BOOK V.

THE DEAD GO FAST.

I.

THE “DOOMED CITY” IN PROFILE--DECEMBER, 1864.

The scenes just described took place in the month of November. In December I obtained the priceless boon of a few days’ leave of absence, and paid a visit to Richmond.

There was little there of a cheerful character; all was sombre and lugubrious. In the “doomed city,” as throughout the whole country, all things were going to wreck and ruin. During the summer and autumn, suffering had oppressed the whole community; but now misery clutched the very heartstrings. Society had been convulsed--now, all the landmarks of the past seemed about to disappear in the deluge. Richmond presented the appearance, and lived after the manner, of a besieged city, as General Grant called it. It no longer bore the least likeness to its former peaceful and orderly self. The military police had usurped the functions of the civil, and the change was for the worse. Garroters swarmed the streets of the city after dark. House-breakers everywhere carried on their busy occupation. Nothing was safe from these prowlers of the night; all was fish for their nets. The old clothes in rags and bales; the broken china and worn spoons; the very food, obtained through immense exertions by some father to feed his children--all became the spoil of these night-birds, who were ever on the watch. When you went to make a visit in the evening, you took your hat and cloak with you into the drawing-room, to have them under your eye. When you retired at night, you deposited your watch and purse under your pillow. At the hotels, you never thought of placing your boots outside the door; and the landlords, in the morning, carefully looked to see if the towels, or the blankets of the beds had been stolen. All things were thus unhinged. Misery had let loose upon the community all the outlaws of civilization; the scum and dregs of society had come to the top, and floated on the surface in the sunlight.

The old respectable population of the old respectable city had disappeared, it seemed. The old respectable habitudes had fallen into contempt. Gambling-houses swarmed everywhere; and the military police ignored them. “The very large number of houses,” said a contemporary journal, “on Main and other streets, which have numbers painted in large gilt figures over the door, and illuminated at night, are faro banks. The fact is not known to the public. The very large numbers of flashily dressed young men, with villainous faces, who hang about the street corners in the daytime, are not gamblers, garroters, and plugs, but young men studying for the ministry, and therefore exempt from military duty. This fact is not known to General Winder.” The quiet and orderly city had, in a word, become the haunt of burglars, gamblers, adventurers, blockade-runners. The city, once the resort of the most elegant society in Virginia, had been changed by war and misery into a strange chaotic caravanserai, where you looked with astonishment on the faces going and coming, without knowing in the least “who was who,” or whether your acquaintance was an honest man or a scoundrel. The scoundrels dressed in excellent clothes, and smiled and bowed when you met them; it was nearly the sole means of identifying them, at an epoch, when virtue almost always went in rags.

The era of “social unrealities,” to use the trenchant phrase of Daniel, had come. Even braid on sleeves and collars did not tell you much. Who was the fine-looking Colonel Blank, or the martial General Asterisks? Was he a gentleman or a barber’s boy--an F.F. somewhere, or an exdrayman? The general and colonel dressed richly; lived at the “Spottswood;” scowled on the common people; and talked magnificently. It was only when some young lady linked her destiny to his, that she found herself united to quite a surprising helpmate--discovered that the general or the colonel had issued from the shambles or the gutter.

Better society was not wanting; but it remained largely in the background. Vice was strutting in cloth of gold; virtue was at home mending its rags. Every expedient was resorted to, not so much to keep up appearances as to keep the wolf from the door. Servants were sent around by high-born ladies to sell, anonymously, baskets of their clothes. The silk or velvet of old days was now parted with for bread. On the shelves of the bookstores were valuable private libraries, placed there for sale. In the shops of the silversmiths were seen breastpins, watches, bracelets, pearl and diamond necklaces, which their owners were obliged to part with for bread. “Could we have traced,” says a late writer, “the history of a set of pearls, we should have been told of a fair bride, who had received them from a proud and happy bridegroom; but whose life had been blighted in her youthful happiness by the cruel blast of war--whose young husband was in the service of his country--to whom stark poverty had continued to come, until at last the wedding present from the dear one, went to purchase food and raiment... A richly bound volume of poems, with here and there a faint pencil-marked quotation, told perchance of a lover perished on some bloody field; and the precious token was disposed of, or pawned, when bread was at last needed for some suffering loved one.”

You can see these poor women--can you not, reader? The bride looking at her pearl necklace, with flushed cheeks and eyes full of tears, murmuring:--“_He_ gave me this--placed it around my neck on my wedding day--and I must _sell_ it!” You can see too, the fair girl, bending down and dropping tears on the page marked by her dead lover; her bosom heaving, her heart breaking, her lips whispering:--“_His_ hand touched this--we read this page together--I hear his voice--see his smile--this book brings back all to me--and now, I must go and sell it, to buy bread for my little sister and brother, who are starving!”

That is dolorous, is it not, reader?--and strikes you to the heart. It is not fancy. December, 1864, saw that, and more, in Virginia.

II.

THE MEN WHO RUINED THE CONFEDERACY.

In the streets of Richmond, crowded with uniforms, in spite of the patrols, marching to and fro, and examining “papers,” I met a number of old acquaintances, and saw numerous familiar faces.

The “Spottswood” was the resort of the _militaires_, and the moneyed people. Here, captains and colonels were elbowed by messieurs the blockade-runners, and mysterious government employees--employed, as I said on a former occasion, in heaven knows what. The officer stalked by in his braid. The “Trochilus” passed, smiling, in shiny broadcloth. Listen! yonder is the newsboy, shouting, “The _Examiner_!”--that is to say, the accurate photograph of this shifting chaos, where nothing seems stationary long enough to have its picture taken.

Among the first to squeeze my hand, with winning smiles and cordial welcome, was my friend Mr. Blocque. He was clad more richly than before; smiled more sweetly than ever; seemed more prosperous, better satisfied, firmer in his conviction than ever that the President and the administration had never committed a fault--that the world of December, 1864, was the best of all possible worlds.

“My dear colonel!” exclaimed Mr. Pangloss-Trochilus, _alias_ Mr. Blocque, “delighted to see you, I assure you! You are well? You will dine with me, to-day? At five precisely? You will find the old company--jolly companions, every one! We meet and talk of the affairs of the country. All is going on well, colonel. Our city is quiet and orderly. The government sees farther than its assailants. It can not explain now, and set itself right in the eyes of the people--that would reveal military secrets to the enemy, you know. I tell my friends in the departments not to mind their assailants. Washington himself was maligned, but he preserved a dignified silence. All is well, colonel! I give you my word, we are all right! I know a thing or two--!” and Mr. Blocque looked mysterious. “I have friends in high quarters, and you can rely on my statement. Lee is going to whip Grant. The people are rallying to the flag. The finances are improving. The resources of the country are untouched. A little patience--only a _very_ little patience! I tell my friends. Let us only endure trials and hardships with brave hearts. Let us not murmur at dry bread, colonel--let us cheerfully dress in rags--let us deny ourselves every thing, sacrifice every thing to the cause, cast away all superfluities, shoulder our muskets, and fight to the death! Then there _can_ be no doubt of the result, colonel--good morning!”

And Mr. Blocque shook my hand cordially, gliding away in his shiny broadcloth, at the moment when Mr. Croker, catching my eye in passing, stopped to speak to me.

“You visit Richmond at an inauspicious moment, colonel,” said Mr. Croker, jingling his watch-seals with dignity. “The country has at last reached a point from which ruin is apparent in no very distant perspective, and when the hearts of the most resolute, in view of the depressing influences of the situation, are well nigh tempted to surrender every anticipation of ultimate success in the great cause which absorbs the energies of the entire country--hem!--at large. The cause of every trouble is so plain, that it would be insulting your good judgment to dwell upon the explanation. The administration has persistently disregarded the wishes of the people, and the best interests of the entire community; and we have at last reached a point where to stand still is as ruinous as to go on--as we are going--to certain destruction and annihilation. Look at the finances, entirely destroyed by the bungling and injudicious course of the honorable Mr. Memminger, who has proceeded upon fallacies which the youngest tyro would disdain to refute. Look at the quartermaster’s department,--the commissary department,--the State department, and the war department, and you will everywhere find the proofs of utter incompetence, leading straight, as I have before remarked, to that ruin which is pending at the present moment over the country. Our society is uprooted, and there is no hope for the country. Blockade-runners, forestallers, stragglers from the army--Good morning, Colonel Desperade; I was just speaking to our friend, Colonel Surry.”

And leaving me in the hands of the tall, smiling, and imposing Colonel Desperade, who was clad in a magnificent uniform, Mr. Croker, forestaller and extortioner, continued his way with dignity toward his counting house.

“This is a very great pleasure, colonel!” exclaimed Colonel Desperade, squeezing my hand with ardor. “Just from the lines, colonel? Any news? We are still keeping Grant off! He will find himself checkmated by our boys in gray! The country was never in better trim for a good hard fight. The immortal Lee is in fine spirits--the government steadily at work--and do you know, my dear Colonel, I am in luck to-day? I am certain to receive my appointment at last, as brigadier-general--”

“Look out, or you’ll be mistaken!” said a sarcastic voice behind us. And Mr. Torpedo, smoking a short and fiery cigar, stalked up and shook hands with me.

“Desperade depends on the war department, and is a ninny for doing so!” said Mr. Torpedo, member of Congress. “The man that depends on Jeff Davis, or his war secretary, is a double-distilled dolt. Jeff thinks he’s a soldier, and apes Napoleon. But you can’t depend on him, Desperade. Look at Johnston! He fooled _him_. Look at Beauregard--he envies and fears _him_, so he keeps him down. Don’t depend on the President, Desperade, or you’ll be a fool, my friend!”

And Mr. Torpedo walked on, puffing away at the fiery stump of his cigar, and muttering curses against President Davis.

