BOOK III.

BEHIND THE SCENES.

I.

WHAT I DID NOT SEE.

I was not at Stuart’s bedside when he died. While aiding the rest to hold him in the saddle, I had been shot through the shoulder; and twenty-four hours afterward I lay, at the house of a friend in Richmond, turning and tossing with fever.

In my delirium I heard a mournful tolling of bells. It was many days, however, before I knew that they were tolling for Stuart.

When, at last, after more than a month’s confinement to my bed, I rose, and began to totter about,--pale, faint, and weak, but convalescent--my great loss, for the first time, struck me in all its force.

Where should I turn now--and whither should I go? Jackson dead at Chancellorsville--Stuart at Yellow Tavern--thenceforth I seemed to have lost my support, to grope and totter in darkness, without a guide! These two kings of battle had gone down in the storm, and, like the Knight of Arthur, I looked around me, with vacant and inquiring eyes, asking whither I was now to direct my steps, and what work I should work in the coming years. Jackson! Stuart!--who could replace them? They had loved and trusted me--their head-quarters had been my home. Now, when they disappeared, I had no friends, no home; and an inexpressible sense of loss descended upon me, as a dark cloud descends and obscures a landscape, smiling and full of sunshine.

Another woe had come to me. My father was dead. The war had snapped the chords of that stout heart as it snapped the chords of thousands, and the illustrious head of the house had descended into the tomb. From this double blow I scarcely had strength to rise. For weeks I remained in a sort of dumb stupor; and was only aroused from it by the necessity of looking after my family affairs.

As soon as I had strength to mount my horse, I rode to Eagle’s Nest. A good aunt had come and installed herself as the friend and protector of my little Annie; and with the arms of my young sister around me, I wept for my father.

I remained at Eagle’s Nest more than two months. The long ride had made the wound in my shoulder reopen, and I was again stretched upon a bed of illness, from which, at one time, I thought I should not rise. More than once I made a narrow escape from scouting parties of Federal cavalry in the neighborhood; and on one occasion, an officer entered my chamber, but left me unmolested, under the impression that I was too ill to live.

It was late in the month of August before I rose from my bed again, and set out on my return.

In those three months and a half--counting from the time I left Spottsylvania with Stuart--great events had happened in Virginia. Grant’s hammer and Lee’s rapier had been clashing day and night. Hill and valley, mountain and lowland--Virginia and Maryland--had thundered.

General Grant had hastened forward from the Wilderness, only to find Lee confronting him behind breastworks at Spottsylvania Court-House. The Confederate commander had taken up a defensive position on the line of the Po; and for more than two weeks Grant threw his masses against the works of his adversary, in desperate attempts to break through.

On the 12th of May, at daylight, he nearly succeeded. “The Horse Shoe” salient was charged in the dusk of morning; the Southerners were surprised, and bayoneted in the trenches; the works carried; the artillery captured; and a large number of prisoners fell into the hands of the enemy.

The blow was heavy, but General Grant derived little advantage from it. Lee rallied his troops; formed a new line; and repulsed every assault made on it, throughout the entire day. When night fell, Grant had not advanced further; Lee’s position was stronger than before, and plainly impregnable.

For many days, Grant was occupied in reconnoitring and feeling his adversary. At the end of a week, the hope of breaking Lee’s line was seen to be desperate.

Then commenced the second great “movement by the left flank” toward Richmond.

Grant disappeared one morning, and hastened toward Hanover Junction. When he arrived, Lee was there in his front, ready to receive him. And the new position was stronger, if any thing, than that of Spottsylvania. Grant felt it; abandoned the attempt to carry it, at once; and again moved, on his swift and stealthy way, by the left flank toward Richmond. Crossing the Pamunkey at Hanovertown, he made straight for the capital; but reaching the Tottapotomoi, he found Lee again awaiting him.

Then the days and nights thundered, as they had been thundering since the day when Grant crossed the Rapidan. Lee could not be driven, and the Federal movement by the left flank began again.

Grant made for Cold Harbor, and massed his army to burst through the Chickahominy, and seize Richmond. The huge engine began to move at daylight, on the third of June. Half an hour afterward, 13,000 of General Grant’s forces were dead or wounded. He was repulsed and driven back. His whole loss, from the moment of crossing the Rapidan, had been about 60,000 men.

That ended all hopes of forcing the lines of the Chickahominy. The Federal commander gave up the attempt in despair, and resumed his Wandering-Jew march. Moving still by the left flank, he hastened to cross James River and advance on Petersburg. But Lee was again too rapid for him. In the works south of the Appomattox the gray infantry, under the brave General Wise, confronted the enemy. They repulsed every assault, and Grant sat down to lay siege to Richmond from the distance of thirty miles.

Such had been the great campaign of the summer of 1864 in Virginia. Lee had everywhere stood at bay, and repulsed every attack: he had also struck in return a great aggressive blow, in Maryland.

At Cold Harbor, early in June, news had arrived that a Federal column, under Hunter, was advancing on Lynchburg. A force was sent to intercept Hunter, under the command of Early. That hard fighter crossed the mountains; attacked his adversary; drove him beyond the Alleghanies; and then, returning on his steps, hurried down the Shenandoah Valley toward the Potomac, driving every thing before him. Once at the Potomac, he hastened to cross into Maryland. Once in Maryland, Early advanced, without loss of time, upon Washington. At Monocacy he met and defeated General Wallace; pressed after him toward Washington; and reaching the outer works, advanced his lines to the assault. But he had but a handful, after the long and prostrating march. His numbers were wholly inadequate to storm the defences of the capital. Grant had sent forward, in haste, two army corps to defend the city, and Early was compelled to retreat across the Potomac to the Shenandoah Valley, with the sole satisfaction of reflecting that he had given the enemy a great “scare,” and had flaunted the red-cross flag in front of the ramparts of Washington.

I have not space to describe the cavalry movements of the summer. Hampton had succeeded Stuart in command of all the cavalry, and the country soon heard the ring of his heavy blows.

In June, Sheridan was sent to capture Gordonsville and Charlottesville; but Hampton checked and defeated him in a fierce action near Trevillian’s, and in another at Charlottesville; pursued him to the White House; hurried him on to James River; and Sheridan crossed that stream on pontoons, glad, no doubt, to get back to the blue infantry. Hampton crossed also; penetrated to Dinwiddie; defeated the enemy at Sappony church, capturing their men and artillery--everywhere they had been routed, with a total loss of more than 2,000 prisoners.

Such were the events which had taken place during my tedious illness. They came to me only in vague rumors, or by means of chance newspapers sent by my neighbors. At last, however, I rose from my sick couch, and embracing my aunt and sister, who were to remain together at Eagle’s Nest, set out on my return.

Stuart’s staff were all scattered, and seeking new positions. I was one of them, and I again asked myself more gloomily than at first, “Where shall I go?” The gentlemen of the red tape at Richmond would doubtless inform me, however; and riding on steadily, with a keen look out for scouting parties, I at last reached the city.

On the next day I filed my application in the war office, to be assigned to duty.

A week afterward I had not heard from it.

Messieurs, the red tapists, were evidently not in the least bit of a hurry--and hat in hand I awaited their good pleasure.

II.

THE “DOOMED CITY.”

Richmond presented a singular spectacle in that summer of 1864.

It was styled “the doomed city,” by our friends over the border, and in truth there was something gloomy and tragic in its appearance--in the very atmosphere surrounding it.

On every countenance you could read anxiety, poverty, the wasting effect of the terrible suffering and suspense of the epoch. All things combined to deepen the colors of the sombre picture. Hope long deferred had sickened the stoutest hearts. Men were nervous, anxious, burnt up by the hot fever of war. Provisions of every description were sold at enormous prices. Fathers of families could scarcely procure the plainest food for their wives and children. The streets were dotted with poor widows, bereaved sisters, weeping mothers, and pale daughters, whose black dresses told the story of their loss to all eyes. Hunger clutched at the stomach; agony tore the heart. Soldiers, pale and tottering from their wounds, staggered by. Cannon rattled through the streets. Couriers dashed backward and forward from the telegraph office to the war office. The poor starved--the rich scarcely fared any better. Black hair had become white. Stalwart frames were bent and shrunken. Spies and secret emissaries lurked, and looked at you sidewise. Forestallers crowded the markets. Bread was doled out by the ounce. Confederate money by the bushel. Gold was hoarded and buried. Cowards shrunk and began to whisper--“the flesh pots! the flesh pots! they were better!” Society was uprooted from its foundations. Strange characters were thrown up. The scum had come to the top, and bore itself bravely in the sunshine. The whole social fabric seemed warped and wrenched from its base; and in the midst of this chaos of starving women, feverish men, spies, extortioners, blockade-runners,--over the “doomed city,” day and night, rolled the thunder of the cannon, telling that Grant and Lee were still holding their high debate at Petersburg.

Such was Richmond at the end of summer in 1864. Society was approaching one of those epochs, when all things appear unreal, monstrous, gliding toward some great catastrophe. All rascaldom was rampant. The night-birds had come forth. Vice stalked, and flaunted its feathers in the light of day. Chaos seemed coming, and with it all the powers of darkness.

That spectacle was singular to a soldier, bred in camps, and habituated, now, for some years, to the breezy airs of “the field.” I looked on with astonishment. The whole drama seemed unreal--the characters mere players. Who was A, and B, and what did C do for a living? You knew not, but they bowed, and smiled, and were charming. They grasped your hand, offered you cigars, invited you to supper--they wanted nothing. And they found no difficulty in procuring guests. I was no better than the rest, reader--there is an honest confession--and, looking back now, I can see that I knew, and dined or supped with some queer characters in those days.

Shall I give you a brief sketch of one of these worthies and his surroundings? It will afford some idea of the strange contrasts then presented in the “doomed” and starving city.

III.

I DINE WITH MR. BLOCQUE.

He was a prominent personage at that time--my friend (in a parliamentary sense at least) Mr. Blocque.

He was a charming little fellow, acquainted with everybody--an “employee of government,” but employed to do heaven knows what; and while others were starving, Mr. Blocque was as plump as a partridge. He wore the snowiest shirt bosoms, glittering with diamond studs; the finest broadcloth coats; the most brilliant patent leather shoes; and his fat little hands sparkled with costly rings. He was constantly smiling in a manner that was delightful to behold; hopped about and chirped like a sparrow or tomtit; and was the soul of good humor and enjoyment. There was no resisting his charms; he conquered you in five minutes. When he linked his arm in yours, and chirped, “My dear friend, come and dine with me--at five o’clock precisely--I shall certainly expect you!” it was impossible to refuse the small gentleman’s invitation. Perhaps you asked yourself, “Who is my dear friend, Mr. Blocque--how does he live so well, and wear broadcloth and fine linen?” But the next moment you smiled, shrugged your shoulders, elevated your eye-brows, and--went to dine with him.

I was like all the world, and at five o’clock one evening was shown into Mr. Blocque’s elegant residence on Shockoe Hill, by a servant in white gloves, who bowed low, as he ushered me in. Mr. Blocque hastened to receive me, with his most charming smile; I was introduced to the guests, who had all arrived; and ten minutes afterward the folding doors opened, revealing a superb banquet--for the word “dinner” would be too common-place. The table was one mass of silver. Waxlights, in candelabra, were already lit; and a host of servants waited, silent and respectful, behind every chair.

The guests were nearly a dozen in number, and more than one prominent “government official” honored Mr. Blocque’s repast. I had been introduced among the rest to Mr. Torpedo, member of Congress, and bitter foe of President Davis; Mr. Croker, who had made an enormous fortune by buying up, and hoarding in garrets and cellars, flour, bacon, coffee, sugar, and other necessaries; and Colonel Desperade, a tall and warlike officer in a splendid uniform, who had never been in the army, but intended to report for duty, it was supposed, as soon as he was made brigadier-general.

The dinner was excellent. The table literally groaned with every delicacy. Everywhere you saw canvass-back ducks, grouse, salmon, paté de foie gras, oysters; the champagne, was really superb; the Madeira and sherry beyond praise; and the cigars excellent Havanas, which at that time were rarely seen, and cost fabulous prices. Think, old army comrades, starving on a quarter of a pound of rancid bacon during that summer of ‘64--think of that magical bill of fare, that array of wonders!

Who was the magician who had evoked all this by a wave of his wand? How could smiling Mr. Blocque roll in luxury thus, when everybody else was starving? How could my host wear broadcloth, and drink champagne and smoke Havanas, when ragged clothing, musty bacon, and new apple-abomination, were the order of the day with all others?

These questions puzzled me extremely; but there was the magician before us, smiling in the most friendly manner, and pressing his rich wines on his guests, as they sat around the polished mahogany smoking their cigars. Elegantly clad servants hovered noiselessly behind the convives--the wine circulated--the fragrant smoke rose--the conversation became general--and all was animation.

“No, sir!” says Mr. Torpedo, puffing fiercely at his cigar, “the President never will assign Johnston to command again, sir! You call Mr. Davis ‘pig-headed,’ Mr. Croker--you are wrong, sir! You do injustice to the pigs, sir! Pigs are not insane, sir!”

And Mr. Torpedo sucks at his cigar, as though he were a vampire, extracting the blood of his victim.

Mr. Croker sips his wine; he is large and portly; ruddy and pompous; his watch seals jingle; and he rounds his periods with the air of a millionaire, who is accustomed to be listened to with deference.

“You are right, my dear, sir,” says Mr. Croker, clearing his throat. “The government has assuredly been administered, from its very inception, in a manner which the most enthusiastic adherents of the Executive will scarcely venture to characterize as either judicious or constitutional. In the year which has just elapsed, things have been managed in a manner which must excite universal reprobation. Even the alleged performances of the army are problematical, and--”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” says Colonel Desperade, twirling his mustache in a warlike manner; “do I understand you to call in question the nerve of our brave soldiers, or the generalship of our great commander?”

“I do, sir,” says Mr. Croker, staring haughtily at the speaker. “I am not of those enthusiasts who consider General Lee a great soldier. He has succeeded in defensive campaigns, but is deficient in genius--and I will add, sir, as you seem to be surprised at my remarks, sir, that in my opinion the Southern Confederacy will be overwhelmed, sir, and the South compelled to return to the Union, sir!”

“Upon what do you ground that extraordinary assumption, may I ask, sir?”

“On common sense and experience, sir,” returns Mr. Croker, severely; “look at the currency--debased until the dollar is merely a piece of paper. Look at prices--coffee, twenty dollars a pound, and sugar the same. Look at the army starving--the people losing heart--and strong, able-bodied men,” adds Mr. Croker, looking at Colonel Desperade, “lurking about the cities, and keeping out of the way of bullets.”

The mustached warrior looks ferocious--his eyes dart flame.

“And who causes the high prices, sir? Who makes the money a rag? I answer--the forestallers and engrossers--do you know any, sir?”

“I do not, sir!”

“That is singular!” And Colonel Desperade twirls his mustache satirically--looking at the pompous Mr. Croker in a manner which makes that worthy turn scarlet.

I was laughing to myself quietly, and listening for the expected outbreak, when Mr. Blocque interposed with his winning voice.

“What are you discussing, gentlemen?” he said, with his charming smile. “But first tell me your opinion of this Madeira and those cigars. My agent writes me word that he used every exertion to procure the best. Still, I am not entirely pleased with either the wine or brand of cigars, and hope you will excuse them. Were you speaking of our great President, Mr. Torpedo? And you, Mr. Croker--I think you were referring to the present state of affairs. They appear to me more hopeful than at any previous time, and his Excellency, President Davis, is guiding the helm of state with extraordinary courage and good judgment. I know some of you differ with me in these views, my friends. But let us not be censorious--let us look on the bright side. The troubles of the country are great, and we of the South are suffering every privation--but we must bear up, gentlemen; we must keep brave hearts, and endure all things. Let us live on dry bread if it comes to that, and bravely fight to the last! Let us cheerfully endure hardships, and oppose the enemy at all points. Our present troubles and privations will soon come to an end--we shall again be surrounded by the comforts and luxuries of life--and generations now unborn will bless our names, and pity our sufferings in these days that try men’s souls!”

Mr. Blocque ceased, and smoothing down his snowy shirt bosom, pushed the wine. At the same moment, an alabaster clock on the marble mantelpiece struck seven.

“So late?” said Colonel Desperade. “I have an appointment at the war office!”

Mr. Blocque drew out a magnificent gold watch.

“The clock is fast,” he said, “keep your seats, gentlemen,--unless you fancy going to the theatre. My private box is at your disposal, and carriages will be ready in a few minutes.”

As the charming little gentleman spoke, he led the way back to the drawing-room--the folding doors flanked by silent and respectful servants as the guests passed in.

In five minutes, coffee and liqueurs were served; both were superb, the white sugar sparkled like crystal in the silver dish, and the cream in the solid jug was yellow and as thick as a syrup.

“Shall it be the theatre, gentlemen?” said Mr. Blocque, with winning smiles. “We can amuse ourselves with cards for an hour, as the curtain does not rise before eight.”

And he pointed to a silver basket on the centre table of carved walnut, surmounted by a slab of variegated marble. I looked, and saw the crowning wonder. The silver basket contained piles of gold coin and greenbacks! Not a trace of a Confederate note was visible in the mass!

Packs of fresh cards were brought quickly by a servant, on a silver waiter; the guests helped themselves to the coin and bank notes; in ten minutes they were playing furiously.

As I do not play, I rose and took my leave. Mr. Blocque accompanied me to the door, smiling sweetly to the last.

“Come again very soon, my dear colonel,” he said, squeezing my hand, “my poor house, and all in it, is at your service at all times!”

I thanked my host, shook hands, and went out into the darkness,--determined never to return.

I had had an excellent dinner, and, physically, had never felt better. Morally, I must say, I felt contaminated, for, unfortunately, I had begun to think of Lee’s hungry soldiers, lying in rags, in the Petersburg trenches.

“Eight o’clock! All is well!” came from the sentinel, as I passed by the capitol.

IV.

JOHN M. DANIEL.

On the day after this scene, a trifling matter of business led me to call on John M. Daniel, editor of the _Examiner_.

The career of this singular personage had been as remarkable as his character. He was not a stranger to me. I had known him in 1849 or ‘50, when I accompanied my father on a visit to Richmond, and I still recall the striking appearance of the individual at that time. He had come, a poor boy of gentle birth, from the bleak hills of Stafford, to the city of Richmond, to seek his fortune, and, finding nothing better to do, had accepted the position of librarian to the Richmond library, waiting for something to “turn up,” and ready to grasp it. About the same time, that experienced journalist, the late B.M. De Witt, had founded the _Examiner_. He, no doubt, saw the eminent talents of the youth from Stafford, and the result had been an invitation to assist in the editorial department of the journal.

Going to the Richmond library, to procure for my father some volume for reference, I had made the acquaintance of the youthful journalist. At the first glance, I felt that I was in the presence of an original character. His labors on the _Examiner_ had just commenced. He was seated, half-reclining, in an arm-chair, surrounded by “exchanges,” from which he clipped paragraphs, throwing the papers, as soon as he had done so, in a pile upon the floor. His black eyes, long black hair, brushed behind the ears, and thin, sallow cheeks, were not agreeable; but they made up a striking physiognomy. The black eyes glittered with a sullen fire; the thin lips were wreathed with a sardonic smile; and I was informed that the youth lived the life of a _solitaire_, voluntarily absenting himself from society, to give his days and nights to exhausting study.

He read every thing, it was said--history, poetry, political economy, and theology. Swift was said to be his literary divinity, and Rabelais was at his elbow always. Poor, uneducated, ignorant of nearly every thing, he was educating himself for the future--sharpening, by attrition with the strongest minds in all literatures, ancient and modern, that trenchant weapon which afterward flashed its superb lightnings in the heated atmosphere of the great epoch in which he figured.

Bitter, misanthropic, solitary; burning the midnight lamp, instead of moving among his fellows in the sunshine, he yet possessed hardy virtues and a high pride of gentleman. He hated the world at large, it was said, but loved his few friends with an ardor which shrank at nothing. One of them owed a sum of money--and Daniel went on foot, twenty-two miles, to Petersburg, paid it, and returned in the same manner. Afterward he went in person to Charlottesville, to purchase a house for the use of another friend of limited means. For his friends he was thus willing to sacrifice his convenience and his means, without thought of return. All who were not his friends, he is said to have hated or despised. An acquaintance was in his room one day, and showed him a valuable pen-knife. Daniel admired it, and the gentleman said “You may have it, if you like it.” Daniel turned upon him, scowled at him, his lip curled, and he replied, “What do you expect me to do for you?”

