Breathed shouted,--

"Limber up!"

The cannoneers seized the trail; the horses wheeled at a gallop; the
piece was limbered up; and the men rushed down the hill to mount their
horses, left there.

Then around the gun seemed to open a volcano of flame. The Federal
infantry were right on it. A storm of bullets cut the air. The drivers
leaped from the horses drawing the piece, thinking its capture
inevitable, and ran down the hill.

In an instant they had disappeared. The piece seemed in the hands of
the enemy--indeed, they were almost touching it--a gun of the Stuart
horse artillery for the first time was to be captured!

That thought seemed to turn Breathed into a giant. As the drivers
disappeared, his own horse was shot under him, staggered, sunk, and
rolled upon his rider. Breathed dragged himself from beneath the
bleeding animal, rose to his feet, and rushing to the lead horses of
the gun, leaped upon one of them, and struck them violently with his
sabre to force them on.

As he did so, the horse upon which he was mounted fell, pierced by a
bullet through the body.

Breathed fell upon his feet, and, with the edge of his sabre, cut the
two leaders out of the traces. He then leaped upon one of the middle
horses--the gun being drawn by six--and started off.

He had not gone three paces, when the animal which he now rode fell
dead in turn. Breathed rolled upon the ground, but rising to his feet,
severed the dead animal and his companion from the piece, as he had
done the leaders.

He then leaped upon one of the wheel-horses--these alone being now
left--struck them furiously with his sabre--started at a thundering
gallop down the hill--and pursued by a hail-storm of bullets, from
which, as General Lee says in his report, "he miraculously escaped
unharmed," carried off the gun in safety, and rejoined the cavalry,
greeted by a rolling thunder of cheers.

Such was the manner in which Breathed fought his artillery, and the
narrative is the barest and most simple statement of fact.

Breathed came out of the war a lieutenant-colonel only. Napoleon would
have made him a marshal.




XXXIV.


MY LAST RIDE WITH STUART.


More than one stirring incident marked those days of desperate
fighting, when, barricading all the roads, and charging recklessly,
Stuart opposed, at every step, Grant's advance toward the Po.

But I can not describe those incidents. They must be left to others.
The pen which has paused to record that exploit of Breathed, is drawn
onward as by the hand of Fate toward one of those scenes which stand
out, lugubrious and bloody, from the pages of history.

From the moment when Grant crossed the Rapidan, Stuart had met the
horsemen of Sheridan everywhere in bitter conflict; and the days and
nights had been strewed all over with battles.

Now, on the ninth of May, when the two great adversaries faced each
other on the Po, a more arduous service still was demanded of the great
sabreur. Sheridan had been dispatched to sever General Lee's
communications, and, if possible, capture Richmond. The city was known
to be well nigh stripped of troops, and a determined assault might
result in its fall. Sheridan accordingly cut loose a heavy column, took
command of it in person, and descended like a thunderbolt toward the
devoted city.

No sooner, however, had he begun to move, than Stuart followed on his
track. He had no difficulty in doing so. A great dust-cloud told the
story. That cloud hung above the long column of Federal cavalry,
accompanied it wherever it moved, and indicated clearly to Stuart the
course which his adversary was pursuing.

If he could only interpose, with however small a force, between
Sheridan and Richmond, time would be given for preparation to resist
the attack, and the capital might be saved. If he failed to interpose,
Sheridan would accomplish his object--Richmond would fall.

It was a forlorn hope, after all, that he could arrest the Federal
commander. General Sheridan took with him a force estimated at 9,000.
Stuart's was, in all, about 3,000; Gordon, who was not in the battle at
Yellow Tavern, included. That action was fought by Fitz Lee's division
of 2,400 men all told. But the men and officers were brave beyond
words; the incentive to daring resistance was enormous; they would do
all that could be done.

Such was the situation of affairs on the 9th of May, 1864.

Stuart set out at full gallop on his iron gray, from Spottsylvania
Court-House, about three o'clock in the day, and reached Chilesburg,
toward Hanover Junction, just as night fell.

Here we found General Fitz Lee engaged in a hot skirmish with the
enemy's rear-guard; and that night Stuart planned an attack upon their
camp, but abandoned the idea.

His spirits at this time were excellent, but it was easy to see that he
realized the immense importance of checking the enemy.

An officer said in his presence:--

"We won't be able to stop Sheridan."

Stuart turned at those words; his cheeks flushed; his eyes flamed, and
he said:--

"No, sir! I'd rather die than let him go on!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words]

On the next morning, he moved in the direction of Hanover Junction;
riding boot to boot with his friend General Fitz Lee. I had never seen
him more joyous. Some events engrave themselves forever on the memory.
That ride of May 10th, 1864, was one of them.

Have human beings a presentiment, ever, at the near approach of death?
Does the shadow of the unseen hand ever reveal itself to the eye? I
know not, but I know that no such presentiment came to Stuart; no
shadow of the coming event darkened the path of the great cavalier. On
the contrary, his spirits were buoyant beyond example, almost; and,
riding on with General Fitz Lee, he sang in his gallant voice his
favorite ditties "Come out of the Wilderness!" and "Jine the Cavalry!"

As he rode on thus, he was the beau ideal of a cavalier. His seat in
the saddle was firm; his blue eyes dazzling; his heavy mustache curled
with laughter at the least provocation. Something in this man seemed to
spring forward to meet danger. Peril aroused and strung him. All his
energies were stimulated by it. In that ride through the May forest, to
attack Sheridan, and arrest him or die, Stuart's bearing and expression
were superbly joyous and inspiring. His black plume floated in the
spring breeze, like some knight-errant's; and he went to battle humming
a song, resolved to conquer or fall.

Riding beside him, I found my eyes incessantly attracted to his proud
face; and now I see the great cavalier as then, clearly with the eyes
of memory. What a career had been his! what a life of battles!

As we went on through the spring woods, amid the joyous songs of birds,
all the long, hard combats of this man passed before me like an immense
panorama. The ceaseless scouting and fighting in the Shenandoah Valley;
the charge and route of the red-legged "Zouaves" at Manassas; the
falling back to the Peninsula, and the fighting all through Charles
City; the famous ride around McClellan; the advance and combats on the
Rapidan and Rappahannock, after Cedar Mountain; the night attack on
Catlett's, when he captured Pope's coat and papers; the march on
Jackson's flank, and the capture of Manassas; the advance into
Maryland; the fights at Frederick, Crampton's, and Boonsboro', with the
hard rear-guard work, as Lee retired to Sharpsburg; his splendid
handling of artillery on the left wing of the army there; the retreat,
covered by his cavalry; the second ride around McClellan, and safe
escape from his clutches; the bitter conflicts at Upperville and
Barbee's, as Lee fell back; the hard fighting thereafter, on the banks
of the Rappahannock; the "crowding 'em with artillery," on the night of
Fredericksburg; the winter march to Dumfries; the desperate battle at
Kelly's Ford; the falling back before Hooker; the battle of
Chancellorsville, when he succeeded Jackson; the stubborn wrestle of
Fleetwood; the war of giants below Upperville; the advance across
Maryland into Pennsylvania, when the long march was strewed all over
with battles, at Westminister, Hanover, Carlisle, Gettysburg, where he
met and repulsed the best cavalry of the Federal army; the retreat from
Gettysburg, with the tough affair near Boonsboro'; guarding the rear of
the army as it again crossed the Potomac; then the campaign of October,
ending with Kilpatrick's route at Buckland; the assault on Meade's head
of column, when he came over to Mine Run; the bold attack on his rear
there; and the hard, incessant fighting since Grant had come over to
the Wilderness;--I remembered all these splendid scenes and illustrious
services as I rode on beside Stuart, through the fields and forests of
Hanover, and thought, "This is one of those great figures which live
forever in history, and men's memories!"

To-day, I know that I was not mistaken, or laboring under the influence
of undue affection and admiration. That figure has passed from earth,
but still lives!

Stuart is long dead, and the grass covers him; but there is scarce a
foot of the soil of Virginia that does not speak of him. He is gone,
but his old mother is proud of him--is she not?

Answer, mountains where he fought--lowlands, where he fell--river,
murmuring a dirge, as you foam through the rocks yonder, past his
grave!




XXXV.


"SOON WITH ANGELS I'LL BE MARCHING."


Let me rapidly pass over the events of the tenth of May.

Gordon's little brigade had been ordered to follow on the rear of the
enemy, while Fitz Lee moved round by Taylorsville to get in front of
them.

Stuart rode and met Gordon, gave the brave North Carolinian, so soon to
fall, his last orders; and then hastened back to Fitz Lee, who had
continued to press the enemy.

They had struck the Central railroad, but the gray cavaliers were close
on them. Colonel Robert Randolph, that brave soul, doomed like Gordon,
charged them furiously here, took nearly a hundred prisoners, and drove
them across the road.

At this moment Stuart returned, and pushed forward toward Taylorsville,
from which point he intended to hasten on and get in their front.

About four in the afternoon we reached Fork church, and the command
halted to rest.

Stuart stretched himself at full length, surrounded by his staff, in a
field of clover; and placing his hat over his face to protect his eyes
from the light, snatched a short sleep, of which he was very greatly in
need.

The column again moved, and that night camped near Taylorsville,
awaiting the work of the morrow.

At daylight on the 11th, Stuart moved toward Ashland. Here he came up
with the enemy; attacked them furiously, and drove them before him, and
out of the village, killing, wounding, and capturing a considerable
number.

Then he put his column again in motion, advanced rapidly by the
Telegraph road toward Yellow Tavern, a point near Richmond, where he
intended to intercept the enemy--the moment of decisive struggle, to
which all the fighting along the roads of Hanover had only been the
prelude, was at hand.

Stuart was riding at the head of his column, looking straight forward,
and with no thought, apparently, save that of arriving in time.

He was no longer gay. Was it the coming event; was it the loss of
sleep; the great interest at stake; the terrible struggle before him? I
know not; but he looked anxious, feverish, almost melancholy.

"My men and horses are tired, jaded, and hungry, but all right," he had
written to General Bragg, from Ashland.

And these words will serve in large measure to describe the condition
of the great commander himself.

I was riding beside him, when he turned to me and said, in a low
tone:--

"Do you remember a conversation which we had at Orange, Surry, that
night in my tent?"

"Yes, general."

"And what I said?"

"Every word is engraved, I think, upon my memory."

"Good. Do not let one thing ever escape you. Remember, that I said what
I say again to-day, that 'Virginia expects every man to do his duty!'"

"I will never forget that, general."

He smiled, and rode on. For half a mile he was silent. Then I heard
escape from his lips, in a low, musing voice, a refrain which I had
never heard him sing before--

  "Soon with angels I'll be marching!"[1]

[Footnote 1: Real]

I know not why, but that low sound made me shiver.




XXXVI.


YELLOW TAVERN, MAY 11, 1864.


Yellow Tavern! At the mention of that name, a sort of tremor agitates
me even to-day, when nearly four years have passed.

In my eyes, the locality is cursed. A gloomy cloud seems ever hanging
over it. No birds sing in the trees. The very sunshine of the summer
days is sad there.

But I pass to my brief description of the place, and the event which
made it one of the black names in Southern history.

Yellow Tavern is an old dismantled hostelry, on the Brook road, about
six miles from Richmond. Nothing more dreary than this desolate wayside
inn can be imagined. Its doors stand open, its windows are gone, the
rotting floor crumbles beneath the heel, and the winds moan through the
paneless sashes, like invisible spirits hovering near and muttering
some lugubrious secret. "This is the scene of some deed of darkness!"
you are tempted to mutter, as you place your feet upon the threshold.
When you leave the spot behind you, a weight seems lifted from your
breast--you breathe freer.

Such was the Yellow Tavern when I went there in the spring of 1864. Is
it different to-day? Do human beings laugh there? I know not; but I
know that nothing could make it cheerful in my eyes. It was, and is,
and ever will be, a thing accursed!

For the military reader, however, a few words in reference to the
topographical features of the locality are necessary.

Yellow Tavern is at the forks of the Telegraph and Mountain roads, six
miles from Richmond. The Telegraph road runs north and south--over this
road Stuart marched. The Mountain road comes into it from the
northwest. By this road Sheridan was coming.

Open the left hand, with the palm upward; the index finger pointing
north. The thumb is the Mountain road; the index-finger the Telegraph
road; where the thumb joins the hand is the Yellow Tavern in open
fields; and Richmond is at the wrist.

Toward the head of the thumb is a wood. Here Wickham, commanding
Stuart's right, was placed, his line facing the Mountain road so as to
strike the approaching enemy in flank.

From Wickham's left, or near it, Stuart's left wing, under Lomax,
extended along the Telegraph road to the Tavern--the two lines thus
forming an obtuse angle.

On a hill, near Lomax's right, was Breathed with his guns.

The object of this disposition of Stuart's force will be seen at a
glance. Lomax, commanding the left, was across the enemy's front;
Wickham, commanding the right, was on their flank; and the artillery
was so posted as to sweep at once the front of both Stuart's wings.

The enemy's advance would bring them to the first joint of the thumb.
There they would receive Lomax's fire in front; Wickham's in flank; and
Breathed's transversely. The cross fire on that point, over which the
enemy must pass, would be deadly. Take a pencil, reader, and draw the
diagram, and lines of fire. That will show Stuart's excellent design.

Stuart had reached Yellow Tavern, and made his dispositions before the
arrival of Sheridan, who was, nevertheless, rapidly advancing by the
Mountain road. Major McClellan, adjutant-general, had been sent to
General Bragg, with a suggestion that the latter should attack from the
direction of the city, at the moment when the cavalry assailed the
Federal flank. All was ready.

It was the morning of May 11th, 1864.

Never was scene more beautiful and inspiring. The men were jaded, like
their horses; but no heart shrank from the coming encounter. Stretching
in a thin line from the tavern into the woods on the right of the
Mountain road, the men sat their horses, with drawn sabres gleaming in
the sun; and the red battle-flags waved proudly in the fresh May
breeze, as though saluting Stuart, who rode in front of them.

Such was the scene at Yellow Tavern. The moment had come. At about
eight, a stifled hum, mixed with the tramp of hoofs, was heard. Then a
courier came at a gallop, from the right, to Stuart. The enemy were in
sight, and advancing rapidly.

Stuart was sitting his horse near Yellow Tavern when that intelligence
reached him. He rose in his saddle, took his field-glasses from their
leathern case, and looked through them in the direction of the woods
across the Mountain road.

Suddenly, quick firing came on the wind--then, loud shouts. Stuart
lowered his glasses, shut them up, replaced them in their case, and
drew his sabre.

Never had I seen him present an appearance more superb. His head was
carried proudly erect, his black plume floated, his blue eyes
flashed--he was the _beau ideal_ of a soldier, and as one of his
bravest officers[1] afterward said to me, looked as if he had resolved
on "victory or death." I had seen him often aroused and strung for
action. On this morning he seemed on fire, and resembled a veritable
king of battle.

[Footnote 1: Breathed.]

Suddenly, the skirmish line of the enemy appeared in front of the
woods, and a quick fire was opened on Stuart's sharp-shooters under
Colonel Pate, in the angle of the two roads; Stuart hastened to take
the real initiative. He posted two guns on a rising ground in the
angle, and opened a heavy fire; and galled by this fire, the enemy
suddenly made a determined charge upon the guns.

Stuart rose in his stirrups and gazed coolly at the heavy line
advancing upon him, and forcing Pate's handful back.

"Take back the guns!" he said.

They were limbered up, and went off rapidly.

At the same moment Colonel Pate appeared, his men obstinately
contesting every foot of ground as they fell back toward the Telegraph
road, where a deep cut promised them advantage.

Colonel Pate was a tall, fair-haired officer, with a ready smile, and a
cordial bearing. He and Stuart had bitterly quarrelled, and the general
had court-martialed the colonel. It is scarcely too much to say that
they had been deadly enemies.

For the first time now, since their collision, they met. But on this
day their enmity seemed dead. The two men about to die grasped each
other's hands.

"They are pressing you back, colonel!" exclaimed Stuart.

"Yes, general, I have but three skeleton squadrons! and you see their
force."

"You are right. You have done all that any man could. Can you hold this
cut?"

"I will try, general."

Their glances crossed. Never was Stuart's face kinder.

"If you say you will, you will do it! Hold this position to the last,
colonel."

"I'll hold it until I die, general."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

With a pressure of the hand they parted.

Fifteen minutes afterward, Pate was dead. Attacked at once in front and
on both flanks in the road, his little force had been cut to pieces. He
fell with three of his captains, and his handful were scattered.

Stuart witnessed all, and his eye grew fiery.

"Pate has died the death of a hero!"[1] he exclaimed.

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"Order Wickham to dismount his brigade, and attack on the right!" he
added to Lieutenant Garnett, aid-de-camp.  Twenty minutes afterward,
Wickham's men were seen advancing, and driving the enemy before them.
This relieved the left, and Wickham continued to push on until he
struck up against a heavy line behind rail breastworks in the woods.

He then fell back, and each side remained motionless, awaiting the
movement of the other.