An hour afterward, I was conversing in the rotunda of the capítol, with the high-bred and smiling old cavalier, Judge Conway, and he was saying to me:--

“The times are dark, colonel, I acknowledge that. But all would be well, if we could eradicate abuses and bring out our strength. A fatality, however, seems pursuing us. The blockade-runners drain the country of the little gold which is left in it; the forestallers run up prices, and debase the currency beyond hope; the able-bodied and healthy men who ought to be in the army, swarm in the streets; and the bitter foes of the President poison the public mind, and infuse into it despair. It is this, colonel, not our weakness, which is going to ruin us, if we are ruined!”

III.

MY LAST VISIT TO JOHN M. DANIEL.

On the night before my return to the army, I paid my last visit to John M. Daniel.

Shall I show you a great career, shipwrecked--paint a mighty ship run upon the breakers? The current of our narrative drags us toward passionate and tragic events, but toward few scenes more sombre than that which I witnessed on this night in December, 1864.

I found John M. Daniel in his house on Broad Street, as before; perched still in his high chair of black horse-hair, all alone. His face was thinner; his cheeks more sallow, and now haggard and sunken; his eyes sparkling with gloomy fire, as he half reclined beneath the cluster of globe lamps, depending from the ceiling, and filling the whole apartment with their brilliant light--one of his weaknesses.

He received me with grim cordiality, offered me a cigar, and said:--

“I am glad to see you, colonel, and to offer you one of the last of my stock of Havanas. Wilmington is going soon--then good-bye to blockade goods.”

“You believe Wilmington is going to fall, then?”

“As surely as Savannah.”

“Savannah! You think that? We are more hopeful at Petersburg.”

“Hopeful or not, colonel, I am certain of what I say. Remember my prediction when it is fulfilled. The Yankees are a theatrical people. They take Vicksburg, and win Gettysburg, on their ‘great national anniversary;’ and now they are going to present themselves with a handsome ‘Christmas gift’--that is the city of Savannah.”

He spoke with evident difficulty, and his laboring voice, like his haggard cheeks, showed that he had been ill since I last saw him.

“Savannah captured, or surrendered!” I said, with knit brows. “What will be the result of that?”

“Ruin,” was the curt response.

“Not the loss of a mere town?”

“No; the place itself is nothing. For Sherman to take it will not benefit him much; but it will prove to the country, and the President, that he is irresistible. Then they will _hack_; and you will see the beginning of the end.”

“That is a gloomy view enough.”

“Yes--every thing is gloomy now. The devil of high-headed obstinacy and incompetence rules affairs. I do not croak in the _Examiner_ newspaper. But we are going straight to the devil.”

As he uttered these words, he placed his hand upon his breast, and closed his eyes, as though he were going to faint.

“What is the matter?” I exclaimed, rising abruptly, and approaching him.

“Nothing!” he replied, in a weak voice; “don’t disturb yourself about me. These fits of faintness come on, now and then, in consequence of an attack of pneumonia which I had lately. Sit down, colonel. You must really pardon me for saying it, but you make me nervous.”

There was nothing in the tone of this singular address to take offence at,--the voice of the speaker was perfectly courteous,--and I resumed my seat.

“We were talking about Sherman,” he said. “They call him Gog, Magog, anti-Christ, I know not what, in the clerical circles of this city!”

His lip curled as he spoke.

“One reverend divine publicly declared the other day, that ‘God had put a hook in Sherman’s nose, and was leading him to his destruction!’ I don’t think it looks much like it!”

The speaker was stopped by a fit of coughing, and when it had subsided, leaned back, faint and exhausted, in his chair.

“The fact is--Sherman--” he said, with difficulty, “seems to have--the hook in--_our_ nose!”

There was something grim and lugubrious in the smile which accompanied the painfully uttered words. A long silence followed them, which was broken by neither of us. At last I raised my head, and said:--

“I find you less hopeful than last summer. At that time you were in good spirits, and the tone of the _Examiner_ was buoyant.”

“It is hopeful still,” he replied, “but by an effort--from a sentiment of duty. I often write far more cheerfully than I feel, colonel.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

“Your views have changed, I perceive--but you change with the whole country.”

“Yes. A whole century has passed since last August, when you visited me here. One by one, we have lost all that the country could depend on--hope goes last. For myself, I began to doubt when Jackson fell at Chancellorsville, and I have been doubting, more or less, ever since. He was _a dominant man_, colonel, fit, _if any thing happened_, to rise to the head of affairs.[1] Oh! for an hour of Jackson! Oh! for a day of our dead Dundee!”[2]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

The face of the speaker glowed, and I shall never forget the flash of his dark eye, as he uttered the words, “if any thing happened.” There was a whole volume of menace to President Davis in those words.

“But this is useless!” he went on; “Jackson is dead, and there is none to take his place. So, without leaders, with every sort of incompetence, with obstinacy and stupidity directing the public councils, and shaping the acts of the administration, we are gliding straight into the gulf of destruction.”

I could make no reply. The words of this singular man and profound thinker, affected me dolefully.

“Yes, colonel,” he went on, “the three or four months which have passed since your last visit, have cleared away all mists from _my_ eyes at least, and put an end to all my dreams--among others, to that project which I spoke of--the purchase and restoration of the family estate of Stafford. It will never be restored by me. Like Randolph, I am the last of my line.”

And with eyes full of a profound melancholy, the speaker gazed into the fire.

“I am passing away with the country,” he added. “The cause is going to fail. I give it three months to end in, and have sent for a prominent senator, who may be able to do something. I intend to say to him, ‘The time has come to make the best terms possible with the enemy,’ and I shall place the columns of the _Examiner_ newspaper at his disposal to advocate that policy.”[1]

[Footnote 1: This, I learned afterward, from the Hon. Mr. -----, was duly done by Mr. Daniel. But it was too late.]

“Is it possible!” I said. “Frankly, I do not think things are so desperate.”

“You are a soldier, and hopeful, colonel. The smoke blinds you.”

“And yet General Lee is said to repudiate negotiations with scorn. He is said to have lately replied to a gentleman who advised them, ‘For myself, I intend to die sword in hand!’”

“General Lee is a soldier--and you know what the song says: ‘A soldier’s business, boys, is to die!’”

I could find no reply to the grim words.

“I tell you the cause is lost, colonel!” with feverish energy, “lost irremediably, at this moment while we are speaking! It is lost from causes which are enough to make the devil laugh, but it is lost all the same! When the day of surrender, and Yankee domination comes--when the gentlemen of the South are placed under the heel of negroes and Yankees--I, for one, wish to die. Happy is the man who shall have gotten into the grave before that day![1] Blessed will be the woman who has never given suck![2] Yes, the best thing for me is to die--[3] and I am going to do so. I shall not see that _Dies Irae_! I shall be in my grave!”

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

[Footnote 3: His words.]

And breathing heavily, the journalist again leaned back in his chair, as though about to faint.

An hour afterward, I terminated my visit, and went out, oppressed and gloomy.

This singular man had made a reluctant convert of me to his own dark views. The cloud which wrapped him, now darkened me--from the black future I saw the lightnings dart already.

His predictions were destined to have a very remarkable fulfilment.

On the 21st of December, a few days after our interview, Sherman telegraphed to Lincoln:--

“I beg to present you, as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah, with one hundred and fifty guns, and plenty of ammunition, and also about twenty-five thousand bales of cotton.”

In January, Wilmington fell.

Toward the end of the same month, John M. Daniel was a second time seized with pneumonia, and took to his bed, from which he was never again to rise. He would see no one but his physician and a few chosen friends. All other persons were persistently denied admittance to his chamber. Lingering throughout the remainder of the winter, as spring approached, life seemed gradually leaving him. Day by day his pulse grew weaker. You would have said that this man was slowly dying with the cause for which he had fought; that as the life-blood oozed, drop by drop, from the bleeding bosom of the Southern Confederacy, the last pulses of John M. Daniel kept time to the pattering drops.

One morning, at the end of March, his physician came to see him, and found him lying on the outer edge of his bed. Not wishing to disturb him, the physician went to the window to mix a stimulant. All at once a noise attracted his attention, and he turned round. The dying man had, by a great effort, turned completely over, and lay on his back in the middle of the bed, with his eyes closed, and his arms folded on his breast, as though he were praying.

When the physician came to his bedside, he was dead.

It was four days before the fall of Petersburg and Richmond; and he was buried in Hollywood, just in time to escape the tramp of Federal feet around his coffin.

His prophecy and wish were thus fulfilled.[1]

[Footnote 1: These details are strictly accurate.]

IV.

GARROTED.

When I left Mr. John M. Daniel it was past ten at night, and designing to set out early in the morning for Petersburg, I bent my steps toward home.

The night was not however to pass without adventures of another character.

I was going along Governor Street, picking my way by the light of the few gas-lamps set far apart and burning dimly, when all at once I heard a cry in front, succeeded by the noise of a scuffle, and then by a heavy fall.

Hastening forward I reached the spot, which was not far from the City Hall; and a glance told me all.

A wayfarer had been garroted; that is to say, suddenly attacked while passing along, by one of the night-birds who then infested the streets after dark; seized from behind; throttled, and thrown violently to the ground--the object of the assailant being robbery.

When I reached the spot the robber was still struggling with his victim, who, stretched beneath him on the ground, uttered frightful cries. One hand of the garroter was on his throat, the other was busily rifling his pockets.

I came up just in time to prevent a murder, but not to disappoint the robber. As I appeared he hastily rose, releasing the throat of the unfortunate citizen. I saw a watch gleam in his hand; he bestowed a violent kick on his prostrate victim;--then he disappeared running, and was in an instant lost in the darkness.

I saw that pursuit would be useless; and nobody ever thought, at that period, of attempting to summon the police. I turned to assist the victim, who all at once rose from the ground, uttering groans and cries.