His other virtues were self-denial, and a proud independence. At the library, he lived on bread and tea--often making the tea himself. Too poor to possess a chamber, he slept on a lounge in the public room. He would owe no man any thing, asked no favors, and fawned on nobody. He would fight his own fight, make his own way; with the intellect heaven had sent him, carve out his own future, unassisted. The sallow youth, groaning under dyspepsia, with scarce a friend, and nothing but his brain, promised himself that he would one day rise from his low estate, and wield the thunderbolts of power, as one born to grasp and hurl them.

He was not mistaken, and did not overestimate his powers. When I saw him in 1849 or ‘50, he was obscurest of the obscure. Two or three years afterward he had made the _Examiner_ one of the great powers of the political world, and was living in a palace at Turin, minister to Sardinia. He had achieved this success in life by the sheer force of his character; by the vigor and recklessness of his pen, and the intensity of his invective. Commencing his editorial career, apparently, with the theory that, in order to rise into notice, he must spare nothing and no one, he had entered the arena of partisan politics like a full armed gladiator; and soon the whole country resounded with the blows which he struck. Bitter personality is a feeble phrase to describe the animus of the writer in those days. There was something incredibly exasperating in his comments on political opponents. He flayed and roasted them alive. It was like thrusting a blazing torch into the raw flesh of his victims. Nor was it simple “abuse.” The satirist was too intelligent to rely upon that. It was his scorching wit which made opponents shrink. His scalpel divided the arteries, and touched the vitals of the living subject. Personal peculiarities were satirized with unfailing acumen. The readers of the _Examiner_, in those days, will still recall the tremendous flaying which he administered to his adversaries. It may almost be said, that when the remorseless editor had finished with these gentlemen, there was “nothing of them left”--what lay before him was a bleeding and mortally wounded victim. And what was worse, all the world was laughing. Those who looked with utter disapproval upon his ferocious course, were still unable to resist the influence of his mordant humor. They denounced the _Examiner_ without stint, but they subscribed to it, and read it every morning. “Have you seen the _Examiner_ to-day?” asked the friend whom you met on the street. “John M. Daniel is down on Blank!” said A to B, rubbing his hands and laughing. Blank may have been the personal acquaintance and friend of Mr. A, but there was no resisting the cartoon of him, traced by the pen of the satirist! The portrait might be a caricature, but it was a terrible likeness! The long nose was very long; the round shoulders, very round; the cast in the eye, a frightful squint; but the individual was unmistakable. The bitter humor of the artist had caught and embodied every weakness. Thenceforth, the unfortunate adversary went on his way before all eyes, the mark of suppressed ridicule and laughing whispers. Whether you approved or disapproved, you read those tremendous satires. Not to see the _Examiner_ in those days was to miss a part of the history of the times. The whole political world felt the presence of a _power_ in journalism. Into all the recesses of the body politic, those shafts of ridicule or denunciation penetrated. That venomous invective pierced the hardest panoply. For the first time in American journalism, the world saw the full force of ridicule; and tasted a bitterness of invective unknown since the days of Swift.

Out of these personal attacks grew numerous duels. The butts of the editor’s ridicule sent him defiances, and he was engaged in several affairs, which, however, resulted in nothing, or nearly nothing, as I believe he was wounded only once. They did not induce him to change his course. He seemed to have marked out his career in cold blood, and was plainly resolved to adhere to his programme--to write himself into power. In this he fully succeeded. By dint of slashing and flaying, he attracted the attention of all. Then his vigorous and masculine intellect riveted the spell. Hated, feared, admired, publicly stigmatized as one who “ruled Virginia with a rod of iron,” he had reached his aim; and soon the material results of success came. The director of that great political engine, the Richmond _Examiner_, found no difficulty in securing the position which he desired; and he received the appointment of minister to Sardinia, which he accepted, selling his newspaper, but reserving the right to resume editorial control of it on his return.

His ambition was thus gratified--for the moment at least. The unknown youth, living once on bread and tea, and too poor to possess a bed, was now a foreign minister; had an Italian count for his _chef de cuisine_; and drew a salary which enabled him to return, some years afterward, to the United States with savings amounting to $30,000.

It was a contrast to his past. The sallow youth was _M. le ministre_! The garret in Richmond had been turned into a marble palace in Turin. He had a nobleman for a cook, instead of making his own tea. And the _Examiner_ had done all that for him!

When war became imminent, he returned to Virginia, and resumed control of the _Examiner_. With the exception of brief military service with General Floyd, and on the staff of A.P. Hill, in the battles around Richmond, when he was slightly wounded in the right arm, he remained in editorial harness until his death.

As soon as he grasped the helm of the _Examiner_ again, that great battleship trembled and obeyed him. It had been powerful before, it was now a mighty engine, dragging every thing in its wake. Commencing by supporting the Government, it soon became bitterly inimical to President Davis and the whole administration. The invective in which it indulged was not so violent as in the past, but it was even more powerful and dangerous. Every department was lashed, in those brief, terse sentences which all will remember--sentences summing up volumes in a paragraph, condensing oceans of gall into a drop of ink. Under these mortal stabs, delivered coolly and deliberately, the authors of public abuses shrank, recoiled, and sought safety in silence. They writhed, but knew the power of their adversary too well to reply to him. When once or twice they did so, his rejoinder was more mortal than his first attack. The whole country read the _Examiner_, from the chief officers of the administration to the humblest soldier in the trenches. It shaped the opinions of thousands, and this great influence was not due to trick or chance. It was not because it denounced the Executive in terms of the bitterest invective; because it descended like a wild boar on the abuses or inefficiency of the departments; but because this journal, more, perhaps, than any other in the South, spoke the public sentiment, uttered its views with fearless candor, and conveyed those views in words so terse, pointed, and trenchant--in such forcible and excellent English--that the thought of the writer was driven home, and remained fixed in the dullest apprehension.

The _Examiner_, in one word, had become the controlling power, almost, of the epoch. Its views had become those even of men who bitterly stigmatized its course. You might disapprove of its editorials often, and regret their appearance--as I did--but it was impossible not to be carried onward by the hardy logic of the writer: impossible not to admire the Swift-like pith and vigor of this man, who seemed to have re-discovered the lost well of undefiled English.

When I went to see John M. Daniel, thus, in this summer of 1864, it was not a mere journalist whom I visited, but a historic character. For it was given to him, invisible behind the scenes, to shape, in no small degree, the destiny of the country, by moulding the views and opinions of the actors who contended on the public arena.

Was that influence for good or for evil? Let others answer. To-day this man is dead, and the cause for which he fought with his pen has failed. I reproduce his figure and some scenes of that great cause--make your own comments, reader.

V.

THE EDITOR IN HIS SANCTUM.

Knocking at the door of the journalist’s house on Broad Street, nearly opposite the “African church,” I was admitted by a negro servant, sent up my name, and was invited by Mr. Daniel to ascend to his sanctum on the second story.

I went up, and found him leaning back in a high chair of black horsehair, in an apartment commanding a view southward of James River and Chesterfield. On a table beside him were books and papers--the furniture of the room was plain and simple.

He greeted me with great cordiality, bowing very courteously, and offering me a cigar. I had not seen him since his return from Europe, and looked at him with some curiosity. He was as sallow as before--his eyes as black and sparkling; but his long, black hair, as straight as an Indian’s, and worn behind his ears, when I first knew him, was close-cut now; and his upper lip was covered by a black mustache. His dress was simple and exceedingly neat. It was impossible not to see that the famous journalist was a gentleman.

As I had visited him purely upon a matter of business, I dispatched it, and then rose to take my departure. But he urged me with persistent cordiality, not to desert him. He saw few persons, he said; I must stay and dine with him. I had business? Then I could attend to it, and would do him the favor to return.

Looking at my watch, I found that it was nearly two o’clock--he had informed me that he dined at four--and, not to detain the reader with these details, recurring to a very retentive memory, I found myself, two hours afterward, seated at table with the editor of the _Examiner_.

The table was of ancient, and brilliantly-polished mahogany. The dinner consisted of only two or three dishes, but these were of the best quality, excellently cooked, and served upon china of the most costly description. Coffee followed--then a great luxury--and, not only the sugar-dish, cream-jug and other pieces of the service were of silver; the waiter upon which they rested was of the same material--heavy, antique, and richly carved.

We lingered at table throughout the entire afternoon, my host having resisted every attempt which I made to depart, by taking my hat from my hand, and thrusting upon me another excellent Havana cigar. Cordiality so extreme, in one who bore the reputation of a man-hater, was at least something _piquant_--and as my host had appealed to my weak side, by greatly praising a slight literary performance of mine (“he would be proud,” he assured me, “to have it thought that _he_ had written it),” I yielded, surrendered my hat, lit the cigar offered me, and we went on talking.

I still recall that conversation, the last but one which I ever had with this singular man. Unfortunately, it does not concern the narrative I now write, and I would not like to record his denunciations and invective directed at the Government. He handled it without mercy, and his comments upon the character of President Davis were exceedingly bitter. One of these was laughable for the grim humor of the idea. Opening a volume of Voltaire--whose complete works he had just purchased--he showed me a passage in one of the infidel dramas of the great Frenchman, where King David, on his death-bed, after invoking maledictions upon his opponents, declares that “having forgiven all his enemies _en bon Juif_, he is ready to die.”

A grim smile came to the face of the journalist, as he showed me the passage.

“That suits Mr. Davis exactly,” he said. “He forgives his enemies _en bon Juif_! I believe I will make an editorial, and quote the passage on him--but he wouldn’t understand it!”

That was bitter--was it not, reader? I raised my pen to draw a line through the incident, but it can do no harm now.

The solitary journalist-politician spoke freely of himself and his intentions for the future. With a few passages from our talk on this point, I will terminate my account of the interview.

“You see I am here chained to the pen,” he said, “and, luckily, I have that which defies the conscript officers, if the Government takes a fancy to order editors into the ranks.”

Smiling slightly as he spoke, he showed me his right hand, the fingers of which he could scarcely bend.

“I was wounded at Cold Harbor, in June, 1862,” he added; “not much wounded either; but sufficient to prevent me from handling a sword or musket. It is a trifle. I should like to be able to show an honorable scar[1] in this cause, and I am sorry I left the army. By this time I might have, been a brigadier--perhaps a major-general.”[2]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

“Possibly,” I replied; “but the position of an editor is a powerful one.”

“Do you think so?”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes, colonel; but what good is the _Examiner_ doing? What can all the papers in the Confederacy effect? Besides, I like to command men. I love power.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

I laughed.

“I would recommend the philosophic view of things,” I said. “Why not take the good the gods provide? As a soldier, you would be in fetters--whatever your rank--to say nothing of the bullet that might cut short your career. And yet this life of the brain is wearing too,--”

“But my health is all the better for it,” he said. “A friend was here to see me the other day, and I startled him by the observation ‘I shall live to eat the goose that eats the grass over your grave.’[1] When he inquired my meaning, I replied, ‘For two reasons--I come of a long-lived race, and have an infallible sign of longevity; I never dream, and my sleep is always sound and refreshing.’”[2]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

“Do you believe in that dictum?” I said.

“Thoroughly,” he replied, laughing. “I shall live long, in spite of the enmities which would destroy me in an instant, if the secret foes I have could only accomplish their end without danger to themselves.”

“You do not really believe, surely, that you have such foes?”

“Not believe it? I know it. _You_ have them, colonel, too. How long do you think you would live, if your enemies had their way with you? Perhaps you think you have no enemies who hate you enough to kill you. You are greatly mistaken--every man has his enemies. I have them by the thousand, and I have no doubt you, too, have them, though they are probably not so numerous as mine.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

“But their enmity comes to nothing.”

“Because to indulge it, would bring them into trouble,” he replied. “Neither your enemies or mine would run the risk of murdering us in open day; but suppose they could kill us by simply _wishing it?_ I should drop down dead before your eyes--and you would fall a corpse in Main Street before you reached your home!”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

“A gloomy view enough, but I dare not deny it.”

“It would be useless, colonel. That is the way men are made. For myself, I distrust all of them--or nearly all.”

He uttered the words with intense bitterness, and for a moment remained silent.

“This is gloomy talk,” he said, “and will not amuse you. Let us change the topic. When I am not discussing public affairs--the doings of this wretched administration, and the old man of the sea astride upon the country’s back--I ought to try and amuse myself.”

“You find the _Examiner_ a heavy weight upon you?”

“It is a mill-stone around my neck.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

“Why not throw it off, if you find it onerous?”

“Because I look to this journal as a father does to an only son--as my pet, my pride, and the support and honor of myself and my name in the future.”

“You are proud of it.”

“It has made me, and it will do more for me hereafter than it has ever done yet.”

He paused, and then went on, with a glow in his swarthy face:

“Every man has his cherished object in this world, colonel. Mine is the success and glory of the _Examiner_. I intend to make of it what the London _Times_ is in England, and the world--a great power, which shall lay down the law, control cabinets, mould parties, and direct events. It has given me much trouble to establish it, but _ça ira_ now! From the _Examiner_ I expect to realize the great dream of my life.”

“The dream of your life? What is that?--if I may ask without intrusion.”

“Oh! I make no secret of it, and as a gentleman speaking to a gentleman, can say what I could not in the society of _roturiers_ or common people. My family is an old and honorable one in Virginia--this, by way of explanation only, I beg you to note. We are thus, people of old descent, but my branch of the family is ruined. My object is to reinstate it; and you will perhaps compare me to the scheming young politician in Bulwer’s ‘My Novel,’ who seeks to restore the family fortunes, and brighten up the lonely old house--in Yorkshire, is it? You remember?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, I always sympathized with that character. He is morally bad, you say: granted; but he is resolute and brave--and his object is noble.”

“I agree with you, the object _is_ noble.”

“I am glad you think so, colonel. I see I speak to one who has the old Virginia feeling. You respect family.”

“Who does not? There are those who profess to care naught for it, but it is because they are new-comers.”

“Yes,” was the journalist’s reply, “mushrooms--and very dirty ones!”

I laughed at the speaker’s grimace.

“For my own part,” I said, “I do not pretend to be indifferent whether or not my father was a gentleman. I bow as politely to the new-comer as if it were the Conqueror he came over with; but still I am glad my father was a gentleman. I hope no one will quarrel with that.”

“You are mistaken. They will hate you for it.”

“You are right--but I interrupted you.”

“I am glad the interruption came, colonel, for it gave you an opportunity of showing me that my views and your own are in exact accord on this subject. I will proceed, therefore, without ceremony, to tell you what I design doing some day.”

I listened with attention. It is always interesting to look into the recesses of a remarkable man’s character. This human being was notable in an epoch filled with notabilities; and chance was about to give me an insight into his secret thoughts.

He twirled a paper-cutter in his fingers, reflected a moment, and said:--

“I am still young--not very young either, for I will soon be forty--but I know no young man who has better prospects than myself, and few who have done so well. I suppose I am worth now nearly $100,000 in good money. I have more gold coin than I know what to do with. The _Examiner_ is very valuable property, and is destined to be much more so. I expect to live long, and if I do, I shall be rich. When I am rich, I shall buy the old family estate in Stafford County, and shall add to it all the land for miles around. I shall build a house to my fancy, and, with all my possessions walled in, I shall teach these people what they never knew--how to live like a gentleman.”[1]

[Footnote 1: This paragraph is in Mr. J.M. Daniel’s words.]

The glow had deepened on the sallow face. It was easy to see that the speaker had unfolded to me the dream of his life.

“Your scheme is one,” I said, “which takes my fancy greatly. But why do you intend to wall in your property?”

“To keep out those wolves called men.”

“Ah! I forgot. You do not like those bipeds without feathers.”

“I like some of them, colonel; but the majority are worse than my dogs, Fanny and Frank, yonder. Sometimes I think they are human--they bite each other so!”

I laughed. There was something _piquant_ in the grim humor of this singular personage.

“What is your ideal man?” I said, “for, doubtless, you have such an ideal?”

“Yes. I like a man of bronze, who does not snivel or weep. I like Wigfall for his physique and his magnificent courage. It is the genuine thing. There is no _put on_ there. He has native pluck--the actual article--and it is no strain on him to exhibit it. The grit is in him, and you can’t shake him.”[1]

[Footnote 1: This paragraph is in Mr. J.M. Daniel’s words.]

“You would admit your men of bronze, then, into the walled-up domain in Stafford?”

“I don’t know,” he said grimly. “With my violin, a good cook, English books and papers--I hate your Yankee trash--and occasional travel, I think I could get through life without very great ennui. I do not expect to be governor of Virginia for ten years yet!”

And smiling, the journalist said:--

“Let us change the subject. What are people talking about? I never ask what is the news.[1] Is any thing said of evacuating Virginia? That is a pernicious idea![2] Whom have you seen lately?”

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

“A queer set,” I said.

And I gave him an account of my dinner at Mr. Blocque’s.

“What a little wretch!” he said. “I think I will run a pin through that bug, and impale him. He would make a fine dish served up _à la Victor Hugo_. You have read _Les Misérables_ yonder? It is a trashy affair.”

And taking up the elegantly bound volume, which must have cost him a considerable sum, he quietly pitched it out of the window.

As he did so, the printer’s devil appeared at the door, holding proof in his hand.

“You see I am never safe from intrusion, colonel. This _Examiner_ newspaper keeps me at the oar.”

I rose and put on my hat.

“Come and see me again soon, if it suits your convenience,” he said. “I am going to write an editorial, and I think I will serve up your host, Blocque.”

“Do not use his name.”

“Be tranquil. He will be the type only.”

And, escorting me to the door, Mr. Daniel bestowed a courteous bow upon me, which I returned. Then the door closed.

VI.

AN EDITORIAL IN THE EXAMINER.

On the following morning I opened the _Examiner_, and the first article which I saw was the following one, on

THE BLOCKADE-RUNNER.

“We owe to the kindness of SHEM’S Express Company, which has charge of the line between the front door of the State Department and the back door of the Tuileries kitchen, the advance sheets of a new novel by VICTUS HAUTGOUT, which bears the striking title, _Les Fortunés_, and which consists of five parts--ABRAHAM, ISAAC, JACOB, JUDAH, and BENJAMIN. Of course, the discerning reader will not suppose for a moment that there is any connection between _Les Fortunés_ and _Les Misérables_; between the chaste style of HAUTGOUT and the extravaganzas of HUGO; whose works, in former days, were not considered fit reading for an Anglo-Saxon public, whose latest and most corrupt fiction owes its success (let us hope) rather to the dearth of new literature than to the vitiated taste of the Southern people. How great the difference between the two authors is, can best be appreciated by comparing the description of the _gamin_ in _Marius_, with the following extracts from HAUTGOUT’S portraiture of the BLOCKADE-RUNNER:--

“Yankeedom has a bird, and the crocodile has a bird. The crocodile’s bird is called the Trochilus. Yankeedom’s bird is called the blockade-runner. Yankeedom is the crocodile. The blockade-runner is the Trochilus.

“Couple these two ideas--Yankeedom and the crocodile. They are worth the coupling. The crocodile is asleep. He does not sleep on both ears; he sleeps with one eye open; his jaws are also open. Rows of teeth appear, sharped, fanged, pointed, murderous, carnivorous, omnivorous. Some of the teeth are wanting: say a dozen. Who knocked those teeth out? A demon. What demon? Or perhaps an angel. What angel? The angel is secession: the demon is rebellion. ORMUZD and AHRIMAN: BALDUR and LOKI: the DEVIL and ST. DUNSTAN. So we go.

“The Trochilus picks the crocodile’s teeth. Does the crocodile object? Not he. He likes to have his teeth picked. It is good for his health. It promotes his digestion. It is, on the whole, a sanitary measure. ‘Feed yourself,’ he says, ‘my good Trochilus, on the broken meats which lie between my grinders. Feed your little ones at home. I shan’t snap you up unless I get very hungry. There are Confederates enough. Why should I eat _you_?’

“This little creature--this _Trochilus obsidionalis_--this blockade-running tomtit--is full of joy. He has rich food to eat every day. He goes to the show every evening, when he is not on duty. He has a fine shirt on his back; patent-leather boots on his feet; the pick and choice of a dozen houses. He is of any age--chiefly of the conscript age; ranges singly or in couples; haunts auction houses; dodges enrolling officers; eats canvass-backs; smells of greenbacks; swears allegiance to both sides; keeps faith with neither; is hand and glove with ABE’S detectives as well as with WINDER’S Plugs; smuggles in an ounce of quinine for the Confederate Government, and smuggles out a pound of gold for the Lincolnites; fishes in troubled waters; runs with the hare and hunts with the hounds; sings Yankee Doodle through one nostril, and My Maryland through the other; is on good terms with everybody--especially with himself--and, withal, is as great a rascal as goes unhung.

“He has sports of his own; roguish tricks of his own, of which a hearty hatred of humdrum, honest people is the basis. He has his own occupations, such as running for hacks, which he hires at fabulous prices; crossing the Potomac in all kinds of weather; rubbing off Yankee trade-marks and putting English labels in their stead. He has a currency of his own, slips of green paper, which have an unvarying and well regulated circulation throughout this gipsy band.