Such was the preface to the real battle of Yellow Tavern,--the species
of demonstration which preluded the furious grapple.

Stuart's melancholy had all vanished. He was in splendid spirits. He
hastened back his artillery to the point from which it had been driven,
and soon its defiant roar was heard rising above the woods.

At the same moment a courier galloped up.

"What news?"

"A dispatch from Gordon, general."

Stuart took it and read it with high good humor.

"Gordon has had a handsome little affair this morning," he said; "he
has whipped them."

And looking toward the northwest--

"I wish Gordon was here,"[1] he said.

[Footnote 1: His words.]

The guns continued to roar, and the enemy had not again advanced. It
was nearly four o'clock. Night approached.

But the great blow was coming.

Stuart was sitting his horse near the guns, with Breathed beside him.
Suddenly the edge of the woods on the Mountain road swarmed with blue
horsemen. As they appeared, the long lines of sabres darted from the
scabbards; then they rushed like a hurricane toward the guns.

The attack was so sudden and overpowering, that nothing could stand
before it. For a short time the men fought desperately, crossing
sabres and using their pistols. But the enemy's numbers were too great.
The left was driven back. With triumphant cheers, the Federal troopers
pressed upon them to drive them completely from the field.

Suddenly, as the men fell back, Stuart appeared, with drawn sabre,
among them, calling upon them to rally. His voice rose above the fire,
and a wild cheer greeted him.

The men rallied, the enemy were met again, sabre to sabre, and the
field became a scene of the most desperate conflict.

Stuart led every charge. I shall never forget the appearance which he
presented at that moment; with one hand he controlled his restive
horse, with the other he grasped his sabre; in his cheeks burned the
hot blood of the soldier.

"Breathed!" he exclaimed.

"General!"

"Take command of all the mounted men in the road, and hold it against
whatever may come! If this road is lost, we are gone!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Breathed darted to the head of the men and shouted:--

"Follow me!"

His sword flashed lightning, and digging the spur into his horse, he
darted ahead of the column, disappearing in the middle of a swarm of
enemies.

A superb sight followed. Breathed was seen in the midst of the Federal
cavalry defending himself, with pistol and sabre, against the blows
which were aimed at him on every side.

He cut one officer out of the saddle; killed a lieutenant with a pistol
ball; was shot slightly in the side, and a sabre stroke laid open his
head. But five minutes afterward he was seen to clear a path with his
sabre, and reappear, streaming with blood.[1]

[Footnote: This incident, like all here related as attending this
battle, is rigidly true.]

The momentary repulse effected nothing. The enemy re-formed their line,
and again charged the guns, which were pouring a heavy fire upon them.
As they rushed forward, the hoofs of their horses shook the ground. A
deafening cheer arose from the blue line.

Stuart was looking at them, and spurred out in front of the guns. His
eyes flashed, and, taking off his brown felt hat, he waved it and
cheered.

Then he wheeled to take command of a column of Lomax's men, coming to
meet the charge.

They were too late. In a moment the enemy were trampling among the
guns. All but one were captured, and that piece was saved only by the
terror of the drivers. They lashed their horses into a gallop, and
rushed toward the Chickahominy, followed by the cannoneers who were
cursing them, and shouting:--

"For God's sake, boys, let's go back! They've got Breathed! Let's go
back to him!"[1]

[Footnote 1: Their words.]

That terror of the drivers, which the cannoneers cursed so bitterly,
ended all. The gun, whirling on at wild speed, suddenly struck against
the head of the column advancing to meet the enemy. A war-engine hurled
against it could not have more effectually broken it. Before it could
re-form the enemy had struck it, forced it back; and then the whole
Federal force of cavalry was hurled upon Stuart.

His right, where Fitz Lee commanded in person, was giving back. His
left was broken and driven. The day was evidently lost; and Stuart,
with a sort of desperation, rushed into the midst of the enemy, calling
upon his men to rally, and firing his pistol in the faces of the
Federal cavalrymen.

Suddenly, one of them darted past him toward the rear, and as he did
so, placed his pistol nearly on Stuart's body, and fired.

As the man disappeared in the smoke, Stuart's hand went quickly to his
side, he reeled in the saddle, and would have fallen had not Captain
Dorsay, of the First Virginia Cavalry, caught him in his arms.

The bullet had passed through his side into the stomach, and wounded
him mortally. In its passage, it just grazed a small Bible in his
pocket. The Bible was the gift of his mother--but the Almighty had
decreed that it should not turn the fatal bullet.

Stuart's immense vitality sustained him for a moment. Pale, and
tottering in the saddle, he still surveyed the field, and called on the
men to rally.

"Go back," he exclaimed, "and do your duty, as I have done mine! And
our country will be safe!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

A moment afterward he called out again to the men passing him:--

"Go back! go back!  I'd rather die than be whipped!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

The old lightning flashed from his eyes as he spoke. Then a mist passed
over them; his head sank upon his breast; and, still supported in the
saddle, he was led through the woods toward the Chickahominy.

Suddenly, Fitzhugh Lee, who had been stubbornly fighting on the right,
galloped up, and accosted Stuart. His face was flushed, his eyes moist.

"You are wounded!" he exclaimed.

"Badly," Stuart replied, "but look out, Fitz! Yonder they come!"

A glance showed all. In the midst of a wild uproar of clashing sabres,
quick shots, and resounding cries, the Federal cavalry were rushing
forward to overwhelm the disordered lines.

Stuart's eye flashed for the last time. Turning to General Fitzhugh
Lee, he exclaimed in a full, sonorous voice:--

"Go ahead, Fitz, old fellow! I know you will do what is right!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

This was the last order he ever gave upon the field. As he spoke, his
head sank, his eyes closed, and he was borne toward the rear.

There was scarcely time to save him from capture. His wound seemed to
have been the signal for his lines to break. They had now given way
everywhere--the enemy were pressing them with loud shouts. Fighting
with stubborn desperation, they fell back toward the Chickahominy,
which they crossed, hotly pressed by the victorious enemy.

Stuart had been placed in an ambulance and borne across the stream,
where Dr. Randolph and Dr. Fontaine made a brief examination of his
wound. It was plainly mortal--but he was hastily driven, by way of
Mechanicsville, into Richmond.

His hard fighting had saved the city. When Sheridan attacked, he was
repulsed.

But the capital was dearly purchased. Twenty-four hours afterward
Stuart was dead.

[Illustration: DEATH OF STUART]

The end of the great cavalier had been as serene as his life was
stormy. His death was that of the Christian warrior, who bows to the
will of God, and accepts whatever His loving hand decrees for him.

He asked repeatedly that his favorite hymns should be sung for him; and
when President Davis visited him, and asked:--

"General, how do you feel?"

"Easy, but willing to die," he said, "if God and my country think I
have fulfilled my destiny, and done my duty."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

As night came, he requested his physician to inform him if he thought
he would live till morning. The physician replied that his death was
rapidly approaching, when he faintly bowed his head, and murmured:--

"I am resigned, if it be God's will. I should like to see my wife, but
God's will be done."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

When the proposed attack upon Sheridan, near Mechanicsville, was spoken
of in his presence, he said:--

"God grant that it may be successful. I wish I could be there."*

Turning his face toward the pillow, he added, with tears in his eyes,
"but I must prepare for another world."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Feeling now that his end was near, he made his last dispositions.

"You will find in my hat," he said to a member of his staff, "a little
Confederate flag, which a lady of Columbia, South Carolina, sent me,
requesting that I would wear it on my horse in battle, and return it to
her. Send it to her."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

He gave then the name of the lady, and added:--

"My spurs--those always worn in battle--I promised to give to Mrs. Lily
Lee, at Shepherdstown. My sabre I leave to my son."

His horses and equipments were then given to his staff--his papers
directed to be sent to his wife.

A prayer was then offered by the minister at his bedside: his lips
moved as he repeated the words. As the prayer ended he murmured:--

"I am going fast now--I am resigned. God's will be done!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

As the words escaped from his lips, he expired.




BOOK III.




BEHIND THE SCENES.




I.


WHAT I DID NOT SEE.


I was not at Stuart's bedside when he died. While aiding the rest to
hold him in the saddle, I had been shot through the shoulder; and
twenty-four hours afterward I lay, at the house of a friend in
Richmond, turning and tossing with fever.

In my delirium I heard a mournful tolling of bells. It was many days,
however, before I knew that they were tolling for Stuart.

When, at last, after more than a month's confinement to my bed, I rose,
and began to totter about,--pale, faint, and weak, but convalescent--my
great loss, for the first time, struck me in all its force.

Where should I turn now--and whither should I go? Jackson dead at
Chancellorsville--Stuart at Yellow Tavern--thenceforth I seemed to have
lost my support, to grope and totter in darkness, without a guide!
These two kings of battle had gone down in the storm, and, like the
Knight of Arthur, I looked around me, with vacant and inquiring eyes,
asking whither I was now to direct my steps, and what work I should
work in the coming years. Jackson! Stuart!--who could replace them?
They had loved and trusted me--their head-quarters had been my home.
Now, when they disappeared, I had no friends, no home; and an
inexpressible sense of loss descended upon me, as a dark cloud descends
and obscures a landscape, smiling and full of sunshine.

Another woe had come to me. My father was dead. The war had snapped the
chords of that stout heart as it snapped the chords of thousands, and
the illustrious head of the house had descended into the tomb. From
this double blow I scarcely had strength to rise. For weeks I remained
in a sort of dumb stupor; and was only aroused from it by the necessity
of looking after my family affairs.

As soon as I had strength to mount my horse, I rode to Eagle's Nest. A
good aunt had come and installed herself as the friend and protector of
my little Annie; and with the arms of my young sister around me, I wept
for my father.

I remained at Eagle's Nest more than two months. The long ride had made
the wound in my shoulder reopen, and I was again stretched upon a bed
of illness, from which, at one time, I thought I should not rise. More
than once I made a narrow escape from scouting parties of Federal
cavalry in the neighborhood; and on one occasion, an officer entered my
chamber, but left me unmolested, under the impression that I was too
ill to live.

It was late in the month of August before I rose from my bed again, and
set out on my return.

In those three months and a half--counting from the time I left
Spottsylvania with Stuart--great events had happened in Virginia.
Grant's hammer and Lee's rapier had been clashing day and night. Hill
and valley, mountain and lowland--Virginia and Maryland--had thundered.

General Grant had hastened forward from the Wilderness, only to find
Lee confronting him behind breastworks at Spottsylvania Court-House.
The Confederate commander had taken up a defensive position on the line
of the Po; and for more than two weeks Grant threw his masses against
the works of his adversary, in desperate attempts to break through.

On the 12th of May, at daylight, he nearly succeeded. "The Horse Shoe"
salient was charged in the dusk of morning; the Southerners were
surprised, and bayoneted in the trenches; the works carried; the
artillery captured; and a large number of prisoners fell into the hands
of the enemy.

The blow was heavy, but General Grant derived little advantage from it.
Lee rallied his troops; formed a new line; and repulsed every assault
made on it, throughout the entire day. When night fell, Grant had not
advanced further; Lee's position was stronger than before, and plainly
impregnable.

For many days, Grant was occupied in reconnoitring and feeling his
adversary. At the end of a week, the hope of breaking Lee's line was
seen to be desperate.

Then commenced the second great "movement by the left flank" toward
Richmond.

Grant disappeared one morning, and hastened toward Hanover Junction.
When he arrived, Lee was there in his front, ready to receive him. And
the new position was stronger, if any thing, than that of
Spottsylvania. Grant felt it; abandoned the attempt to carry it, at
once; and again moved, on his swift and stealthy way, by the left flank
toward Richmond. Crossing the Pamunkey at Hanovertown, he made straight
for the capital; but reaching the Tottapotomoi, he found Lee again
awaiting him.

Then the days and nights thundered, as they had been thundering since
the day when Grant crossed the Rapidan. Lee could not be driven, and
the Federal movement by the left flank began again.

Grant made for Cold Harbor, and massed his army to burst through the
Chickahominy, and seize Richmond. The huge engine began to move at
daylight, on the third of June. Half an hour afterward, 13,000 of
General Grant's forces were dead or wounded. He was repulsed and driven
back. His whole loss, from the moment of crossing the Rapidan, had been
about 60,000 men.

That ended all hopes of forcing the lines of the Chickahominy. The
Federal commander gave up the attempt in despair, and resumed his
Wandering-Jew march. Moving still by the left flank, he hastened to
cross James River and advance on Petersburg. But Lee was again too
rapid for him. In the works south of the Appomattox the gray infantry,
under the brave General Wise, confronted the enemy. They repulsed every
assault, and Grant sat down to lay siege to Richmond from the distance
of thirty miles.

Such had been the great campaign of the summer of 1864 in Virginia. Lee
had everywhere stood at bay, and repulsed every attack: he had also
struck in return a great aggressive blow, in Maryland.

At Cold Harbor, early in June, news had arrived that a Federal column,
under Hunter, was advancing on Lynchburg. A force was sent to intercept
Hunter, under the command of Early. That hard fighter crossed the
mountains; attacked his adversary; drove him beyond the Alleghanies;
and then, returning on his steps, hurried down the Shenandoah Valley
toward the Potomac, driving every thing before him. Once at the
Potomac, he hastened to cross into Maryland. Once in Maryland, Early
advanced, without loss of time, upon Washington. At Monocacy he met and
defeated General Wallace; pressed after him toward Washington; and
reaching the outer works, advanced his lines to the assault.  But he
had but a handful, after the long and prostrating march. His numbers
were wholly inadequate to storm the defences of the capital. Grant had
sent forward, in haste, two army corps to defend the city, and Early
was compelled to retreat across the Potomac to the Shenandoah Valley,
with the sole satisfaction of reflecting that he had given the enemy a
great "scare," and had flaunted the red-cross flag in front of the
ramparts of Washington.

I have not space to describe the cavalry movements of the summer.
Hampton had succeeded Stuart in command of all the cavalry, and the
country soon heard the ring of his heavy blows.

In June, Sheridan was sent to capture Gordonsville and Charlottesville;
but Hampton checked and defeated him in a fierce action near
Trevillian's, and in another at Charlottesville; pursued him to the
White House; hurried him on to James River; and Sheridan crossed that
stream on pontoons, glad, no doubt, to get back to the blue infantry.
Hampton crossed also; penetrated to Dinwiddie; defeated the enemy at
Sappony church, capturing their men and artillery--everywhere they had
been routed, with a total loss of more than 2,000 prisoners.

Such were the events which had taken place during my tedious illness.
They came to me only in vague rumors, or by means of chance newspapers
sent by my neighbors. At last, however, I rose from my sick couch, and
embracing my aunt and sister, who were to remain together at Eagle's
Nest, set out on my return.

Stuart's staff were all scattered, and seeking new positions. I was one
of them, and I again asked myself more gloomily than at first, "Where
shall I go?" The gentlemen of the red tape at Richmond would doubtless
inform me, however; and riding on steadily, with a keen look out for
scouting parties, I at last reached the city.

On the next day I filed my application in the war office, to be
assigned to duty.

A week afterward I had not heard from it.

Messieurs, the red tapists, were evidently not in the least bit of a
hurry--and hat in hand I awaited their good pleasure.




II.


THE "DOOMED CITY."


Richmond presented a singular spectacle in that summer of 1864.

It was styled "the doomed city," by our friends over the border, and in
truth there was something gloomy and tragic in its appearance--in the
very atmosphere surrounding it.

On every countenance you could read anxiety, poverty, the wasting effect
of the terrible suffering and suspense of the epoch. All things combined
to deepen the colors of the sombre picture. Hope long deferred had
sickened the stoutest hearts. Men were nervous, anxious, burnt up by the
hot fever of war. Provisions of every description were sold at enormous
prices. Fathers of families could scarcely procure the plainest food for
their wives and children. The streets were dotted with poor widows,
bereaved sisters, weeping mothers, and pale daughters, whose black
dresses told the story of their loss to all eyes. Hunger clutched at the
stomach; agony tore the heart. Soldiers, pale and tottering from their
wounds, staggered by. Cannon rattled through the streets. Couriers
dashed backward and forward from the telegraph office to the war office.
The poor starved--the rich scarcely fared any better. Black hair had
become white. Stalwart frames were bent and shrunken. Spies and secret
emissaries lurked, and looked at you sidewise. Forestallers crowded the
markets. Bread was doled out by the ounce. Confederate money by the
bushel. Gold was hoarded and buried. Cowards shrunk and began to
whisper--"the flesh pots! the flesh pots! they were better!" Society was
uprooted from its foundations. Strange characters were thrown up. The
scum had come to the top, and bore itself bravely in the sunshine. The
whole social fabric seemed warped and wrenched from its base; and in the
midst of this chaos of starving women, feverish men, spies,
extortioners, blockade-runners,--over the "doomed city," day and night,
rolled the thunder of the cannon, telling that Grant and Lee were still
holding their high debate at Petersburg.

Such was Richmond at the end of summer in 1864. Society was approaching
one of those epochs, when all things appear unreal, monstrous, gliding
toward some great catastrophe. All rascaldom was rampant. The
night-birds had come forth. Vice stalked, and flaunted its feathers in
the light of day. Chaos seemed coming, and with it all the powers of
darkness.