The lamp-light shone upon his face. It was the worthy Mr. Blocque--Mr. Blocque, emitting howls of anguish! Mr. Blocque, shaking his clenched hands, and maligning all created things! Mr. Blocque, devoting, with loud curses and imprecations, the assembled wisdom of the “city fathers,” and the entire police force of the Confederate capital, to the infernal deities!

“I am robbed--murdered!” screamed the little Jewish-looking personage, in a shrill falsetto which resembled the shriek of a furious old woman, “robbed! rifled!--stripped of every thing!--garroted!--my money taken!--I had ten thousand dollars in gold and greenbacks on my person!--not a Confederate note in the whole pack--not one! gold and greenbacks!--two watches!---I am ruined! I will expose the police! I was going to my house like a quiet citizen! I was harming nobody! and I am to be set on and robbed of my honest earnings by a highwayman--choked, strangled, knocked down, my pockets picked, my money taken--and this in the capital of the Confederacy, under the nose of the police!”

It was a shrill squeak which I heard--something unutterably ludicrous. I could scarce forbear laughing, as I looked at the little blockade-runner, with disordered hair, dirty face, torn clothes, and bleeding nose, uttering curses, and moaning in agony over the loss of his “honest earnings!”

I consoled him in the best manner I could, and asked him if he had lost every thing. That question seemed to arouse him. He felt hastily in his pockets,--and then at the result my eyes opened wide. Thrusting his hand into a secret pocket, he drew forth an enormous roll of greenbacks, and I could see the figures “100” on each of the notes as he ran over them. That bundle alone must have contained several thousands of dollars. But the worthy Mr. Blocque did not seem in the least consoled.

“He got _the other bundle_!” shrieked the victim, still in his wild falsetto; “it was ten thousand dollars--I had just received it this evening--I am robbed!--they are going to murder me!--Where is the police!--murder!”

I laid my hand upon his arm.

“You have lost a very considerable sum,” I said, “but--you may lose more still.”

And I pointed to the roll of bank notes in his hand, with a significant glance. At these words he started.

“You are right, colonel!” he said, hastily; “I may be attacked again! I may be robbed of all--they may finish me! I will get home as quickly as I can! Thank you, colonel! you have saved me from robbery and murder! Come and see me, colonel. Come and dine with me, my dear sir! At five, precisely!”

And Mr. Blocque commenced running wildly toward a place of safety.

In a moment he had disappeared, and I found myself alone--laughing heartily.

V.

THE CLOAKED WOMAN.

“Well,” I said, as I walked on, “this is a charming adventure and conveys a tolerably good idea of the city of Richmond, after dark, in the year 1864. Our friend Blocque is garroted, and robbed of his ‘honest earnings,’ at one fell swoop by a footpad! The worthy citizen is waylaid; his pockets rifled; his life desolated. All the proceeds of a life of virtuous industry have disappeared. Terrible condition of things!--awful times when a good citizen can not go home to his modest supper of canvas-backs and champagne, without being robbed by----his brother robber!”

Indulging in these reflections, not unaccompanied with smiles, I continued my way, with little fear, myself, of pickpockets or garroters. Those gentry were intelligent. They were never known to attack people with gray coats--they knew better! They attacked the black coats, in the pockets of which they suspected the presence of greenbacks and valuable papers; never the gray coats, where they would find only a frayed “leave of absence” for their pains!

I thus banished the whole affair from my mind; but it had aroused and excited me. I did not feel at all sleepy; and finding, by a glance at my watch beneath a lamp, that it was only half past ten, I resolved to go and ask after the health of my friend, Mr. X-----, whose house was only a square or two off.

This resolution I proceeded at once to carry out. A short walk brought me to the house, half buried in its shrubbery; but as I approached I saw a carriage was standing before the house.

Should I make my visit then, or postpone it? Mr. X----- evidently had company. Or had the carriage brought a visitor to some other member of the household? Mr. X----- was only a boarder, and I might be mistaken in supposing that _he_ was engaged at the moment.

As these thoughts passed through my mind, I approached the gate in the iron railing. The carriage was half hidden by the shadow of the elms, which grew in a row along the sidewalk. On the box sat a motionless figure. The vehicle and driver were as still and silent as if carved out of ebony.

“Decidedly I will discover,” I said, and opening the gate I turned into the winding path through the shrubbery, which led toward the rear of the house; that is to say, toward the private entrance to the room of Mr. X-----.

Suddenly, as I passed through the shadowy shrubs, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I started back, and unconsciously felt for some weapon.

“Don’t shoot me, colonel!” said a voice in the darkness, “I am a friend.”

I recognized the voice of Nighthawk.

“Good heavens! my dear Nighthawk,” I said, drawing a long breath of relief, “you are enough to make Alonzo the Brave, himself, tremble? You turn up everywhere, and especially in the dark! What are you doing here?”

“I am watching, colonel,” said Nighthawk, with benignant sweetness.

“Watching?”

“And waiting.”

“Waiting for whom?”

“For a lady with whom you have the honor of being acquainted.”

“A lady--?”

“That one you last saw in the lonely house near Monk’s Neck. Hush! here she comes.”

His voice had sunk to a whisper, and he drew me into the shrubbery, as a long bar of light, issuing from the door in the rear of the house, ran out into the night.

“I am going to follow her,” whispered Nighthawk, placing his lips close to my ear, “she is at her devil’s work here in Richmond, as Swartz was--.”

Suddenly he was silent; a light step was heard. A form approached us, passed by. I could see that it was a woman, wrapped from head to foot in a gray cloak.

She passed so close to us that the skirt of her cloak nearly brushed our persons, and disappeared toward the gate. The iron latch was heard to click, the door of the carriage to open and close, and then the vehicle began to move.

Nighthawk took two quick steps in the direction of the gate.

“I am going to follow the carriage, colonel,” he whispered. “I have been waiting here to do so. I will tell you more another time. Give my respects to General Mohun, and tell him I am on his business!”

With which words Nighthawk glided into the darkness--passed through the gate without sound from the latch--and running noiselessly, disappeared on the track of the carriage.

I gazed after him for a moment, said to myself, “well this night is to be full of incident!”--and going straight to the door in the rear of the house, passed through it, went to the door of Mr. X-----‘s room, and knocked.

“Come in,” said the voice of that gentleman; and opening the door I entered.

VI.

THE HEART OF A STATESMAN.

Mr. X----- was seated in front of an excellent coal fire, in his great armchair, near a table covered with papers, and between his lips was the eternal cigar.

At sight of me he rose courteously--for he never omitted any form of politeness--and cordially shook my hand.

“I am glad to see you, colonel,” he said. “Just from the army? Have a cigar.”

And he extended toward me an elegant cigar-case full of Havanas, which he took from the table. I declined, informing him that I had been smoking all the evening in the sanctum of the editor of the _Examiner_.

“Ah! you have been to see Daniel,” said Mr. X-----. “He is a very remarkable man. I do not approve of the course of his paper, and he has attacked me very bitterly on more than one occasion. But I bear no grudge against him. He is honest in his opinions. I admire the pluck of the man, and the splendid pith of his writings.”

“My views accord with your own,” I replied.

“Everybody thinks with us,” said Mr. X-----, puffing at his cigar. “It is only ignoramuses who deny this man’s courage and ability. I have never done injustice to Daniel--and I call that ‘liberal’ in myself, colonel! He has flayed me alive on three or four occasions, and it is not his fault that I am enjoying this excellent Havana.”

“I read the attacks,” I said.

“Were they not fearful?” said Mr. X-----, smiling tranquilly. “After reading them, I regarded myself as a moral and political monster!”

I could not forbear from laughing as the portly statesman uttered the words. He seemed to derive a species of careless enjoyment from the recollection of his “flayings.”

“I expect to talk over these little affairs with Daniel hereafter,” he said. “We shall have a great deal of time on our hands--in Canada.”

And Mr. X----- smiled, and went on smoking. It was the second time he had uttered that phrase--“in Canada.”

I laughed now, and said:--

“You continue to regard Toronto, or Montreal, or Quebec, as your future residence?”

“Yes; I think I prefer Quebec. The view from Cape Diamond is superb; and there is something English and un-American in the whole place, which I like. The Plains of Abraham bring back the history of the past,--which is more agreeable to me at least than the history of the present.”

“You adhere more than ever, I see, to your opinion that we are going to fail?”

“It is not an opinion, my dear colonel, but a certainty.”

My head sank. In the army I had been hopeful. When I came to Richmond, those high intelligences, John M. Daniel and Mr. X-----, did not even attempt to conceal their gloomy views.

“I see you think me a croaker,” said Mr. X-----, tranquilly smoking, “and doubtless say to yourself, colonel, that I am injudicious in thus discouraging a soldier, who is fighting for this cause. A year ago I would not have spoken to you thus, for a year ago there was still some hope. Now, to discourage you--if thinking men, fighting for a principle, like yourself, _could_ be discouraged--would result in no injury: for the cause is lost. On the contrary, as the friend of that most excellent gentleman, your father, I regard it as a sort of duty to speak thus--to say to you ‘Don’t throw away your life for nothing. Do your duty, but do no more than your duty, for we are doomed.’”

I could find no reply to these gloomy words.

“The case is past praying for,” said Mr. X----- composedly, “the whole fabric of the Confederacy at this moment is a mere shell. It is going to crumble in the spring, and another flag will float over the Virginia capitol yonder--what you soldiers call ‘The Gridiron.’ The country is tired. The administration is unpopular, and the departments are mismanaged. I am candid, you see. The days of the Confederacy are numbered, and worse than all, nobody knows it. We ought to negotiate for the best terms, but the man who advises that, will be hissed at and called a ‘coward.’ It is an invidious thing to do. It is much grander to shout ‘Death sooner than surrender!’ I shouted that lustily as long as there was any hope--now, I think it my duty as a statesman, and public functionary, to say, ‘There are worse things than death--let us try and avoid them by making terms.’ I say that to you--I do not say so on the streets--the people would tear me to pieces, and with their sources of information they would be right in doing so.”