“He is never satisfied with his pantaloons unless they have a watch-fob, and never satisfied with his watch-fob unless it contains a gold watch. Sometimes he has two watch-fobs; sometimes a score.

“This rosy child of Richmond lives, develops, gets into and out of scrapes--a merry witness of our social unrealities. He looks on ready to laugh; ready also for something else, for pocketing whatever he can lay his hands on. Whoever you are, you that call yourselves Honor, Justice, Patriotism, Independence, Freedom, Candour, Honesty, Right, beware of the grinning blockade-runner. He is growing. He will continue to grow.

“Of what clay is he made? Part Baltimore street-dirt, part James River mud, best part and worst part sacred soil of Palestine. What will become of him in the hands of the potter, chance? Heaven grant that he may be ground into his original powder before he is stuck up on our mantel-pieces as a costly vase, in which the choice flowers of our civilization can but wither and die.”

Admire that grim humor, reader--the firm stroke with which this Aristophanes of 1864 drew my friend, Mr. Blocque. See how he reproduced every trait, delineated the worthy in his exact colors, and, at the foot of the picture, wrote, as it were, “Here is going to be the founder of ‘one of the old families,’--one of the ornaments of the future, who will come out of the war rich, and be a costly vase, not a vessel of dishonor, as at present.”

Grim satirist! You saw far, and I think we want you to-day!

VII.

UNDER THE CROSSED SWORDS.

I had dined with Mr. Blocque; two days afterward I went to sup with Judge Conway.

Does the reader remember his appearance at Culpeper Court-House, on the night of the ball after the review in June, 1863? On that evening he had excited my astonishment by abruptly terminating the interview between his daughter and Captain Davenant; and I little supposed that I would ever penetrate the motive of that action, or become intimate with the performer.

Yet the chance of war had decreed that both events should occur. All will be, in due time, explained to the reader’s satisfaction; at present we will simply make the acquaintance of one of the most distinguished statesmen of the epoch.

My friendly relations with the judge came about in a very simple manner. He was an intimate associate of the gentleman at whose house I was staying; had taken great interest in my recovery after Yellow Tavern; and therefore had done me the honor to bestow his friendship upon me.

On the day to which we have now come, Judge Conway had made a speech of surpassing eloquence, in Congress, on the condition of the country, and I had listened, thrilling at the brave voice which rang out its sonorous, “All’s well!” amid the storm. I was now going to call on the statesman to express my admiration of his eloquent appeal, and converse upon the exciting topics of the hour.

I found him in a mansion not far from the splendid residence of Mr. Blocque. Here he occupied “apartments,” or rather a single room,--and, in 1864, my dear reader, that was a very common mode of living.

Like others, Judge Conway was too poor to occupy a whole house,--even too poor to board. He had a single apartment, containing a few chairs and a bed; was waited on by a maid; and, I think, prepared his own meals, which were plain to poverty.

He met me at the door of his bare and poor-looking apartment, extending his hand with the gracious and stately courtesy of the ancient régime. His figure was small, slight, and bent by age; his face, thin and pale; his hair nearly white, and falling in long curls upon his shoulders; under the gray brows sparkled keen, penetrating, but benignant eyes.

As I pressed the hand of my host, and looked around the poor apartment, I could not refrain from a sentiment of profound bitterness. Two days before I had dined at the table of a peddling blockade-runner, who ate canvass-backs, drank champagne, wore “fine linen,” and, dodging the conscript officers, revelled in luxury and plenty. And now here before me was a gentleman of ancient lineage, whose ancestors had been famous, who had himself played a great part in the history of the commonwealth,--and this gentleman was poor, lived in lodgings, had scarce a penny; he had been wealthy, and was still the owner of great possessions; but the bare land was all that was left him for support. He had been surrounded with luxury, but had sacrificed all to the cause. He had had two gallant sons, but they had fallen at the first Manassas--their crossed swords were above his poor bare mantel-piece.

From the splendid table of the sneaking blockade-runner, I had come to the poverty-stricken apartment of this great statesman and high-bred gentleman. “Oh, Juvenal!” I muttered, “it is your satires, not the bucolics of Virgil, that suit this epoch!”

The old statesman pointed, with all the grace of a nobleman, to a bare rocking-chair, and received my congratulations upon his speech with modest simplicity.

“I am glad that my views are honored by your good opinion, colonel,” he said, “and that you approve of the tone of them. I am naturally given to invective--a habit derived from my friend, the late Mr. Randolph; but the country wants encouragement.”

“And yet not to satirize is so hard, my dear sir!”

“Very hard.”

“Think of the army depleted--the soldiers starving--the finances in ruin, and entire destruction threatening us!”

The old statesman was silent. A moment afterward he raised his head, and with his thin finger pointed to the crossed swords above his mantelpiece.

“I try to bear and forbear since I lost my poor boys,” he said. “They died for their country--I ought to live for it, and do what I can in my sphere--to suppress my bitterness, and try to utter words of good cheer. But we are discussing gloomy topics. Let us come to more cheerful matters. I am in very good spirits to-day. My daughters have come to make me a visit,” and the old face glowed with smiles; its expression was quite charming.

“I see you do not appreciate that great treat, my dear colonel,” he added, smiling. “You are yet unmarried, though I rejoice to hear you are soon to be united to a daughter of my old friend, Colonel Beverly, of “The Oaks.” Some day I hope you will know the great charm of paternity. This morning I was lonely--this evening I am no longer so. Georgia and Virginia have come up from my house, “Five Forks,” escorted by my faithful old Juba, and they burst in upon me like the sunshine!”

The words had scarcely been uttered when a tap came at the door; a voice said, “May we come in, papa?” and a moment afterward the door opened, and admitted Miss Georgia Conway and her sister Virginia.

Miss Georgia was the same tall and superb beauty, with the dark hair and eyes; Miss Virginia the same winning little blonde, with the blue eyes, and the smiles which made her lips resemble rose-buds. The young ladies were clad in poor, faded-looking calicoes, and the slippers on the small feet, peeping from their skirts, were full of holes. Such was the appearance presented in that summer of 1864, my dear reader, by two of the most elegant and “aristocratic” young ladies of Virginia!

But you did not look at the calicoes, and soon forgot the holes in the shoes. My bow was such as I should have bestowed on two princesses, and the young ladies received it with a grace and courtesy which were charming.

In ten minutes we were all talking like old friends, and the young ladies were making tea.

This was soon ready; some bread, without butter, was placed upon the little table; and the meal was the most cheerful and happy imaginable. “Oh, my dear Mr. Blocque!” I could not help saying to myself, “keep your champagne, and canvass-backs, and every luxury, and welcome! I like dry bread and tea, with this company, better!”

I have not room to repeat the charming words, mingled with laughter, of the young women, on that evening. Their presence was truly like sunshine, and you could see the reflection of it upon the old statesman’s countenance.

Only once that countenance was overshadowed. I had uttered the name of Willie Davenant, by accident; and then all at once remembering the scene at Culpeper Court-House, had looked quietly at Judge Conway and Miss Virginia. A deep frown was on his face--that of the young girl was crimson with blushes, and two tears came to her eyes, as she caught her father’s glance of displeasure.

I hastened to change the topic--to banish the dangerous subject; and in a few moments everybody was smiling once more. Miss Georgia, in her stately and amusing way, was relating their experiences from a scouting party of the enemy, at “Five Forks.”

“I heard something of this from old Juba,” said the Judge; “you do not mention your deliverer, however.”

“Our deliverer, papa?”

“General Mohun.”

Miss Georgia unmistakably blushed in her turn.

“Oh, I forgot!” she said, carelessly, “General Mohun _did_ drive them off. Did I not mention it?--I should have done so before finishing, papa.”

As she spoke, the young lady happened to catch my eye. I was laughing quietly. Thereupon her head rose in a stately way--a decided pout succeeded--finally, she burst into laughter.

The puzzled expression of the old Judge completed the comedy of the occasion--we all laughed in a perfectly absurd and foolish way--and the rest of the evening passed in the most cheerful manner imaginable.

When I bade my friends good evening, I knew something I had not known before:--namely, that Mohun the woman-hater, had renewed his “friendly relations” with Miss Georgia Conway, at her home in Dinwiddie.

Exchanging a pressure of the hand with my host and his charming daughters, I bade them good evening, and returned homeward. As I went along, I thought of the happy circle I had left; and again I could not refrain from drawing the comparison between Judge Conway and Mr. Blocque.

At the fine house of the blockade-runner--champagne, rich viands, wax-lights, gold and silver, and profuse luxury.

At the poor lodgings of the great statesman,--a cup of tea and cold bread; stately courtesy from my host, charming smiles from his beautiful daughters, clad in calico, with worn-out shoes--and above the simple happy group, the crossed swords of the brave youths who had fallen at Manassas!

VIII.

MR. X-----.

It was past ten in the evening when I left Judge Conway. But I felt no disposition to retire; and determined to pay a visit to a singular character of my acquaintance.

The name of this gentleman was Mr. X-----.

Looking back now to the days spent in Richmond, in that curious summer of ‘64, I recall, among the representative personages whom I encountered, no individual more remarkable than the Honorable Mr. X-----. You are acquainted with him, my dear reader, either personally or by reputation, for he was a prominent official of the Confederate Government, and, before the war, had been famous in the councils of “the nation.”

He resided at this time in a small house, on a street near the capitol. You gained access to his apartment after night--if you knew the way--by a winding path, through shrubbery, to the back door of the mansion. When you entered, you found yourself in presence of a tall, powerful, gray-haired and very courteous personage, who sat in a huge arm-chair, near a table littered with papers, and smoked, meditatively, a cigar, the flavor of which indicated its excellent quality.

I enjoyed the intimacy of Mr. X----- in spite of the difference of our ages and positions. He had been the friend of my father, and, in my turn, did me the honor to bestow his friendship upon me. On this evening I was seized with the fancy to visit him--and passing through the grounds of the capitol, where the bronze Washington and his great companions looked silently out into the moonlight, reached the small house, followed the path through the shrubbery, and opening the door in the rear, found myself suddenly enveloped in a cloud of cigar smoke, through which loomed the portly figure of Mr. X-----.

He was seated, as usual, in his large arm-chair, by the table, covered with papers; and a small bell near his hand seemed placed there for the convenience of summoning an attendant, without the trouble of rising. Near the bell lay a package of foreign-looking documents. Near the documents lay a pile of telegraphic dispatches. In the appearance and surroundings of this man you read “Power.”

Mr. X----- received me with easy cordiality.

“Glad to see you, my dear colonel,” he said, rising and shaking my hand; then sinking back in his chair, “take a cigar, and tell me the news.” I sat down,--having declined the proffered cigar.

“The news!” I said, laughing; “I ought to ask that of you.”

“Ah! you think I am well-informed?”

I pointed to the dispatches. Mr. X----- shrugged his shoulders.

“Papers from England and France--they are not going to recognize us.

“And those telegrams--nothing. We get little that is worth attention, except a line now and then, signed ‘R.E. Lee.’”

“Well, there is that signature,” I said, pointing to an open paper.

“It is a private letter to me--but do you wish to see a line which I have just received? It is interesting, I assure you.”

And he handed me a paper.

It was a telegram announcing the fall of Atlanta!

“Good heavens!” I said, “is it possible? Then there is nothing to stop Sherman.”

“Nothing whatever,” said Mr. X-----, coolly.

“What will be the consequence?”

“The Confederacy will be cut in two. Sherman will be at Savannah before Grant reaches the Southside road--or as soon, at least.”

“You think Grant will reach that?”

“Yes, by April; and then--you know what!”

“But Lee will protect it.”

Mr. X----- shrugged his shoulders.

“Shall I tell you a secret?”

I listened.

“Lee’s force is less than 50,000--next spring it will not number 40,000. Grant’s will be at least four times that.”

“Why can not our army be re-enforced?”

Mr. X----- helped himself to a fresh cigar.

“The people are tired, and the conscript officers are playing a farce,” he said. “The commissary department gives the army a quarter of a pound of rancid meat. That even often fails, for the quartermaster’s department does not supply it. The result is--no conscripts, and a thousand desertions. The soldiers are starving; their wives and children are writing them letters that drive them mad--the end is not far off; and when Grant reaches the Southside road we are gone.”

Mr. X----- smoked his cigar with extreme calmness as he spoke.

“But one thing remains,” I said.

“What is that?”

“Lee will retreat from Virginia.”

Mr. X----- shook his head.

“He will not.”

“Why not?”

“He will be prevented from doing so.”

“Under any circumstances?”

“Until too late, at least.”

“And the result?”

“Surrender--though he said to me the other day, when he came to see me here, ‘For myself, I intend to die sword in hand.’”

I could not refrain from a sentiment of profound gloom, as I listened to these sombre predictions. It seemed incredible that they could be well founded, but I had more than once had an opportunity to remark the extraordinary prescience of the remarkable man with whom I conversed.

“You draw a black picture of the future,” I said. “And the South seems moving to and fro, on the crust of a volcano.”

“No metaphor could be more just.”

“And what will be the result of the war?”

“That is easy to reply to. Political slavery, negro suffrage, and the bayonet, until the new leaven works.”

“The new leaven?”

“The conviction that democratic government is a failure.”

“And then--?”

“An emperor, or dictator--call him what you will. The main fact is, that he will rule the country by the bayonet--North and South impartially.”

Mr. X----- lit a fresh cigar.

“Things are going on straight to that,” he said. “The future is perfectly plain to me, for I read it in the light of history. These events are going to follow step by step. Lee is brave--no man is braver; a great leader. I think him one of the first captains of the world. But in spite of his courage and skill--in spite of the heroism of his army--in spite of the high character and pure motives of the president--we are going to fail. Then the rest will follow--negro suffrage and the bayonet. Then the third era will begin--the disgust of the white man at the equality of the negro; his distrust of a government which makes such a farce possible; consequent revulsion against democracy; a tendency toward monarchy; a king, emperor or dictator, who will restore order out of the chaos of misrule and madness. England is rushing toward a democracy, America is hastening to become an empire. For my own part I think I prefer the imperial to the popular idea--Imperator to Demos. It is a matter of taste, however.”

And Mr. X----- turned his head, calling out, calmly,

“Come in!”

The door opened and a stranger glided into the apartment. He was clad in a blue Federal uniform, half-concealed by a brown linen overall. His face was almost covered by a red beard; his lips by a mustache of the same color; and his eyes disappeared behind huge green goggles.

“Come in,” repeated Mr. X-----, who seemed to recognize the intruder; “what news?”

The personage glanced quickly at me.

“Speak before him,” said Mr. X-----, “he is a friend.”

“I am very well acquainted with Colonel Surry,” said the other, smiling, “and have the honor to number him, I hope, among my own friends.”

With which words, the new-comer quietly removed his red beard, took off his green spectacles, and I saw before me no less a personage than Mr. Nighthawk!

IX.

“SEND ME A COPY.--IN CANADA!”

Nothing was more surprising in this singular man than these sudden appearances at places and times when you least expected him.

I had parted with him in Spottsylvania, on the night when he “deserted” from the enemy, and rode into our lines; and he was then the secret agent of General Stuart. Now, he reappeared in the city of Richmond, with an excellent understanding, it was evident, between himself and Mr. X-----!

Our greeting was cordial, and indeed I never had classed Nighthawk among professional spies. General Stuart assured me one day, that he invariably refused all reward; and his profound, almost romantic devotion to Mohun, had deeply impressed me. Love of country and watchful care of the young cavalier, whose past life was as mysterious as his own, seemed the controlling sentiments of Nighthawk; and he always presented himself to me rather in the light of a political conspirator, than as a “spy.”

His first words now indicated that he was a secret agent of the Government. He seemed to have been everywhere, and gained access to everybody; and once more, as in June, 1863, when he appeared at Stuart’s head-quarters, near Middleburg, he astonished me by the accuracy and extent of his information. Political and military secrets of the highest importance, and calling for urgent action on the part of the Government, were detailed by Nighthawk, in his calm and benignant voice; he gave us an account of a long interview which he had had at City Point, with General Grant; and wound up as usual by announcing an impending battle--a movement of the enemy, which duly took place as he announced.

Mr. X----- listened with close attention, asking few questions.

When Nighthawk had made his report, the statesman looked at his watch, said, _sotto voce_, “Midnight--too late,” and added aloud:--

“Come back at ten to-morrow morning, my friend; your information is highly interesting and important.”

Nighthawk rose, and I did likewise, declining the courteous request of Mr. X----- to prolong my visit. He held the door open with great politeness and said, smiling:--

“I need not say, my dear colonel, that the views I have expressed this evening are confidential--for the present, at least.”

“Assuredly,” I replied, with a bow and a smile.

“Hereafter you are at liberty to repeat them, if you wish, only I beg you will ascribe them to Mr. X-----, an unknown quantity. If you write a book, and put me in it, send me a copy--in Canada!”

A moment afterward I was wending my way through the shrubbery, thinking of the curious personage I had left.

At the gate Nighthawk awaited me, and I scarcely recognized him. He had resumed his red beard, and green glasses.

“I am glad to see you again, colonel,” he said benignantly; “I heard that you were in the city and called at your lodgings, but found you absent.”

“You wished to see me particularly, then, Nighthawk.”

“Yes, and to-night, colonel.”

“Ah!”

“I know you are a friend of General Mohun’s.”

“A very sincere friend.”

“Well, I think we will be able to do him a very great service by attending to a little matter in which he is interested, colonel. Are you disengaged, and willing to accompany me?”

X.

THE WAY THE MONEY WENT.

I looked intently at Nighthawk. He was evidently very much in earnest.

“I am entirely disengaged, and perfectly willing to accompany you,” I said; “but where?”

Nighthawk smiled.

“You know I am a mysterious person, colonel, both by character and profession. I fear the habit is growing on me, in spite of every exertion I make. I predict I will end by burning my coat, for fear it will tell some of my secrets.”

“Well,” I said with a smile, “keep your secret then, and lead the way. I am ready to go far to oblige Mohun in any thing.”

“I thank you, colonel, from my heart. You have only to follow me.”

And Nighthawk set out at a rapid pace, through the grounds of the capitol, toward the lower part of the city.

There was something as singular about the walk of my companion, as about his appearance. He went at a great pace, but his progress was entirely noiseless. You would have said that he was skimming along upon invisible wings.

In an incredibly short time we had reached a street below the capitol, and my companion, who had walked straight on without turning his head to the right or the left, all at once paused before a tall and dingy-looking house, which would have appeared completely uninhabited, except for a bright red light which shone through a circular opening in the door.

At this door Nighthawk gave a single tap. The glass covering the circular space glided back, and a face reconnoitred. My companion uttered two words; and the door opened, giving access to a stairs, which we ascended, the janitor having already disappeared.

At the head of the stairs was a door which Nighthawk opened, and we found ourselves in an apartment where a dozen persons were playing faro.

Upon these Nighthawk threw a rapid glance--some one whom he appeared to be seeking, was evidently not among the players.

Another moment he returned through the door, I following, and we ascended a second flight of stairs, at the top of which was a second door. Here another janitor barred the way, but my companion again uttered some low words,--the door opened; a magnificently lit apartment, with a buffet of liquors, and every edible, presented itself before us; and in the midst of a dozen personages, who were playing furiously, I recognized--Mr. Blocque, Mr. Croker, Mr. Torpedo, and Colonel Desperade.

For some moments I stood watching the spectacle, and it very considerably enlarged my experience. Before me I saw prominent politicians, officers of high rank, employees of government holding responsible positions, all gambling with an ardor that amounted to fury. One gentleman in uniform--apparently of the quartermaster’s department--held in his hand a huge package of Confederate notes, of the denominations, of $100 and $500, and this worthy staked, twice, the pretty little amount of $10,000 upon a card, and each time lost.

The play so absorbed the soldiers, lawgivers, and law-administrators, that our presence was unperceived. My friend, Mr. Blocque, did not turn his head; Mr. Croker, Mr. Torpedo, and Colonel Desperade, were red in the face and oblivious.

After that evening I knew where some of the public money went.

As I was looking at the strange scene of reckless excitement, one of the players, a portly individual with black mustache, rich dark curls, gold spectacles, and wearing a fine suit of broadcloth--rose and looked toward us. Nighthawk was already gazing at him; and suddenly I saw their glances cross like steel rapiers. They had evidently recognized each other; and going up to the gentleman of the spectacles, Nighthawk said a few words in a low voice, which I did not distinguish.

“With pleasure, my dear friend,” said the portly gentleman, “but you are sure you are not provided with a detective of General Winder’s?”

“Can you believe such a thing?” returned Nighthawk, reproachfully.