That spectacle was singular to a soldier, bred in camps, and
habituated, now, for some years, to the breezy airs of "the field." I
looked on with astonishment. The whole drama seemed unreal--the
characters mere players. Who was A, and B, and what did C do for a
living? You knew not, but they bowed, and smiled, and were charming.
They grasped your hand, offered you cigars, invited you to supper--they
wanted nothing. And they found no difficulty in procuring guests. I was
no better than the rest, reader--there is an honest confession--and,
looking back now, I can see that I knew, and dined or supped with some
queer characters in those days.

Shall I give you a brief sketch of one of these worthies and his
surroundings? It will afford some idea of the strange contrasts then
presented in the "doomed" and starving city.




III.


I DINE WITH MR. BLOCQUE.


He was a prominent personage at that time--my friend (in a
parliamentary sense at least) Mr. Blocque.

He was a charming little fellow, acquainted with everybody--an
"employee of government," but employed to do heaven knows what; and
while others were starving, Mr. Blocque was as plump as a partridge. He
wore the snowiest shirt bosoms, glittering with diamond studs; the
finest broadcloth coats; the most brilliant patent leather shoes; and
his fat little hands sparkled with costly rings. He was constantly
smiling in a manner that was delightful to behold; hopped about and
chirped like a sparrow or tomtit; and was the soul of good humor and
enjoyment. There was no resisting his charms; he conquered you in five
minutes. When he linked his arm in yours, and chirped, "My dear friend,
come and dine with me--at five o'clock precisely--I shall certainly
expect you!" it was impossible to refuse the small gentleman's
invitation. Perhaps you asked yourself, "Who is my dear friend, Mr.
Blocque--how does he live so well, and wear broadcloth and fine linen?"
But the next moment you smiled, shrugged your shoulders, elevated your
eye-brows, and--went to dine with him.

I was like all the world, and at five o'clock one evening was shown
into Mr. Blocque's elegant residence on Shockoe Hill, by a servant in
white gloves, who bowed low, as he ushered me in. Mr. Blocque hastened
to receive me, with his most charming smile; I was introduced to the
guests, who had all arrived; and ten minutes afterward the folding
doors opened, revealing a superb banquet--for the word "dinner" would
be too common-place. The table was one mass of silver. Waxlights, in
candelabra, were already lit; and a host of servants waited, silent and
respectful, behind every chair.

The guests were nearly a dozen in number, and more than one prominent
"government official" honored Mr. Blocque's repast. I had been
introduced among the rest to Mr. Torpedo, member of Congress, and
bitter foe of President Davis; Mr. Croker, who had made an enormous
fortune by buying up, and hoarding in garrets and cellars, flour,
bacon, coffee, sugar, and other necessaries; and Colonel Desperade, a
tall and warlike officer in a splendid uniform, who had never been in
the army, but intended to report for duty, it was supposed, as soon as
he was made brigadier-general.

The dinner was excellent. The table literally groaned with every
delicacy. Everywhere you saw canvass-back ducks, grouse, salmon, pate
de foie gras, oysters; the champagne, was really superb; the Madeira
and sherry beyond praise; and the cigars excellent Havanas, which at
that time were rarely seen, and cost fabulous prices. Think, old army
comrades, starving on a quarter of a pound of rancid bacon during that
summer of '64--think of that magical bill of fare, that array of
wonders!

Who was the magician who had evoked all this by a wave of his wand? How
could smiling Mr. Blocque roll in luxury thus, when everybody else was
starving? How could my host wear broadcloth, and drink champagne and
smoke Havanas, when ragged clothing, musty bacon, and new
apple-abomination, were the order of the day with all others?

These questions puzzled me extremely; but there was the magician before
us, smiling in the most friendly manner, and pressing his rich wines on
his guests, as they sat around the polished mahogany smoking their
cigars. Elegantly clad servants hovered noiselessly behind the
convives--the wine circulated--the fragrant smoke rose--the
conversation became general--and all was animation.

"No, sir!" says Mr. Torpedo, puffing fiercely at his cigar, "the
President never will assign Johnston to command again, sir! You call
Mr. Davis 'pig-headed,' Mr. Croker--you are wrong, sir! You do
injustice to the pigs, sir! Pigs are not insane, sir!"

And Mr. Torpedo sucks at his cigar, as though he were a vampire,
extracting the blood of his victim.

Mr. Croker sips his wine; he is large and portly; ruddy and pompous;
his watch seals jingle; and he rounds his periods with the air of a
millionaire, who is accustomed to be listened to with deference.

"You are right, my dear, sir," says Mr. Croker, clearing his throat.
"The government has assuredly been administered, from its very
inception, in a manner which the most enthusiastic adherents of the
Executive will scarcely venture to characterize as either judicious or
constitutional. In the year which has just elapsed, things have been
managed in a manner which must excite universal reprobation. Even the
alleged performances of the army are problematical, and--"

"I beg your pardon, sir," says Colonel Desperade, twirling his mustache
in a warlike manner; "do I understand you to call in question the nerve
of our brave soldiers, or the generalship of our great commander?"

"I do, sir," says Mr. Croker, staring haughtily at the speaker. "I am
not of those enthusiasts who consider General Lee a great soldier. He
has succeeded in defensive campaigns, but is deficient in genius--and I
will add, sir, as you seem to be surprised at my remarks, sir, that in
my opinion the Southern Confederacy will be overwhelmed, sir, and the
South compelled to return to the Union, sir!"

"Upon what do you ground that extraordinary assumption, may I ask,
sir?"

"On common sense and experience, sir," returns Mr. Croker, severely;
"look at the currency--debased until the dollar is merely a piece of
paper. Look at prices--coffee, twenty dollars a pound, and sugar the
same. Look at the army starving--the people losing heart--and strong,
able-bodied men," adds Mr. Croker, looking at Colonel Desperade,
"lurking about the cities, and keeping out of the way of bullets."

The mustached warrior looks ferocious--his eyes dart flame.

"And who causes the high prices, sir? Who makes the money a rag? I
answer--the forestallers and engrossers--do you know any, sir?"

"I do not, sir!"

"That is singular!"  And Colonel Desperade twirls his mustache
satirically--looking at the pompous Mr. Croker in a manner which makes
that worthy turn scarlet.

I was laughing to myself quietly, and listening for the expected
outbreak, when Mr. Blocque interposed with his winning voice.

"What are you discussing, gentlemen?" he said, with his charming smile.
"But first tell me your opinion of this Madeira and those cigars. My
agent writes me word that he used every exertion to procure the best.
Still, I am not entirely pleased with either the wine or brand of
cigars, and hope you will excuse them. Were you speaking of our great
President, Mr. Torpedo? And you, Mr. Croker--I think you were referring
to the present state of affairs. They appear to me more hopeful than at
any previous time, and his Excellency, President Davis, is guiding the
helm of state with extraordinary courage and good judgment. I know some
of you differ with me in these views, my friends. But let us not be
censorious--let us look on the bright side. The troubles of the country
are great, and we of the South are suffering every privation--but we
must bear up, gentlemen; we must keep brave hearts, and endure all
things. Let us live on dry bread if it comes to that, and bravely fight
to the last! Let us cheerfully endure hardships, and oppose the enemy
at all points. Our present troubles and privations will soon come to an
end--we shall again be surrounded by the comforts and luxuries of
life--and generations now unborn will bless our names, and pity our
sufferings in these days that try men's souls!"

Mr. Blocque ceased, and smoothing down his snowy shirt bosom, pushed
the wine. At the same moment, an alabaster clock on the marble
mantelpiece struck seven.

"So late?" said Colonel Desperade. "I have an appointment at the war
office!"

Mr. Blocque drew out a magnificent gold watch.

"The clock is fast," he said, "keep your seats, gentlemen,--unless you
fancy going to the theatre. My private box is at your disposal, and
carriages will be ready in a few minutes."

As the charming little gentleman spoke, he led the way back to the
drawing-room--the folding doors flanked by silent and respectful
servants as the guests passed in.

In five minutes, coffee and liqueurs were served; both were superb, the
white sugar sparkled like crystal in the silver dish, and the cream in
the solid jug was yellow and as thick as a syrup.

"Shall it be the theatre, gentlemen?" said Mr. Blocque, with winning
smiles. "We can amuse ourselves with cards for an hour, as the curtain
does not rise before eight."

And he pointed to a silver basket on the centre table of carved walnut,
surmounted by a slab of variegated marble. I looked, and saw the
crowning wonder. The silver basket contained piles of gold coin and
greenbacks! Not a trace of a Confederate note was visible in the mass!

Packs of fresh cards were brought quickly by a servant, on a silver
waiter; the guests helped themselves to the coin and bank notes; in ten
minutes they were playing furiously.

As I do not play, I rose and took my leave. Mr. Blocque accompanied me
to the door, smiling sweetly to the last.

"Come again very soon, my dear colonel," he said, squeezing my hand,
"my poor house, and all in it, is at your service at all times!"

I thanked my host, shook hands, and went out into the
darkness,--determined never to return.

I had had an excellent dinner, and, physically, had never felt better.
Morally, I must say, I felt contaminated, for, unfortunately, I had
begun to think of Lee's hungry soldiers, lying in rags, in the
Petersburg trenches.

"Eight o'clock! All is well!" came from the sentinel, as I passed by
the capitol.




IV.


JOHN M. DANIEL.


On the day after this scene, a trifling matter of business led me to
call on John M. Daniel, editor of the _Examiner_.

The career of this singular personage had been as remarkable as his
character. He was not a stranger to me. I had known him in 1849 or '50,
when I accompanied my father on a visit to Richmond, and I still recall
the striking appearance of the individual at that time. He had come, a
poor boy of gentle birth, from the bleak hills of Stafford, to the city
of Richmond, to seek his fortune, and, finding nothing better to do,
had accepted the position of librarian to the Richmond library, waiting
for something to "turn up," and ready to grasp it. About the same time,
that experienced journalist, the late B.M. De Witt, had founded the
_Examiner_. He, no doubt, saw the eminent talents of the youth from
Stafford, and the result had been an invitation to assist in the
editorial department of the journal.

Going to the Richmond library, to procure for my father some volume for
reference, I had made the acquaintance of the youthful journalist. At
the first glance, I felt that I was in the presence of an original
character. His labors on the _Examiner_ had just commenced. He was
seated, half-reclining, in an arm-chair, surrounded by "exchanges,"
from which he clipped paragraphs, throwing the papers, as soon as he
had done so, in a pile upon the floor. His black eyes, long black hair,
brushed behind the ears, and thin, sallow cheeks, were not agreeable;
but they made up a striking physiognomy. The black eyes glittered with
a sullen fire; the thin lips were wreathed with a sardonic smile; and I
was informed that the youth lived the life of a _solitaire_,
voluntarily absenting himself from society, to give his days and nights
to exhausting study.

He read every thing, it was said--history, poetry, political economy,
and theology. Swift was said to be his literary divinity, and Rabelais
was at his elbow always. Poor, uneducated, ignorant of nearly every
thing, he was educating himself for the future--sharpening, by
attrition with the strongest minds in all literatures, ancient and
modern, that trenchant weapon which afterward flashed its superb
lightnings in the heated atmosphere of the great epoch in which he
figured.

Bitter, misanthropic, solitary; burning the midnight lamp, instead of
moving among his fellows in the sunshine, he yet possessed hardy
virtues and a high pride of gentleman. He hated the world at large, it
was said, but loved his few friends with an ardor which shrank at
nothing. One of them owed a sum of money--and Daniel went on foot,
twenty-two miles, to Petersburg, paid it, and returned in the same
manner. Afterward he went in person to Charlottesville, to purchase a
house for the use of another friend of limited means. For his friends
he was thus willing to sacrifice his convenience and his means, without
thought of return. All who were not his friends, he is said to have
hated or despised. An acquaintance was in his room one day, and showed
him a valuable pen-knife. Daniel admired it, and the gentleman said
"You may have it, if you like it." Daniel turned upon him, scowled at
him, his lip curled, and he replied, "What do you expect me to do for
you?"

His other virtues were self-denial, and a proud independence. At the
library, he lived on bread and tea--often making the tea himself. Too
poor to possess a chamber, he slept on a lounge in the public room. He
would owe no man any thing, asked no favors, and fawned on nobody. He
would fight his own fight, make his own way; with the intellect heaven
had sent him, carve out his own future, unassisted. The sallow youth,
groaning under dyspepsia, with scarce a friend, and nothing but his
brain, promised himself that he would one day rise from his low estate,
and wield the thunderbolts of power, as one born to grasp and hurl
them.

He was not mistaken, and did not overestimate his powers. When I saw
him in 1849 or '50, he was obscurest of the obscure. Two or three years
afterward he had made the _Examiner_ one of the great powers of the
political world, and was living in a palace at Turin, minister to
Sardinia. He had achieved this success in life by the sheer force of
his character; by the vigor and recklessness of his pen, and the
intensity of his invective. Commencing his editorial career,
apparently, with the theory that, in order to rise into notice, he must
spare nothing and no one, he had entered the arena of partisan politics
like a full armed gladiator; and soon the whole country resounded with
the blows which he struck. Bitter personality is a feeble phrase to
describe the animus of the writer in those days. There was something
incredibly exasperating in his comments on political opponents. He
flayed and roasted them alive. It was like thrusting a blazing torch
into the raw flesh of his victims. Nor was it simple "abuse." The
satirist was too intelligent to rely upon that. It was his scorching
wit which made opponents shrink. His scalpel divided the arteries, and
touched the vitals of the living subject. Personal peculiarities were
satirized with unfailing acumen. The readers of the _Examiner_, in
those days, will still recall the tremendous flaying which he
administered to his adversaries. It may almost be said, that when the
remorseless editor had finished with these gentlemen, there was
"nothing of them left"--what lay before him was a bleeding and mortally
wounded victim. And what was worse, all the world was laughing. Those
who looked with utter disapproval upon his ferocious course, were still
unable to resist the influence of his mordant humor. They denounced the
_Examiner_ without stint, but they subscribed to it, and read it every
morning. "Have you seen the _Examiner_ to-day?" asked the friend whom
you met on the street. "John M. Daniel is down on Blank!" said A to B,
rubbing his hands and laughing. Blank may have been the personal
acquaintance and friend of Mr. A, but there was no resisting the
cartoon of him, traced by the pen of the satirist! The portrait might
be a caricature, but it was a terrible likeness! The long nose was very
long; the round shoulders, very round; the cast in the eye, a frightful
squint; but the individual was unmistakable. The bitter humor of the
artist had caught and embodied every weakness. Thenceforth, the
unfortunate adversary went on his way before all eyes, the mark of
suppressed ridicule and laughing whispers. Whether you approved or
disapproved, you read those tremendous satires. Not to see the
_Examiner_ in those days was to miss a part of the history of the
times. The whole political world felt the presence of a _power_ in
journalism. Into all the recesses of the body politic, those shafts of
ridicule or denunciation penetrated. That venomous invective pierced
the hardest panoply. For the first time in American journalism, the
world saw the full force of ridicule; and tasted a bitterness of
invective unknown since the days of Swift.

Out of these personal attacks grew numerous duels. The butts of the
editor's ridicule sent him defiances, and he was engaged in several
affairs, which, however, resulted in nothing, or nearly nothing, as I
believe he was wounded only once. They did not induce him to change his
course. He seemed to have marked out his career in cold blood, and was
plainly resolved to adhere to his programme--to write himself into
power. In this he fully succeeded. By dint of slashing and flaying, he
attracted the attention of all. Then his vigorous and masculine
intellect riveted the spell. Hated, feared, admired, publicly
stigmatized as one who "ruled Virginia with a rod of iron," he had
reached his aim; and soon the material results of success came. The
director of that great political engine, the Richmond _Examiner_, found
no difficulty in securing the position which he desired; and he
received the appointment of minister to Sardinia, which he accepted,
selling his newspaper, but reserving the right to resume editorial
control of it on his return.

His ambition was thus gratified--for the moment at least. The unknown
youth, living once on bread and tea, and too poor to possess a bed, was
now a foreign minister; had an Italian count for his _chef de cuisine_;
and drew a salary which enabled him to return, some years afterward, to
the United States with savings amounting to $30,000.

It was a contrast to his past. The sallow youth was _M. le ministre_!
The garret in Richmond had been turned into a marble palace in Turin.
He had a nobleman for a cook, instead of making his own tea. And the
_Examiner_ had done all that for him!

When war became imminent, he returned to Virginia, and resumed control
of the _Examiner_. With the exception of brief military service with
General Floyd, and on the staff of A.P. Hill, in the battles around
Richmond, when he was slightly wounded in the right arm, he remained in
editorial harness until his death.