“Is it possible that all is lost? That negotiations are our only hope?”

“Yes; and confidentially speaking--this is a State secret, my dear colonel--these will soon be made.”

“Indeed!”

“You think that impossible, but it is the impossible which invariably takes place in this world. We are going to send commissioners to meet Mr. Lincoln in Hampton Roads--and it will be useless.”

“Why?”

“We are going to demand such terms as he will not agree to. The commissioners will return. The war will continue to its legitimate military end, which I fix about the last days of March.”

“Good heaven! so soon!”

“Yes.”

“In three months?”

Mr. X----- nodded.

“General Lee may lengthen the term a little by his skill and courage, but it is not in _his_ power, even, to resist beyond the month of April.”

“The army of Northern Virginia, driven by the enemy!”

“Forced to surrender, or annihilated; and in Virginia--it will never join Johnston. Its numbers are too small to cut a path through the enemy. Grant will be at the Southside road before the first of April; Lee will evacuate his lines, which he will be compelled to hold to the last moment; he will retreat; be intercepted; be hunted down toward Lynchburg, and either surrender, or be butchered. Cheerful, isn’t it?”

“It is frightful!”

“Yes, Lee’s men are starving now. The country is tired of the war, and disgusted with the manner in which we manage things. No recruits are arriving. The troops are not _deserting_, but they are leaving the army without permission, to succor their starving families. Lee’s last hours are approaching, and we are playing the comedy here in Richmond with an immense appearance of reality; dancing, and fiddling, and laughing on the surface of the volcano. I play my part among the rest. I risk my head more even, perhaps, than the military leaders. I take a philosophic view, however, of the present and future. If I am not hung, I will go to Canada; meanwhile, I smoke my cigar, colonel.”

And Mr. X----- lazily threw away his stump, and lit a fresh Havana. It is impossible to imagine any thing more careless than his attitude. This man was either very brave or frightfully apathetic.

Five minutes afterward, I knew that any thing but apathy possessed him. All at once he rose in his chair, and his eyes were fixed upon me with a glance so piercing and melancholy, that they dwell still in my memory, and will always dwell there.

“I said we were playing a comedy here in Richmond, colonel,” he said, in tones so deep and solemn that they made me start; “I am playing my part with the rest; I play it in public, and even in private, as before you to-night. I sit here, indolently smoking and uttering my jests and platitudes, and, at the moment that I am speaking, my heart is breaking! I am a Virginian--I love this soil more than all the rest of the world--not a foot but is dear and sacred, and a vulgar horde are about to trample it under foot, and enslave its people. Every pulse of my being throbs with agony at the thought! I can not sleep. I have lost all taste for food. One thought alone haunts me--that the land of Washington, Jefferson, Mason, Henry, and Randolph, is to become the helpless prey of the scum of Europe and the North! My family has lived here for more than two hundred years. I have been, and am to-day, proud beyond words, of my birthright! I am a Virginian! a Virginian of Virginians! I have for forty years had no thought but the honor of Virginia. I have fought for her, and her only, in the senate and cabinet of the old government at Washington. I have dedicated all my powers to her--shrunk from nothing in my path--given my days and nights for years, and was willing to pour out my blood for Virginia; and now she is about to be trampled upon, her great statues hurled down, her escutcheon blotted, her altars overturned! And I, who have had no thought but her honor and glory, am to be driven, at the end of a long career, to a foreign land! I am to crouch yonder in Canada, with my bursting brow in my two hands--and every newspaper is to tell me ‘the negro and the bayonet rule Virginia!’ Can you wonder, then, that I am gloomy--that despair lies under all this jesting? _You_ are happy. You go yonder, where a bullet may end you. Would to God that I had entered the army, old as I am, and that at least I could hope for a death of honor, in arms for Virginia!”

VII.

SECRET SERVICE.

The statesman leaned back in his great chair, and was silent. At the same moment a tap was heard at the door; it opened noiselessly, and Nighthawk glided into the apartment.

Under his cloak I saw the gray uniform of a Confederate soldier; in his hand he carried a letter.

Nighthawk saluted Mr. X----- and myself with benignant respect. His quick eye, however, had caught the gloomy and agitated expression of the statesman’s countenance, and he was silent.

“Well,” said Mr. X-----, raising his head, with a deep sigh. Then passing his hand over his face, he seemed to brush away all emotion. When he again looked up, his face was as calm and unmoved as at the commencement of our interview.

“You see I begin a new scene in this comedy,” he said to me in a low tone.

And turning to Nighthawk, he said:--

“Well, you followed that agreeable person?”

“Yes, sir,” said Nighthawk, with great respect.

“She turned out to be the character you supposed? Speak before Colonel Surry.”

Nighthawk bowed.

“I never had any doubt of her character, sir,” he said. “You will remember that she called on you a week ago, announcing that she was a spy, who had lately visited the Federal lines and Washington. You described her to me, and informed me that you had given her another appointment for to-night; when I assured you that I knew her; she was an enemy, who had come as a spy upon _us_; and you directed me to be here to-night, and follow her, after your interview.”

“Well,” said Mr. X-----, quietly, “you followed her!”

“Yes, sir. On leaving you, after making her pretended report of affairs in Washington, she got into her carriage, and the driver started rapidly, going up Capitol and Grace streets. I followed on foot, and had to run--but I am used to that, sir. The carriage stopped at a house in the upper part of the city--a Mr. Blocque’s; the lady got out, telling the driver to wait, and went into the house, where she staid for about half an hour. She then came out--I was in the shadow of a tree, not ten yards from the spot, and as she got into the carriage, I could see that she held in her hand a letter. As the driver closed the door, she said, ‘Take me to the flag-of-truce bureau, on Ninth Street, next door to the war office.’ The driver mounted his box, and set off--and crossing the street, I commenced running to get a-head. In this I succeeded, and reached the bureau five minutes before the carriage.

“Well, sir, I hastened up stairs, and went into the bureau, where three or four clerks were examining the letters left to be sent by the flag-of-truce boat to-morrow. They were laughing and jesting as they read aloud the odd letters from the Libby and other prisons--some of which, I assure you, were very amusing, sir--when the lady’s footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and she came in, smiling.

“I had turned my back, having given some excuse for my presence to one of the clerks, who is an acquaintance. Thus the lady, who knows me, could not see my face; but I could, by looking out of the corners of my eyes, see _her_. She came in, in her rich gray cloak, smiling on the clerks, and handing an open letter to one of them, said:--“‘Will you oblige me by sending that to my sister in New York, by the flag-of-truce boat, to-morrow, sir?’

“‘If there is nothing contraband in it, madam,’ said the clerk.

“‘Oh!’ she replied, with a laugh, ‘it is only on family matters. My sister is a Southerner, and so am I, sir. You can read the letter; it is not very dangerous!’

“And she smiled so sweetly that the clerk was almost ashamed to read the letter. He, however, glanced his eye over it, and evidently found nothing wrong in it. While he was doing so, the lady walked toward the mail-bags in which the clerks had been placing such letters as they found unobjectionable, the others being marked, ‘Condemned,’ and thrown into a basket. As she passed near one of the bags, I saw the lady, whom I was closely watching, flirt her cloak, as though by accident, across the mouth of one of the mail-bags, and at the same instant her hand stole down and dropped a letter into the bag. As she did so, the clerk, who had finished reading _the other letter_, bowed, and said:---

“‘There is nothing objectionable in this, madam, and it will be sent, of course.’

“‘I was sure of that, sir,’ replied the lady, with a smile. ‘I am very much obliged. Good evening, sir!’

“And she sailed out, all the clerks politely rising as she did so.

“No sooner had the door closed than I darted upon the bag in which I had seen her drop the letter. The clerks wished to stop me, but I informed them of what I had seen. If they doubted, they could see for themselves that the letter, which I had easily found, was not sealed with the seal of the bureau. They looked at it, and at once acknowledged their error.

“‘Arrest her!’ exclaimed one of them, suddenly. The rapid rolling of a carriage came like an echo to his words.

“‘It is useless, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘I know where to find the lady, and will look to the whole affair. You know I am in the secret service, and will be personally responsible for every thing. I will take this letter to the official who directed me to watch the lady who brought it.’

“To this, no objection was made, as I am known at the office. I came away; returned as quickly as possible; and here is the letter, sir.”

With which words Nighthawk drew his hand from under his cloak, and presented the letter to Mr. X-----, who had listened in silence to his narrative.

VIII.

BY FLAG-OF-TRUCE BOAT.

MR. X----- took the letter, broke the seal, and ran his eye over the contents.

“Decidedly, that woman is a skilful person,” he said; “she fishes in troubled waters with the coolness of an experienced hand.”

And presenting the letter to me, the statesman said:--

“Would you like to see a specimen of the sort of documents which go on file in the departments, colonel?”

I took the letter, and read the following words:--

“RICHMOND, 18 _Dec’r_, 1864.

“Tell, _you know who_, that I have just seen the honorable Mr.-----” (here the writer gave the real name and official position of Mr. X-----), “and have had a long conversation with him. He is fully convinced that I am a good Confederate, and spoke without reserve of matters the most private. He is in high spirits, and looks on the rebel cause as certain to succeed. I never saw one more blinded to the real state of things. Richmond is full of misery, and the people seem in despair, but this high official, who represents the whole government, is evidently certain of Lee’s success. I found him in a garrulous mood, and he did not conceal his views. The government has just received heavy supplies from the south, by the Danville railroad--others are coming--the whole country in rear of Sherman is rising--and Lee, he stated, would soon be re-enforced by between fifty and seventy-five thousand men. What was more important still, was a dispatch, which he read me, from England. This startled me. There seems no doubt that England is about to recognize the Confederacy. When he had finished reading this dispatch, on the back of which I could see the English postmark, he said to me--these are his words:--‘You see, things were never brighter; it is only a question of time; and by holding out a little longer, we shall compel the enemy to retire and give up the contest. With the re-enforcements coming, Lee will have about one hundred thousand men. With that force, he will be able to repulse all General Grant’s assaults. Things look dark at this moment, but the cause was never more hopeful.’