“I thought it possible you might have one waiting below; but if you give me your word, Nighthawk--”

And without further objection the worthy followed Nighthawk and myself down the stairs.

As we approached the outer door, the invisible janitor opened it; we issued forth into the street; and the portly gentleman, fixing a keen look upon me in the clear moonlight, said:--

“I believe we have had the pleasure of meeting before, colonel.”

“I am ashamed to say I do not remember where, sir,” I said.

“My memory is better, colonel; we met last May, in a house in the Wilderness, near Chancellorsville.”

“Is it possible that you are--”

“Swartz, very much at your service. It is wonderful what a difference is made by a wig and spectacles!”

As he spoke, he gracefully removed his black wig and the gold spectacles. In the man with gray hair, small eyes, and double chin, I recognized the spy of the Wilderness.

XI.

THE PASS.

Replacing his wig and spectacles, Mr. Swartz smiled in a good-humored manner, and said:--

“May I ask to what I am indebted for this visit?”

Nighthawk replied even more blandly:--

“I wish to have a conversation with you, my dear Swartz, before arresting you.”

“Ah! you intend to arrest me!”

“Unless you make it unnecessary.”

“How?”

“By producing the paper which we spoke of in the Wilderness,” said Nighthawk, briefly.

Swartz shook his head.

“That is not in my power, my friend. I did not bring it with me.”

“Will you think me very impolite if I say I do not believe you, my dear Swartz?”

Swartz smiled.

“Well, that would be speaking without ceremony, my friend--but I assure you I am unable to do as you desire.”

“Aha! you repeat that curious statement, my dear Swartz! Well, oblige me by accompanying me to the provost-marshal’s.”

“You arrest me?”

“Precisely.”

“As a spy?”

“Why not?”

“It is impossible, Nighthawk!”

“You resist?”

“I might do so.”

And, opening his coat, Mr. Swartz exhibited a bowie-knife and revolver.

“I show you these little toys,” said he, laughing good-humoredly, “to let you see, my friend, that I might oppose your project--and you know I am not backward in using them on occasion. But I make a difference. You are not a common police-officer or detective, Nighthawk--you are a friend and comrade, and I am going to prove that I appreciate your feelings, and respect your wishes.”

Nighthawk fixed his eyes on the speaker and listened.

“You are a friend of General Mohun’s,” said Mr. Swartz, with bland good humor; “you wish to secure a certain document in which he is interested; you fancy I have that document here in the city of Richmond; and your object, very naturally, is to force me to surrender it. Well, I do not object to doing so--for a consideration. I fully intend to produce it, when my terms are accepted. I would have stated them to you in the Wilderness, but you were unable to meet me--or to General Mohun, but his violence defeated every thing. You meet me now, and without discussion, demand the paper. I reply, that I have not brought it with me, but three days from this time will meet you at a spot agreed on, with the document, for which you will return me--my consideration.”

Nighthawk shook his head.

“Unfortunately, my dear Swartz, experience tells me that the present is always the best time for business--that ‘a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’”

Mr. Swartz smiled sweetly.

“And I am the bird in your hand?”

“Something like it.”

“I am a spy?”

“Don’t use hard names, my friend.”

“By no means, my dear Nighthawk, and if I have hurt your feelings, I deeply regret it. But I am speaking to the point. You regard me as a Federal spy, lurking in Richmond--you penetrate my disguise, and are going to arrest me, and search my lodgings for that paper.”

“The necessity is painful,” said Nighthawk.

“It is useless, my friend.”

“I will try it.”

Swartz smiled, and drew a paper from his pocket, which he unfolded.

“You are then determined to arrest your old comrade, Nighthawk.”

“Yes, my dear Swartz.”

“As a spy?”

“Exactly.”

“In spite of this?”

And Mr. Swartz held out the paper.

“Do me the favor to read this, colonel, and then oblige me by returning it.”

I took the paper, and easily read it by moonlight. It contained the following words:--

“The bearer is employed on secret service, by the Confederate Government, and will not be molested.”

The paper was signed by a personage of high position in the government, and was stamped with the seal of the department over which he presided. There could be no doubt of the genuineness of the paper. The worthy Mr. Swartz loomed up before me in the novel and unexpected light of a _Confederate_ emissary!

I read the paper aloud to Nighthawk, and pointed to the official signature and seal.

Nighthawk uttered a groan, and his chin sank upon his breast.

That spectacle seemed to excite the sympathy of his friend.

“There, my dear Nighthawk,” said Mr. Swartz, in a feeling tone, “don’t take the blow too much to heart. I have beaten you, this game, and your hands are tied at present. But I swear that I will meet you, and produce that paper.”

“When?” murmured Nighthawk.

“In three days from this time.”

“Where?”

“At the house of our friend Alibi, near Monk’s Neck, in Dinwiddie.”

“On your word?”

“On the word of Swartz!”

“That is enough, my dear Swartz; I will be at Alibi’s, when we will come to terms. And now, pardon this visit, which has put you to so much inconvenience. I was merely jesting, my dear friend, when I spoke of arresting you. Arrest you! Nothing could induce me to think of so unfriendly a proceeding. And now, good night, my dear friend. I will return with you, colonel.”

With which words Nighthawk saluted his “friend,” and we returned toward the upper part of the city.

Such were the scenes of a night in the summer of 1864.

XII.

THE GRAVE OF STUART.

On the next morning a piece of good fortune befell me. In spite of continued visits to the war-office, and an amount of importunity which must have been exceedingly annoying to the gentlemen of the red tape, I found myself, at the end of August, apparently no nearer to an “assignment to duty” than at first.

It really seemed that the Confederate States had no need of my services; that the privilege of performing military duty in behalf of the Government was one jealously guarded, and not to be lightly bestowed upon any one. I was in despair, and was revolving the project of resigning my empty commission, and enlisting in the cavalry as a private soldier, when the _deus ex machinâ_ to extricate me from all my troubles, appeared in the person of Colonel P-----, of army head-quarters.

This accomplished soldier and gentleman met me as I was coming out of the war-office, on the morning after the visit to Mr. X-----, looking I suppose, like some descendant of the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance, and stopped to inquire the cause of my dejection. I informed him of the whole affair, and he laughed heartily. “You have set about your affairs, my dear colonel, in a manner entirely wrong,” he said. “You should have gone to some general, discovered that your grandmother and his own were third cousins; expressed your admiration of his valor; denounced the brother-general with whom he was quarreling; written puffs to the papers about him; and then, one morning said, ‘By the by, general, you are entitled to another staff officer.’ The result would have been a glowing letter to the war department, requesting your assignment--you would have attained your object--you would have been torn from the horrors of Richmond, and once more enjoyed the great privilege of being shot at!”

I echoed the colonel’s laugh.

“Alas!” I said, “I have no genius for all that. I never yet could ‘crook the hinges of the knee that thrift might follow fawning,’ and I suppose I shall be compelled to resign, and enter the ranks. Why not? Better men are there, carrying musket or carbine, or pulling the lanyard.”

“Still you gained your rank by your services--and I am going to make you an offer which will enable you to retain it. Come and be my assistant inspector-general--an officer is required to inspect the cavalry and horse artillery, which is so distant, often, that I have no time to visit them.”

“A thousand thanks, colonel! You could not offer me a more pleasant duty.”

“You will have to ride a great deal, but will have a great deal of freedom. If you consent to my proposition, I will have the matter arranged at once, and will request you to make a tour of inspection to General Early’s army, near Winchester.”

He looked at me, laughing.

“‘The Oaks’ is--a charming place,” he added, “and you are certain to be very tired when you reach the vicinity of Markham’s! If you find it convenient to stop there--say, for a day or more--present my regards to Colonel Beverly, and any of the family you find present!”

With which words he laughed again, shook me by the hand, and then his tall form disappeared in the doorway of the war office.

On the next day I found my assignment awaiting me. I was appointed assistant inspector-general of the cavalry and horse artillery of the army of Northern Virginia. Tremendous title!

That evening I went by railway to Petersburg, to visit Colonel P-----, and receive his instructions. Returning the same night, the next day set out on horseback for the Valley of the Shenandoah, by way of Orange, Gaines’s Cross Roads, and Ashby’s Gap.

Of this journey it is unnecessary for me to speak in the present volume. Some curious adventures occurred to me, in the valley, near Millwood, and I made the acquaintance of St. Leger Landon, of “Bizarre,” one of the bravest and truest gentlemen I have ever known. The adventures alluded to, and some events in the strange history of my friend, Captain Landon, are embraced in a separate memoir, to which I have given the fanciful title, _Hilt to Hilt, or Days and Nights on the Banks of the Shenandoah_.

I remained in the valley from the first to the eighteenth of September, when I set out on my return to Petersburg, little thinking that, on the very next day, General Early would be attacked on the Opequon, driven from Winchester, and forced to retreat up the valley, in spite of fighting which was never surpassed.

I had received some rough handling in a cavalry combat near the Old Chapel, beyond Millwood, and my ride back was tedious. But at last I reached Richmond, and made preparations to set out at once for the army. On the evening before my departure, I went to visit the grave of Stuart at Hollywood, on the beautiful hill above the falls, west of the city.

As I approached the lonely spot, where the great cavalier was lying beside his little Flora, of whom he had often spoken to me with tears, a thousand memories knocked at the door of my heart. With head bent down, and chin resting on my breast, I drew near the grassy mound over which waved the autumn foliage, tinted with yellow and crimson--and in these few moments, all the splendid career of Stuart passed before me, as on that day when I rode with him toward the fatal field of Yellow Tavern.

I remembered all his hard combats, his glorious encounters, his victories over such odds as vindicated his claim to a descent from the dashing Rupert, and ranked him with the most famous leaders of cavalry in all history. I recalled the courage, the joy, the gay laughter of the great soldier--the blue eyes that flashed so--the sonorous voice singing the merry songs. I remembered all the occasions when he had led his men in the charge--how he had wept for Jackson, bowed his head above the cold face of Pelham--how he had met the torrent unmoved, shrunk from nothing in his path, fallen to save the Virginia capital, and died murmuring “God’s will be done!”--I remembered all that, and with something in my throat that seemed choking me, drew near the quiet mound, beneath which rested such a career, and so much glory.

The birds were twittering and singing, the foliage waving gently--I raised my head--when suddenly I became aware that a solitary mourner was bending over the grave.

He was an officer in gray uniform. He held a flower in his hand, which he dropped upon the grave, uttering a low sob as he did so.

At the same moment he turned round, and I recognized the great partisan, Colonel Mosby.[1]

[Footnote 1: Real.]

XIII.

THE CEDARS.

Twenty-four hours after, I had passed over the same number of miles, and found myself at the staff head-quarters, on the left bank of the Appomattox, above Petersburg.

I had soon pitched my tent, with the assistance of a servant; had erected a hedge of cedar boughs to protect it from the cutting blasts of the coming winter; and, a few days afterwards, was surrounded with many objects of comfort. My tent had been floored; at one end rose an excellent chimney; strips of planks, skillfully balanced on two logs, supplied a spring bed; I had secured a split bottom chair, and my saddle and bridle were disposed upon a rough rack, near a black valise containing my small stock of apparel, and the pine table and desk holding official papers.

Having christened this castle “The Cedars,” I settled down for a long winter,--and it was not a great while before I congratulated myself on the good fortune which had provided me with that warm nest. More than once, however, I experienced something like a sentiment of shame, when, in the dark and freezing nights, with the hail rattling on my tent, I sat by my warm fire, and heard the crack of the sharp-shooters, along the lines beyond Petersburg. What right had I to be there, by that blazing fire, in my warm tent, when my brethren--many of them my betters--were yonder, fighting along the frozen hills? What had I done to deserve that comfort, and exemption from all pain? I was idling, or reading by my blazing fire,--_they_ were keeping back the enemy, and, perhaps, falling and dying in the darkness. I was musing in my chair, gazing into the blaze, and going back in memory to the fond scenes of home, so clearly, that I laughed the heart’s laugh, and was happy. And they? They, too, were thinking of home, perhaps,--of their wives and children, to sink down the next moment shivering with cold, or stagger and fall, with spouting blood, as the bullet pierced them. Why should _I_ be thus favored by a good Providence? I often asked myself that question, and I could not answer it. I could only murmur, “I did not sneak here to get out of the way of the bullets,--those, yonder, are my betters,--God guard and keep the brave soldiers of this army!”

And now, worthy reader, having given you some idea of the manner in which the more fortunate ones wintered near Petersburg, in 1864, I am going to drop the subject of army head-quarters, and my surroundings there. Jackson and Stuart are dead, and have become figures of history. I have drawn them as well as I could,--I dare not attempt to do the same with the great commander-in-chief. He is alive. May he live long!--and, saluting him, I pass on.

So if I speak of General Lee, it will be of the individual in his official character. What he utters, he will have uttered in the hearing of many.

With these words of preface, I resume the thread of my history.

XIV.

THE SITUATION.

October, 1864, had come.

The “situation” may be described in a few words.

Grant had drawn his lines from a point in Charles City, on the left bank of James River, across that stream and across the Appomattox, around Petersburg to the Squirrel Level road, where he threatened the Southside railroad, Lee’s line of communication with the south and west. Fort Harrison had just been taken. Grant was gradually hemming in his opponent along the immense line extending across the two rivers, past the scene of the famous “Crater” explosion, to the vicinity of the Rowanty, a distance of nearly forty miles. One incessant crash and thunder went up, day and night. Grant was “hammering continuously,” carrying out his programme; and, the military view apart, never was spectacle more picturesque than that presented in these combats.

The long lines of works were wreathed with the smoke of battle. The glare of cannon lit the smoke-cloud; mortar shells rose, described their fiery curves, and descended in the trenches, and these were saluted as they rose and fell by the crack of musketry, the roar of artillery, the echoing cheers of the blue and gray people, who never seemed weary of fighting, yelling, and paying their compliments to each other. At night the spectacle was superb; the mortars were like flocks of fire-birds, swooping down upon their prey. The horizon glared at each cannon-shot; shell burst in vivid lightnings, shining for a moment, then extinguished. And yonder object, like a bloodshot eye, shining grimly through the darkness,--what is that? It is a lamp, my dear reader, with a transparent shade; and on this shade is written, for the information of the graybacks:--

“While yet the lamp holds out to burn, The vilest rebel may return.”

Lee’s lines faced Grant’s, following the blue cordon across the rivers, around Petersburg, toward the Southside railroad.

Beyond the right of the Confederate infantry stretched the cavalry, which consisted of the divisions of Wade Hampton and W.H.F. Lee,--the former commanding. Fitz Lee, with his division, was in the Valley.

Such, reader was the situation, when I joined the army. The great fifth act of the tragic drama was approaching.

XV.

MOHUN AGAIN.

Three days after my arrival, I mounted my horse, crossed the Appomattox, followed the Boydton road, struck southward at the Quaker road, and soon found myself in the heart of the shadowy pine woods of that singular country, Dinwiddie.

My official duty was to inspect and report the condition of the cavalry and horse artillery of the army at the beginning and middle of each month. And now, first assuring the reader that I performed my duty in all weather, and amid every difficulty, I will drop the official phase of my history, and proceed to matters rather more entertaining.

On the day after my departure from Petersburg, I had made my inspections, and was returning.

I had been received by my old friends of the cavalry with every mark of cordial regard. General Hampton, General Lee, and the various officers and men whom I had known as a staff-officer of General Stuart, seemed to welcome the sight of a face which, perhaps, reminded them of their dead leader; and I had pressed all these warm hands, and received these friendly greetings not without emotion--for I, too, was carried back to the past.

I saw Mordaunt and Davenant, but not Mohun--he was absent, visiting his picket line. Mordaunt was the same stately soldier--his grave and friendly voice greeted me warmly as in old days; and Willie Davenant, now a major, commanding a battalion of horse artillery, shook hands with me, as shy and blushing as before--and even more sad.

“How had his suit prospered? Were things more encouraging?”

I asked him these questions with a laugh, apologizing for my intrusion.

He assured me sadly that it was not in the least an intrusion; but that he had not seen the person to whom I alluded, for many months.

And executing a blush which would have become a girl, this young tiger of the horse artillery--for such he always proved himself, in a fight--hastened to change the subject. Soon afterward I took my departure, turned my horse’s head toward Petersburg, and set out at a round trot between the walls of pine.

It was dusk when I reached the debouchment of the “military road,” and, tired and hungry, I was contemplating ruefully the long ride still before me, when rapid hoof-strokes behind me attracted my attention, and, turning my head, I recognized the bold figure of Mohun.

He was mounted on a fine animal, and came at full speed.

In a moment he had caught up, recognized, and we exchanged a warm grasp of the hand.

“I am delighted to see you, Surry. I thought you had deserted us, old fellow. The sight of you is a treat!”

“And the sight of you, my dear Mohun. You look beaming.”

Indeed, Mohun had never presented a better appearance, with his dark eyes; his tanned and glowing cheeks; his raven mustached lips, which, parting with a smile, showed white and regular teeth. He was the picture of a gallant soldier; all his old melancholy and cynical bitterness gone, as mist is swept away by the morning sunshine.

“You are positively dazzling, Mohun. Where are you going, and what has happened to you? Ah!--I begin to understand!”

And pointing northward, I said:--

“Five Forks is not far from here, is it?”

Mohun colored, but, the next moment, burst into laughter.

“You are right, old friend! It is impossible to hide any thing from you.”

“And a friend of yours is there--whom you are going to see?”

“Yes, my dear Surry,” was his reply, in a voice of sudden earnestness, “you are not mistaken, and you see I am like all the rest of the world. When we first met on the Rapidan, I was a woman-hater. I despised them all, for I had had reason. That was my state of mind, when a very beautiful and noble girl, whom you have seen, crossed my path. Events threw us together--first, the wound I received at Fleetwood--she caught me as I was falling on that day--and several times afterward I saw and conversed with her, finding her proud, satirical, indifferent to admiration, but as honest and true as steel. Still, our relations did not proceed beyond friendship, and when I told you one day in the Wilderness that I was not her suitor, I spoke the truth. I am not exactly able to say as much to-day!--But to finish my account of myself: I came here to Dinwiddie on the right of the army, and a week or two after my arrival the enemy made a cavalry raid toward the Southside railroad. I followed, and came up with them as they were plundering a house not far from Five Forks. Well, I charged and drove them into the woods--when, who should make her appearance at the door but Miss Conway, whom I had last seen in Culpeper! As you know, her father resides here--he is now at Richmond--and, after following the enemy back to their own lines, hurrying them up with sabre and carbine, I came back to inquire the extent of their depredations at Five Forks.

“Such is the simple explanation of the present ‘situation,’ my dear friend. Miss Virginia cordially invited me to come whenever I could do so, and although Miss Georgia was less pressing--in fact, said nothing on the subject--I was not cast down thereby! I returned, have been often since, and--that’s all.”

Mohun laughed the heart’s laugh. You have heard that, have you not, reader? “Now tell me about yourself,” he added, “and on the way to Five Forks! I see you are tired and hungry. Come! they have the easiest chairs yonder, and are the soul of hospitality!”

The offer was tempting. Why not accept it? My hesitation lasted exactly three seconds.

At the end of that time, I was riding beside Mohun in the direction of Five Forks, which we reached just as I terminated my account of myself since Mohun and I had parted in the Wilderness.

XVI.

“FIVE FORKS.”

“Five Forks” was an old mansion not far from the place of the same name, now become historical. It was a building of large size; the grounds were extensive, and had been elegant; the house had evidently been the home of a long line of gentlemen, whose portraits, flanked by those of their fair helpmates, adorned the walls of the great drawing-room, between the lofty windows. In the hall stood a tall bookcase, filled with law books, and volumes of miscellany. From the woodwork hung pictures of racehorses, and old engravings. Such was the establishment which the Federal cavalry had visited, leaving, as always, their traces, in broken furniture, smashed crockery, and trampled grounds.

I shall not pause to describe my brief visit to this hospitable house. The young ladies had returned from Richmond some time before, escorted by the gray-haired Juba, that faithful old African retainer; and, as a result of the evenings which I had spent with them and their father, I had the honor to be received in the character of an old friend.

Ten minutes after my arrival I saw that Mohun was passionately in love with Miss Georgia; and I thought I perceived as clearly that she returned his affection. Their eyes--those tell-tales--were incessantly meeting; and Mohun followed every movement of the queenly girl with those long, fixed glances, which leave nothing in doubt.

The younger sister, Miss Virginia, received me with charming sweetness, but a secret melancholy weighed down the dusky eye-lashes. The blue eyes were sad; the very smiles on the rosy lips were sad. All was plain here, too, at a single glance. The pure girl had given her heart to the brave Willie Davenant, and some mysterious hostility of her father toward the young officer, forced them apart.