As soon as he grasped the helm of the _Examiner_ again, that great
battleship trembled and obeyed him. It had been powerful before, it was
now a mighty engine, dragging every thing in its wake. Commencing by
supporting the Government, it soon became bitterly inimical to
President Davis and the whole administration. The invective in which it
indulged was not so violent as in the past, but it was even more
powerful and dangerous. Every department was lashed, in those brief,
terse sentences which all will remember--sentences summing up volumes
in a paragraph, condensing oceans of gall into a drop of ink. Under
these mortal stabs, delivered coolly and deliberately, the authors of
public abuses shrank, recoiled, and sought safety in silence. They
writhed, but knew the power of their adversary too well to reply to
him. When once or twice they did so, his rejoinder was more mortal than
his first attack. The whole country read the _Examiner_, from the chief
officers of the administration to the humblest soldier in the trenches.
It shaped the opinions of thousands, and this great influence was not
due to trick or chance. It was not because it denounced the Executive
in terms of the bitterest invective; because it descended like a wild
boar on the abuses or inefficiency of the departments; but because this
journal, more, perhaps, than any other in the South, spoke the public
sentiment, uttered its views with fearless candor, and conveyed those
views in words so terse, pointed, and trenchant--in such forcible and
excellent English--that the thought of the writer was driven home, and
remained fixed in the dullest apprehension.

The _Examiner_, in one word, had become the controlling power, almost,
of the epoch. Its views had become those even of men who bitterly
stigmatized its course. You might disapprove of its editorials often,
and regret their appearance--as I did--but it was impossible not to be
carried onward by the hardy logic of the writer: impossible not to
admire the Swift-like pith and vigor of this man, who seemed to have
re-discovered the lost well of undefiled English.

When I went to see John M. Daniel, thus, in this summer of 1864, it was
not a mere journalist whom I visited, but a historic character. For it
was given to him, invisible behind the scenes, to shape, in no small
degree, the destiny of the country, by moulding the views and opinions
of the actors who contended on the public arena.

Was that influence for good or for evil? Let others answer. To-day this
man is dead, and the cause for which he fought with his pen has failed.
I reproduce his figure and some scenes of that great cause--make your
own comments, reader.




V.


THE EDITOR IN HIS SANCTUM.


Knocking at the door of the journalist's house on Broad Street, nearly
opposite the "African church," I was admitted by a negro servant, sent
up my name, and was invited by Mr. Daniel to ascend to his sanctum on
the second story.

I went up, and found him leaning back in a high chair of black
horsehair, in an apartment commanding a view southward of James River
and Chesterfield. On a table beside him were books and papers--the
furniture of the room was plain and simple.

He greeted me with great cordiality, bowing very courteously, and
offering me a cigar. I had not seen him since his return from Europe,
and looked at him with some curiosity. He was as sallow as before--his
eyes as black and sparkling; but his long, black hair, as straight as
an Indian's, and worn behind his ears, when I first knew him, was
close-cut now; and his upper lip was covered by a black mustache. His
dress was simple and exceedingly neat. It was impossible not to see
that the famous journalist was a gentleman.

As I had visited him purely upon a matter of business, I dispatched it,
and then rose to take my departure. But he urged me with persistent
cordiality, not to desert him. He saw few persons, he said; I must stay
and dine with him. I had business? Then I could attend to it, and would
do him the favor to return.

Looking at my watch, I found that it was nearly two o'clock--he had
informed me that he dined at four--and, not to detain the reader with
these details, recurring to a very retentive memory, I found myself,
two hours afterward, seated at table with the editor of the _Examiner_.

The table was of ancient, and brilliantly-polished mahogany. The dinner
consisted of only two or three dishes, but these were of the best
quality, excellently cooked, and served upon china of the most costly
description. Coffee followed--then a great luxury--and, not only the
sugar-dish, cream-jug and other pieces of the service were of silver;
the waiter upon which they rested was of the same material--heavy,
antique, and richly carved.

We lingered at table throughout the entire afternoon, my host having
resisted every attempt which I made to depart, by taking my hat from my
hand, and thrusting upon me another excellent Havana cigar. Cordiality
so extreme, in one who bore the reputation of a man-hater, was at least
something _piquant_--and as my host had appealed to my weak side, by
greatly praising a slight literary performance of mine ("he would be
proud," he assured me, "to have it thought that _he_ had written it),"
I yielded, surrendered my hat, lit the cigar offered me, and we went on
talking.

I still recall that conversation, the last but one which I ever had
with this singular man. Unfortunately, it does not concern the
narrative I now write, and I would not like to record his denunciations
and invective directed at the Government. He handled it without mercy,
and his comments upon the character of President Davis were exceedingly
bitter. One of these was laughable for the grim humor of the idea.
Opening a volume of Voltaire--whose complete works he had just
purchased--he showed me a passage in one of the infidel dramas of the
great Frenchman, where King David, on his death-bed, after invoking
maledictions upon his opponents, declares that "having forgiven all his
enemies _en bon Juif_, he is ready to die."

A grim smile came to the face of the journalist, as he showed me the
passage.

"That suits Mr. Davis exactly," he said. "He forgives his enemies _en
bon Juif_! I believe I will make an editorial, and quote the passage on
him--but he wouldn't understand it!"

That was bitter--was it not, reader? I raised my pen to draw a line
through the incident, but it can do no harm now.

The solitary journalist-politician spoke freely of himself and his
intentions for the future. With a few passages from our talk on this
point, I will terminate my account of the interview.

"You see I am here chained to the pen," he said, "and, luckily, I have
that which defies the conscript officers, if the Government takes a
fancy to order editors into the ranks."

Smiling slightly as he spoke, he showed me his right hand, the fingers
of which he could scarcely bend.

"I was wounded at Cold Harbor, in June, 1862," he added; "not much
wounded either; but sufficient to prevent me from handling a sword or
musket. It is a trifle. I should like to be able to show an honorable
scar[1] in this cause, and I am sorry I left the army. By this time I
might have, been a brigadier--perhaps a major-general."[2]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

"Possibly," I replied; "but the position of an editor is a powerful
one."

"Do you think so?"

"Don't you?"

"Yes, colonel; but what good is the _Examiner_ doing? What can all the
papers in the Confederacy effect? Besides, I like to command men. I
love power."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

I laughed.

"I would recommend the philosophic view of things," I said. "Why not
take the good the gods provide? As a soldier, you would be in
fetters--whatever your rank--to say nothing of the bullet that might
cut short your career. And yet this life of the brain is wearing
too,--"

"But my health is all the better for it," he said. "A friend was here
to see me the other day, and I startled him by the observation 'I shall
live to eat the goose that eats the grass over your grave.'[1] When he
inquired my meaning, I replied, 'For two reasons--I come of a
long-lived race, and have an infallible sign of longevity; I never
dream, and my sleep is always sound and refreshing.'"[2]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

"Do you believe in that dictum?" I said.

"Thoroughly," he replied, laughing. "I shall live long, in spite of the
enmities which would destroy me in an instant, if the secret foes I
have could only accomplish their end without danger to themselves."

"You do not really believe, surely, that you have such foes?"

"Not believe it? I know it. _You_ have them, colonel, too. How long do
you think you would live, if your enemies had their way with you?
Perhaps you think you have no enemies who hate you enough to kill you.
You are greatly mistaken--every man has his enemies. I have them by the
thousand, and I have no doubt you, too, have them, though they are
probably not so numerous as mine."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"But their enmity comes to nothing."

"Because to indulge it, would bring them into trouble," he replied.
"Neither your enemies or mine would run the risk of murdering us in
open day; but suppose they could kill us by simply _wishing it?_ I
should drop down dead before your eyes--and you would fall a corpse in
Main Street before you reached your home!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"A gloomy view enough, but I dare not deny it."

"It would be useless, colonel. That is the way men are made. For
myself, I distrust all of them--or nearly all."

He uttered the words with intense bitterness, and for a moment remained
silent.

"This is gloomy talk," he said, "and will not amuse you. Let us change
the topic. When I am not discussing public affairs--the doings of this
wretched administration, and the old man of the sea astride upon the
country's back--I ought to try and amuse myself."

"You find the _Examiner_ a heavy weight upon you?"

"It is a mill-stone around my neck."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"Why not throw it off, if you find it onerous?"

"Because I look to this journal as a father does to an only son--as my
pet, my pride, and the support and honor of myself and my name in the
future."

"You are proud of it."

"It has made me, and it will do more for me hereafter than it has ever
done yet."

He paused, and then went on, with a glow in his swarthy face:

"Every man has his cherished object in this world, colonel. Mine is the
success and glory of the _Examiner_. I intend to make of it what the
London _Times_ is in England, and the world--a great power, which shall
lay down the law, control cabinets, mould parties, and direct events.
It has given me much trouble to establish it, but _ca ira_ now! From
the _Examiner_ I expect to realize the great dream of my life."

"The dream of your life? What is that?--if I may ask without
intrusion."

"Oh! I make no secret of it, and as a gentleman speaking to a
gentleman, can say what I could not in the society of _roturiers_ or
common people. My family is an old and honorable one in Virginia--this,
by way of explanation only, I beg you to note. We are thus, people of
old descent, but my branch of the family is ruined. My object is to
reinstate it; and you will perhaps compare me to the scheming young
politician in Bulwer's 'My Novel,' who seeks to restore the family
fortunes, and brighten up the lonely old house--in Yorkshire, is it?
You remember?"

"Yes," I said.

"Well, I always sympathized with that character. He is morally bad, you
say: granted; but he is resolute and brave--and his object is noble."

"I agree with you, the object _is_ noble."

"I am glad you think so, colonel. I see I speak to one who has the old
Virginia feeling. You respect family."

"Who does not? There are those who profess to care naught for it, but
it is because they are new-comers."

"Yes," was the journalist's reply, "mushrooms--and very dirty ones!"

I laughed at the speaker's grimace.

"For my own part," I said, "I do not pretend to be indifferent whether
or not my father was a gentleman. I bow as politely to the new-comer as
if it were the Conqueror he came over with; but still I am glad my
father was a gentleman. I hope no one will quarrel with that."

"You are mistaken. They will hate you for it."

"You are right--but I interrupted you."

"I am glad the interruption came, colonel, for it gave you an
opportunity of showing me that my views and your own are in exact
accord on this subject. I will proceed, therefore, without ceremony, to
tell you what I design doing some day."

I listened with attention. It is always interesting to look into the
recesses of a remarkable man's character. This human being was notable
in an epoch filled with notabilities; and chance was about to give me
an insight into his secret thoughts.

He twirled a paper-cutter in his fingers, reflected a moment, and
said:--

"I am still young--not very young either, for I will soon be forty--but
I know no young man who has better prospects than myself, and few who
have done so well. I suppose I am worth now nearly $100,000 in good
money. I have more gold coin than I know what to do with. The
_Examiner_ is very valuable property, and is destined to be much more
so. I expect to live long, and if I do, I shall be rich. When I am
rich, I shall buy the old family estate in Stafford County, and shall
add to it all the land for miles around. I shall build a house to my
fancy, and, with all my possessions walled in, I shall teach these
people what they never knew--how to live like a gentleman."[1]

[Footnote 1: This paragraph is in Mr. J.M. Daniel's words.]

The glow had deepened on the sallow face. It was easy to see that the
speaker had unfolded to me the dream of his life.

"Your scheme is one," I said, "which takes my fancy greatly. But why do
you intend to wall in your property?"

"To keep out those wolves called men."

"Ah! I forgot. You do not like those bipeds without feathers."

"I like some of them, colonel; but the majority are worse than my dogs,
Fanny and Frank, yonder. Sometimes I think they are human--they bite
each other so!"

I laughed. There was something _piquant_ in the grim humor of this
singular personage.

"What is your ideal man?" I said, "for, doubtless, you have such an
ideal?"

"Yes. I like a man of bronze, who does not snivel or weep. I like
Wigfall for his physique and his magnificent courage. It is the genuine
thing. There is no _put on_ there. He has native pluck--the actual
article--and it is no strain on him to exhibit it. The grit is in him,
and you can't shake him."[1]

[Footnote 1: This paragraph is in Mr. J.M. Daniel's words.]

"You would admit your men of bronze, then, into the walled-up domain in
Stafford?"

"I don't know," he said grimly. "With my violin, a good cook, English
books and papers--I hate your Yankee trash--and occasional travel, I
think I could get through life without very great ennui. I do not
expect to be governor of Virginia for ten years yet!"

And smiling, the journalist said:--

"Let us change the subject. What are people talking about? I never ask
what is the news.[1] Is any thing said of evacuating Virginia? That is
a pernicious idea![2] Whom have you seen lately?"

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

"A queer set," I said.

And I gave him an account of my dinner at Mr. Blocque's.

"What a little wretch!" he said. "I think I will run a pin through that
bug, and impale him. He would make a fine dish served up _a la Victor
Hugo_. You have read _Les Miserables_ yonder? It is a trashy affair."

And taking up the elegantly bound volume, which must have cost him a
considerable sum, he quietly pitched it out of the window.

As he did so, the printer's devil appeared at the door, holding proof
in his hand.

"You see I am never safe from intrusion, colonel. This _Examiner_
newspaper keeps me at the oar."

I rose and put on my hat.

"Come and see me again soon, if it suits your convenience," he said. "I
am going to write an editorial, and I think I will serve up your host,
Blocque."

"Do not use his name."

"Be tranquil. He will be the type only."

And, escorting me to the door, Mr. Daniel bestowed a courteous bow upon
me, which I returned. Then the door closed.




VI.


AN EDITORIAL IN THE EXAMINER.


On the following morning I opened the _Examiner_, and the first article
which I saw was the following one, on

    THE BLOCKADE-RUNNER.

    "We owe to the kindness of SHEM'S Express Company, which has charge
    of the line between the front door of the State Department and the
    back door of the Tuileries kitchen, the advance sheets of a new
    novel by VICTUS HAUTGOUT, which bears the striking title, _Les
    Fortunes_, and which consists of five parts--ABRAHAM, ISAAC, JACOB,
    JUDAH, and BENJAMIN. Of course, the discerning reader will not
    suppose for a moment that there is any connection between _Les
    Fortunes_ and _Les Miserables_; between the chaste style of
    HAUTGOUT and the extravaganzas of HUGO; whose works, in former
    days, were not considered fit reading for an Anglo-Saxon public,
    whose latest and most corrupt fiction owes its success (let us
    hope) rather to the dearth of new literature than to the vitiated
    taste of the Southern people. How great the difference between the
    two authors is, can best be appreciated by comparing the
    description of the _gamin_ in _Marius_, with the following extracts
    from HAUTGOUT'S portraiture of the BLOCKADE-RUNNER:--

    "Yankeedom has a bird, and the crocodile has a bird. The
    crocodile's bird is called the Trochilus. Yankeedom's bird is
    called the blockade-runner. Yankeedom is the crocodile. The
    blockade-runner is the Trochilus.

    "Couple these two ideas--Yankeedom and the crocodile. They are
    worth the coupling. The crocodile is asleep. He does not sleep on
    both ears; he sleeps with one eye open; his jaws are also open.
    Rows of teeth appear, sharped, fanged, pointed, murderous,
    carnivorous, omnivorous. Some of the teeth are wanting: say a
    dozen. Who knocked those teeth out? A demon. What demon?
    Or perhaps an angel. What angel? The angel is secession: the
    demon is rebellion. ORMUZD and AHRIMAN: BALDUR and LOKI:
    the DEVIL and ST. DUNSTAN. So we go.

    "The Trochilus picks the crocodile's teeth. Does the crocodile
    object? Not he. He likes to have his teeth picked. It is good for
    his health. It promotes his digestion. It is, on the whole, a
    sanitary measure. 'Feed yourself,' he says,'my good Trochilus, on
    the broken meats which lie between my grinders. Feed your little
    ones at home. I shan't snap you up unless I get very hungry. There
    are Confederates enough. Why should I eat _you_?'

    "This little creature--this _Trochilus obsidionalis_--this
    blockade-running tomtit--is full of joy. He has rich food to eat
    every day. He goes to the show every evening, when he is not on
    duty. He has a fine shirt on his back; patent-leather boots on his
    feet; the pick and choice of a dozen houses. He is of any
    age--chiefly of the conscript age; ranges singly or in couples;
    haunts auction houses; dodges enrolling officers; eats
    canvass-backs; smells of greenbacks; swears allegiance to both
    sides; keeps faith with neither; is hand and glove with ABE'S
    detectives as well as with WINDER'S Plugs; smuggles in an ounce of
    quinine for the Confederate Government, and smuggles out a pound of
    gold for the Lincolnites; fishes in troubled waters; runs with the
    hare and hunts with the hounds; sings Yankee Doodle through one
    nostril, and My Maryland through the other; is on good terms with
    everybody--especially with himself--and, withal, is as great a
    rascal as goes unhung.

    "He has sports of his own; roguish tricks of his own, of which a
    hearty hatred of humdrum, honest people is the basis. He has his
    own occupations, such as running for hacks, which he hires at
    fabulous prices; crossing the Potomac in all kinds of weather;
    rubbing off Yankee trade-marks and putting English labels in their
    stead. He has a currency of his own, slips of green paper, which
    have an unvarying and well regulated circulation throughout this
    gipsy band.

    "He is never satisfied with his pantaloons unless they have a
    watch-fob, and never satisfied with his watch-fob unless it
    contains a gold watch. Sometimes he has two watch-fobs; sometimes
    a score.