“He seemed insane, but I give you his words. It is certain that these are the views of the government, and that our authorities are much mistaken in supposing the Confederacy at its last gasp. It is impossible that the honorable Mr.----- was attempting to deceive me; because I carried him a letter from -----” (here the writer gave the name of a prominent official of the Confederate Government, which I suppress) “who vouched for me, and declared that I was passionately Southern in my sympathies.

“I shall see the honorable Mr.----- in a day or two again. In the mean while, I am staying, _incognita_, at the house of our friend, Mr. Blocque, who has afforded me every facility in return for the _safeguard_ I brought him, to protect his property when we occupy Richmond. The city is in a terrible state. Mr. Blocque has just come in, and informs me that he has been garroted near the capitol, and robbed of ten thousand dollars in good money. He is in despair.

“As soon as I have finished some important private business, which keeps me in the Confederate lines, I shall be with ----- again. Tell him to be in good spirits. This city has still a great deal of money hoarded in garrets--and we shall soon be here. Then we can retire on a competence--and when _Fonthill_ is confiscated, we will purchase it, and live in affluence.

“LUCRETIA.”

I looked at the back of the letter. It was directed to a lady in Suffolk. From the letter, my glance passed to the face of Mr. X-----. He was smiling grimly.

“A valuable document,” he said, “which madam will doubtless duplicate before very long, with additional particulars. I make you a present of it, colonel, as a memorial of the war.”

I thanked him, and placed the letter in my pocket. To-day I copy it, word for word.

Mr. X----- reflected a moment; then he said to Nighthawk:--

“Arrest this woman; I am tired of her. I have no time to waste upon such persons, however charming.”

Nighthawk looked greatly delighted.

“I was going to beg that order of you, sir,” he said, “as the ‘private business’ alluded to in the letter, concerns a friend of mine, greatly.”

“Ah! well, here is the order.”

And taking a pen, Mr. X----- scrawled two lines, which he handed to Nighthawk. A glow of satisfaction came to that worthy’s face, and taking the paper, he carefully placed it in his pocket.

As he did so, the bell in the capitol square struck midnight, and I rose to take my departure.

“Come and see me soon again, colonel,” said Mr. X-----, going to the door with me. He had made a sign to Nighthawk, who rose to go out with me, that he wished him to remain.

“What I have said to you, to-night,” continued the statesman, gravely, “may have been injudicious, colonel. I am not certain of that--but I am quite sure that to have it repeated at this time would be inconvenient. Be discreet, therefore, my dear friend--after the war, tell or write what you fancy; and I should rather have my present views known then, than not known. They are those neither of a time-server, a faint heart, or a fool. I stand like the Roman sentinel at the gate of Herculaneum, awaiting the lava flood that will bury me. I see it coming--I hear the roar--I know destruction is rushing on me--but I am a sentinel on post; I stand where I have been posted; it is God and my conscience that have placed me on duty here. I will stay, whatever comes, until I am relieved by the same authority which posted me.” And with the bow of a nobleman, the gray-haired statesman bade me farewell.

I returned to my lodgings, buried in thought, pondering deeply on the strange scenes of this night of December.

On the next morning I set out, and rejoined the army at Petersburg.

I, too, was a sentinel on post, like the statesman. And I determined to remain on duty to the last.

IX.

TO AND FRO IN THE SPRING OF ‘65.

The months of January and February, 1865, dragged on, sombre and dreary.

Two or three expeditions which I made during that woeful period, gave me a good idea of the condition of the country.

In September, 1864, I had traversed Virginia from Petersburg to Winchester, and had found the people--especially those of the lower Shenandoah Valley--still hopeful, brave, resolved to resist to the death.

In January and February, 1865, my official duties carried me to the region around Staunton; to the mountains west of Lynchburg; and to the North Carolina border, south of Petersburg. All had changed. Everywhere I found the people looking blank, hopeless, and utterly discouraged. The shadow of the approaching woe seemed to have already fallen upon them.

The army was as “game” as ever--even Early’s little handful, soon to be struck and dispersed by General Sheridan’s ten thousand cavalry. Everywhere, the soldiers laughed in the face of death. Each seemed to feel, as did the old statesman with whom I had conversed on that night at Richmond, that he was a sentinel on post, and must stand there to the last. The lava might engulf him, but he was “posted,” and must stand until relieved, by his commanding officer or death. It was the “poor private,” in his ragged jacket and old shoes, as well as the officer in his braided coat, who felt thus. For those private soldiers of the army of Northern Virginia were gentlemen. _Noblesse oblige_ was their motto; and they meant to die, musket in hand!

Oh, soldiers of the army, who carried those muskets in a hundred battles!--who fought with them from Manassas, in 1861, to Appomattox, in 1865--you are the real heroes of the mighty struggle, and one comrade salutes you now, as he looked at you with admiration in old days! What I saw in those journeys was dreary enough; but however black may be the war-cloud, there is always the gleam of sunlight somewhere! We laughed now and then, reader, even in the winter of 1864-’5!

I laugh still, as I think of the brave cannoneers of the horse artillery near Staunton--and of the fearless Breathed, their commander, jesting and playing with his young bull-dog, whom he had called “Stuart” for his courage. I hear the good old songs, all about “Ashby,” and the “Palmetto Tree,” and the “Bonnie Blue Flag”--songs sung with joyous voices in that dreary winter, as in other days, when the star of hope shone more brightly, and the future was more promising.

At Lynchburg, where I encountered a number of old friends, songs still sweeter saluted me--from the lips of my dear companions, Major Gray and Captain Woodie. How we laughed and sang, on that winter night, at Lynchburg! Do you chant your sweet “Nora McShane” still, Gray? And you, Woodie, do you sing in your beautiful and touching tenor to-day,--

“The heart bowed down by deep despair. To weakest hopes will cling?”

Across the years comes once more that magical strain; again I hear your voice, filled with the very soul of sadness, tell how

“Memory is the only friend That grief can call its own!”

That seemed strangely applicable to the situation at the time. The memory of our great victories was all that was left to us; and I thought that it was the spirit of grief itself that was singing. Again I hear the notes--but “Nora McShane” breaks in--“Nora McShane,” the most exquisite of all Gray’s songs. Then he winds up with uproarious praise of the “Bully Lager Beer!”--and the long hours of night flit away on the wings of laughter, as birds dart onward, and are buried in the night.

Are you there still, Gray? Do you sing still, Woodie? Health and happiness, comrades! All friendly stars smile on you! Across the years and the long leagues that divide us, I salute you!

Thus, at Staunton and Lynchburg, reader, gay scenes broke the monotony. In my journey toward North Carolina, I found food also, for laughter.

I had gone to Hicksford, fifty miles south of Petersburg, to inspect the cavalry; and in riding on, I looked with curiosity on the desolation which the enemy had wrought along the Weldon railroad, when they had destroyed it in the month of December. Stations, private houses, barns, stables, all were black and charred ruins. The railroad was a spectacle. The enemy had formed line of battle close along the track; then, at the signal, this line of battle had attacked the road. The iron rails were torn from the sleepers; the latter were then piled up and fired; the rails were placed upon the blazing mass, and left there until they became red-hot in the middle, and both ends bent down--then they had been seized, broken, twisted; in a wild spirit of sport the men had borne some of the heated rails to trees near the road; twisted them three or four times around the trunks; and there, as I passed, were the unfortunate trees with their iron boa-constrictors around them--monuments of the playful humor of the blue people, months before.

Hill and Hampton had attacked and driven them back; from the dead horses, as elsewhere, rose the black vultures on flapping wings: but it is no part of my purpose, reader, to weary you with these war-pictures, or describe disagreeable scenes. It is an odd interview which I had on my return toward Petersburg that my memory recalls. It has naught to do with my narrative--but then it will not fill more than a page!

I had encountered two wagons, and, riding, ahead of them, saw a courier of army head-quarters, whose name was Ashe.

I saluted the smiling youth, in return for his own salute, and said:--

“Where have you been, Ashe?”

“To Sussex, colonel, on a foraging expedition.”

“For the general?”

“And some of the staff, colonel.”

Ashe smiled; we rode on together.

“How did you come to be a forager, Ashe?” I said.

“Well this was the way of it, colonel,” he said. “I belonged to the old Stonewall brigade, but General Lee detailed me at the start of the war to shoe the head-quarters horses. It was old General Robert that sent me with these wagons. I was shoeing the general’s gray, and had just pared the hind-hoof, when he sent for me. A man had started with the wagons, and had mired in the field right by head-quarters. So old General Robert says, says he, ‘Ashe, you can get them out.’ I says, ‘General, I think I can, if you’ll give me a canteen full of your French brandy for the boys.’ He laughed at that, and I says, ‘General, I have been with you three years, and if in that time you have ever seen me out of the way, I hope you will tell me so.’ ‘No, Ashe,’ says he, ‘I have not, and you shall have the brandy.’ And his black fellow went into the closet and drew me a canteen full; for you see, colonel, old General Robert always keeps a demijohn full, and carries it about in his old black spring wagon, to give to the wounded soldiers--he don’t drink himself. Well, I got the brandy, and set the boys to work, building a road with pine saplings, and got the wagons out! From that time to this, I have been going with them, colonel, and sometimes some very curious things have happened.”

I assumed that inquiring expression of countenance dear to story-tellers. Ashe saw it, and smiled.