What was the origin of that hostility? Why had Judge Conway so abruptly torn his daughter away from Davenant at the ball in Culpeper--and why had that shadow passed over the old statesman’s brow when I uttered the name of the young man in Richmond?

I asked myself these questions vainly--and decided in my mind that I should probably never know.

I was mistaken. I was going to know before midnight.

After an excellent supper, over which Miss Georgia presided with stately dignity--for she, too, had changed, in as marked a degree as Mohun,--I rose, declared I must return to Petersburg, and bade the young ladies, who cordially pressed me to remain, good-night.

Mohun declared that he would remain an hour longer--and having promised a visit soon, at his camp on the Rowanty, I mounted my horse, and set out, through the darkness, for Petersburg.

XVII.

GENERAL DAVENANT.

Following the White Oak road, I passed Hatcher’s Run at Burgess’s mill, and went on over the Boydton road, reflecting upon the scene I had just left.

All at once my horse placed his foot upon a sharp root in the road, stumbled, nearly fell, and when I touched him with the spur I found that he limped painfully.

Dismounting, I examined his foot. The sharp point had entered it, and it was bleeding profusely. The accident was unfortunate--and, attempting to ride on, I found the hurt worse than I had expected. My gray staggered on as if the limb were broken.

I dismounted once more, led him slowly by the bridle, and continued my way on foot. A quarter of a mile farther, the animal was in such agony that I looked around for some light, by which to examine the hurt more fully.

On the right, a glimmer was seen through the trees. I made straight toward it, through the woods, and soon found myself near a group of tents, one of which was lit up.

“Whose head-quarters are these?” I asked of a man on post, near.

“Mine, my dear colonel,” said a voice in the darkness near. “My candle yonder is hospitable and enables me to recognize you.”

With which words the figure advanced into the light, and I recognized the tall and stately form of General Davenant.

He gave me his hand cordially, and I explained my dilemma. “You are unfortunate, but fortunate, too,” said Davenant, “as I have a man among my couriers who knows all about horses. I will send yours to him; meanwhile come into my tent.”

And intrusting my horse to the orderly with some brief directions, the general led the way into his head-quarters tent.

A cheerful fire burned in the rude log-built chimney. On one side were a plain desk and two camp-stools; on the other a rough couch of pine logs, filled with straw, and spread with blankets. Upon the blankets a boy of about fourteen was sound asleep, the light auburn curls tossed in disorder over the rosy young face. At a glance I recognized the youth who had entered the ranks at Gettysburg, taken part in Pickett’s charge, and been borne out through the smoke, wounded and bleeding, in the arms of his father. The young Charley had evidently recovered, and was as ruddy as before. His little braided jacket was as jaunty, his face as smiling, as on that evening near Paris.

An hour afterward, General Davenant and myself were conversing like old friends. We were by no means strangers, as I had repeatedly been thrown with him in the army, and my intimacy with Will doubtless commended me to the brave soldier’s regard. An accident now seemed about to make us still better acquainted. The orderly had reported that it would be impossible to proceed farther with my horse that night, and I had accepted the invitation of General Davenant to remain with him until morning.

“My brigade is holding the right of the army, colonel,” he had said; “we have just moved to this position, and have not had time to become very comfortable. But I can offer you a tolerable supper and a camp-bed after it, with a warm welcome, I assure you.”

I declined the supper, but accepted the bed; and seated opposite the grizzled old cavalier, in his gray uniform, had begun to converse.

Something about the stately general of infantry, drew me irresistibly toward him. His bearing was lofty, and not without a species of hauteur; but under all was an exquisite high-breeding and courtesy, which made his society quite charming.

At some words of mine, however, in reference to my visit on this day to his son, a decided expression of gloom had obscured the smiles of the old soldier.

“Yes, colonel,” he said, with something like a sigh, “Willie has lost his good spirits, and has been much depressed for more than a year. You are his friend--you share his confidence--you doubtless know the origin of this depression.”

“I do, general; a very common cause of trouble to young men--a young lady.”

“A young lady,” repeated General Davenant, in the same gloomy tone. “He has committed the imprudence of falling in love, as the phrase is, with--Miss Conway.”

He paused before the words “Miss Conway,” and uttered them with evident repugnance. They issued from his lips, indeed, with a species of jerk; and he seemed glad to get rid of them, if I may so express myself.

“I can talk of this affair with you, colonel,” he added, gloomily, “for Will has told me of your regard for him.”

I bowed, and said:--

“You are not wrong in supposing that I am one of your son’s best friends, general. I was long in the cavalry with him--there is no more heroic soldier in the army--and it has given me sincere sorrow to see him laboring under such melancholy.”

General Davenant, with his hand covering his brow, listened in silence.

“I have not inquired the origin of this depression,” I added--“that would have been indiscreet--though I know Will would tell me. I guessed it, however, and I have visited the young lady at her house to-night. I will certainly use my utmost exertions to remove all obstacles.”

General Davenant suddenly rose erect. His eye was flashing.

“I beg you will not, colonel!” he exclaimed. “The barrier between himself and--Miss Conway--can never be removed.”

I looked at the speaker’s flushed face with positive wonder, and replied:--

“You astonish me, general! Are there any such obstacles in life?”

“There are!”

I made no reply.

“There are, colonel,” repeated the now fiery old soldier. “Judge Conway has been guilty of a gross wrong to me. No son of mine shall ever form an alliance with his family!”

I looked up with deep astonishment.

“This is a very great surprise to me, my dear general,” I said; “I thought, from many things, that it was Judge Conway who opposed this alliance; and from the belief that _you_ had done _him_ some great wrong.”

General Davenant had taken his seat again, after his outburst. Once more his forehead was covered with his hand. For some moments he preserved a silence so profound, that nothing disturbed the night but the long breathing of the sleeping boy, and the measured tramp of the sentinel.

Then, all at once, the general raised his head. His expression was no longer fiery--it was unutterably sad.

“I have been reflecting, colonel,” he said gravely, “and, in these few minutes, have come to a somewhat singular determination.”

“What is that, general?”

“To tell you why _my_ son can never marry the daughter of Judge Conway!”

XVIII.

TWO MEN AND A WOMAN.

General Davenant leaned his elbow on the desk, rested his forehead in his hand, and said in a deep, measured voice:--

“My story need not be a long one, colonel. Those who relate gay adventures and joyous experiences, indulge in endless details--memory is charming to them at such moments--they go back to the past, with a smile on the lips, recalling every little detail, every color of the bright picture.

“My own narrative will be brief, because it is a gloomy one. It is far from pleasant to return to the scenes I propose to describe. I only do so to erase a stigma which seems to attach to my family and myself; to show you that, in spite of Judge Conway, I deserve your good opinion. Assuredly I do not propose any pleasure to myself in relating these events. Alas! one of the bitterest things to a proud man--and I am proud--is to even seem to defend his good name from imputed dishonor!”

Knitting his brows as he spoke, the old soldier looked gloomily into the blaze before us. In a moment, he went on:--

“I was born in the county of Dinwiddie, colonel, where my family had lived from the time of the first settlement of Virginia. My father was a large landholder, and his most intimate friend was Mr. Conway, the father of the present judge. The family friendship was inherited by the young people of the two families--and my two most intimate friends were George and William Conway. One is dead, the other is Judge William Conway, member of Congress. We had played together as children, been companions at school. When our fathers died, and we in turn became the representatives of the two families, our friendship became even more close. I was half my time at ‘Five Forks’--they paid long visits to me at ‘The Pines’--we hunted together, went to entertainments together, drank wine together, and were inseparable.

“George was especially my favorite. He was the soul of amiability; everybody loved him; and I entertained for him the most tender friendship. His brother William was equally estimable, but did not attract you as strongly. Although a person of the highest sense of honor, and universally respected for talents of the first order, he was irascible, bitter, and, when once aroused, allowed nothing to restrain him. At such moments his best friends avoided him, for he was dangerous. He brooked no opposition. His anger was like a consuming fire; and a friendship which he had formed with that gentleman of splendid powers, but venomous antipathies, John Randolph of Roanoke, served still more to encourage him in the indulgence of the natural acerbity of his disposition. More than once, I have seen him almost foam at the mouth as he denounced some political adversary from the stump, and when one of these fits of passion seized him, he became as ungovernable as a wild animal. You can scarcely realize that, now. Sorrow has chastened him; trouble has softened him; I have nothing to say against the Judge William Conway of to-day. He is a self-sacrificing patriot, a gentleman of irreproachable courtesy, and sweetness of character; but, as a young man, he was a firebrand, and I think the fire is still unquenched beneath the gray hairs of the man of seventy.

“Such were George and William Conway, when I knew them as young men--the one mild, amiable, the soul of kindness and good-nature; the other proud, honorable, but subject to fits of stormy passion, which made all avoid him when the paroxysm was upon him.

“From this hasty description, you will understand why George was a greater favorite with me than his brother. Our friendship was, indeed, as close and tender as possible, and we passed our majority and approached the age of twenty-five, without ever having had a moment’s interruption of our intimacy.

“Then, all at once, there appeared upon the stage, that cause of so much happiness, woe, joy, grief, to mankind--a woman. To make a long story short, George Conway and myself were so unfortunate as to become attached to the same young lady, and very soon this sentiment amounted, both on his part and on my own, to a wild and consuming passion. The young lady--it is unnecessary to mention her name--was a person of rare beauty, and mistress of all the wiles which bring young men to the feet of women. She used these unsparingly, too, for nothing delighted her so much as to attract admiration and inspire love. Perceiving the effect which her grace and loveliness had produced upon myself and George, she made every exertion to increase our infatuation--encouraged first one, then the other; and, in the end, succeeded in breaking those close ties of friendship which had bound us from the time when we had played together as children.

“That is a sad confession, colonel, but it is the truth. The bright eyes and smiles of a girl had terminated a life-long friendship. The mere love of admiration in the heart of a young girl had interrupted the affection of years--making George and myself cold and _distrait_ toward each other. Soon things became still worse. From friends we had become mere acquaintances--from acquaintances we became strangers, and finally foes. Busy-bodies whispered, tale-bearers blew the flames. If the young lady smiled on me at a party where George was present, the good people around us looked at _him_ with satirical meaning. If she smiled on George, their eyes were turned toward me, and they giggled and whispered.

“That is all tedious--is it not? An old story, which every country neighborhood knows. You laugh, perhaps, at hearing it told of A and B,--but you do not laugh when you are one of the actors. Well, not to lengthen my history unduly, an open rivalry and enmity at last arose between myself and poor George. We had been spurred on to hate each other, and narrowly escaped having an ‘affair’ together--appealing to the pistol as the arbiter.

“It never came to that, however. I saw, ere long, that the young lady had made up her mind. George was in every way a more attractive and lovable person than myself; and after drawing me on, encouraging me, and inducing me to offer her my hand, she turned her back on me, and married George!

“Such was the result of the campaign. George had won,--and I am obliged to say that I hated him cordially. I should never have done so, from the simple fact of his success. I am not so ignoble as that, my dear colonel. Bitter as was my disappointment, I could have bowed to the fiat--pardoned the young lady--and offered my hand to dear George; but there were our ‘friends,’ the busy-bodies and talebearers. They were unresting in their exertions--took the whole affair under their personal supervision, and invented a hundred fables to sting and arouse me. You would have said that they were bloody minded--the busy-bodies--and bent on trouble; that their aim was to profoundly enrage me, and cause bloodshed. George had laughed at me, they said; never had had a moment’s doubt of the young lady’s sentiments; had often jested about me, and expressed his pity for my ‘silly presumption;’ had even amused himself and the young lady, by mimicking my peculiarities, and raising a laugh at my expense.

“These reports were persistently and regularly repeated for my information: I was baited, and worried, and driven nearly mad by them--finally a duel nearly resulted; but that last step was not taken. I simply made my bow to the happy pair, left them without a word, and returned home, determined to drop the whole matter--but none the less enraged and embittered.

“From that moment George and myself rarely met, and never as friends. I had been brought to hate him--he knew the fact--and although he was innocent of all wrong to me, as I know to-day, made no effort to win my regard again. He was as proud as myself--he said nothing--and our paths here separated forever.

“Such is the necessary introduction, colonel,” said General Davenant, “to the events which I propose to relate.”

XIX.

THE MURDER.

“More than twenty years had passed,” continued General Davenant, “when that old hatred which had been aroused in me, toward George Conway, produced bitter fruits.

“I was to be taught by a terrible experience that hatred is a deadly sin; that God punishes it more severely than all other sins, for it is the poison which turns the whole heart to bitterness. I had indulged it--made no effort to banish it--nourished it like a snake in the recesses of my breast, and now God decreed, as a punishment, that the snake should turn and sting me.

“To go back for a moment, however. George had married--a year afterward I had imitated him. My wife was an angel upon earth--she is an angel in heaven now--and in comparison with the deep affection which I felt for her, the ephemeral fancy for the young lady whom my rival had married, appeared the veriest trifle. William Conway had also married, and he and George, with their wives, were living at Five Forks. William was judge of the circuit--George managed the estate--and their affection for each other, at this period of their mature manhood, was said to exceed that of their youth.

“‘Was said to,’ I say, colonel; for I never saw either of them. All intercourse between “The Pines” and “Five Forks” had ceased twenty years before; and George and William Conway were as much strangers to me, as if we lived in opposite quarters of the globe; for time had not changed--or rather restored--the _entente cordial_ of the past. On the contrary, the feud had become chronic--the gulf separating us had grown deeper. When I met either of the brothers, we exchanged no greetings--passed without looking at each other--and the ‘family feud’ between the Davenants and the Conways was not even alluded to; it had become an old story, and lost its interest.

“Such was the condition of things--such the attitude which I occupied toward the two brothers--when the event, which I am about to relate, took place. The event in question was tragic and terrible. It came without warning, to shock the entire surrounding country. One night, on his return from the county seat, whither he was said to have gone upon some matter of business, George Conway was murdered, and his body concealed in some bushes by the roadside.

“The body was not discovered until the morning succeeding the murder. His riderless horse was then seen standing at the door of the stable at Five Forks, and in great terror. Judge Conway set out rapidly to look for his brother, who was supposed to have met with some accident. Two or three neighbors, whom he chanced to meet, joined in the search; the body was discovered; and, on examination, revealed a deep gash in the region of the heart, apparently inflicted by a dagger or a knife.

“The blow had evidently been mortal--no other hurt was visible. George Conway seemed to have been waylaid by some unknown person, and murdered on his return from the court-house.

“It was impossible to divine the perpetrator of the crime, or form any idea of his motive. Upon the person of the murdered man a large sum of money, which he had received that day, was discovered. He had not been waylaid, thus, by one designing to rob him; and his peaceful and amiable character excluded the hypothesis that he had aroused such enmity as could have led to the bloody deed. The whole affair was a profound mystery--no clue could be discovered to the perpetrator, or the motive of the crime--and the body was borne to “Five Forks,” where it was laid in state to await burial on the next day.

“Judge Conway, it was said, had nearly lost his reason at this sudden and terrible blow. He had loved his brother with extraordinary affection; and the event struck him like a thunderbolt. His stupor of grief was succeeded by rage. He fell into one of his paroxysms. With flushed face, bloodshot eyes, and mouth foaming with a species of fury, he mounted his horse, went at full speed to the court-house, made inquiries of everybody who had seen his brother, asked with whom he had last been seen, and left no stone unturned to ferret out the author of the crime.

“Meanwhile, the whole county was discussing, with awe-struck eyes, the extraordinary event. Who could have perpetrated the act? Who could have waylaid and murdered a man so universally popular? Who was safe, if such a state of things could exist in a peaceful community,--if a good citizen could not ride to see a neighbor, or to the county seat, without danger of being murdered?

“Grief, indignation, horror, were the universal sentiments. Some one must be discovered upon whom to lay the crime. And that some one was the individual before you, colonel!”

XX.

THE KNIFE.

“Let me continue, I beg,” continued General Davenant, gloomily. “Your look of astonishment is quite natural; you feel the indignation of a gentleman at my words; but allow me to go on with my narrative.

“Poor George Conway was buried on the day after the discovery of his body, and an immense concourse accompanied him to his grave. The funeral procession was a mile long, for the notoriety attached to the event had drawn people from far and near; and when the body reached the grave-yard, the crowd nearly filled the small enclosure.

“I was present in my carriage with my wife, and my son Charles yonder, then a child in arms. You will understand, colonel, that I had not the heart to be absent. I had long ceased to feel a sentiment of any great regard for the Conways; but at the intelligence of George’s sudden death, all my old friendship had revived--the old kindly feeling came back; pity banished all enmity. I thought of his former love for me, and I determined to do all that remained in my power to show my sympathy--attend his funeral among those who mourned him.

“Well, the body was borne to the grave, the service read, and the remains of the unfortunate gentleman deposited in their last resting-place. Then the clods rattled on the coffin, the service ended, and George Conway had passed away from all eyes.

“I looked at his poor wife and brother with tears in my eyes. All my enmity was gone--my memory went back to the old scenes; at that instant I could have reached out my arms, and drawn the bereaved brother to my heart, mingling my tears with his own.

“All at once, however, I looked at Judge Conway with astonishment. I had expected to see him overwhelmed with grief--but as he now raised his head, and turned in the direction of the spot where I was standing, I saw that his features were convulsed with wrath. His cheeks were crimson, his teeth clenched, his eyes injected with blood. Suddenly these bloodshot eyes met my own--the cheeks a moment before so red, grew pale--and exclaiming, ‘It is you who murdered my brother!’ he threw himself upon me with the fury of a wild animal, and his fingers were nearly buried in my throat.

“The assault was so sudden and terrible that I staggered back, and nearly fell over the grave.

“Then regaining my self-possession, I caught Judge Conway by the throat in turn, hurled him from me, and stood confronting him, pale, panting, my throat bleeding--and resolved if he attacked me again to put him to death with the first weapon upon which I could lay my hand.

“He was, meanwhile, struggling in the hands of his friends, who, by main force, held him back.

“‘Let me go!’ he shouted, foaming at the mouth with rage--‘that man murdered my brother! I will take the law into my own hands! he shall not leave this spot alive! He dares to come here in the presence of the dead body of George Conway--and he is his murderer!’

“These words were rather howled than uttered. The speaker seemed to have lost his reason, from pure excess of rage. If his friends had not restrained him by main force, he would have thrown himself upon me a second time, when one of us would have lost his life, colonel, for I was now as violently enraged as himself.

“That _I_ should be thus publicly branded with the basest crime! that the representative of the old and honorable house of the Davenants, should be thus grossly insulted, his person assailed, his good name torn from him--that he should be denounced thus in the presence of all as a felon and murderer!

“‘You are insane, sir!’ I at length said, struggling to regain my coolness. ‘Your grief has affected your brain! I can pardon much in you today, sir, but beware how you again attempt to degrade me!’

“‘Hear him!’ was the hoarse and furious reply of Judge Conway; and reaching out his thin fingers, a habit he had caught from Mr. Randolph--he pointed at me where I stood.

“‘Hear him! He affects innocence! He is outraged! He is indignant! And yet he waylaid my brother, whom he has hated for twenty years--he waylaid him like an assassin, and murdered him! There is the proof!’

“And drawing from his pocket a knife, covered with clotted blood, he threw it upon the grave before all eyes.

“Good God! It was my own!”

XXI.

THE CHAIN OF EVIDENCE.

“At the sight of that terrible object” continued General Davenant, “I staggered back, and nearly fell. I could not believe my eyes--never thought of denying the ownership of the fearful witness,--I could only gaze at it, with a wild horror creeping over me, and then all these terrible emotions were too much for me.

“I took two steps toward the grave, reached out with a shudder to grasp the knife whose clots of blood seemed to burn themselves into my brain--then vertigo seized me, and letting my head fall, I fainted.

“When I regained my senses, I was in my carriage, supported by the arms of my wife, and rolling up the avenue to my own house.

“Opposite me, in the carriage, little Charley, who, dimly realized apparently that some trouble had come to me, was crying bitterly, and a rough personage was endeavoring to quiet his sobbing.

“The personage in question was a constable. When I fainted at the grave, my friends had caught me in their arms--protested with burning indignation that the charge against me was a base calumny--and the magistrate who was summoned by Judge Conway to arrest me, had declined to do more than direct a constable to escort me home, and see that I did not attempt to escape.

“That was kind. I was a murderer, and my proper place a jail. Why should _I_ be more favored than some poor common man charged with that crime? Had such a person been confronted with such a charge, supported by such damning evidence as the bloody knife, would any ceremony have been observed? ‘To jail!’ all would have cried, ‘No bail for the murderer!’ And why should the rich Mr. Davenant be treated with more consideration?