    "This rosy child of Richmond lives, develops, gets into and out of
    scrapes--a merry witness of our social unrealities. He looks on
    ready to laugh; ready also for something else, for pocketing
    whatever he can lay his hands on. Whoever you are, you that call
    yourselves Honor, Justice, Patriotism, Independence, Freedom,
    Candour, Honesty, Right, beware of the grinning blockade-runner.
    He is growing. He will continue to grow.

    "Of what clay is he made? Part Baltimore street-dirt, part James
    River mud, best part and worst part sacred soil of Palestine. What
    will become of him in the hands of the potter, chance? Heaven
    grant that he may be ground into his original powder before he is
    stuck up on our mantel-pieces as a costly vase, in which the
    choice flowers of our civilization can but wither and die."

Admire that grim humor, reader--the firm stroke with which this
Aristophanes of 1864 drew my friend, Mr. Blocque. See how he reproduced
every trait, delineated the worthy in his exact colors, and, at the
foot of the picture, wrote, as it were, "Here is going to be the
founder of 'one of the old families,'--one of the ornaments of the
future, who will come out of the war rich, and be a costly vase, not a
vessel of dishonor, as at present."

Grim satirist! You saw far, and I think we want you to-day!




VII.


UNDER THE CROSSED SWORDS.


I had dined with Mr. Blocque; two days afterward I went to sup with
Judge Conway.

Does the reader remember his appearance at Culpeper Court-House, on the
night of the ball after the review in June, 1863? On that evening he
had excited my astonishment by abruptly terminating the interview
between his daughter and Captain Davenant; and I little supposed that I
would ever penetrate the motive of that action, or become intimate with
the performer.

Yet the chance of war had decreed that both events should occur. All
will be, in due time, explained to the reader's satisfaction; at
present we will simply make the acquaintance of one of the most
distinguished statesmen of the epoch.

My friendly relations with the judge came about in a very simple
manner. He was an intimate associate of the gentleman at whose house I
was staying; had taken great interest in my recovery after Yellow
Tavern; and therefore had done me the honor to bestow his friendship
upon me.

On the day to which we have now come, Judge Conway had made a speech of
surpassing eloquence, in Congress, on the condition of the country, and
I had listened, thrilling at the brave voice which rang out its
sonorous, "All's well!" amid the storm. I was now going to call on the
statesman to express my admiration of his eloquent appeal, and converse
upon the exciting topics of the hour.

I found him in a mansion not far from the splendid residence of Mr.
Blocque. Here he occupied "apartments," or rather a single room,--and,
in 1864, my dear reader, that was a very common mode of living.

Like others, Judge Conway was too poor to occupy a whole house,--even
too poor to board. He had a single apartment, containing a few chairs
and a bed; was waited on by a maid; and, I think, prepared his own
meals, which were plain to poverty.

He met me at the door of his bare and poor-looking apartment, extending
his hand with the gracious and stately courtesy of the ancient regime.
His figure was small, slight, and bent by age; his face, thin and pale;
his hair nearly white, and falling in long curls upon his shoulders;
under the gray brows sparkled keen, penetrating, but benignant eyes.

As I pressed the hand of my host, and looked around the poor apartment,
I could not refrain from a sentiment of profound bitterness. Two days
before I had dined at the table of a peddling blockade-runner, who ate
canvass-backs, drank champagne, wore "fine linen," and, dodging the
conscript officers, revelled in luxury and plenty. And now here before
me was a gentleman of ancient lineage, whose ancestors had been famous,
who had himself played a great part in the history of the
commonwealth,--and this gentleman was poor, lived in lodgings, had
scarce a penny; he had been wealthy, and was still the owner of great
possessions; but the bare land was all that was left him for support.
He had been surrounded with luxury, but had sacrificed all to the
cause. He had had two gallant sons, but they had fallen at the first
Manassas--their crossed swords were above his poor bare mantel-piece.

From the splendid table of the sneaking blockade-runner, I had come to
the poverty-stricken apartment of this great statesman and high-bred
gentleman. "Oh, Juvenal!" I muttered, "it is your satires, not the
bucolics of Virgil, that suit this epoch!"

The old statesman pointed, with all the grace of a nobleman, to a bare
rocking-chair, and received my congratulations upon his speech with
modest simplicity.

"I am glad that my views are honored by your good opinion, colonel," he
said, "and that you approve of the tone of them. I am naturally given
to invective--a habit derived from my friend, the late Mr. Randolph;
but the country wants encouragement."

"And yet not to satirize is so hard, my dear sir!"

"Very hard."

"Think of the army depleted--the soldiers starving--the finances in
ruin, and entire destruction threatening us!"

The old statesman was silent. A moment afterward he raised his head,
and with his thin finger pointed to the crossed swords above his
mantelpiece.

"I try to bear and forbear since I lost my poor boys," he said. "They
died for their country--I ought to live for it, and do what I can in my
sphere--to suppress my bitterness, and try to utter words of good
cheer. But we are discussing gloomy topics. Let us come to more
cheerful matters. I am in very good spirits to-day. My daughters have
come to make me a visit," and the old face glowed with smiles; its
expression was quite charming.

"I see you do not appreciate that great treat, my dear colonel," he
added, smiling. "You are yet unmarried, though I rejoice to hear you
are soon to be united to a daughter of my old friend, Colonel Beverly,
of "The Oaks." Some day I hope you will know the great charm of
paternity. This morning I was lonely--this evening I am no longer so.
Georgia and Virginia have come up from my house, "Five Forks," escorted
by my faithful old Juba, and they burst in upon me like the sunshine!"

The words had scarcely been uttered when a tap came at the door; a
voice said, "May we come in, papa?" and a moment afterward the door
opened, and admitted Miss Georgia Conway and her sister Virginia.

Miss Georgia was the same tall and superb beauty, with the dark hair
and eyes; Miss Virginia the same winning little blonde, with the blue
eyes, and the smiles which made her lips resemble rose-buds. The young
ladies were clad in poor, faded-looking calicoes, and the slippers on
the small feet, peeping from their skirts, were full of holes. Such was
the appearance presented in that summer of 1864, my dear reader, by two
of the most elegant and "aristocratic" young ladies of Virginia!

But you did not look at the calicoes, and soon forgot the holes in the
shoes. My bow was such as I should have bestowed on two princesses, and
the young ladies received it with a grace and courtesy which were
charming.

In ten minutes we were all talking like old friends, and the young
ladies were making tea.

This was soon ready; some bread, without butter, was placed upon the
little table; and the meal was the most cheerful and happy imaginable.
"Oh, my dear Mr. Blocque!" I could not help saying to myself, "keep
your champagne, and canvass-backs, and every luxury, and welcome! I
like dry bread and tea, with this company, better!"

I have not room to repeat the charming words, mingled with laughter, of
the young women, on that evening. Their presence was truly like
sunshine, and you could see the reflection of it upon the old
statesman's countenance.

Only once that countenance was overshadowed. I had uttered the name of
Willie Davenant, by accident; and then all at once remembering the
scene at Culpeper Court-House, had looked quietly at Judge Conway and
Miss Virginia. A deep frown was on his face--that of the young girl was
crimson with blushes, and two tears came to her eyes, as she caught her
father's glance of displeasure.

I hastened to change the topic--to banish the dangerous subject; and in
a few moments everybody was smiling once more. Miss Georgia, in her
stately and amusing way, was relating their experiences from a scouting
party of the enemy, at "Five Forks."

"I heard something of this from old Juba," said the Judge; "you do not
mention your deliverer, however."

"Our deliverer, papa?"

"General Mohun."

Miss Georgia unmistakably blushed in her turn.

"Oh, I forgot!" she said, carelessly, "General Mohun _did_ drive them
off. Did I not mention it?--I should have done so before finishing,
papa."

As she spoke, the young lady happened to catch my eye. I was laughing
quietly. Thereupon her head rose in a stately way--a decided pout
succeeded--finally, she burst into laughter.

The puzzled expression of the old Judge completed the comedy of the
occasion--we all laughed in a perfectly absurd and foolish way--and the
rest of the evening passed in the most cheerful manner imaginable.

When I bade my friends good evening, I knew something I had not known
before:--namely, that Mohun the woman-hater, had renewed his "friendly
relations" with Miss Georgia Conway, at her home in Dinwiddie.

Exchanging a pressure of the hand with my host and his charming
daughters, I bade them good evening, and returned homeward. As I went
along, I thought of the happy circle I had left; and again I could not
refrain from drawing the comparison between Judge Conway and Mr.
Blocque.

At the fine house of the blockade-runner--champagne, rich viands,
wax-lights, gold and silver, and profuse luxury.

At the poor lodgings of the great statesman,--a cup of tea and cold
bread; stately courtesy from my host, charming smiles from his
beautiful daughters, clad in calico, with worn-out shoes--and above the
simple happy group, the crossed swords of the brave youths who had
fallen at Manassas!




VIII.


MR. X-----.


It was past ten in the evening when I left Judge Conway. But I felt no
disposition to retire; and determined to pay a visit to a singular
character of my acquaintance.

The name of this gentleman was Mr. X-----.

Looking back now to the days spent in Richmond, in that curious summer
of '64, I recall, among the representative personages whom I
encountered, no individual more remarkable than the Honorable Mr.
X-----. You are acquainted with him, my dear reader, either personally
or by reputation, for he was a prominent official of the Confederate
Government, and, before the war, had been famous in the councils of
"the nation."

He resided at this time in a small house, on a street near the capitol.
You gained access to his apartment after night--if you knew the way--by
a winding path, through shrubbery, to the back door of the mansion.
When you entered, you found yourself in presence of a tall, powerful,
gray-haired and very courteous personage, who sat in a huge arm-chair,
near a table littered with papers, and smoked, meditatively, a cigar,
the flavor of which indicated its excellent quality.

I enjoyed the intimacy of Mr. X----- in spite of the difference of our
ages and positions. He had been the friend of my father, and, in my
turn, did me the honor to bestow his friendship upon me. On this
evening I was seized with the fancy to visit him--and passing through
the grounds of the capitol, where the bronze Washington and his great
companions looked silently out into the moonlight, reached the small
house, followed the path through the shrubbery, and opening the door in
the rear, found myself suddenly enveloped in a cloud of cigar smoke,
through which loomed the portly figure of Mr. X-----.

He was seated, as usual, in his large arm-chair, by the table, covered
with papers; and a small bell near his hand seemed placed there for the
convenience of summoning an attendant, without the trouble of rising.
Near the bell lay a package of foreign-looking documents. Near the
documents lay a pile of telegraphic dispatches. In the appearance and
surroundings of this man you read "Power."

Mr. X----- received me with easy cordiality.

"Glad to see you, my dear colonel," he said, rising and shaking my
hand; then sinking back in his chair, "take a cigar, and tell me the
news." I sat down,--having declined the proffered cigar.

"The news!" I said, laughing; "I ought to ask that of you."

"Ah! you think I am well-informed?"

I pointed to the dispatches. Mr. X----- shrugged his shoulders.

"Papers from England and France--they are not going to recognize us.

"And those telegrams--nothing. We get little that is worth attention,
except a line now and then, signed 'R.E. Lee.'"

"Well, there is that signature," I said, pointing to an open paper.

"It is a private letter to me--but do you wish to see a line which I
have just received? It is interesting, I assure you."

And he handed me a paper.

It was a telegram announcing the fall of Atlanta!

"Good heavens!" I said, "is it possible? Then there is nothing to stop
Sherman."

"Nothing whatever," said Mr. X-----, coolly.

"What will be the consequence?"

"The Confederacy will be cut in two. Sherman will be at Savannah before
Grant reaches the Southside road--or as soon, at least."

"You think Grant will reach that?"

"Yes, by April; and then--you know what!"

"But Lee will protect it."

Mr. X----- shrugged his shoulders.

"Shall I tell you a secret?"

I listened.

"Lee's force is less than 50,000--next spring it will not number
40,000. Grant's will be at least four times that."

"Why can not our army be re-enforced?"

Mr. X----- helped himself to a fresh cigar.

"The people are tired, and the conscript officers are playing a farce,"
he said. "The commissary department gives the army a quarter of a pound
of rancid meat. That even often fails, for the quartermaster's
department does not supply it. The result is--no conscripts, and a
thousand desertions. The soldiers are starving; their wives and
children are writing them letters that drive them mad--the end is not
far off; and when Grant reaches the Southside road we are gone."

Mr. X----- smoked his cigar with extreme calmness as he spoke.

"But one thing remains," I said.

"What is that?"

"Lee will retreat from Virginia."

Mr. X----- shook his head.

"He will not."

"Why not?"

"He will be prevented from doing so."

"Under any circumstances?"

"Until too late, at least."

"And the result?"

"Surrender--though he said to me the other day, when he came to see me
here, 'For myself, I intend to die sword in hand.'"

I could not refrain from a sentiment of profound gloom, as I listened
to these sombre predictions. It seemed incredible that they could be
well founded, but I had more than once had an opportunity to remark the
extraordinary prescience of the remarkable man with whom I conversed.

"You draw a black picture of the future," I said. "And the South seems
moving to and fro, on the crust of a volcano."

"No metaphor could be more just."

"And what will be the result of the war?"

"That is easy to reply to. Political slavery, negro suffrage, and the
bayonet, until the new leaven works."

"The new leaven?"

"The conviction that democratic government is a failure."

"And then--?"

"An emperor, or dictator--call him what you will. The main fact is,
that he will rule the country by the bayonet--North and South
impartially."

Mr. X----- lit a fresh cigar.

"Things are going on straight to that," he said. "The future is
perfectly plain to me, for I read it in the light of history. These
events are going to follow step by step. Lee is brave--no man is
braver; a great leader. I think him one of the first captains of the
world. But in spite of his courage and skill--in spite of the heroism
of his army--in spite of the high character and pure motives of the
president--we are going to fail. Then the rest will follow--negro
suffrage and the bayonet. Then the third era will begin--the disgust of
the white man at the equality of the negro; his distrust of a
government which makes such a farce possible; consequent revulsion
against democracy; a tendency toward monarchy; a king, emperor or
dictator, who will restore order out of the chaos of misrule and
madness. England is rushing toward a democracy, America is hastening to
become an empire. For my own part I think I prefer the imperial to the
popular idea--Imperator to Demos. It is a matter of taste, however."

And Mr. X----- turned his head, calling out, calmly,

"Come in!"

The door opened and a stranger glided into the apartment. He was clad
in a blue Federal uniform, half-concealed by a brown linen overall. His
face was almost covered by a red beard; his lips by a mustache of the
same color; and his eyes disappeared behind huge green goggles.

"Come in," repeated Mr. X-----, who seemed to recognize the intruder;
"what news?"

The personage glanced quickly at me.

"Speak before him," said Mr. X-----, "he is a friend."

"I am very well acquainted with Colonel Surry," said the other,
smiling, "and have the honor to number him, I hope, among my own
friends."

With which words, the new-comer quietly removed his red beard, took off
his green spectacles, and I saw before me no less a personage than Mr.
Nighthawk!




IX.


"SEND ME A COPY.--IN CANADA!"


Nothing was more surprising in this singular man than these sudden
appearances at places and times when you least expected him.

I had parted with him in Spottsylvania, on the night when he "deserted"
from the enemy, and rode into our lines; and he was then the secret
agent of General Stuart. Now, he reappeared in the city of Richmond,
with an excellent understanding, it was evident, between himself and
Mr. X-----!

Our greeting was cordial, and indeed I never had classed Nighthawk
among professional spies. General Stuart assured me one day, that he
invariably refused all reward; and his profound, almost romantic
devotion to Mohun, had deeply impressed me. Love of country and
watchful care of the young cavalier, whose past life was as mysterious
as his own, seemed the controlling sentiments of Nighthawk; and he
always presented himself to me rather in the light of a political
conspirator, than as a "spy."

His first words now indicated that he was a secret agent of the
Government. He seemed to have been everywhere, and gained access to
everybody; and once more, as in June, 1863, when he appeared at
Stuart's head-quarters, near Middleburg, he astonished me by the
accuracy and extent of his information. Political and military secrets
of the highest importance, and calling for urgent action on the part of
the Government, were detailed by Nighthawk, in his calm and benignant
voice; he gave us an account of a long interview which he had had at
City Point, with General Grant; and wound up as usual by announcing an
impending battle--a movement of the enemy, which duly took place as he
announced.

Mr. X----- listened with close attention, asking few questions.

When Nighthawk had made his report, the statesman looked at his watch,
said, _sotto voce_, "Midnight--too late," and added aloud:--

"Come back at ten to-morrow morning, my friend; your information is
highly interesting and important."

Nighthawk rose, and I did likewise, declining the courteous request of
Mr. X----- to prolong my visit. He held the door open with great
politeness and said, smiling:--

"I need not say, my dear colonel, that the views I have expressed this
evening are confidential--for the present, at least."

"Assuredly," I replied, with a bow and a smile.