“Last fall, colonel,” he said, “I was down on the Blackwater, foraging with my wagons, for old General Robert, when a squadron of Yankees crossed in the ferryboat, and caught me. I did not try to get off, and the colonel says, says he, ‘Who are _you?_’ I told him I was only foraging with General Lee’s head-quarters teams, to get something for the old general to eat, as nothing could be bought in Petersburg; and, says I, ‘I have long been looking to be captured, and now the time has come.’ As I was talking, I saw an uncle of mine among the Yankees, and says he, ‘Ashe, what are you doing here?’ ‘The same you are doing there,’ I says; and I asked the colonel just to let me off this time, and I would try and keep out of their way hereafter. He asked me, Would I come down there any more? And I told him I didn’t know--I would have to go where I was ordered. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘you can’t beg off.’ But I says, ‘step here a minute, colonel,’ and I took him to the wagon, and offered him my canteen of brandy. He took three or four good drinks, and then he says, says he, ‘That’s all I want! You can go on with your wagons.’ And I tell you I put out quick, colonel, and never looked behind me till I got back to Petersburg?”[1]

[Footnote 1: In the words of the narrator.]

I have attempted to recall here, reader, the few gleams of sunshine, the rare moments of laughter, which I enjoyed in those months of the winter of 1864-’5.

I shrink from dwelling on the events of that dreary epoch. Every day I lost some friend. One day it was the brave John Pegram, whom I had known and loved from his childhood; the next day it was some other, whose disappearance left a gap in my life which nothing thenceforth could fill. I pass over all that. Why recall more of the desolate epoch than is necessary?

For the rest that is only a momentary laugh that I have indulged in. Events draw near, at the memory of which you sigh--or even groan perhaps--to-day, when three years have passed.

For this page is written on the morning of April 8, 1868.

This day, three years ago, Lee was staggering on in sight of Appomattox.

X.

AEGRI SOMNIA.--MARCH, 1865.

These letters and figures arouse terrible memories--do they not, reader? You shudder as you return in thought to that epoch, provided always that you then wore the gray, and not the blue. If you wore the blue, you perhaps laugh.

The South had reached, in this month of March, one of those periods when the most hopeful can see, through the black darkness, no single ray of light. Throughout the winter, the government had made unceasing efforts to bring out the resources of the country--efforts honest and untiring, if not always judicious--but as the days, and weeks, and months wore on, it became more and more evident that the hours of the Confederacy were numbered. The project of employing negro troops, which Congress long opposed, had been adopted at last, but only in time to be too late. The peace commissioners had held their interview with Lincoln, but effected nothing. The enemy continually advanced toward the achievement of their end. Sherman had safely made his famous “march to the sea”--Savannah and Charleston had fallen--the western army was about to unite with the army of Grant at Petersburg. There the great game went on, but the end was near. Lee had attempted, late in February, to evacuate his lines, but was overruled. His army was reduced to about forty thousand, while Grant’s numbered about one hundred and fifty thousand. The Confederate troops were almost naked, and had scarce food enough to sustain life. They fought still, in the trenches, along the great line of works, but it was plain, as Lee said, that the line was stretched so far, that a very little more would snap it.

That line extended from the Williamsburg road, east of Richmond to Five Forks, west of Petersburg--a distance of nearly fifty miles. Gradually Grant had pushed westward, until his grasp was now very nearly upon the Southside road. Lee had extended his own thin line to still confront him. The White Oak road, beyond the Rowanty, had been defended by heavy works. The hill above Burgess’s bristled with batteries. The extreme right of the Confederate line rested in the vicinity of Five Forks. Beyond that it could not be extended. Already it began to crack. Along the works stretching from east to west, there was scarce a soldier every ten yards. Grant was only prevented from bursting through by the masterly handling of Lee’s troops--the rapid concentration of masses at the points which he threatened. The cavalry was almost paralyzed. The destruction of the Weldon road southward to Hicksford, in December, had been a death-blow nearly, to that arm of the service. The Confederate cavalry had depended upon it, hauling their forage from Stony Creek Station. Now they had been compelled to go south to Hicksford, the nearest point, fifty miles from Petersburg. The consequence was that Lee’s right was almost undefended by cavalry. Grant’s horsemen could penetrate, almost unchecked, to the Danville and Southside railroads. The marvel was, not that this was effected at the end of March, but that it was not effected a month sooner. But I anticipate.

To glance, for an instant before proceeding, at the condition of the country. It had reached the last point of depression, and was yielding to despair. The government was enormously unpopular--mismanagement had ceased to attract attention. The press roared in vain. The _Enquirer_ menaced the members of Congress from the Gulf States. The _Examiner_ urged that the members of the Virginia Legislature, to be elected in the spring, should be “clothed with the state sovereignty,” to act for Virginia! Thus the executive and legislative were both attacked. The people said, “Make General Lee dictator.” And General ----- wrote and printed that, in such an event, he “had the dagger of Brutus” for Lee. Thus all things were in confusion. The currency was nothing but paper--it was a melancholy farce to call it money. The Confederate note was popularly regarded as worth little more than the paper upon which it was printed. Fathers of families went to market and paid hundreds of dollars for the few pounds of meat which their households required each day. Officers were forced to pay one thousand dollars for their boots. Old saddle-bags were cut up, and the hides of dead horses carried off, to manufacture into shoes. Uniform coats were no longer procurable--the government had to supply them gratis, even to field officers. Lee subsisted, like his soldiers, on a little grease and corn bread. Officers travelling on duty, carried in their saddle-pockets bits of bacon and stale bread, for the country could not supply them. In the homes of the land once overflowing with plenty, it was a question each day where food could be procured. The government had impressed every particle, except just sufficient to keep the inmates alive. What the commissaries had left, the “Yankee cavalry” took. A lady of Goochland said to a Federal officer, “General, I can understand why you destroy railroads and bridges, but why do you burn mills, and the houses over women and children?” The officer bowed, and replied, “Madam, your soldiers are so brave that we can’t beat you; and we are trying to _starve you_!”

The interior of these homes of the country was a touching spectacle. The women were making every sacrifice. Delicate hands performed duties which had always fallen to menials. The servants had gone to the enemy, and aristocratic young women cooked, washed, swept, and drudged--a charming spectacle perhaps to the enemy, who hated the “aristocracy,” but woeful to fathers, and sons, and brothers, when they came home sick, or wounded. Clothes had long grown shabby, and were turned and mended. Exquisite beauty was decked in rags. A faded calico was a treasure. The gray-haired gentleman, who had always worn broadcloth, was content with patched homespun. It was not of these things that they were thinking, however. Dress had not made those seigneurs and dames--nor could the want of it hide their dignity. The father, and care-worn wife, and daughter, and sister, were thinking of other things. The only son was fighting beside Lee--dying yonder, in the trenches. He was only a “poor private,” clad in rags and carrying a musket--but he was the last of a long line, perhaps, of men who had built up Virginia and the Federal government which he was fighting--he was “only a private,” but his blood was illustrious; more than all, he was the treasure of the gray-haired father and mother; the head of the house in the future; if he fell, the house would fall with him--and it was nearly certain that he would fall!

So they mourned, and looked fearfully to the coming hours, in town and country. In the old homesteads--poverty and despair. In the cities--wasting cares and sinking hearts. More than ever before, all the vile classes of society rioted and held sway. The forestallers and engrossers drove a busy trade. They seemed to feel that their “time was short”--that the night was coming, in which not even rascals could work! Supplies were hoarded, and doled out at famine prices to the famine-stricken community; not supplies of luxuries, but of the commonest necessaries of life. The portly extortioner did not invite custom, either. Once he had bowed and smirked behind his counter when a purchaser entered. Now, he turned his back coldly, went on reading his newspaper, scarce replied to the words addressed to him, and threw his goods on the counter with the air of one reluctantly conferring a favor. Foreboding had entered even the hearts of the forestaller and extortioner. They had sold their souls for gain, and that gain was turning to dross. As at the wave of a magician’s wand, their crisp new “Confederate notes” had become rags. The biter was bit. His gains were to count for nothing. Extortioner and victim were soon to be stripped equally naked--the cold blast of ruin was to freeze both alike. Thus, all things hastened toward the inevitable catastrophe. Brave hearts did not shrink, but they saw ruin striding on. Every thing crumbled--the Confederacy was staggering and gasping in the death agony. Day by day the cause was slowly, but certainly, being lost. Children cried aloud for bread--women moaned, and knelt, and prayed. Their last hope was leaving them. Lee’s army was starving and dying. Hour by hour, nearer and nearer came the roar of the gulf of destruction. A sort of stupor descended. The country--prostrate and writhing--tried to rise, but could not. The government knew not where to turn, or what course to pursue. Grant was growing in strength hourly. Lee’s little force was dwindling. Sherman was streaming through South Carolina. Grant was reaching out toward Five Forks. All-destroying war grinned hideously--on all sides stared gaunt Famine. The air jarred with the thunder of cannon. The days and nights blazed, and were full of wild cries--of shouts, groans, and reverberations. The ground shook--the grave yawned--the black cloud slowly drew on; that cloud from which the thunderbolt was about to fall.

How to describe in a volume like this, now near its end, that terrible state of coma--that approaching cataclysm, in which all things, social, civil, and military were about to disappear! The whole fabric of society was going to pieces; every hour flamed with battles; tragic events jostled each other; blood gushed; a people were wailing; a victorious enemy were rushing on; the whole continent trembled; Lee was being swept away, in spite of every effort which he made to steady his feet--and that torrent was going to engulf a whole nation!

All this I am to describe in the last few pages of this volume! The task is far beyond my strength. In the future, some writer may delineate that hideous dream--to do so to-day, in this year 1868, would tear the stoutest heart.