“On the day after my arrest--I spare you all the harrowing scenes, my poor wife’s agony, and every thing, colonel--on the day after, I got into my carriage, and went and demanded to be confined in jail. It was the first time a Davenant had ever been _in jail_--but I went thither without hesitation, if not without a shudder. No sooner had I taken this step than the whole country seemed to have left their homes to visit me in my prison. On the evening of the scene at the grave, twenty persons had called at the ‘Pines,’ to express their sympathy and indignation at the charge against me. Now, when the iron door of the law had closed upon me, and I was a real prisoner, the visitors came in throngs without number. One and all, they treated the charge as the mere result of Judge Conway’s fury--some laughed at, others denounced it as an attempt to entrap and destroy me--all were certain that an investigation would at once demonstrate my innocence, and restore me to liberty and honor.

“Alas! I could only thank my friends, and reply that I hoped that such would be the result. But when they had left me alone, I fell into fits of the deepest dejection.

“What proofs could I give that I was innocent? There was a terrible array of circumstances, on the contrary, to support the hypothesis of my guilt--much more than I have mentioned, colonel. I had visited the courthouse on the same day with poor George Conway, and for the first time in twenty years had exchanged words with him. And the words were unfriendly. We had both been in the clerk’s office of the county, when that gentleman asked me some common-place question--in what year such a person had died, and his will had been recorded, I think. I replied, mentioning a year. The clerk shook his head, declaring that it must have been later, and appealed to poor George Conway, who agreed with him, adding, ‘Mr. Davenant is certainly in the wrong.’ I was much annoyed that day--made some curt reply--poor George made a similar rejoinder, and some harsh, almost insulting words, passed between us. The affair went no further, however. I left the clerk’s office, and having attended to the business which brought me, left the court-house about dusk. As I mounted my horse, I saw poor George Conway riding out of the place. I followed slowly, not wishing to come up with him, turning into a by-road which led toward my own house--and knew nothing of the murder until it was bruited abroad on the next day.

“That is much like the special pleading of a criminal--is it not, colonel? If I had really murdered the poor man, would not this be my method of explaining every thing? You see, I do not deny what several witnesses could prove; the fact that I quarreled with Conway, came to high words, uttered insults, exhibited anger, followed him from the court-house at dusk--I acknowledge all that, but add, that I struck into a by-road and went home! That sounds suspicious, I assure you, even to myself, to-day. Imagine the effect it promised to have then, when I was a man charged with murder--who would naturally try to frame such a statement as would clear him--and when a large portion of the community were excited and indignant at the murder.

“Such had been the truly unfortunate scene in the clerk’s office,--the fatality which made me follow the man going to his death, and my known enmity of long standing, supported the hypothesis of my guilt. There was another, and even more fatal circumstance still,--the discovery of the knife with which George Conway had been slain. That knife was my own; it was one of peculiar shape, with a handle of tortoise-shell, and I had often used it in presence of my friends and others. A dozen persons could make oath to it as my property; but it was not needed; the scene at the grave made that useless. I evidently did not deny the ownership of the weapon which had been used in the commission of the murder. At the very sight of it, on the contrary, in the hands of the brother of my victim, I had turned pale and fainted!

“This was the condition of things when the special term of the court, held expressly to try me, commenced at Dinwiddie.”

XXII.

THE TRIAL.

“A great crowd assembled on the day of the trial. Judge Conway had vacated the bench, as personally interested, and the judge from a neighboring circuit had taken his place.

“Below the seat of the judge sat the jury. Outside the railing, the spectators were crowded so closely that it was with difficulty the sheriff made a passage for my entrance.

“To one resolution I had adhered in spite of the remonstrances of all my friends,--to employ no counsel. In this determination nothing could shake me. A disdainful pride sustained me, mingled with bitter obstinacy. If I, the representative of one of the oldest and most honorable families in the county of Dinwiddie was to be branded as a murderer,--if my past life, my family and personal character, did not refute the charge,--if I was to be dragged to death on suspicion, gibbeted as a murderer, because some felon had stolen my pocket-knife, and committed a crime with it,--then I would go to my death unmoved. I would disdain to frame explanations; let the law murder _me_ if it would; no glib counsel should save my life by technicalities; I would be vindicated by God and my past life, or would die.

“Such was my state of mind, and such the origin of my refusal to employ counsel. When the court now assigned me counsel, I rose and forbade them to appear for me. In the midst of a stormy scene, and with the prosecuting attorney sitting dumb in his chair, resolved to take no part in the trial, the witnesses appeared upon the stand, and, rather by sufferance than the judge’s consent, the jury proceeded to interrogate them.

“The circumstances which I have detailed to you were all proved in the clearest manner; the altercation in the clerk’s office on the day of the murder; my long enmity against him, dating back more than twenty years; the fact that I had followed him out of the village just at dusk on the fatal night; and the discovery of my knife in the tall grass by the roadside near the body.

“I had summoned no witnesses, but some appeared of their own accord, and gave important testimony. Many neighbors testified that my enmity toward George Conway had almost entirely disappeared in the lapse of years, and that I had spoken of him, upon more than one occasion, with great kindness. The clerk of the county described the scene in his office, stating that the affair had appeared to him a mere interchange of curt words, without exhibition of the least malice on my part. The most important witness, however, was a poor man, living in the neighborhood, who made oath that he had been riding toward the court-house on the evening of the murder; had passed Mr. Conway, and, riding on farther, came in sight of me, and he had, before reaching me, seen me turn into the by-road which led toward my own residence. I could not have committed the murder, he added, for Mr. Conway had time to pass the spot where his body was found before I could have ridden back to the highroad and caught up with him.

“Unfortunately, the witness who gave this testimony bore a very indifferent character, and I could see that more than one of the jurors suspected that he was perjuring himself.

“Another ugly-looking circumstance also intervened to neutralize the favorable impression thus made. From the irregular mode of proceeding, the fatal knife had not been exhibited in court. Suddenly, a juror called for it, and it could nowhere be found! The sheriff swore that he had left it in the clerk’s office, where he supposed it to be entirely safe. Upon searching for it, however, in the drawer where he had deposited it, the weapon was missing.

“When that fact was stated, I saw a curious expression pass over the faces of more than one of the jury. They evidently suspected foul play.

“‘Was the door of the office locked?’ asked one of them.

“‘Yes, sir,’ was the reply.

“‘Were the windows secured?’

“‘By shutters with bolts.’

“‘Are all the bolts on the windows of this building firm?’

“‘I think so, sir.’

“‘There is one, that is not!’ said the juror.

“And he pointed to a long iron bolt on one of the windows, which bore evident traces of having been rent from its socket.

“The sheriff looked in amazement in the direction indicated.

“‘You are right, sir!’ he said; ‘some one has entered the court-house by breaking open the shutter, and stolen that knife from the clerk’s office, which is never locked.’

“A meaning silence followed the words. It was not difficult to understand it. The jury looked at each other, and in their glances I could read this--‘Mr. Davenant is on trial for his life. He or his friends suborn testimony to prove an alibi on the night of the murder, and not content with that, they hire a burglar to enter the court-house and steal the knife which proves his connection with the deed--that it may not appear in evidence against him.’

“The evidence closed. I had not uttered a word. I had sworn in my heart that I would not stir a finger in the matter--but now, stung beyond endurance, I rose and addressed the jury in impassioned words. ‘Their verdict,’ I told them, ‘was of little importance if I was to lose the respect of my fellow-citizens. I had made no effort to shape their decision, but now on the brink, it might be of a felon’s grave, I would utter my dying words. I would confine myself to protesting before God, and on my honor, that I had long since forgiven George Conway the wrongs done me--that the scene on the day of his murder was the result of momentary irritability, caused by business annoyances, and not malice--that I had forgotten it in an hour--returned directly to my own house--and only heard of the murder on the day after its commission. As to the knife--I had been suspected if not charged with having had the weapon stolen. Well! my answer to that was to declare that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, _the murder was committed with my own knife!_ More than that. A witness had sworn that he saw me turn into the road to my own residence, at such a distance behind George Conway that I could not have rejoined him before he had passed the fatal spot. The witness was mistaken. There was time. _By riding across the angle through the thicket, I could easily have rejoined him_!

“‘And now, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘I have done. I have left you no ground to charge me with suborning testimony--with having the evidence of my crime stolen--with plotting in darkness, to hide my crime and blind your eyes in determining my guilt or innocence. That knife was mine, I repeat. It was possible for me to rejoin Mr. Conway, and do him to death by a blow with it. Now, retire, gentlemen! Bring in your verdict! Thank God! no taint of real dishonor will rest upon a Davenant, and I can appear before my Maker as I stand here to-day--innocent!’

“Ten minutes afterward the jury had retired, with every mark of agitation upon their faces. The great concourse of spectators seemed moved almost beyond control.

“Suddenly the crowd opened, I saw my wife hastening through the space thus made--a living wall on each side--and in an instant she had thrown herself into my arms, with a low cry which brought tears to the roughest faces of the auditory. I placed my arm around her, remonstrated with her for this ill-advised proceeding, and was trying to soothe her, when she hastily gave me a letter. A strange man had brought it an hour before, she said--it was marked ‘In haste--this will save Mr. Davenant’s life.’ She had mounted her riding horse, and brought it at full speed in person, without waiting to question the stranger, who had at once disappeared.

“I opened the letter--glanced at its contents--at the same instant the jury made their appearance--and the clerk said:--

“‘Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?’

“‘We have, sir,’ said the foreman.

“‘What is it?’

“‘Not guilty!’

“The court-house rang with applause. The crowd rushed toward me to shake me by the hand and congratulate me. Suddenly, in the midst of the tumult, I heard the furious words:--

“‘Murderer! you have escaped, but I brand you before God and man as the murderer of my brother!’

“It was Judge Conway, who, mounted upon a bench, with glaring eyes, foaming lips, teeth clenched, in a wild fury, shook his arm at me, and denounced me as a convict before God, if not before man.”

XXIII.

WHAT THE LETTER CONTAINED.

General Davenant was silent for a moment. The deep voice, so long resounding in my ears, made the silence oppressive.

“Now you know, my dear colonel,” he suddenly added, “why my son can not form an alliance with a daughter of Judge Conway.”

I bowed my head. The whole mystery was patent before me.

“The family opposition is mutual,” said General Davenant, with a proud smile; “he objects because he believes that I murdered his brother--and I object because he believes it! He insulted me, outraged me--at the grave, in the court-house, in public, as in private; and I could not think of beseeching his honor to give his consent to the marriage of his daughter with the son of an ‘escaped murderer.’”

The old soldier uttered these words with gloomy bitterness; but in a moment he had regained his coolness.

“That was the end of the affair,” he said. “I went home, accompanied by a _cortége_ of friends who seemed never weary of congratulating me; and on the next day, I wrote a mortal defiance to Judge Conway, which I placed in the hands of a friend to convey to him. An hour afterward, I had mounted my horse, ridden rapidly, caught up with this friend on his way to Five Forks, and had taken from him the challenge, which I tore to pieces. You will probably comprehend the motive which compelled me to do this. It was not repugnance to the modern form of single combat, I am sorry to say. Old as I was, I had still the ancient hallucination on that subject. I did not then know that duels were mere comedies--child’s play; that one infantry skirmish results in the shedding of more blood than all the affairs of a generation. The motive that induced me to withdraw my challenge, was one which you will probably understand. The pale face of the dead George Conway had risen up before me--I knew his brother’s deep love for him--that he regarded me as the dead man’s murderer; and I no longer writhed under that public insult in the court-house, or, at least controlled myself. ‘Let him go on his way, poor, stricken heart!’ I said with deep pity; ‘I forgive him, and will not avenge that affront to me!’

“Such is my history, colonel. It is sad, you see. I have related it to explain what has come to your knowledge--the bitter hostility which Judge Conway indulges toward me, and his frowns at the very name of Davenant. These events occurred more than ten years ago. During all that time, he has been laboring under the belief that I am really guilty of his brother’s blood. See where my ‘high pride’ has conducted me,” said General Davenant, with a smile of inexpressible melancholy and bitterness. “I was proud and disdainful on the day of my trial--I would not use the common weapons of defence--I risked my life by refusing counsel, and acknowledging the ownership of that knife. Pride, hauteur, a sort of disdain at refuting a charge of base dishonor--that was my sentiment then, and I remain as haughty to-day! I am a Davenant--I was found ‘not guilty’--why go and tell Judge Conway the contents of that letter received in the court-house?”

“The contents of the letter, general?”

“Yes, colonel.”

“What did it contain?--I beg you to tell me!”

“The confession of the murderer of George Conway!”

XXIV.

“BLOOD.”

General Davenant had scarcely uttered the words which I have just recorded, when rapid firing was heard in the woods, a quarter of a mile from his head-quarters; and a moment afterward a courier came at a gallop, bearing a dispatch.

“My horse!” came in the brief tone of command.

And General Davenant tore open the dispatch, which he read attentively.

“The enemy are advancing to attack me,” he said; “this note was written ten minutes since. The attack has commenced. Will you go and see it, colonel?”

“Willingly.”

General Davenant ordered another horse, as my own was useless; we mounted and rode at full speed through the woods; in five minutes we were at the scene of action.

A heavy assault was in progress. The enemy had massed a large force in front of the hastily erected earth-works, and were endeavoring, by a determined charge, to carry them.

General Davenant was everywhere amid the fight, the guiding and directing head, and beside him I saw distinctly in the starlight, the brave figure of little Charley, who had started from his couch, buckled on a huge sword, and was now galloping to and fro, cheering on the men as gallantly as his father. It was an inspiring sight to see that child in his little braided jacket, with his jaunty cap balanced gallantly on his auburn curls--to see his rosy cheeks, his smiling lips, and his small hand flourishing that tremendous sabre, as he galloped gaily amid the fire.

“And yet,” I said, “there are those who will not believe in _blood_--or race!”

Fill the space which that dash occupies, my dear reader, with an abrupt “duck” of the head, as a bullet went through my hat!

The charge was repulsed in twenty minutes; but the firing continued throughout the night. When it ceased, toward daybreak, and I rode back with General Davenant and Charley, who was as gay as a lark, and entertained me with reminiscences of Gettysburg, I was completely broken down with fatigue. Throwing myself upon a bed, in General Davenant’s tent, I fell asleep.

When I opened my eyes the sun was high in the heavens. I looked around for the general, he was invisible.

I rose, and at the door of the tent met Charley, with bright eyes, and cheeks like roses.

“The general has gone to corps head-quarters, colonel, and told me to present you his compliments, and beg that you will remain to breakfast.”

After which formal and somewhat pompous sentence the youthful Charley drew near, slapped me in a friendly way upon the back, and exclaimed, with dancing eyes:--

“I say, colonel! wasn’t that a jolly old he-fight we had last night?”

My reply was a laugh, and a glance of admiration at the gay boy.

I declined the invitation of General Davenant, as I had to return. My horse was brought, and I found his foot much easier. In half an hour I was on the road to Petersburg.

XXV.

THE BLUE SERPENT.

Once back at the “Cedars,” I reflected deeply upon the history which I had heard from the lips of General Davenant.

I shall refrain, however, from recording these reflections. If the reader will cast his eyes back over the pages of these memoirs, he will perceive that I have confined myself generally to the simple narration of events--seldom pausing to offer my own comments upon the scenes passing before me. Were I to do so, what an enormous volume I should write, and how the reader would be bored! Now, to bore a reader, is, in my eyes, one of the greatest crimes of which an author can be guilty. It is the unpardonable sin, indeed, in a writer. For which reason, and acting upon the theory that a drama ought to explain itself and be its own commentator, I spare the worthy reader of these pages all those reflections which I indulged in, after hearing General Davenant’s singular narrative.

“Pride! pride!” I muttered, rising at the end of an hour. “I think I can understand that--exceptional as is this instance; but I wish I had heard who was the ‘real murderer’ of George Conway!”

Having thus dismissed the subject, I set about drawing up my official report, and this charmingly common-place employment soon banished from my mind every more inviting subject!

It was nearly ten days after this my first ride into the wilds of Dinwiddie, before I again set out to look after the cavalry. The end of October was approaching. Grant had continued to hammer away along his immense line of earth-works; and day by day, step by step, he had gone on extending his left in the direction of the Southside railroad.

If the reader will keep this in view, he will understand every movement of the great adversaries. Grant had vainly attempted to carry Lee’s works by assault, or surprise,--his only hope of success now was to gradually extend his lines toward the Southside road; seize upon that great war artery which supplied life-blood to Lee’s army; and thus compel the Confederate commander to retreat or starve in his trenches. One thing was plain--that when Grant reached the Southside railroad, Lee was lost, unless he could mass his army and cut his way through the forces opposed to him. And this fact was so obvious, the situation was so apparent--that from the moment when the Weldon road was seized upon by General Grant, that officer and his great adversary never removed their eyes from the real point of importance, the true key of the lock--namely the Southside railroad, on Lee’s right.

Elsewhere Grant attacked, but it was to cover some movement, still toward his left. He assaulted Lee’s works, north of the James--but it was south of the Appomattox that he was looking. The operations of the fall and winter, on the lines around Petersburg were a great series of marches and counter-marches to and fro, suddenly bursting into battles. Grant massed his army heavily in front of the works in Charles City opposite the left of Lee; attempted to draw in that direction his adversary’s main force; then suddenly the blue lines vanished; they were rushed by railroad toward Petersburg, and Grant hastened to thrust his columns still farther beyond Lee’s right, in order to turn it and seize the Southside road.

That was not the conception of a great soldier, it may be, reader; but it was ingenious. General Grant was not a man of great military brain--but he was patient, watchful, and persevering. To defeat Lee, what was wanted was genius, or obstinacy--Napoleon or Grant. In the long run, perseverance was going to achieve the results of genius. The tortoise was going to reach the same goal with the hare. It was a question of time--that was all.

So, throughout October, as throughout September, and August, and July, General Grant thundered everywhere along his forty miles of earth-works, but his object was to raise a smoke dense enough to hide the blue columns moving westward. “Hurrah! we have got Fort Harrison!” exclaimed his enthusiastic subordinates. Grant would much rather have heard, “We have got the White Oak road!” Fort Harrison was a strong out-post simply; the White Oak road was the postern door into the citadel.

Gradually moving thus, from the Jerusalem plank road to the Weldon railroad, from the Weldon railroad to the Squirrel Level road, from the Squirrel Level road toward the Boydton road, beyond which was the White Oak road, Grant came, toward the end of October, to the banks of the Rowanty. As this long blue serpent unfolded its coils and stretched its threatening head into the Dinwiddie woods, Lee had extended his right to confront it. The great opponents moved _pari passu_, each marching in face of each other. Like two trained and skillful swordsmen, they changed ground without moving their eyes from each others’ faces--the lunge was met by the parry; and this seemed destined to go on to infinity.

That was the unskilled opinion, however. The civilians thought that--Lee did not. It was plain that this must end somewhere. Lee’s line would not bear much further extension. It reached now from a point on the Williamsburg road, east of Richmond, to Burgess’s Mill, west of Petersburg. His forty thousand men were strung over forty miles. That made the line so thin that it would bear little more. Stretched a little farther still, and it would snap.

Lee called in vain for more men. The Government could not send them. He predicted the result of failure to receive them. They did not come.

And Grant continued to move on, and Lee continued to stretch his thin line, until it began to crack.

Such was the situation of affairs at the end of October--when Grant aimed a heavy blow to cut the line in pieces. The blue serpent raised its head, and sprung to strike.

XXVI.

THE HOUSE NEAR MONK’S NECK, AND ITS OWNER.

Such was the critical condition of affairs when I again set out to make my regular tour of inspection of the cavalry.

Crossing Hatcher’s Run at Burgess’s Mill, I turned to the left, and soon found myself riding on between the lofty walls of pine, through which the roads of Dinwiddie wind like a serpent.

When near Monk’s Neck, I determined to stop and feed my horse. I always carried, strapped behind my saddle, a small bag containing about a feed of corn for that purpose; and as I generally selected some wayside house where I could, myself, rest while my horse was feeding, I now looked about me to discover such.

My search was speedily rewarded. Three hundred yards from the road, in a clump of stunted trees, I saw a small house, which I soon reached. The surroundings of the establishment were poor and mean beyond expression. Through the open door I could see that the interior was even more poverty-stricken than the outside.

As I dismounted, a man came to this door. Are you fond of natural history, reader; and have you ever amused yourself by instituting comparisons between certain human beings and certain animals--beasts, birds, or fishes? I have seen men who resembled horses, owls, hawks, sheep,--and geese. This one resembled the bird called the penguin. Read the description of the penguins: “Their feet are placed more posteriorly than in any other birds, and only afford them support by resting on the tarsus, which is enlarged, like the sole of the foot of a quadruped. The wings are very small, and are furnished with rudiments of feathers only, resembling scales. Their bodies are covered with oblong feathers, harsh to the touch, and closely applied over each other. * * * * * Their motions are slow and awkward, and from the form of their wings, they can not fly.”