"Hereafter you are at liberty to repeat them, if you wish, only I beg
you will ascribe them to Mr. X-----, an unknown quantity. If you write
a book, and put me in it, send me a copy--in Canada!"

A moment afterward I was wending my way through the shrubbery, thinking
of the curious personage I had left.

At the gate Nighthawk awaited me, and I scarcely recognized him. He had
resumed his red beard, and green glasses.

"I am glad to see you again, colonel," he said benignantly; "I heard
that you were in the city and called at your lodgings, but found you
absent."

"You wished to see me particularly, then, Nighthawk."

"Yes, and to-night, colonel."

"Ah!"

"I know you are a friend of General Mohun's."

"A very sincere friend."

"Well, I think we will be able to do him a very great service by
attending to a little matter in which he is interested, colonel. Are
you disengaged, and willing to accompany me?"




X.


THE WAY THE MONEY WENT.


I looked intently at Nighthawk. He was evidently very much in earnest.

"I am entirely disengaged, and perfectly willing to accompany you," I
said; "but where?"

Nighthawk smiled.

"You know I am a mysterious person, colonel, both by character and
profession. I fear the habit is growing on me, in spite of every
exertion I make. I predict I will end by burning my coat, for fear it
will tell some of my secrets."

"Well," I said with a smile, "keep your secret then, and lead the way.
I am ready to go far to oblige Mohun in any thing."

"I thank you, colonel, from my heart. You have only to follow me."

And Nighthawk set out at a rapid pace, through the grounds of the
capitol, toward the lower part of the city.

There was something as singular about the walk of my companion, as
about his appearance. He went at a great pace, but his progress was
entirely noiseless. You would have said that he was skimming along upon
invisible wings.

In an incredibly short time we had reached a street below the capitol,
and my companion, who had walked straight on without turning his head
to the right or the left, all at once paused before a tall and
dingy-looking house, which would have appeared completely uninhabited,
except for a bright red light which shone through a circular opening in
the door.

At this door Nighthawk gave a single tap. The glass covering the
circular space glided back, and a face reconnoitred. My companion
uttered two words; and the door opened, giving access to a stairs,
which we ascended, the janitor having already disappeared.

At the head of the stairs was a door which Nighthawk opened, and we
found ourselves in an apartment where a dozen persons were playing
faro.

Upon these Nighthawk threw a rapid glance--some one whom he appeared to
be seeking, was evidently not among the players.

Another moment he returned through the door, I following, and we
ascended a second flight of stairs, at the top of which was a second
door. Here another janitor barred the way, but my companion again
uttered some low words,--the door opened; a magnificently lit
apartment, with a buffet of liquors, and every edible, presented itself
before us; and in the midst of a dozen personages, who were playing
furiously, I recognized--Mr. Blocque, Mr. Croker, Mr. Torpedo, and
Colonel Desperade.

For some moments I stood watching the spectacle, and it very
considerably enlarged my experience. Before me I saw prominent
politicians, officers of high rank, employees of government holding
responsible positions, all gambling with an ardor that amounted to
fury. One gentleman in uniform--apparently of the quartermaster's
department--held in his hand a huge package of Confederate notes, of
the denominations, of $100 and $500, and this worthy staked, twice, the
pretty little amount of $10,000 upon a card, and each time lost.

The play so absorbed the soldiers, lawgivers, and law-administrators,
that our presence was unperceived. My friend, Mr. Blocque, did not turn
his head; Mr. Croker, Mr. Torpedo, and Colonel Desperade, were red in
the face and oblivious.

After that evening I knew where some of the public money went.

As I was looking at the strange scene of reckless excitement, one of
the players, a portly individual with black mustache, rich dark curls,
gold spectacles, and wearing a fine suit of broadcloth--rose and looked
toward us. Nighthawk was already gazing at him; and suddenly I saw
their glances cross like steel rapiers. They had evidently recognized
each other; and going up to the gentleman of the spectacles, Nighthawk
said a few words in a low voice, which I did not distinguish.

"With pleasure, my dear friend," said the portly gentleman, "but you
are sure you are not provided with a detective of General Winder's?"

"Can you believe such a thing?" returned Nighthawk, reproachfully.

"I thought it possible you might have one waiting below; but if you
give me your word, Nighthawk--"

And without further objection the worthy followed Nighthawk and myself
down the stairs.

As we approached the outer door, the invisible janitor opened it; we
issued forth into the street; and the portly gentleman, fixing a keen
look upon me in the clear moonlight, said:--

"I believe we have had the pleasure of meeting before, colonel."

"I am ashamed to say I do not remember where, sir," I said.

"My memory is better, colonel; we met last May, in a house in the
Wilderness, near Chancellorsville."

"Is it possible that you are--"

"Swartz, very much at your service. It is wonderful what a difference
is made by a wig and spectacles!"

As he spoke, he gracefully removed his black wig and the gold
spectacles. In the man with gray hair, small eyes, and double chin, I
recognized the spy of the Wilderness.




XI.


THE PASS.


Replacing his wig and spectacles, Mr. Swartz smiled in a good-humored
manner, and said:--

"May I ask to what I am indebted for this visit?"

Nighthawk replied even more blandly:--

"I wish to have a conversation with you, my dear Swartz, before
arresting you."

"Ah! you intend to arrest me!"

"Unless you make it unnecessary."

"How?"

"By producing the paper which we spoke of in the Wilderness," said
Nighthawk, briefly.

Swartz shook his head.

"That is not in my power, my friend. I did not bring it with me."

"Will you think me very impolite if I say I do not believe you, my dear
Swartz?"

Swartz smiled.

"Well, that would be speaking without ceremony, my friend--but I assure
you I am unable to do as you desire."

"Aha! you repeat that curious statement, my dear Swartz! Well, oblige
me by accompanying me to the provost-marshal's."

"You arrest me?"

"Precisely."

"As a spy?"

"Why not?"

"It is impossible, Nighthawk!"

"You resist?"

"I might do so."

And, opening his coat, Mr. Swartz exhibited a bowie-knife and revolver.

"I show you these little toys," said he, laughing good-humoredly, "to
let you see, my friend, that I might oppose your project--and you know
I am not backward in using them on occasion. But I make a difference.
You are not a common police-officer or detective, Nighthawk--you are a
friend and comrade, and I am going to prove that I appreciate your
feelings, and respect your wishes."

Nighthawk fixed his eyes on the speaker and listened.

"You are a friend of General Mohun's," said Mr. Swartz, with bland good
humor; "you wish to secure a certain document in which he is
interested; you fancy I have that document here in the city of
Richmond; and your object, very naturally, is to force me to surrender
it. Well, I do not object to doing so--for a consideration. I fully
intend to produce it, when my terms are accepted. I would have stated
them to you in the Wilderness, but you were unable to meet me--or to
General Mohun, but his violence defeated every thing. You meet me now,
and without discussion, demand the paper. I reply, that I have not
brought it with me, but three days from this time will meet you at a
spot agreed on, with the document, for which you will return me--my
consideration."

Nighthawk shook his head.

"Unfortunately, my dear Swartz, experience tells me that the present is
always the best time for business--that 'a bird in the hand is worth
two in the bush.'"

Mr. Swartz smiled sweetly.

"And I am the bird in your hand?"

"Something like it."

"I am a spy?"

"Don't use hard names, my friend."

"By no means, my dear Nighthawk, and if I have hurt your feelings, I
deeply regret it. But I am speaking to the point. You regard me as a
Federal spy, lurking in Richmond--you penetrate my disguise, and are
going to arrest me, and search my lodgings for that paper."

"The necessity is painful," said Nighthawk.

"It is useless, my friend."

"I will try it."

Swartz smiled, and drew a paper from his pocket, which he unfolded.

"You are then determined to arrest your old comrade, Nighthawk."

"Yes, my dear Swartz."

"As a spy?"

"Exactly."

"In spite of this?"

And Mr. Swartz held out the paper.

"Do me the favor to read this, colonel, and then oblige me by returning
it."

I took the paper, and easily read it by moonlight. It contained the
following words:--

"The bearer is employed on secret service, by the Confederate
Government, and will not be molested."

The paper was signed by a personage of high position in the government,
and was stamped with the seal of the department over which he presided.
There could be no doubt of the genuineness of the paper. The worthy Mr.
Swartz loomed up before me in the novel and unexpected light of a
_Confederate_ emissary!

I read the paper aloud to Nighthawk, and pointed to the official
signature and seal.

Nighthawk uttered a groan, and his chin sank upon his breast.

That spectacle seemed to excite the sympathy of his friend.

"There, my dear Nighthawk," said Mr. Swartz, in a feeling tone, "don't
take the blow too much to heart. I have beaten you, this game, and your
hands are tied at present. But I swear that I will meet you, and
produce that paper."

"When?" murmured Nighthawk.

"In three days from this time."

"Where?"

"At the house of our friend Alibi, near Monk's Neck, in Dinwiddie."

"On your word?"

"On the word of Swartz!"

"That is enough, my dear Swartz; I will be at Alibi's, when we will
come to terms. And now, pardon this visit, which has put you to so much
inconvenience. I was merely jesting, my dear friend, when I spoke of
arresting you. Arrest you! Nothing could induce me to think of so
unfriendly a proceeding. And now, good night, my dear friend. I will
return with you, colonel."

With which words Nighthawk saluted his "friend," and we returned toward
the upper part of the city.

Such were the scenes of a night in the summer of 1864.




XII.


THE GRAVE OF STUART.


On the next morning a piece of good fortune befell me. In spite of
continued visits to the war-office, and an amount of importunity which
must have been exceedingly annoying to the gentlemen of the red tape, I
found myself, at the end of August, apparently no nearer to an
"assignment to duty" than at first.

It really seemed that the Confederate States had no need of my
services; that the privilege of performing military duty in behalf of
the Government was one jealously guarded, and not to be lightly
bestowed upon any one. I was in despair, and was revolving the project
of resigning my empty commission, and enlisting in the cavalry as a
private soldier, when the _deus ex machina_ to extricate me from all my
troubles, appeared in the person of Colonel P-----, of army head-
quarters.

This accomplished soldier and gentleman met me as I was coming out of
the war-office, on the morning after the visit to Mr. X-----, looking I
suppose, like some descendant of the Knight of the Sorrowful
Countenance, and stopped to inquire the cause of my dejection. I
informed him of the whole affair, and he laughed heartily.  "You have
set about your affairs, my dear colonel, in a manner entirely wrong,"
he said. "You should have gone to some general, discovered that your
grandmother and his own were third cousins; expressed your admiration
of his valor; denounced the brother-general with whom he was
quarreling; written puffs to the papers about him; and then, one
morning said, 'By the by, general, you are entitled to another staff
officer.' The result would have been a glowing letter to the war
department, requesting your assignment--you would have attained your
object--you would have been torn from the horrors of Richmond, and once
more enjoyed the great privilege of being shot at!"

I echoed the colonel's laugh.

"Alas!" I said, "I have no genius for all that. I never yet could
'crook the hinges of the knee that thrift might follow fawning,' and I
suppose I shall be compelled to resign, and enter the ranks. Why not?
Better men are there, carrying musket or carbine, or pulling the
lanyard."

"Still you gained your rank by your services--and I am going to make
you an offer which will enable you to retain it. Come and be my
assistant inspector-general--an officer is required to inspect the
cavalry and horse artillery, which is so distant, often, that I have no
time to visit them."

"A thousand thanks, colonel! You could not offer me a more pleasant
duty."

"You will have to ride a great deal, but will have a great deal of
freedom. If you consent to my proposition, I will have the matter
arranged at once, and will request you to make a tour of inspection to
General Early's army, near Winchester."

He looked at me, laughing.

"'The Oaks' is--a charming place," he added, "and you are certain to be
very tired when you reach the vicinity of Markham's! If you find it
convenient to stop there--say, for a day or more--present my regards to
Colonel Beverly, and any of the family you find present!"

With which words he laughed again, shook me by the hand, and then his
tall form disappeared in the doorway of the war office.

On the next day I found my assignment awaiting me. I was appointed
assistant inspector-general of the cavalry and horse artillery of the
army of Northern Virginia. Tremendous title!

That evening I went by railway to Petersburg, to visit Colonel P-----,
and receive his instructions. Returning the same night, the next day
set out on horseback for the Valley of the Shenandoah, by way of
Orange, Gaines's Cross Roads, and Ashby's Gap.

Of this journey it is unnecessary for me to speak in the present
volume. Some curious adventures occurred to me, in the valley, near
Millwood, and I made the acquaintance of St. Leger Landon, of
"Bizarre," one of the bravest and truest gentlemen I have ever known.
The adventures alluded to, and some events in the strange history of my
friend, Captain Landon, are embraced in a separate memoir, to which I
have given the fanciful title, _Hilt to Hilt, or Days and Nights on the
Banks of the Shenandoah_.

I remained in the valley from the first to the eighteenth of September,
when I set out on my return to Petersburg, little thinking that, on the
very next day, General Early would be attacked on the Opequon, driven
from Winchester, and forced to retreat up the valley, in spite of
fighting which was never surpassed.

I had received some rough handling in a cavalry combat near the Old
Chapel, beyond Millwood, and my ride back was tedious. But at last I
reached Richmond, and made preparations to set out at once for the
army. On the evening before my departure, I went to visit the grave of
Stuart at Hollywood, on the beautiful hill above the falls, west of the
city.

As I approached the lonely spot, where the great cavalier was lying
beside his little Flora, of whom he had often spoken to me with tears,
a thousand memories knocked at the door of my heart. With head bent
down, and chin resting on my breast, I drew near the grassy mound over
which waved the autumn foliage, tinted with yellow and crimson--and in
these few moments, all the splendid career of Stuart passed before me,
as on that day when I rode with him toward the fatal field of Yellow
Tavern.

I remembered all his hard combats, his glorious encounters, his
victories over such odds as vindicated his claim to a descent from the
dashing Rupert, and ranked him with the most famous leaders of cavalry
in all history. I recalled the courage, the joy, the gay laughter of
the great soldier--the blue eyes that flashed so--the sonorous voice
singing the merry songs. I remembered all the occasions when he had led
his men in the charge--how he had wept for Jackson, bowed his head
above the cold face of Pelham--how he had met the torrent unmoved,
shrunk from nothing in his path, fallen to save the Virginia capital,
and died murmuring "God's will be done!"--I remembered all that, and
with something in my throat that seemed choking me, drew near the quiet
mound, beneath which rested such a career, and so much glory.

The birds were twittering and singing, the foliage waving gently--I
raised my head--when suddenly I became aware that a solitary mourner
was bending over the grave.

He was an officer in gray uniform. He held a flower in his hand, which
he dropped upon the grave, uttering a low sob as he did so.

At the same moment he turned round, and I recognized the great
partisan, Colonel Mosby.[1]

[Footnote 1: Real.]




XIII.


THE CEDARS.


Twenty-four hours after, I had passed over the same number of miles,
and found myself at the staff head-quarters, on the left bank of the
Appomattox, above Petersburg.

I had soon pitched my tent, with the assistance of a servant; had
erected a hedge of cedar boughs to protect it from the cutting blasts
of the coming winter; and, a few days afterwards, was surrounded with
many objects of comfort. My tent had been floored; at one end rose an
excellent chimney; strips of planks, skillfully balanced on two logs,
supplied a spring bed; I had secured a split bottom chair, and my
saddle and bridle were disposed upon a rough rack, near a black valise
containing my small stock of apparel, and the pine table and desk
holding official papers.

Having christened this castle "The Cedars," I settled down for a long
winter,--and it was not a great while before I congratulated myself on
the good fortune which had provided me with that warm nest. More than
once, however, I experienced something like a sentiment of shame, when,
in the dark and freezing nights, with the hail rattling on my tent, I
sat by my warm fire, and heard the crack of the sharp-shooters, along
the lines beyond Petersburg. What right had I to be there, by that
blazing fire, in my warm tent, when my brethren--many of them my
betters--were yonder, fighting along the frozen hills? What had I done
to deserve that comfort, and exemption from all pain? I was idling, or
reading by my blazing fire,--_they_ were keeping back the enemy, and,
perhaps, falling and dying in the darkness. I was musing in my chair,
gazing into the blaze, and going back in memory to the fond scenes of
home, so clearly, that I laughed the heart's laugh, and was happy. And
they? They, too, were thinking of home, perhaps,--of their wives and
children, to sink down the next moment shivering with cold, or stagger
and fall, with spouting blood, as the bullet pierced them. Why should
_I_ be thus favored by a good Providence? I often asked myself that
question, and I could not answer it. I could only murmur, "I did not
sneak here to get out of the way of the bullets,--those, yonder, are my
betters,--God guard and keep the brave soldiers of this army!"

And now, worthy reader, having given you some idea of the manner in
which the more fortunate ones wintered near Petersburg, in 1864, I am
going to drop the subject of army head-quarters, and my surroundings
there. Jackson and Stuart are dead, and have become figures of history.
I have drawn them as well as I could,--I dare not attempt to do the
same with the great commander-in-chief. He is alive. May he live
long!--and, saluting him, I pass on.

So if I speak of General Lee, it will be of the individual in his
official character. What he utters, he will have uttered in the hearing
of many.