For myself, I do not attempt it. Were I able to paint the picture, there would be no space. My memoir is nearly ended. The threads of the woof are nearly spun out, and the loom is going to stop. Death stands ready with his shears to cut the ravelled thread, knit up the seam, and put his red label on the fabric!

XI.

I VISIT GENERAL FITZHUGH LEE.

The end of March, 1865, was approaching when I set out on what was to prove my last tour of duty amid the pine woods of Dinwiddie.

It was a relief to be back in the army; to see brave faces and smiles around me, instead of gloomy eyes and careworn cheeks, as in the city. I passed along the Boydton road almost gayly; crossed the Rowanty at Burgess’s, and went on by General Lee’s powerful works covering the White Oak road, beyond. Soon I was approaching Dinwiddie Court-House, in the vicinity of which was encamped our small force of starved and broken-down cavalry.

Hampton had gone to meet Sherman, and the cavalry was commanded now by General Fitzhugh Lee, who had recovered from his severe wound received at Winchester. I was greeted by this brave soldier and accomplished gentleman as warmly as I could have desired--for “General Fitz,” as we always called him at Stuart’s head-quarters, was the soul of good humor and good fellowship. You have seen him, have you not, reader--whether you wore gray or blue--fighting beside him, or meeting him in battle? You recall the open and manly features, the frank and soldierly glance of the eye, the long beard and heavy mustache, almost always curling with laughter? You remember the mirthful voice, the quick jest, the tone of badinage--that joyful and brave air which said, “as long as life lasts there is hope!” You have not forgotten this gay cavalier, the brother-in-arms of Stuart; this born cavalryman, with his love of adventure, his rollicking mirth, his familiar greeting of high and low, his charming abandon and ever-ready laughter. That was the character of the _individual_--of “Fitz Lee,” the good companion. The commander-in-chief has defined for all, the traits of Major-General Fitzhugh Lee. It was General R.E. Lee who wrote him in 1863, “Your admirable conduct, devotion to the cause of your country, and devotion to duty, fill me with pleasure. I hope you will soon see her efforts for independence crowned with success, and long live to enjoy the affection and gratitude of your country.”

These few lines were worth fighting hard for--were they not? All things change; many things fail. Chaos or monarchy may come, but the good opinion of Lee will survive all!

I talked with General Fitz Lee for an hour nearly, recalling the old days with Stuart, who had loved and confided in him more than in any other living man. It was a beautiful friendship, indeed, and each understood the value of the other as man and soldier. Stuart is dead, and can not give his testimony; but General Fitz Lee is alive, and can give his. Here and there a voice still denies Stuart’s genius as a commander. Ask his friend who survives; and if tears do not choke the voice, you will learn the real rank of Stuart!

But I can not linger on these scenes. The narrative draws on.

I mounted my horse, after shaking hands with General Fitz Lee and his brave staff, and, for the first time, remembered to ask, “Where was Tom Herbert?”

At that question, a beaming smile came to every countenance.

“Done for!” said one.

“Captured!” laughed another.

“Demoralized, subjugated, and negotiating with the enemy!” said a third.

“Well, where is the place of meeting--where are the terms being arranged?” I said.

“At a place called Disaways, on the lower Rowanty!”

“Good! I know the road there,” I said.

And with a laugh, which the general and his gay cavaliers echoed, I touched my gray with the spur, and set out toward the south.

XII.

BY A FIRE IN THE WOODS.

I pushed on, having resolved, after finishing my duties, to visit Disaways.

Soon Dinwiddie Court-House came in sight. I entered the small village, and looked attentively--as I had done on more than one occasion before--at the locality which General Davenant’s narrative had surrounded with so strange an interest. There was the old tavern, with its long portico, where Darke had held his orgies, and from which he had set forth on his errand of robbery and murder. There was the county jail, in which General Davenant had insisted upon being confined, and where so many friends had visited him. There was the old court-house, in which he had been tried for the murder of George Conway; and I fancied I could distinguish upon one of the shutters, the broken bolt which Darke had forced, more than ten years before, in order to purloin the knife with which the crime had been committed.

For some miles, that tragic story absorbed me, banishing all other reflections. That was surely the strangest of histories!--and the drama had by no means reached its denouement. Between the first and last acts “an interval of ten years is supposed to pass.” There was the stage direction! Darke was still alive, active, dangerous, bent on mischief. He had an able coadjutress in his female ally. That singular woman, with whom his life was so closely connected, was in prison, it was true, but the Confederate authorities might release her; she might, at any moment, recommence her _diablerie_. Had she found that paper--or had Mohun found it? In any event, she was dangerous--more so, even, than her male companion--that worthy whom I might meet at every turn in the road--that prince of surprises and tragic “appearances!”

“Decidedly, these are curiosities, this man and this woman!” I said; “they are two bottomless pits of daring and depravity. Mohun has escaped them heretofore, but now, when the enemy seem driving us, and sweeping every thing before them, will not Darke and madam attain their vengeance, and come out winners in the struggle?”

With that reflection, I dismissed the subject, and pushed on, over the narrow and winding roads, to make my inspections.

The day was cold and brilliant; the winds cut the face; and I rode on steadily, thinking of many things. Then the desire to smoke seized upon me. General Fitzhugh Lee had given me some excellent cigars, captured from the enemy, and I looked around to find some house where I could light my cigar. None appeared; but at two hundred yards from the road, in a hidden hollow, I thought I perceived the glimmer of a fire--probably made by some straggler. I rode toward it, descended into the hollow, approached the fire, beside which crouched a figure, wrapped in an overcoat. The figure raised its head--and I recognized Nighthawk.

He rose and smiled benignantly, as he shook hands with me.

“An unexpected meeting, Nighthawk,” I said, laughing. “What on earth makes you come out and camp in the woods?”

“A little fancy, colonel; you know I am eccentric. I like this way of living, from having scouted so much--but I came here with an object!”

“What?”

“To be private. I thought my fire could not be seen from the road.”

“Why should it not be?”

“Well, perhaps I exaggerate danger. But I am on an important scouting expedition--wanted to reflect, and not be seen--I am going, to-night, through the lines on a little affair of which you know something.”

“Ah, what do you refer to?”

“That paper,” said Nighthawk, succinctly. “It is in the hands of Alibi--there is a Yankee picket at his house--but I am going to see him, and force him to surrender it.”

“Is it possible he has it! Do you know that?”

“Strangely enough, colonel. Do you remember that woman, Amanda?”

“Perfectly. I visited her with Mohun.”

“He told me of your visit. Well, you no doubt remember also, colonel, that he offered her a large sum to discover the paper--that she offered to try and find it, or give him a clue to its whereabouts--he was to return in ten days, and hear her report.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, he returned, colonel, but Amanda could tell him nothing--which you no doubt have heard.”

“Yes, from him.”

“I have been more successful, at last, in dealing with this strange woman. I do not know if she is a witch or an epileptic, or what--but she has convinced me that Alibi has the paper we want.”

And Nighthawk proceeded to explain. It was an exceedingly curious explanation. Amanda had first demanded of him a statement of all the facts. He had thereupon informed her of the appointment which he had made with Swartz in Richmond, to meet him three days afterward at the house of Alibi--of his detention by the pickets, so that he had been unable to keep the appointment--Alibi’s statement when he saw him, that Swartz had not been to his house--and Swartz’s confinement in the lonely house, ending in his murder by Darke. That was all he knew, he said--the paper was gone--where was it?

“At Mr. Alibi’s,” Amanda had replied; “I only asked you this, Mr. Nighthawk, to satisfy myself that my visions were true. I _saw_ poor Mr. Swartz go to Mr. Alibi’s, and ask for you, on the day you appointed. When he was told that you had not come, he seemed very low-spirited, and told Mr. Alibi that he _must_ see you, to give you a paper. His life was threatened, he said, on account of that paper. An officer and a lady had discovered that he had that paper--it was as much as his life was worth to keep it on his person--if Mr. Alibi would take it, and for old times’ sake, put it away until _he_ came back, he would pay him as much gold as he could hold in both hands. Then he gave the paper to Mr. Alibi, and went away, telling him to say nothing of it.”

“I then asked her,” continued Nighthawk, “where the paper could be found. She replied that Alibi always carried it on his person. That was a few days ago. I am going to-night to see him, and recover the paper.”

I had listened to this narrative with strange interest. This singular woman was a curious problem. Were her _visions_ really such as she described them? Or did she only “put this and that together,” as the phrase is, and by her marvellous acumen, sharpened possibly by disease, arrive at results which defied the most penetrating glance of the sane? I knew not--but reflecting often upon this subject since, have finally come to the latter conclusion, as the more philosophic of the two. Epilepsy is insanity of mind and body; and one of the most infallible characteristics of insanity is cunning--which is only another word for diseased and abnormal activity of brain. Amanda arrived at strange results, but I think she attained them by disease. Her acumen in this affair could be thus explained, almost wholly. As to the truth of the explanation, I felt a singular presentiment that it was correct.

“Well, that is curious enough,” I said, “and I wish you success, Nighthawk. What of our other female friend--the fair lady you arrested in Richmond?”

“She is safe enough, colonel, and I don’t think she will trouble us soon.”

“I am glad of it. I think her the more dangerous of _the two_.”

“And I agree with you.”

“When did you see Darke, last?”

“I have not met him for three months.”

“He can not be dead?”

“He may be wounded.”

“And Mohun--is he at his head-quarters?”

Nighthawk smiled.

“He is at Five Forks, to-day, colonel.”

“And Willie Davenant?”

“In Richmond, on business at the war department.”

“Humph! So I shall see neither--but another time.”

And mounting my horse, I added:--

“Good luck, Nighthawk.”

“Thank you, colonel--the same to you.”

And leaving Nighthawk crouching down beside his fire, I rode on.

XIII.