The individual before me recalled the penguin--except that he was excessively lean instead of fat. The feet accorded with the above description; the arms were short, and hung like wings; the coat of the worthy was a ragged “cut-away,” which ended in a point behind, like the tail of a bird; and the movements of the individual were “slow and awkward” to a degree which forbade the supposition that, under any circumstances, he could be induced to fly. Add a long, crane-like neck, two bleared eyes, a mouth stretching from ear to ear, and a nose like the bill of a duck. You will then have before you the gentleman who bore, as I soon discovered, the classic name of Mr. Alibi.

When the worthy, who had flapped his arms, by way of greeting, and shown me into his mansion, informed me that such was his name, I knew that the house at which I now found myself was the place of meeting agreed upon between Nighthawk and Swartz, at their interview in Richmond. Here, also, the man and woman, rescued by Swartz on the Nottoway, had been left, on his way to Petersburg, as the spy had informed us in the Wilderness.

“Well, general,” croaked Mr. Alibi, with a smile, and in a nasal voice, “wha--a--t’s the news?”

“I am only a lieutenant-colonel, Mr. Alibi.”

“Well, colonel, any thing stirring?”

“Nothing, I think. Any news with you, Mr. Alibi? I have heard of you from a friend of yours.”

“Eh! And who mout that be, colonel?”

“Mr. Nighthawk. Have you seen him lately?”

“Na--a--a--w,” said Mr. Alibi, with a prolonged drawl through his nose, and flapping his arms in an uncouth fashion, “I ain’t seen him for a long spell now.”

“Nor Swartz, either?”

Mr. Alibi looked keenly at me.

“Na--a--a--w, nor him nuther, leftenant-colonel.”

“Leave out the ‘leftenant,’ my dear Mr. Alibi; and call me ‘colonel’--it is shorter,” I said, laughing, as I looked at the queer figure. “And so you have not seen Swartz lately? He made an appointment to meet Nighthawk here.”

“Made an app’intment, did he, leftenant--least ways, colonel?”

“Yes.”

“With Mr. Nighthawk?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I reckon they are both dead, or they’d ‘a’ kept their app’intment.”

“Nighthawk dead!”

“He must be, sartain.”

“You are mistaken, friend Alibi,” said a voice behind him.

And Nighthawk, in person, entered the house.

XXVII.

STARVATION.

Nighthawk had appeared, as was his wont, as if he had risen from the earth.

But this circumstance disappeared from my mind at once. I was looking at his face. It had completely lost its benignant expression; was pale, and bore marks of great fatigue. Something of the old clerical benignity came to the eyes as he greeted me cordially; but sitting down in the nearest chair, as though completely wearied out, he became as dispirited as before.

“And what mout be the matter with you, Mr. Nighthawk?” said Mr. Alibi: “you look ‘s if the night hags had been a-riding of you with spurs on.”

And Mr. Alibi flapped his wings, stretched out his neck, and seemed about to cackle.

“I am tired, Alibi,” said Nighthawk, briefly, “go to the spring and get me some fresh water. You needn’t come back in a hurry, as I wish to talk with Colonel Surry.”

And Mr. Nighthawk rose, and carelessly sat down near the window, through which he could reconnoitre.

The object of this movement was soon evident. Mr. Alibi took a bucket, and went out as though to seek the spring. When he had gone a few paces, however, he turned to the right and disappeared behind the house, toward the opposite window, which was open.

Nighthawk rose, went to the door, and caught Mr. Alibi eavesdropping--the result of which was that the penguin hastily moved off, muttering. In a minute he had shambled along and disappeared.

No sooner had his figure vanished than Nighthawk turned hastily toward me.

“Will you go with me to-night, colonel, on an expedition I intend to make?” he said.

“An expedition, Nighthawk?”

“A work of mercy, colonel; let us talk quickly. That man, Alibi, is a spy--for both sides--and I wish to arrange every thing before he returns.”

“Explain, Nighthawk.”

“I will, colonel. Do you remember that night in Richmond, when Swartz made an appointment to meet me at a house near Monk’s Neck?”

“Perfectly.”

“Well, this is the house,--and I expected important results from that meeting. Unfortunately, I was prevented, by some pickets who arrested me, from reaching this spot on the appointed day. I was here two days afterward, however--asked for Swartz--he had not been here--and as that was the most unaccountable thing in the world to me, I set out to find him.”

“In the enemy’s lines?”

“Yes, colonel. I had no doubt I would come across him somewhere. So I went through the country behind the Federal lines; looked everywhere for my man, have been looking ever since I left you--and at last have found him.”

“Where?”

“In the upper room of a deserted house, not three miles from this place, within the enemy’s picket line.”

“The upper room of a deserted house?”

‘“Confined--put to starve there, colonel! The work of Darke, and that she-devil who goes about with him, I am willing to swear, colonel!”

“Good heavens! Is it possible?” I said, “Swartz is shut up and left to starve?”

“Exactly, colonel--and here is how I know it. I was coming back, worn out by my long search after Swartz, when in passing this house, I came suddenly upon a picket of about fifty men. To avoid being seen, I ran, being on foot, and got behind the house. I had no sooner done so, than I heard groans from the upper part of it--and as the house was entirely uninhabited, these sounds excited my curiosity--not to say astonishment. Well, I determined to, find the origin of them. I crawled through a broken window--reached the second floor by a dusty staircase, and went straight toward a door, behind which I heard the groaning. It was heavily locked, and I could not even shake it. Then I ran to the partition between the room and the passage--found it made of boards, between the cracks of which I could see--and looking in, I saw Swartz! He was sitting on an old broken chair, beside a table with three legs, and his hand was buried in his hair, as if he was trying to tear it out.

“When I called to him, he started, and his groans stopped. He turned his head. No sooner had he recognized me than he cried out with joy; and for some moments he could say nothing but ‘Save me! save me! Nighthawk! They are starving me to death!’

“I will not lengthen out my story, colonel. I see Alibi coming back. I had scarcely exchanged ten words with Swartz, when I heard the gallop of a horse, and running to the window, saw _that woman_ get off. A second’s reflection told me that she was coming into the house; I knew that, if discovered, I would be shot or taken prisoner--and I decided on my course in a minute. I said to Swartz, ‘wait a few hours--I will go and bring you help.’ I glided through a back window, dropped to the ground, ran into the bushes--and here I am, colonel, waiting for night to come, to return and rescue Swartz.”

“Can you do so?”

“With one companion--to look out while I pick the lock.”

“Good--I’ll go with you; and provide for contingencies, too.”

I had seen a cavalryman passing along the road in front of the house, and as Mr. Alibi came in at the same moment, I sent him to hail the wayfarer, and bring him to the house. As soon as Mr. Alibi had left us on his errand, I tore a sheet from my note-book, obtained from Nighthawk an exact description of the locality where Swartz was confined, and writing a note to Mohun, informed him of our intention. If he could send a squadron of cavalry to drive in the picket near the house, it would insure the success of our design, I added.

As I finished this note, Mr. Alibi appeared with the cavalryman. He proved to belong to Mohun’s command. I entrusted the note to him, cautioning him that it was important, and must reach Mohun promptly--then I looked at my watch.

It was four o’clock. Already the sun was declining toward the wooded horizon; I looked toward it, and then at Nighthawk, who nodded.

“In an hour, colonel,” he said, “and as I am broken down, I will sleep.”

With these words, Nighthawk leaned back in his split-bottom chair, covered his face with his handkerchief, and in ten seconds his long, quiet breathing showed plainly that he was asleep.

“A cur’ous man, leftenant-colonel! a cur’ous man is Mr. Nighthawk!” said Mr. Alibi.

And he flapped his arms, and wriggled about in a manner so extraordinary that he looked more like a penguin than ever.

XXVIII.

BIRDS OF PREY.

Night came on. I left my horse at Mr. Alibi’s; set off on foot with Nighthawk; crossed the Rowanty, separating the opposing pickets, by a moss-covered log, in a shadowy nook, and was approaching the house in which Swartz was shut up.

Nighthawk moved with the stealthy and gliding step of a wildcat. I could see the man was a born scout; intended by nature for the calling he had adopted--secret service. He scarcely uttered a word; when he did, it was in tones so low that they were lost in the whisper of the wind, amid the great trailing vines depending from the trees, and I was compelled to lean my ear close to catch the words.

Fifty paces from the bank, a shadowy object on horseback was visible by the dim light.

“The vedette,” murmured Nighthawk, “but he need not see us.”

And plunging, or rather gliding into the shadow of the trees, he led the way without noise, to a point directly in rear of the vedette.

A hundred yards farther a fire twinkled; and around this fire were the dusky figures of men and horses. This was evidently the picket.

Three hundred paces to the left, rose a dark object, sombre and lugubrious against the night, which it exceeded in blackness. Only in the upper portion of the house, a dim light, like a star, glittered.

“Some one is yonder,” came from Nighthawk in a murmur as before, “let us go there, colonel.”

And crouching down until his body nearly reached the earth, my companion glided, snake-like, toward the house. I imitated him; we passed unobserved, and almost immediately were behind the house.

Nighthawk then rose erect, and said in a whisper:--

“I am going to reconnoitre. Remain here, colonel. If I think you can come up without danger, I will make you a signal through that window.”

With these words Nighthawk pointed to an open window about ten feet from the ground; glided past me through the broken sash of one beside which we were standing, and disappeared like a shadow.

I waited, holding my breath. From the upper portion of the house came the muffled sound of voices. I was endeavoring to distinguish the words uttered, when I saw Nighthawk appear at the upper window, and make me a sign.

That sign indicated that I might ascend with a reasonable amount of safety; and passing without noise through the window, I found myself in a bare and deserted apartment, with a single shutterless window opposite me. On the right was an open door. I passed through it, and found myself at the foot of a rough stairway, occupying half of a narrow passage.

Ascending, not without more than one creak, which, I must confess, sent a tingle through my nerves, I reached the upper landing, found myself in front of a closed door, and beside this door encountered the warning hand of Nighthawk.

“Look!” he said.

And drawing me toward him, he pointed through a crack in the board partition, which separated the passage from the apartment.

XXIX.

DARKE’S PAST LIFE.

Leaning on Nighthawk’s shoulder, I placed my eye at the aperture.

On a broken chair beside the three-legged table sat Darke, booted, spurred, and armed with pistol and sabre. In an old rocking-chair, without arms, the singular woman, who seemed to accompany him everywhere, sat rocking to and fro, and carelessly tapping with a small whip, the handsome gray riding-habit which defined her slender and graceful figure.

Facing them, on an old bed frame, sat the unfortunate Swartz--but I would scarcely have recognized him, if I had not known that it was he. His frame had fallen away almost to nothing. His clothes hung upon him as upon a wooden pole. His cheeks were pale, sunken; his eyes hollow; his bearing, cowed, abject, and submissive beyond expression. Let me spare the reader one horror, however. Hunger was not torturing the unfortunate man at this moment. Beside him, on the floor, lay a piece of meat, and an unfinished loaf--thus it was evident that food had been brought to him; and as some of that food remained uneaten, he must have satisfied his hunger.

From Swartz, my glance passed to Darke. This second survey of the worthy proved to me that he was what is succinctly styled “half-drunk.” But drink appeared not to have exhilarated him. It seemed even to have made him more morose. In the eyes and lips of the heavily bearded Hercules could be read a species of gloomy sarcasm--a something resembling bitter melancholy.

The woman in the gray dress, had never appeared cooler. She rocked to and fro in her chair with an air of perfect _insouciance_.

The interview had evidently lasted some time before our arrival at the house; but, as the reader will perceive, we came soon enough to overhear a somewhat singular revelation.

As I reached my position near the door, Darke was speaking to Swartz:--

“You ask why you are shut up here to starve,” he said, “and as I have some time on my hands to-night, I am going to tell you. That might be called ‘imprudent.’ No! I am talking to a dead man! You see I hold out no false hopes--you will not leave this house alive probably--I will go back, and tell you something which will serve to explain the whole.”

Darke paused a moment, and then gazed with a strange mixture of gloom and tenderness upon the gray woman.

“Perhaps you, too, madam,” he said, speaking in a low tone, “may be ignorant of a part of my history. You know the worst--but not all. You shall know every thing. Listen; and I beg you will not interrupt me. About ten years ago, I chanced to be at Dinwiddie Court-House, a few miles only from this spot; and one day a certain Mr. George Conway visited the courthouse to receive a considerable sum of money which was to be paid to him.”

At the words “a certain Mr. George Conway,” uttered by the speaker, in a hoarse and hesitating voice, I very nearly uttered an exclamation. That name, which General Davenant’s recent narrative had surrounded with so many gloomy associations, produced a profound effect on me, as it now escaped from this man’s lips; and had it not been for Nighthawk’s warning pressure on my arm, I should probably have betrayed our vicinity. Fortunately I suppressed the rising exclamation; it had attracted no attention; and Darke went on in the same low tone:--

“I was in the clerk’s office of Dinwiddie when the money I refer to was paid to Mr. Conway. It amounted to about ten thousand dollars, and as I had at that time no business in the region more important than hanging around the tavern, and drinking and playing cards--as, besides this, I was at the end of my resources, having lost my last penny on the night before, at the card-table--the idea occurred to me that it would not be a bad plan to ride after Mr. Conway; accost him on the road; represent my necessities to him, and request a small loan out of his abundant means, to prevent myself from being deprived of my luxuries--liquor and cards. Is that a roundabout way of saying I intended to act the highwayman, perhaps the--murderer--on this occasion? By no means, madam! What is highway robbery? Is it not the brutal and wanton robbery of the poor as well as the rich? Well, I was not going to rob anybody. I was going to request a small loan--and so far from intending violence, or--murder--,” he uttered that word always in a hesitating voice--“I swear, I had no such intention. I was entirely unarmed; upon my whole person there was not one deadly weapon--it was only by accident that I found, when riding out of the court-house, that I had a small pen-knife in my pocket. This I had picked up, by pure accident from the table of the clerk’s office, where some one had laid it down. I had carelessly commenced paring my nails with it--my attention was attracted by something else. I finished paring my nails, and without being aware of what I was doing, put the knife in my pocket.

“Well, you may think, perhaps, all this is irrelevant. You are mistaken. Many things turned on that knife. The devil himself placed it in my grasp that day!”

XXX.

STABBED “NOT MURDERED.”

“Well,” Darke continued, “I have told you my design, and now I will inform you how I carried it out.

“I saw Mr. George Conway receive the money--in notes, bank notes, and gold. That was enough; I knew the road he would take; and going to the stable of the tavern I saddled my horse, and rode out of the place in a western direction. When I was out of sight, however, I turned eastward toward Five Forks, pushed into the woods, and about sunset took my stand in a piece of timber, on the side of the road which--he--was coming by.”

There was always a marked hesitation when he came to the name of his victim. He went on more rapidly now.

“Well, he came along about dusk. Some one followed him, but I could not make out who. Another man came on from the direction of Petersburg; passed me and _him_; and the other who had followed _him_ out of the court-house turned into a by-road and disappeared. Then I saw that the game was in my own hands; I waited, looking at him as he approached me. I swear I did not intend to harm him. I was half-drunk, but I remember what I intended. He came on. I rode toward him, demanded the money, he refused. I threw myself on him, as he struck at me with the butt of his heavy riding-whip, then we both rolled to the ground, I under! His clutch was on my throat, I was choking. ‘Help,’ he cried, and I came near crying it, too! All at once my hand fell upon my pocket, I felt the knife, I drew it out, opened it, and stabbed him as he was strangling me!

“That was the whole! Do you call it a _murder_? I rose up, as _he_ fell back. His breast was all bloody; his eyes turned round; he gasped something, and fell back dead.”

The speaker paused and wiped his brow with his huge, muscular hand. His face was a strange spectacle. The most bitter and terrible emotions of the human heart were written there as with a pen of fire.

“Then I looked at him;” he went on, “I said to myself, ‘this is a murder,’ foolishly, for he was stabbed, not murdered; and my first thought was to conceal the body. I dragged it to the roadside, hid it in some bushes, and thinking I heard some one coming, leaped on my horse, who had stood by quietly--_his_ had galloped away--and left the cursed spot as fast as I could go. The money was left on him. I swear I did not touch a penny of it, and would not have touched it, even if I had not been interrupted. I had not intended to kill him. It was the result of the struggle. I took nothing of _his_ away from that place, but I left something of my own; the knife with which I had struck him!

“The devil had put the cursed thing into my hand; and now the devil made me drop it there, within ten feet of the dead body.”

XXXI.

THE TWO PAPERS.

Darke had spoken in a low, dull, gloomy voice; and something like a shudder had passed through his frame as he painted, in brief words, the sombre scene. This emotion now seemed even to grow deeper. Was there good left in this wild animal?

“That knife,” he continued, “was very nearly the means of hanging an innocent man. It belonged to a gentleman of the neighborhood who had accidentally laid it on the table of the clerk’s office, a few moments before I, as accidentally, picked it up--and this gentleman had just had angry words with--_him_--about a trifle. What made things worse was that they had long been enemies--and when _he_ was found there, dead in the bushes, next day, the owner of the knife found near the body was arrested as the murderer.

“Well, he went to jail, and the trial was coming on soon. The evidence against him was strong. He was the known enemy of--Mr. Conway. He had quarrelled with him on that day, and his knife was found by--the body--on which the money had not been touched. A robber, you see, would have taken the money; as it was untouched the crime must have been committed by a personal enemy. Who was that enemy? The prisoner--whose name was Davenant!

“Well, the trial was near. I had gone back to the court-house on _that day_, and was still hanging around the place. What was I to do? I had to determine whether I would let an innocent man be hanged for my crime, or go to the sheriff and say, ‘release the prisoner--I am the murderer.’ That was rather more than I was ready for, and I hit on a means which might serve. The knife was important evidence--the _most_ important--and I was in the clerk’s office one day, hanging round and listening, when I saw the sheriff put the knife in a drawer, to have it ready near court on the day of trial. Well, that night I broke into the court-house--stole the knife--and waited to see what would occur on the trial.

“As the day drew near I felt like a real murderer, and had the prisoner all the time before my eyes, hanging on a gallows. I drank harder than ever, but I could not get that picture out of my mind. I saw worse pictures than before. So I determined what to do. I sat down, wrote a full confession of the murder, which I signed; and a friend of mine carried this to the prisoner’s wife. I had put on it ‘In haste, this will save Mr. Davenant’s life’--and his wife carried it, at full speed, with her own hands to the court-house, where she arrived just as the jury had retired.

“The prisoner opened and read it. When he had finished it, he folded it up and put it in his pocket. As he did so, the jury came in with a verdict of ‘Not guilty’--and he went out of the court-room accompanied by a crowd of friends.

“So he was cleared, you see--without using the document which I had written. That was in his pocket; was of no further use; and as it might become dangerous I entered his house that night, broke open the desk in which he kept his private papers, and took this one out, reading and making sure that it was the genuine document, by the light of the moon which streamed in at the window.

“I was still looking at the paper, when a noise behind me attracted my attention, and turning round I saw--Mr. Davenant. He had heard the noise I made in breaking open the secretary; put on his dressing-gown; and coming down, pistol in hand, was on me before I knew it. The few minutes that followed were rather angry, and noisy. Unexpectedly, Mr. Davenant did not fire on me. After an interchange of compliments, I put the paper in my pocket, passed out through the window, and mounting my horse, rode away.

“After that I went far, and saw many persons. Among the rest you, madam; and our matrimonial life has been chequered!

“A word to you, now,” he added, turning toward Swartz. “I shut you up here to starve you to death because you were trusted and have betrayed me. Listen, and I will tell you how. You are greedy for gold, and this greed has tempted you to an act which will be your destruction. In Pennsylvania, one night, just before the battle of Gettysburg, you were at my house, and stole a paper from madam, who was collecting every thing to hide it from the enemy. No matter how I know that; I have made the discovery, and you deny it--refusing to deliver up that paper, which you state you never had, and consequently have not in your possession. In saying that, you lied! You stole that paper, and promise yourself that you will sell it for a large sum of money--you have already been bargaining, and have tried to finish the business.

“Well, that paper is interesting--to madam at least; and she has kept it with care from the eyes of the very person you would sell it to! Folded with it was another paper which is no less valuable to me. Thus, you see, that we are interested; and we will probably be informed in a day from this time where to find both the documents--as you will then be starving, and will reveal every thing!

“You think me jesting, perhaps--you imagine I will spare you. Undeceive yourself--your life is a small matter compared with these two papers.

“One is the certificate of madam’s marriage with your very humble servant; the other the letter which I took from Mr. Davenant’s desk that night, in which I confess myself the--well! the murderer--of George Conway!”

XXXII.

A PISTOL-SHOT.