With these words of preface, I resume the thread of my history.




XIV.


THE SITUATION.


October, 1864, had come.

The "situation" may be described in a few words.

Grant had drawn his lines from a point in Charles City, on the left
bank of James River, across that stream and across the Appomattox,
around Petersburg to the Squirrel Level road, where he threatened the
Southside railroad, Lee's line of communication with the south and
west. Fort Harrison had just been taken. Grant was gradually hemming in
his opponent along the immense line extending across the two rivers,
past the scene of the famous "Crater" explosion, to the vicinity of the
Rowanty, a distance of nearly forty miles. One incessant crash and
thunder went up, day and night. Grant was "hammering continuously,"
carrying out his programme; and, the military view apart, never was
spectacle more picturesque than that presented in these combats.

The long lines of works were wreathed with the smoke of battle. The
glare of cannon lit the smoke-cloud; mortar shells rose, described
their fiery curves, and descended in the trenches, and these were
saluted as they rose and fell by the crack of musketry, the roar of
artillery, the echoing cheers of the blue and gray people, who never
seemed weary of fighting, yelling, and paying their compliments to each
other. At night the spectacle was superb; the mortars were like flocks
of fire-birds, swooping down upon their prey. The horizon glared at
each cannon-shot; shell burst in vivid lightnings, shining for a
moment, then extinguished. And yonder object, like a bloodshot eye,
shining grimly through the darkness,--what is that? It is a lamp, my
dear reader, with a transparent shade; and on this shade is written,
for the information of the graybacks:--

  "While yet the lamp holds out to burn,
  The vilest rebel may return."

Lee's lines faced Grant's, following the blue cordon across the rivers,
around Petersburg, toward the Southside railroad.

Beyond the right of the Confederate infantry stretched the cavalry,
which consisted of the divisions of Wade Hampton and W.H.F. Lee,--the
former commanding. Fitz Lee, with his division, was in the Valley.

Such, reader was the situation, when I joined the army. The great fifth
act of the tragic drama was approaching.




XV.


MOHUN AGAIN.


Three days after my arrival, I mounted my horse, crossed the
Appomattox, followed the Boydton road, struck southward at the Quaker
road, and soon found myself in the heart of the shadowy pine woods of
that singular country, Dinwiddie.

My official duty was to inspect and report the condition of the cavalry
and horse artillery of the army at the beginning and middle of each
month. And now, first assuring the reader that I performed my duty in
all weather, and amid every difficulty, I will drop the official phase
of my history, and proceed to matters rather more entertaining.

On the day after my departure from Petersburg, I had made my
inspections, and was returning.

I had been received by my old friends of the cavalry with every mark of
cordial regard. General Hampton, General Lee, and the various officers
and men whom I had known as a staff-officer of General Stuart, seemed
to welcome the sight of a face which, perhaps, reminded them of their
dead leader; and I had pressed all these warm hands, and received these
friendly greetings not without emotion--for I, too, was carried back to
the past.

I saw Mordaunt and Davenant, but not Mohun--he was absent, visiting his
picket line. Mordaunt was the same stately soldier--his grave and
friendly voice greeted me warmly as in old days; and Willie Davenant,
now a major, commanding a battalion of horse artillery, shook hands
with me, as shy and blushing as before--and even more sad.

"How had his suit prospered? Were things more encouraging?"

I asked him these questions with a laugh, apologizing for my intrusion.

He assured me sadly that it was not in the least an intrusion; but that
he had not seen the person to whom I alluded, for many months.

And executing a blush which would have become a girl, this young tiger
of the horse artillery--for such he always proved himself, in a
fight--hastened to change the subject. Soon afterward I took my
departure, turned my horse's head toward Petersburg, and set out at a
round trot between the walls of pine.

It was dusk when I reached the debouchment of the "military road," and,
tired and hungry, I was contemplating ruefully the long ride still
before me, when rapid hoof-strokes behind me attracted my attention,
and, turning my head, I recognized the bold figure of Mohun.

He was mounted on a fine animal, and came at full speed.

In a moment he had caught up, recognized, and we exchanged a warm grasp
of the hand.

"I am delighted to see you, Surry. I thought you had deserted us, old
fellow. The sight of you is a treat!"

"And the sight of you, my dear Mohun. You look beaming."

Indeed, Mohun had never presented a better appearance, with his dark
eyes; his tanned and glowing cheeks; his raven mustached lips, which,
parting with a smile, showed white and regular teeth. He was the
picture of a gallant soldier; all his old melancholy and cynical
bitterness gone, as mist is swept away by the morning sunshine.

"You are positively dazzling, Mohun. Where are you going, and what has
happened to you? Ah!--I begin to understand!"

And pointing northward, I said:--

"Five Forks is not far from here, is it?"

Mohun colored, but, the next moment, burst into laughter.

"You are right, old friend! It is impossible to hide any thing from
you."

"And a friend of yours is there--whom you are going to see?"

"Yes, my dear Surry," was his reply, in a voice of sudden earnestness,
"you are not mistaken, and you see I am like all the rest of the world.
When we first met on the Rapidan, I was a woman-hater. I despised them
all, for I had had reason. That was my state of mind, when a very
beautiful and noble girl, whom you have seen, crossed my path. Events
threw us together--first, the wound I received at Fleetwood--she caught
me as I was falling on that day--and several times afterward I saw and
conversed with her, finding her proud, satirical, indifferent to
admiration, but as honest and true as steel. Still, our relations did
not proceed beyond friendship, and when I told you one day in the
Wilderness that I was not her suitor, I spoke the truth. I am not
exactly able to say as much to-day!--But to finish my account of
myself: I came here to Dinwiddie on the right of the army, and a week
or two after my arrival the enemy made a cavalry raid toward the
Southside railroad. I followed, and came up with them as they were
plundering a house not far from Five Forks. Well, I charged and drove
them into the woods--when, who should make her appearance at the door
but Miss Conway, whom I had last seen in Culpeper! As you know, her
father resides here--he is now at Richmond--and, after following the
enemy back to their own lines, hurrying them up with sabre and carbine,
I came back to inquire the extent of their depredations at Five Forks.

"Such is the simple explanation of the present 'situation,' my dear
friend. Miss Virginia cordially invited me to come whenever I could do
so, and although Miss Georgia was less pressing--in fact, said nothing
on the subject--I was not cast down thereby! I returned, have been
often since, and--that's all."

Mohun laughed the heart's laugh. You have heard that, have you not,
reader? "Now tell me about yourself," he added, "and on the way to Five
Forks! I see you are tired and hungry. Come! they have the easiest
chairs yonder, and are the soul of hospitality!"

The offer was tempting. Why not accept it? My hesitation lasted exactly
three seconds.

At the end of that time, I was riding beside Mohun in the direction of
Five Forks, which we reached just as I terminated my account of myself
since Mohun and I had parted in the Wilderness.




XVI.


"FIVE FORKS."


"Five Forks" was an old mansion not far from the place of the same
name, now become historical. It was a building of large size; the
grounds were extensive, and had been elegant; the house had evidently
been the home of a long line of gentlemen, whose portraits, flanked by
those of their fair helpmates, adorned the walls of the great
drawing-room, between the lofty windows. In the hall stood a tall
bookcase, filled with law books, and volumes of miscellany. From the
woodwork hung pictures of racehorses, and old engravings. Such was the
establishment which the Federal cavalry had visited, leaving, as
always, their traces, in broken furniture, smashed crockery, and
trampled grounds.

I shall not pause to describe my brief visit to this hospitable house.
The young ladies had returned from Richmond some time before, escorted
by the gray-haired Juba, that faithful old African retainer; and, as a
result of the evenings which I had spent with them and their father, I
had the honor to be received in the character of an old friend.

Ten minutes after my arrival I saw that Mohun was passionately in love
with Miss Georgia; and I thought I perceived as clearly that she
returned his affection. Their eyes--those tell-tales--were incessantly
meeting; and Mohun followed every movement of the queenly girl with
those long, fixed glances, which leave nothing in doubt.

The younger sister, Miss Virginia, received me with charming sweetness,
but a secret melancholy weighed down the dusky eye-lashes. The blue
eyes were sad; the very smiles on the rosy lips were sad. All was plain
here, too, at a single glance. The pure girl had given her heart to the
brave Willie Davenant, and some mysterious hostility of her father
toward the young officer, forced them apart.

What was the origin of that hostility? Why had Judge Conway so abruptly
torn his daughter away from Davenant at the ball in Culpeper--and why
had that shadow passed over the old statesman's brow when I uttered the
name of the young man in Richmond?

I asked myself these questions vainly--and decided in my mind that I
should probably never know.

I was mistaken. I was going to know before midnight.

After an excellent supper, over which Miss Georgia presided with
stately dignity--for she, too, had changed, in as marked a degree as
Mohun,--I rose, declared I must return to Petersburg, and bade the
young ladies, who cordially pressed me to remain, good-night.

Mohun declared that he would remain an hour longer--and having promised
a visit soon, at his camp on the Rowanty, I mounted my horse, and set
out, through the darkness, for Petersburg.




XVII.


GENERAL DAVENANT.


Following the White Oak road, I passed Hatcher's Run at Burgess's mill,
and went on over the Boydton road, reflecting upon the scene I had just
left.

All at once my horse placed his foot upon a sharp root in the road,
stumbled, nearly fell, and when I touched him with the spur I found
that he limped painfully.

Dismounting, I examined his foot. The sharp point had entered it, and
it was bleeding profusely. The accident was unfortunate--and,
attempting to ride on, I found the hurt worse than I had expected. My
gray staggered on as if the limb were broken.

I dismounted once more, led him slowly by the bridle, and continued my
way on foot. A quarter of a mile farther, the animal was in such agony
that I looked around for some light, by which to examine the hurt more
fully.

On the right, a glimmer was seen through the trees. I made straight
toward it, through the woods, and soon found myself near a group of
tents, one of which was lit up.

"Whose head-quarters are these?" I asked of a man on post, near.

"Mine, my dear colonel," said a voice in the darkness near. "My candle
yonder is hospitable and enables me to recognize you."

With which words the figure advanced into the light, and I recognized
the tall and stately form of General Davenant.

He gave me his hand cordially, and I explained my dilemma. "You are
unfortunate, but fortunate, too," said Davenant, "as I have a man among
my couriers who knows all about horses. I will send yours to him;
meanwhile come into my tent."

And intrusting my horse to the orderly with some brief directions, the
general led the way into his head-quarters tent.

A cheerful fire burned in the rude log-built chimney. On one side were
a plain desk and two camp-stools; on the other a rough couch of pine
logs, filled with straw, and spread with blankets. Upon the blankets a
boy of about fourteen was sound asleep, the light auburn curls tossed
in disorder over the rosy young face. At a glance I recognized the
youth who had entered the ranks at Gettysburg, taken part in Pickett's
charge, and been borne out through the smoke, wounded and bleeding, in
the arms of his father. The young Charley had evidently recovered, and
was as ruddy as before. His little braided jacket was as jaunty, his
face as smiling, as on that evening near Paris.

An hour afterward, General Davenant and myself were conversing like old
friends. We were by no means strangers, as I had repeatedly been thrown
with him in the army, and my intimacy with Will doubtless commended me
to the brave soldier's regard. An accident now seemed about to make us
still better acquainted. The orderly had reported that it would be
impossible to proceed farther with my horse that night, and I had
accepted the invitation of General Davenant to remain with him until
morning.

"My brigade is holding the right of the army, colonel," he had said;
"we have just moved to this position, and have not had time to become
very comfortable. But I can offer you a tolerable supper and a camp-bed
after it, with a warm welcome, I assure you."

I declined the supper, but accepted the bed; and seated opposite the
grizzled old cavalier, in his gray uniform, had begun to converse.

Something about the stately general of infantry, drew me irresistibly
toward him. His bearing was lofty, and not without a species of
hauteur; but under all was an exquisite high-breeding and courtesy,
which made his society quite charming.

At some words of mine, however, in reference to my visit on this day to
his son, a decided expression of gloom had obscured the smiles of the
old soldier.

"Yes, colonel," he said, with something like a sigh, "Willie has lost
his good spirits, and has been much depressed for more than a year. You
are his friend--you share his confidence--you doubtless know the origin
of this depression."

"I do, general; a very common cause of trouble to young men--a young
lady."

"A young lady," repeated General Davenant, in the same gloomy tone. "He
has committed the imprudence of falling in love, as the phrase is,
with--Miss Conway."

He paused before the words "Miss Conway," and uttered them with evident
repugnance. They issued from his lips, indeed, with a species of jerk;
and he seemed glad to get rid of them, if I may so express myself.

"I can talk of this affair with you, colonel," he added, gloomily, "for
Will has told me of your regard for him."

I bowed, and said:--

"You are not wrong in supposing that I am one of your son's best
friends, general. I was long in the cavalry with him--there is no more
heroic soldier in the army--and it has given me sincere sorrow to see
him laboring under such melancholy."

General Davenant, with his hand covering his brow, listened in silence.

"I have not inquired the origin of this depression," I added--"that
would have been indiscreet--though I know Will would tell me. I guessed
it, however, and I have visited the young lady at her house to-night. I
will certainly use my utmost exertions to remove all obstacles."

General Davenant suddenly rose erect. His eye was flashing.

"I beg you will not, colonel!" he exclaimed. "The barrier between
himself and--Miss Conway--can never be removed."

I looked at the speaker's flushed face with positive wonder, and
replied:--

"You astonish me, general! Are there any such obstacles in life?"

"There are!"

I made no reply.

"There are, colonel," repeated the now fiery old soldier. "Judge Conway
has been guilty of a gross wrong to me. No son of mine shall ever form
an alliance with his family!"

I looked up with deep astonishment.

"This is a very great surprise to me, my dear general," I said; "I
thought, from many things, that it was Judge Conway who opposed this
alliance; and from the belief that _you_ had done _him_ some great
wrong."

General Davenant had taken his seat again, after his outburst. Once
more his forehead was covered with his hand. For some moments he
preserved a silence so profound, that nothing disturbed the night but
the long breathing of the sleeping boy, and the measured tramp of the
sentinel.

Then, all at once, the general raised his head. His expression was no
longer fiery--it was unutterably sad.

"I have been reflecting, colonel," he said gravely, "and, in these few
minutes, have come to a somewhat singular determination."

"What is that, general?"

"To tell you why _my_ son can never marry the daughter of Judge
Conway!"




XVIII.


TWO MEN AND A WOMAN.


General Davenant leaned his elbow on the desk, rested his forehead in
his hand, and said in a deep, measured voice:--

"My story need not be a long one, colonel. Those who relate gay
adventures and joyous experiences, indulge in endless details--memory
is charming to them at such moments--they go back to the past, with a
smile on the lips, recalling every little detail, every color of the
bright picture.

"My own narrative will be brief, because it is a gloomy one. It is far
from pleasant to return to the scenes I propose to describe. I only do
so to erase a stigma which seems to attach to my family and myself; to
show you that, in spite of Judge Conway, I deserve your good opinion.
Assuredly I do not propose any pleasure to myself in relating these
events. Alas! one of the bitterest things to a proud man--and I am
proud--is to even seem to defend his good name from imputed dishonor!"

Knitting his brows as he spoke, the old soldier looked gloomily into
the blaze before us. In a moment, he went on:--

"I was born in the county of Dinwiddie, colonel, where my family had
lived from the time of the first settlement of Virginia. My father was
a large landholder, and his most intimate friend was Mr. Conway, the
father of the present judge. The family friendship was inherited by the
young people of the two families--and my two most intimate friends were
George and William Conway. One is dead, the other is Judge William
Conway, member of Congress. We had played together as children, been
companions at school. When our fathers died, and we in turn became the
representatives of the two families, our friendship became even more
close. I was half my time at 'Five Forks'--they paid long visits to me
at 'The Pines'--we hunted together, went to entertainments together,
drank wine together, and were inseparable.

"George was especially my favorite. He was the soul of amiability;
everybody loved him; and I entertained for him the most tender
friendship. His brother William was equally estimable, but did not
attract you as strongly. Although a person of the highest sense of
honor, and universally respected for talents of the first order, he was
irascible, bitter, and, when once aroused, allowed nothing to restrain
him. At such moments his best friends avoided him, for he was
dangerous. He brooked no opposition. His anger was like a consuming
fire; and a friendship which he had formed with that gentleman of
splendid powers, but venomous antipathies, John Randolph of Roanoke,
served still more to encourage him in the indulgence of the natural
acerbity of his disposition. More than once, I have seen him almost
foam at the mouth as he denounced some political adversary from the
stump, and when one of these fits of passion seized him, he became as
ungovernable as a wild animal. You can scarcely realize that, now.
Sorrow has chastened him; trouble has softened him; I have nothing to
say against the Judge William Conway of to-day. He is a
self-sacrificing patriot, a gentleman of irreproachable courtesy, and
sweetness of character; but, as a young man, he was a firebrand, and I
think the fire is still unquenched beneath the gray hairs of the man of
seventy.

