Chapter 5

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 élan. 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 garçon_! 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 fortunâ 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 _à 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 Misérables_, 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 _élan_, 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.

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.