Darke’s deep and gloomy voice ceased to resound, and for a moment the silence of the apartment was only disturbed by the slight creaking made by the chair of the woman, as she quietly rocked backward and forward.

Swartz had risen to his feet while Darke was uttering his final words. With clasped hands, and trembling lips, he was about to throw himself upon his knees;--when suddenly a shot resounded without, a cry was heard, and then this was succeeded by rapid firing, mingled with hoof-strokes, in the immediate vicinity of the house.

Darke rose to his feet, and in two strides was at the window.

“An attack!” he exclaimed. “Can the friends of this carrion be trying to catch me!”

And springing toward the door, he tore it open.

Suddenly, another thought seemed to come to him. Returning at a bound to the side of Swartz, he seized him by the throat, dragged him through the door, and rushed down the steps, still dragging the unfortunate man.

As he passed me, I drew my revolver and fired on him, but the ball did not strike him. Then I saw the woman dart past like a shadow. When Nighthawk and myself reached the foot of the stairs, she and Darke were already in the saddle.

The collar of Swartz was still in his clutch. He seemed determined to bear him off at the risk of being himself captured; for a second glance showed me that a party of Confederate cavalry was rushing headlong toward the house, led by an officer whom I made out to be Mohun.

Darke saw that the small force on picket could not contend with the attacking party.

By the starlight, I could see his face, as he glared over his shoulder at Mohun, whom he had evidently recognized. An expression of profound hate was in that glance; a hoarse growl issued from his lips; and I distinguished the low words addressed to Swartz, whom he was dragging on beside his horse.

“So, you are rescued, you think! You have laid this trap for me, jailbird!”

He drew his pistol as he spoke, and placed it close to the unhappy man’s temple. I had mine in my hand, and, aiming at Darke, fired.

It was too late. The bullet did not strike him; and the report of his own weapon followed that of mine like an echo.

Swartz staggered back, threw up his hands, and uttering a wild cry, fell at full length upon the ground.

The scene which followed was as brief as this tragedy. Mohun charged, at the head of his men, and drove the picket force before him. In five minutes the whole party were dispersed, or captured.

Darke had escaped with the gray woman, in the darkness.

The pursuit did not continue far. The Federal lines were near; and Mohun soon recalled his men.

Grasping me cordially by the hand, he exclaimed:--

“Well, Surry! the prisoner! Where is Swartz?”

I pointed to the spot where his body lay, and went thither with Mohun.

Swartz lay perfectly dead, in a pool of blood. Darke had blown out his brains.

XXXIII.

PRESTON HAMPTON.

An hour afterward the body of the unfortunate man had been buried, and I had returned with Mohun and Nighthawk to the opposite bank of the Rowanty.

I had never seen Mohun so gloomy. He scarcely uttered a word during the whole march back; and when I announced my intention to spend the night at the house of Mr. Alibi, as the long tramp had wearied me out, he scarcely invited me to his head-quarters, and when I declined, did not urge me. Something evidently weighed heavily on the mind of Mohun, and a few moment’s reflection explained the whole to me.

He had conversed rapidly and apart with Nighthawk near the lonely house; and his gloom had dated from that conversation. Nighthawk had evidently explained every thing: the cause of Swartz’s imprisonment; his statement in reference to the paper--and now that Swartz was dead, the hiding-place of the document seemed forever undiscoverable.

If the reader does not understand the terrible significance of this fact, and Mohun’s consequent gloom, I promise that he shall comprehend all before very long.

Mohun returned to his camp, and I remained at the house of Mr. Alibi until morning, stretched on a lounge, and wrapped in my cape.

I awoke about sunrise. As I opened my eyes, quick firing came from the direction of Burgess’s Mill. The fire speedily became more rapid and continuous; I hastened to mount my horse; and as I did so, a courier passed at full gallop.

“What news?” I asked.

“The enemy are advancing in force! They have crossed!”

“Where?”

“Near Armstrong’s!”

And the courier disappeared, at full speed, in the woods. In a moment I had abandoned my design of inspecting, and was riding back.

“Armstrong’s” was a mill on the Rowanty, near the Boydton road. If the enemy had crossed there, in force, it was to make a heavy advance toward the Southside road.

I was not mistaken. Reaching the debouchment of the “Quaker road,” I found the cavalry drawn up in order of battle--a dispatch had been sent to hurry up the rest--on the lower waters of the Rowanty, and General Hampton informed me of the situation of affairs.

The enemy had advanced in heavy force at sunrise, driven in the pickets, and, crossing the Rowanty, seized on the Boydton road and the bridge at Burgess’s Mill. From prisoners taken, it was ascertained that the force consisted of the Second, Fifth, and part of the Ninth Corps; Grant, Meade, and Hancock, accompanying the troops in person.

That left nothing in doubt. If any remained, it was dispelled by the fact, stated to me by General Hampton, that the Federal troops “had eight days’ rations, and were certainly bound for the Southside road.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

I had scarcely received this intelligence from General Hampton, when a heavy attack was made upon General William H.F. Lee, holding the Quaker road.

From that moment the battle began to rage with determined fury, and the entire force of cavalry was engaged in an obstinate fight with the advancing enemy. It was a bitter and savage affair. The men charged; dismounted and fought behind impromptu breastworks of rails; fell back only when they were pushed by the weight of the great column rolling forward; and for hours the whole field was a hurly-burly of dust, smoke, blood, uproar, carbine shots, musket shots, and the long threatening roar of cannon.

The Stuart horse artillery fought like tigers. The men stuck to their guns amid a storm of bullets, and vindicated, as they had done before on many fields, the name of “my pets,” given them by Stuart! Among the officers, Will Davenant was seen, sitting his horse amid the smoke, as calm as a May morning; and I shall never forget the smile on the face of this young bull-dog, when he said:--

“I think we can hold our ground, colonel.”

And looking over his shoulder, in the direction of Five Forks, he murmured:--

“This is a good place to die, too.”

A thundering cheer rose suddenly above the roar of the guns, and the line of dismounted sharp-shooters behind their rail breastworks opened a more steady and resolute fire as the enemy appeared to pause.

At the same moment young Preston Hampton, a son of the general, and one of my favorites, from his courage and courtesy, passed by at a gallop, cheering and encouraging the skirmishers.

I spurred after him. Just as I reached him, I saw the arm waving above his head suddenly drop; his sword escaped from his grasp, and he fell from the saddle to the ground.

In an instant I had dismounted, and with other officers who hastened up, had raised him from the earth.

As we did so, the group, consisting now of no less than seven, attracted the enemy’s attention; a hot fire was opened on us, and before we could bear the dying youth in our arms beyond the reach of the fire, four out of the seven officers were shot.[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact]

The boy was placed in an ambulance, and borne to the rear; but the wound was fatal, and he soon afterward expired. A staff officer afterward informed me that General Hampton did not leave his tent for a fortnight--scarcely replying when he was spoken to, and prostrated by grief.

I could understand that. The death of the brave youth sent a pang to my own heart--and he was only my friend. The great heart of the father must have been nearly broken.

So fell Preston Hampton. Peace to his ashes! No kinder or braver spirit ever died for his country!

XXXIV.

I AM CAPTURED.

Hour after hour the battle continued to rage; the enemy making resolute attempts to brush off the cavalry.

It was now discovered that Hancock’s corps had crossed the Rowanty, supported by Crawford’s division, with two corps behind; and as General Hancock held the bridge at Burgess’s, there seemed little probability that Lee could cross a force to attack him.

But this was done. While the cavalry fought the blue masses with obstinate courage on the Boydton road, Mahone, that daring soldier, crossed a column of three brigades over the Rowanty, below Burgess’s; and suddenly the enemy found themselves attacked in flank and rear. Mahone did not pause. He advanced straight to the assault; swept every thing before him, and thrusting his small force in between Hancock and Crawford, tore from the former four hundred prisoners, three battle-flags, and six pieces of artillery.

The assault had been sudden and almost overwhelming. While hotly engaged with Hampton in front, the enemy had all at once staggered beneath the heavy blow dealt on their flank and rear. They turned to strike at this new foe; and the shock which followed was rude, the onset bloody.

Mahone met it with that dash and stubbornness now proverbial in the army; and, hurling his three brigades against the advancing column, broke through three lines of battle, and drove them back.[1]

[Footnote 1: “In the attack subsequently made by the enemy, General Mahone broke three lines of battle.”--General Lee’s Dispatch of October 28, 1864.]

Night was near, and the fighting still continued. The enemy seemed both to give up the ground; and were holding their position obstinately, when a determined charge from a brigade of Mahone’s drove every thing in its front.

I had been to carry a message for General Hampton, upon whose staff I served during the battle, and now found myself swept forward by the brigade charging.

In front of them, I recognized General Davenant, on horseback, and sword in hand, leading the charge. His son Charley was beside him.

“We are driving them, colonel!” exclaimed the general, with a proud smile “and look! yonder are some of their general officers flying from that house!”

As he spoke, he pointed to three horsemen, riding at full speed from a house known as Burgess’s; their splendid suit of staff officers indicated that they were of high rank.

In fact, the three horsemen who retired thus hastily, would have proved a rich prize to us. They were Generals Grant, Meade and Hancock.[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

They made a narrow escape, and the question suggests itself, “What would have been the result of their capture?” I know not; I only know that Grant, Meade and Hancock, came near having an interview with General Lee that night--a peaceful and friendly talk at his head-quarters.

I did not think of all this then. The hot charge dragged me. I had come to participate in it by the mere chance of battle--but this apparent accident was destined to have very singular results.

I had ridden with General Davenant, as his brigade swept forward, and we were breasting a heavy fire on his front, when a sudden cry of “Cavalry! look out!” came from our left.

General Davenant wheeled his horse; went at full speed, accompanied by his son and myself, through the bullets, in the direction indicated; and carried onward by his animal, as I was by my own, rode right into a column of blue cavalry, advancing to attack our flank.

Such was the “chance of battle!” At one moment General Davenant was in command of a brigade which was driving the enemy, and sweeping every thing before it. At the next moment he had been carried by the powerful animal which he bestrode straight into the ranks of the Federal cavalry, hidden by the woods and approaching darkness--had been surrounded in an instant, fired upon, and half dragged from his saddle, and captured, together with his son Charley.

What was still more unfortunate to me, personally, was the fact that having followed the old soldier, I was surrounded, and made a prisoner in the same manner.

XXXV.

FACE TO FACE.

We had scarcely time to realize the truly disgusting fact, that we were captured at the very instant that the enemy were being driven, when the charge of the Federal cavalry was met by a hail-storm of bullets which drove them back in disorder.

For some moments the woods presented a singular spectacle. Horsemen flying in wild confusion; riderless animals darting madly toward the rear; the groans of wounded men tottering in the saddle as they rushed by--all this made up a wild scene of excitement, and confusion worse confounded.

General Davenant, his son, and myself had been ordered to the rear, under escort; and the old cavalier had turned his horse’s head in that direction, boiling with rage at his capture, when the repulse ensued, and the Federal cavalry streamed by us toward the rear.

All at once a loud voice was heard shouting in the half darkness:--

“Halt! halt! you cursed cowards! Halt! and form column!”

The speaker rushed toward us as he spoke, mounted upon a huge black horse, and I heard the noise made by his sabre, as with the flat of it, he struck blows upon the brawny shoulders of the fugitives.

At his summons, and the blows of his sabre, the men halted, and again fell into column. Under the shadowy boughs of the woods, and in the gathering darkness, the long line of horsemen resembled phantoms rather than men. Near them glimmered some bivouac fires; and the flickering light illumined their persons, gleamed on their scabbards, and lit up the rough bearded faces.

“Cowardly scoundrels!” exclaimed their leader, in fierce accents, “where are the prisoners that ran into us?”

“Here, colonel. One is a general!” said a man.

“Let me see them!”

General Davenant struck the spur violently into his horse, and rode close to the Federal officer, in whom I had recognized Colonel Darke.

“Here I am, wretch!--look at me!” exclaimed General Davenant, foaming with rage. “Accursed be the day when I begat a murderer and a renegade!”

XXXVI.

THE CURSE.

Darke’s hand unconsciously drew the rein, and man and horse both seemed to stagger back before the furious old soldier.

“General--Davenant!” muttered Darke, turning pale.

“Yes, General Davenant!--a gentleman, an honest man; not a traitor and a murderer!”

“Good God!” muttered Darke, “it is my father, truly--and my little brother! The proud face, the eyes, the mouth--and yet they told me you were killed.”

“Ah! ‘Killed!’ Killing is a favorite topic with you!” exclaimed General Davenant, furiously; “well, kill _me_, now!--Strike your dastardly sword, or _your knife_ if you have one, straight into my breast! Murder me, I say, as you murdered George Conway!--I have a purse in my pocket, and you can rob me when I am dead. Strike! strike!--but not with the sword! That is the weapon of a gentleman. Draw your knife, and stab me in the back--the knife is the weapon of the assassin!”

And crossing his arms upon his breast, the fiery old cavalier confronted his son, with eyes full of bitter wrath and disdain--eyes which I shall never forget; for their fire burnt them into my memory.

Darke did not dare to meet them. I had listened with amazement to those words, which indicated that the Federal officer was General Davenant’s son; then this sentiment of astonishment, profound as it was, had yielded to one of expectation, if I may so express myself. What I expected was a furious outbreak from the man of fierce and violent passions, thus taunted and driven to bay by the repeated insults of the general. No outburst came, however. On the contrary, the Federal officer bowed his head, and listened in silence, while a mortal pallor diffused itself over his swarthy face. His gaze was bent upon the ground, and his brows so closely knit that they extended in an unbroken ridge of black and shaggy hair above his bloodshot eyes. He sat his horse, in the light of the camp-fire,--a huge cavalier upon an animal as powerful and forbidding in appearance as himself,--and for more than a minute after the scornful outburst from General Davenant, Darke remained silent and motionless, with his eyes still fixed upon the ground:

Then he raised his head, made a sign with his hand to an officer, and said, briefly:--

“Move back with the column--leave these prisoners here.”

At the word, the column moved back slowly; the shadowy figures were lost sight of in the darkness; General Davenant, his son Charles, Darke, and myself, were left alone beside the camp-fire.

Then the Federal officer, with a face over which seemed to pass “the shadow of unutterable things,” looked first with a long, wistful, absorbed glance toward the boy Charles, his brother--lastly, toward his father.

“Why do you taunt me?” he said, in a low tone. “Will that result in any good now? Yes, I committed murder. I intended, if I did not commit, robbery. I killed--yes, I killed!--with a knife--as a murderer kills. But I do not wish to kill you--or Charley--or this officer--or rob you. Keep your life and your money. There is the road before you, open. Go; you are free!”

General Davenant had sat his horse--the boy Charley beside him--listening in sullen wrath. As Darke ended, the general’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, and he half drew it, by an instinctive movement, from the scabbard. “Well!” added the Federal officer, in the same low tone, with a deeper flush in his cheeks, “draw your sword, sir--strike me if you think proper. For myself, I am done with murder, and shrink from it, so that, if my father wishes to kill me, I will open my breast, to give him a fair opportunity. You see I am not altogether the murderous wretch you take me for. I am a murderer, it is true, and soiled with every vice--you see I am frank--but I will not resist, if you plunge your sword into my heart. Strike! strike! While I am dying I will have time to say the few words I have to say to you!”

General Davenant shuddered with wrath still, but a strange emotion was mingled with the sentiment now--an emotion which I could not fathom. Before he could open his lips, however, Darke resumed, in the same tone:--

“You hesitate--you are not ready to become my executioner. Well, listen, and I will utter that which may deprive you of all self-control. Yes, once more, I killed a man, and killed him for money; but _you_ made me what I was! You petted, and spoiled, and made me selfish. In addition, you hated--that man. You had hated him for twenty years. When I grew up, I found out that. If you did not strike him, you had the desire to do so--and, like a good son, I shared my ‘father’s loves and hatreds.’ I heard you speak of--him--harshly; I knew that an old grudge was between you; what matter if I met this enemy of the family on the high-road, and, with the dagger at his throat, said: ‘Yield me a portion of your ill-gotten gains!’ for that money was the proceeds of a forced sale for cash, by which the father of a family was turned out of house and home! Well, I did that--and did it under the effect of drink. I learned the habit at _your_ table; wine was placed in my hands, in my very childhood, by you; you indulged all my vile selfishness; made me a miserable, arrogant wretch; I came to hang about the village tavern, and gamble, and fuddle myself, until I was made worthless! Then, when one day the devil tempted me, I committed a crime--and that crime was committed by _you_! for _you_ cultivated in me the vile habits which led me on to murder!”

Darke’s eyes were gloomy, and full of a strange fire. As he uttered the last words, he spurred close to his father, tore open his uniform until his bare breast was visible, and added in accents full of vehement and sullen passion:--

“Strike me! Bury your sword’s point in my heart! I am your son. You are as noble a gentleman as Brutus was! Kill me, then! I am a murderer: but I am a Davenant, and no coward!”

From the fierce and swollen face, in which the dark eyes burned like firebrands, my glance passed to the countenance of General Davenant. A startling change had taken place in the expression of the old cavalier. He was no longer erect, fiery, defiant. His glance no longer darted scorn and anger. His chin had fallen upon his breast; his frame drooped; his cheeks, but now so flushed, were covered with a deep pallor.

For a moment he remained silent. The hand which had clutched at the sword hilt hung listless at his side. All at once his breast heaved, and with a sound which resembled a groan, he said, in low tones:--

“I am punished! Yes, my hatred has brought forth fruit, and the fruit is bitter! It was I who warped this life, and the tree has grown as I inclined it.”

“Yes,” said Darke, in his deep voice, “first warped--then, when cut down, cast off and forgotten!”

General Davenant looked at the speaker with bitter melancholy.

“Ah! you charge me with that, do you, sir?” he said, “You do not remember, then, that I have suffered for you--you do not know, perhaps, that for ten years I have labored under the imputation of that crime, and have preserved silence that I might shield your memory--for I thought you dead! You do not know that I never breathed a syllable of that letter which you sent to me on the day of my trial--that I have allowed the world to believe I was saved by a legal technicality! You have not heard, perhaps, that a daughter of Judge Conway is beloved by your brother, and that her father rejects with scorn the very idea of forming an alliance with _my_ son--the son of one whom he regards as the murderer of his brother! Oh! yes, sir! truly I have cast off and forgotten you and your memory! I have not wept tears of blood over the crime you committed--over the dishonor that rested on the name of Davenant! I have not writhed beneath the cold and scornful eye of Judge Conway and his friends! I have not seen your brother’s heart breaking for love of that girl; and suppressed all, concealed every thing, borne the brand on my proud forehead, and _his_ young life, that _your_ tombstone might at least not have ‘murderer’ cut on it! And now you taunt me with my faults!--with my injudicious course toward you when your character was forming. You sneer and say that I first hated George Conway, and that the son only inherited the family feud, and struck the enemy of the family! Yes, I acknowledge those sins; I pray daily to be forgiven for them. I have borne for ten years this bitter load of dishonor. But there is something more maddening even than my faults, and the stain on my name--it is to be taunted to my face, here, with the charge that I struck that blow! that I made you the criminal, and then threw you off, and drove you to become a renegade in the ranks of our enemies!”

The last words of the speaker were nearly drowned in a heavy fusillade which issued from the woods close by.

“Listen!” exclaimed General Davenant, “that is the fire of your hirelings, sir, directed at the hearts of your brethren! _You_ are leading that scum against the gentlemen of Virginia! Well join them! Point _me_, and my son, and companion out to them! Tear us to pieces with your bullets! Trample us beneath your hireling heels! That will not prevent me from branding you again in your dishonored forehead!--from cursing you as renegade, debauchee, and murderer!”

The whistle of bullets mingled with these furious and resounding words; and then the crackle of footsteps was heard, the undergrowth suddenly swarmed with figures--a party of Confederates rushed shouting into the little glade.

Darke wheeled not from, but toward them, as though to charge them. The stern courage of the Davenant blood burned in his cheeks and eyes. Then, with a harsh and bitter laugh, he turned and pushed his horse close up beside that of his father.

“I would call this meeting and parting strange, if any thing were strange in this world!” he said, “but nothing astonishes me, or moves me, as of old! The devil has brought it about! he put a knife in my hands once! to-night he brings me face to face with you and my boy-brother--and makes you curse and renounce me! Well, so be it! have your will! Henceforth I am really lost--my father!”

And drawing his pistol, he coolly discharged barrel after barrel in the faces of the men rushing upon him; wheeled his horse, and dug the spurs into him; an instant afterward, with his sneering face turned over his shoulder, he had disappeared in the woods.

Two hours afterward I was on my way to Petersburg.

The enemy were already falling back from their adventurous attempt to seize the Southside road.

In the morning they had retired across the Rowanty, and disappeared.

So ended that heavy blow at Lee’s great war-artery.