"Such were George and William Conway, when I knew them as young
men--the one mild, amiable, the soul of kindness and good-nature; the
other proud, honorable, but subject to fits of stormy passion, which
made all avoid him when the paroxysm was upon him.

"From this hasty description, you will understand why George was a
greater favorite with me than his brother. Our friendship was, indeed,
as close and tender as possible, and we passed our majority and
approached the age of twenty-five, without ever having had a moment's
interruption of our intimacy.

"Then, all at once, there appeared upon the stage, that cause of so
much happiness, woe, joy, grief, to mankind--a woman. To make a long
story short, George Conway and myself were so unfortunate as to become
attached to the same young lady, and very soon this sentiment amounted,
both on his part and on my own, to a wild and consuming passion. The
young lady--it is unnecessary to mention her name--was a person of rare
beauty, and mistress of all the wiles which bring young men to the feet
of women. She used these unsparingly, too, for nothing delighted her so
much as to attract admiration and inspire love. Perceiving the effect
which her grace and loveliness had produced upon myself and George, she
made every exertion to increase our infatuation--encouraged first one,
then the other; and, in the end, succeeded in breaking those close ties
of friendship which had bound us from the time when we had played
together as children.

"That is a sad confession, colonel, but it is the truth. The bright
eyes and smiles of a girl had terminated a life-long friendship. The
mere love of admiration in the heart of a young girl had interrupted
the affection of years--making George and myself cold and _distrait_
toward each other. Soon things became still worse. From friends we had
become mere acquaintances--from acquaintances we became strangers, and
finally foes. Busy-bodies whispered, tale-bearers blew the flames. If
the young lady smiled on me at a party where George was present, the
good people around us looked at _him_ with satirical meaning. If she
smiled on George, their eyes were turned toward me, and they giggled
and whispered.

"That is all tedious--is it not? An old story, which every country
neighborhood knows. You laugh, perhaps, at hearing it told of A and
B,--but you do not laugh when you are one of the actors. Well, not to
lengthen my history unduly, an open rivalry and enmity at last arose
between myself and poor George. We had been spurred on to hate each
other, and narrowly escaped having an 'affair' together--appealing to
the pistol as the arbiter.

"It never came to that, however. I saw, ere long, that the young lady
had made up her mind. George was in every way a more attractive and
lovable person than myself; and after drawing me on, encouraging me,
and inducing me to offer her my hand, she turned her back on me, and
married George!

"Such was the result of the campaign. George had won,--and I am obliged
to say that I hated him cordially. I should never have done so, from
the simple fact of his success. I am not so ignoble as that, my dear
colonel. Bitter as was my disappointment, I could have bowed to the
fiat--pardoned the young lady--and offered my hand to dear George; but
there were our 'friends,' the busy-bodies and talebearers. They were
unresting in their exertions--took the whole affair under their
personal supervision, and invented a hundred fables to sting and arouse
me. You would have said that they were bloody minded--the
busy-bodies--and bent on trouble; that their aim was to profoundly
enrage me, and cause bloodshed. George had laughed at me, they said;
never had had a moment's doubt of the young lady's sentiments; had
often jested about me, and expressed his pity for my 'silly
presumption;' had even amused himself and the young lady, by mimicking
my peculiarities, and raising a laugh at my expense.

"These reports were persistently and regularly repeated for my
information: I was baited, and worried, and driven nearly mad by
them--finally a duel nearly resulted; but that last step was not taken.
I simply made my bow to the happy pair, left them without a word, and
returned home, determined to drop the whole matter--but none the less
enraged and embittered.

"From that moment George and myself rarely met, and never as friends. I
had been brought to hate him--he knew the fact--and although he was
innocent of all wrong to me, as I know to-day, made no effort to win my
regard again. He was as proud as myself--he said nothing--and our paths
here separated forever.

"Such is the necessary introduction, colonel," said General Davenant,
"to the events which I propose to relate."




XIX.


THE MURDER.


"More than twenty years had passed," continued General Davenant, "when
that old hatred which had been aroused in me, toward George Conway,
produced bitter fruits.

"I was to be taught by a terrible experience that hatred is a deadly
sin; that God punishes it more severely than all other sins, for it is
the poison which turns the whole heart to bitterness. I had indulged
it--made no effort to banish it--nourished it like a snake in the
recesses of my breast, and now God decreed, as a punishment, that the
snake should turn and sting me.

"To go back for a moment, however. George had married--a year afterward
I had imitated him. My wife was an angel upon earth--she is an angel in
heaven now--and in comparison with the deep affection which I felt for
her, the ephemeral fancy for the young lady whom my rival had married,
appeared the veriest trifle. William Conway had also married, and he
and George, with their wives, were living at Five Forks. William was
judge of the circuit--George managed the estate--and their affection
for each other, at this period of their mature manhood, was said to
exceed that of their youth.

"'Was said to,' I say, colonel; for I never saw either of them. All
intercourse between "The Pines" and "Five Forks" had ceased twenty
years before; and George and William Conway were as much strangers to
me, as if we lived in opposite quarters of the globe; for time had not
changed--or rather restored--the _entente cordial_ of the past. On the
contrary, the feud had become chronic--the gulf separating us had grown
deeper. When I met either of the brothers, we exchanged no
greetings--passed without looking at each other--and the 'family feud'
between the Davenants and the Conways was not even alluded to; it had
become an old story, and lost its interest.

"Such was the condition of things--such the attitude which I occupied
toward the two brothers--when the event, which I am about to relate,
took place. The event in question was tragic and terrible. It came
without warning, to shock the entire surrounding country. One night, on
his return from the county seat, whither he was said to have gone upon
some matter of business, George Conway was murdered, and his body
concealed in some bushes by the roadside.

"The body was not discovered until the morning succeeding the murder.
His riderless horse was then seen standing at the door of the stable at
Five Forks, and in great terror. Judge Conway set out rapidly to look
for his brother, who was supposed to have met with some accident. Two
or three neighbors, whom he chanced to meet, joined in the search; the
body was discovered; and, on examination, revealed a deep gash in the
region of the heart, apparently inflicted by a dagger or a knife.

"The blow had evidently been mortal--no other hurt was visible. George
Conway seemed to have been waylaid by some unknown person, and murdered
on his return from the court-house.

"It was impossible to divine the perpetrator of the crime, or form any
idea of his motive. Upon the person of the murdered man a large sum of
money, which he had received that day, was discovered. He had not been
waylaid, thus, by one designing to rob him; and his peaceful and
amiable character excluded the hypothesis that he had aroused such
enmity as could have led to the bloody deed. The whole affair was a
profound mystery--no clue could be discovered to the perpetrator, or
the motive of the crime--and the body was borne to "Five Forks," where
it was laid in state to await burial on the next day.

"Judge Conway, it was said, had nearly lost his reason at this sudden
and terrible blow. He had loved his brother with extraordinary
affection; and the event struck him like a thunderbolt. His stupor of
grief was succeeded by rage. He fell into one of his paroxysms. With
flushed face, bloodshot eyes, and mouth foaming with a species of fury,
he mounted his horse, went at full speed to the court-house, made
inquiries of everybody who had seen his brother, asked with whom he had
last been seen, and left no stone unturned to ferret out the author of
the crime.

"Meanwhile, the whole county was discussing, with awe-struck eyes, the
extraordinary event. Who could have perpetrated the act? Who could have
waylaid and murdered a man so universally popular? Who was safe, if
such a state of things could exist in a peaceful community,--if a good
citizen could not ride to see a neighbor, or to the county seat,
without danger of being murdered?

"Grief, indignation, horror, were the universal sentiments. Some one
must be discovered upon whom to lay the crime. And that some one was
the individual before you, colonel!"




XX.


THE KNIFE.


"Let me continue, I beg," continued General Davenant, gloomily. "Your
look of astonishment is quite natural; you feel the indignation of a
gentleman at my words; but allow me to go on with my narrative.

"Poor George Conway was buried on the day after the discovery of his
body, and an immense concourse accompanied him to his grave. The
funeral procession was a mile long, for the notoriety attached to the
event had drawn people from far and near; and when the body reached the
grave-yard, the crowd nearly filled the small enclosure.

"I was present in my carriage with my wife, and my son Charles yonder,
then a child in arms. You will understand, colonel, that I had not the
heart to be absent. I had long ceased to feel a sentiment of any great
regard for the Conways; but at the intelligence of George's sudden
death, all my old friendship had revived--the old kindly feeling came
back; pity banished all enmity. I thought of his former love for me,
and I determined to do all that remained in my power to show my
sympathy--attend his funeral among those who mourned him.

"Well, the body was borne to the grave, the service read, and the
remains of the unfortunate gentleman deposited in their last
resting-place. Then the clods rattled on the coffin, the service ended,
and George Conway had passed away from all eyes.

"I looked at his poor wife and brother with tears in my eyes. All my
enmity was gone--my memory went back to the old scenes; at that instant
I could have reached out my arms, and drawn the bereaved brother to my
heart, mingling my tears with his own.

"All at once, however, I looked at Judge Conway with astonishment. I
had expected to see him overwhelmed with grief--but as he now raised
his head, and turned in the direction of the spot where I was standing,
I saw that his features were convulsed with wrath. His cheeks were
crimson, his teeth clenched, his eyes injected with blood. Suddenly
these bloodshot eyes met my own--the cheeks a moment before so red,
grew pale--and exclaiming, 'It is you who murdered my brother!' he
threw himself upon me with the fury of a wild animal, and his fingers
were nearly buried in my throat.

"The assault was so sudden and terrible that I staggered back, and
nearly fell over the grave.

"Then regaining my self-possession, I caught Judge Conway by the throat
in turn, hurled him from me, and stood confronting him, pale, panting,
my throat bleeding--and resolved if he attacked me again to put him to
death with the first weapon upon which I could lay my hand.

"He was, meanwhile, struggling in the hands of his friends, who, by
main force, held him back.

"'Let me go!' he shouted, foaming at the mouth with rage--'that man
murdered my brother! I will take the law into my own hands! he shall
not leave this spot alive! He dares to come here in the presence of the
dead body of George Conway--and he is his murderer!'

"These words were rather howled than uttered. The speaker seemed to
have lost his reason, from pure excess of rage. If his friends had not
restrained him by main force, he would have thrown himself upon me a
second time, when one of us would have lost his life, colonel, for I
was now as violently enraged as himself.

"That _I_ should be thus publicly branded with the basest crime! that
the representative of the old and honorable house of the Davenants,
should be thus grossly insulted, his person assailed, his good name
torn from him--that he should be denounced thus in the presence of all
as a felon and murderer!

"'You are insane, sir!' I at length said, struggling to regain my
coolness. 'Your grief has affected your brain! I can pardon much in you
today, sir, but beware how you again attempt to degrade me!'

"'Hear him!' was the hoarse and furious reply of Judge Conway; and
reaching out his thin fingers, a habit he had caught from Mr.
Randolph--he pointed at me where I stood.

"'Hear him! He affects innocence! He is outraged! He is indignant! And
yet he waylaid my brother, whom he has hated for twenty years--he
waylaid him like an assassin, and murdered him! There is the proof!'

"And drawing from his pocket a knife, covered with clotted blood, he
threw it upon the grave before all eyes.

"Good God! It was my own!"




XXI.


THE CHAIN OF EVIDENCE.


"At the sight of that terrible object" continued General Davenant, "I
staggered back, and nearly fell. I could not believe my eyes--never
thought of denying the ownership of the fearful witness,--I could only
gaze at it, with a wild horror creeping over me, and then all these
terrible emotions were too much for me.

"I took two steps toward the grave, reached out with a shudder to grasp
the knife whose clots of blood seemed to burn themselves into my
brain--then vertigo seized me, and letting my head fall, I fainted.

"When I regained my senses, I was in my carriage, supported by the arms
of my wife, and rolling up the avenue to my own house.

"Opposite me, in the carriage, little Charley, who, dimly realized
apparently that some trouble had come to me, was crying bitterly, and a
rough personage was endeavoring to quiet his sobbing.

"The personage in question was a constable. When I fainted at the
grave, my friends had caught me in their arms--protested with burning
indignation that the charge against me was a base calumny--and the
magistrate who was summoned by Judge Conway to arrest me, had declined
to do more than direct a constable to escort me home, and see that I
did not attempt to escape.

"That was kind. I was a murderer, and my proper place a jail. Why
should _I_ be more favored than some poor common man charged with that
crime? Had such a person been confronted with such a charge, supported
by such damning evidence as the bloody knife, would any ceremony have
been observed? 'To jail!' all would have cried, 'No bail for the
murderer!' And why should the rich Mr. Davenant be treated with more
consideration?

"On the day after my arrest--I spare you all the harrowing scenes, my
poor wife's agony, and every thing, colonel--on the day after, I got
into my carriage, and went and demanded to be confined in jail. It was
the first time a Davenant had ever been _in jail_--but I went thither
without hesitation, if not without a shudder. No sooner had I taken
this step than the whole country seemed to have left their homes to
visit me in my prison. On the evening of the scene at the grave, twenty
persons had called at the 'Pines,' to express their sympathy and
indignation at the charge against me. Now, when the iron door of the
law had closed upon me, and I was a real prisoner, the visitors came in
throngs without number. One and all, they treated the charge as the
mere result of Judge Conway's fury--some laughed at, others denounced
it as an attempt to entrap and destroy me--all were certain that an
investigation would at once demonstrate my innocence, and restore me to
liberty and honor.

"Alas! I could only thank my friends, and reply that I hoped that such
would be the result. But when they had left me alone, I fell into fits
of the deepest dejection.

"What proofs could I give that I was innocent? There was a terrible
array of circumstances, on the contrary, to support the hypothesis of
my guilt--much more than I have mentioned, colonel. I had visited the
courthouse on the same day with poor George Conway, and for the first
time in twenty years had exchanged words with him. And the words were
unfriendly. We had both been in the clerk's office of the county, when
that gentleman asked me some common-place question--in what year such a
person had died, and his will had been recorded, I think. I replied,
mentioning a year. The clerk shook his head, declaring that it must
have been later, and appealed to poor George Conway, who agreed with
him, adding, 'Mr. Davenant is certainly in the wrong.' I was much
annoyed that day--made some curt reply--poor George made a similar
rejoinder, and some harsh, almost insulting words, passed between us.
The affair went no further, however. I left the clerk's office, and
having attended to the business which brought me, left the court-house
about dusk. As I mounted my horse, I saw poor George Conway riding out
of the place. I followed slowly, not wishing to come up with him,
turning into a by-road which led toward my own house--and knew nothing
of the murder until it was bruited abroad on the next day.

"That is much like the special pleading of a criminal--is it not,
colonel? If I had really murdered the poor man, would not this be my
method of explaining every thing? You see, I do not deny what several
witnesses could prove; the fact that I quarreled with Conway, came to
high words, uttered insults, exhibited anger, followed him from the
court-house at dusk--I acknowledge all that, but add, that I struck
into a by-road and went home! That sounds suspicious, I assure you,
even to myself, to-day. Imagine the effect it promised to have then,
when I was a man charged with murder--who would naturally try to frame
such a statement as would clear him--and when a large portion of the
community were excited and indignant at the murder.

"Such had been the truly unfortunate scene in the clerk's office,--the
fatality which made me follow the man going to his death, and my known
enmity of long standing, supported the hypothesis of my guilt. There
was another, and even more fatal circumstance still,--the discovery of
the knife with which George Conway had been slain. That knife was my
own; it was one of peculiar shape, with a handle of tortoise-shell, and
I had often used it in presence of my friends and others. A dozen
persons could make oath to it as my property; but it was not needed;
the scene at the grave made that useless. I evidently did not deny the
ownership of the weapon which had been used in the commission of the
murder. At the very sight of it, on the contrary, in the hands of the
brother of my victim, I had turned pale and fainted!

"This was the condition of things when the special term of the court,
held expressly to try me, commenced at Dinwiddie."




XXII.


THE TRIAL.


"A great crowd assembled on the day of the trial. Judge Conway had
vacated the bench, as personally interested, and the judge from a
neighboring circuit had taken his place.

"Below the seat of the judge sat the jury. Outside the railing, the
spectators were crowded so closely that it was with difficulty the
sheriff made a passage for my entrance.

"To one resolution I had adhered in spite of the remonstrances of all
my friends,--to employ no counsel. In this determination nothing could
shake me. A disdainful pride sustained me, mingled with bitter
obstinacy. If I, the representative of one of the oldest and most
honorable families in the county of Dinwiddie was to be branded as a
murderer,--if my past life, my family and personal character, did not
refute the charge,--if I was to be dragged to death on suspicion,
gibbeted as a murderer, because some felon had stolen my pocket-knife,
and committed a crime with it,--then I would go to my death unmoved. I
would disdain to frame explanations; let the law murder _me_ if it
would; no glib counsel should save my life by technicalities; I would
be vindicated by God and my past life, or would die.

"Such was my state of mind, and such the origin of my refusal to employ
counsel. When the court now assigned me counsel, I rose and forbade
them to appear for me. In the midst of a stormy scene, and with the
prosecuting attorney sitting dumb in his chair, resolved to t