DRINKING TEA UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

Pushing on, I reached the cavalry and horse artillery, which I was soon done with--you see I dismiss “official” matters with commendable rapidity, reader--then I went on across Roney’s bridge and along the “Flat Foot road” toward Disaways.

Following, amid a great wind and falling boughs, this winding road, stretching onward between its lofty walls of pines--a wild and deserted track, outside of the pickets, and completely untravelled. I recrossed Stony Creek, rode on over a bridle-path, and came just at sunset in sight of the hill upon which Disaways raised its ancient gables, near the Rowanty.

My horse neighed as he cantered up, and passed under the great oaks. He seemed to feel that this was something like home to him now, and that his day’s march was over. In fact, all the months of winter I had regularly stopped at Disaways on my way to the cavalry at Hicksford. My friends had pathetically remonstrated--“there was not a single picket on the Rowanty in front of me, there, and I would certainly be captured some day,”--but I had persisted in stopping there still, on every tour which I made. How to resist the temptation! Disaways was just thirty miles from Petersburg. I always reached its vicinity as night fell, on the dark winter days. I was always cold, hungry, weary, depressed by the dull gray skies; and I knew what awaited me there--a blazing fire, a good supper, and Katy’s smiles brighter than sunshine! She always ran to greet me, with both hands extended. Her blue eyes danced with joy, her rosy cheeks glowed, her lips laughed, and were like carnations, her golden ringlets fell in a shower over her white and delicate temples, or were blown back in ripples by the wintry wind.

Could you have resisted that, my dear reader? Would you have shrunk from Yankee scouting parties? For my part I thought I would risk it. I might be surprised and captured at any moment--the territory was open to the enemy--but I would have had a charming evening, would have been cheered by Katy’s sunshine--while I was alive and free, I would have lived, and in a manner the most delightful!

Hitherto some angel had watched over me, and Disaways had been unvisited by the enemy’s scouting parties, without so much as a vedette at the Halifax bridge, within half a mile. I had sat by the fire, eaten countless suppers, laughed and conversed with my good friends, slept soundly in a _real bed_, and gone on my way in the morning rejoicing.

I had thus always escaped surprise. No enemy ever annoyed me. It was the old adage, however, of the pitcher that went to the well so often!--but let me go on with my narrative.

As my horse uttered his shrill neigh now, ringing through the March evening, the door opened and Katy ran out to greet me. She had never looked more beautiful, and I recall still, as though I had seen it yesterday, the charming smile on her red lips. The wind blew back her ringlets till they resembled golden ripples--the rosy cheeks were flushed--there madam! (I say this to some one who is leaning over my shoulder, and laughing) don’t begrudge me these smiling memories! Katy was only my little niece as it were--she is married and far away now. Nay, Surry ought to love and be grateful to the little lady who took such good care, in those grim days, of--your husband, madam!

Behind Katy appeared the faces of the excellent family, who cordially greeted me. Behind all appeared the blushing but dandified Tom Herbert.

“Ah! there is a straggler!” I said. “Why don’t you send him back to his command, ladies? Every man should be at his post in this trying moment!”

“Oh, bother, my dear Surry! what a tongue you have!” exclaimed Tom.

“I see General Fitz was right, or his staff rather, in what they told me, Tom.”

“What did they tell you, my dear boy?”

“That you were demoralized and captured!”

Sweet smile on the faces of the family at these words!

“That you had acknowledged your weakness, seen that further resistance was hopeless, and were already negotiating a surrender to the enemy. Well, Tom, what are the terms? Are they arranged?”

Suddenly I felt my hair pulled by an enemy from behind; and looking round I saw Miss Katy passing by, with an immense appearance of innocence. Her face was blushing; her lips emitted a low laugh; and seeing that no one was looking at her, she raised her finger in silent menace at me.

This caused a diversion, and Tom was enabled to rally his forces.

“My dear Surry,” he said, smiling, with his delightfully foppish air, “it always charms me to meet you, for you are always sparkling, brilliant, full of wit; which reminds me of the good old days with Stuart! You have only one fault, my boy, you think yourself a philosopher. Don’t do that, I beg, Surry!--But what’s the news from Petersburg?”

I acquiesced in the change of topic, and gave Tom the news; but I was looking at Katy.

More than ever before I admired that little “bird of beauty,” flitting about with charming grace, and an irresistible business air, to get me my supper, for the rest had just finished. This privilege she always claimed when I came to Disaways; fighting furiously, if the excellent lady of the manor attempted to supplant her. Looking at her, as she ran about now, engaged in her most admirable occupation, I thought her lovelier than ever before--certainly than when talking in the woods with Tom! You see she was getting my supper, reader!--and it seemed to be a labor of love. The little fairy ran on her tiptoes from sideboard to table; spread a snowy napkin, and placed a gilt china plate upon it; made tea; covered the table with edibles; and placed beside my plate a great goblet of yellow cream, of the consistency of syrup. Then she poured out my tea, set my chair to the table, and came with courtesy and laughing ceremony, to offer me her arm, and lead me to my seat.

Men are weak, worthy reader, and the most “romantic and poetical” of us all, have much of the animal in us. That is a mortifying confession. I was terribly hungry, and at that moment I think my attention was more closely riveted on the table, than even upon Miss Katy with her roses and ringlets.

I therefore unbuckled my sabre, placed the little hand on my arm, and was about to proceed toward the table, when a shot, accompanied by a shout, was heard from the direction of the Rowanty.

I went and buckled on my sword again. Then seeing Tom rise quickly--to get his horse ready, he said--I requested him to have my own resaddled, and returned to the table.

I had just raised the cup of tea to my lips, amid warnings from the family, to take care or I would be captured, when a cavalryman galloped up the hill, and stopped in front of the door.

“Look out, the Yankees are coming!” he cried.

I glanced through the window, and recognized a man of Mohun’s command, who also recognized me.

“How near are they?” I said, attempting to swallow the burning tea.

“Not a quarter of a mile off, colonel!”

“That will give me time,” I said.

And I applied myself again to the tea, which this time I poured out into the saucer, in order to cool it.

“Look out, colonel!” cried the man.

“Where are they?”

“At the gate.”

I finished the tea, and the goblet of cream just as the man shouted:--

“Here they are, right on you, colonel!”

And I heard the sound of a galloping horse, accompanied by shots at the retreating cavalryman.

I went quickly to the window. A column of Federal cavalry was rapidly ascending the hill. By the last beams of day I recognized Darke at the head of the column; and by his side rode Mr. Alibi. I thought I could see that Darke was thin and very pale, but was not certain. The light was faint, and I had only one glance--discretion suggested a quick retreat.

I just grazed capture--passing through the door, in rear of the mansion, at the very moment when a number of the enemy, who had hastily dismounted, rushed in at the front door.

Tom was mounted, and holding my horse, which the good boy had saddled with his own hands. I leaped to saddle, and had scarcely done so, when a pistol bullet whizzed by my head. It had crashed through a pane of the window from within--and a loud shout followed. We had been perceived.

Under these circumstances, my dear reader, we always ran in the late war. Some persons considered it disgraceful to run or dodge, but they were civilians.

“Don’t run until you are obliged to, but then run like the ----!” said a hard-fighting general.

And one day when a lady was telling General R.E. Lee, how a friend of hers had dodged once, the general turned to the laughing officer, and said in his deep voice, “That’s right captain, dodge all you can!”

I have often dodged, and more than once have--withdrawn rapidly. On this occasion, Tom and I thought that retreat was the wisest course. In a moment we had disappeared in the woods, followed by pistol shots and some of the enemy.

They did not pursue us far. The Federal cavalry did not like the Virginia woods.

In ten minutes their shots were no longer heard; their shouts died away; and returning on our steps, we came once more in sight of Disaways and reconnoitred.

The enemy were not visible, and riding up, we dismounted and entered.[1]

[Footnote 1: “I have taken up too much space with this trifle,” said Colonel Surry when I read this, “but that hot tea was a real cup of tea! I was really burned nearly to death, in attempting to swallow it! The dialogue with my friend, the cavalryman, was real; and it is just these trifles which cling to the memory, obscuring the ‘greater events!’”]

XIV.

MR. ALIBI.

The enemy had eaten up my supper! A glance at the table told the whole tragic history;--but the unnerved family were scarce in a condition to think of my misfortune.

The enemy had staid for a few moments only, but in that time the family had gathered important information of their intentions. They were going to surprise and attack General Fitz Lee that night; and had not so much as halted, as they passed the house, to gain a by-road beyond. They were commanded, the men said, by a General Darke, and guided by a man living near Monk’s Neck, whose name was Alibi.

This information of the enemy’s design banished all other thoughts from my mind and Tom’s. We ran to our horses--and I think I heard something like a kiss, in the shadow of the porch, as Tom and Katy parted.

We galloped into the woods, following a course parallel to that taken by the enemy’s cavalry, and keeping as close to it as was safe.

“A sudden parting between yourself and Katy, Tom!” I said, as we galloped on. “A touching spectacle! When will you be married?”

“In a week or two--to answer seriously, old fellow,” responded Tom.

“Is it possible!”

“Even so, my boy.”

“Here, at Disaways?”

“No, in Richmond. Katy’s family are refugees there, now; and I was going to escort her to Petersburg to-morrow, but for these rascals--and I will do it, yet.”

“Good! I hope the way will be clear then! Let us go on. There is no time to lose in order to warn General Fitz!”

We pushed on, following bridle-paths, and making toward Dinwiddie Court-House. Half an hour thus passed, and we were near the Roney’s Bridge road, when, suddenly, the whole forest on our right blazed with shots. Loud shouts accompanied the firing. The woods crackled as horsemen rushed through them. An obstinate fight was going on in the darkness, between the Federal and Confederate cavalry.

Plainly, the Confederates had not been surprised, and the dash and vim with which they met the Federal onset, seemed to dishearten their enemies. For fifteen minutes the combat continued with great fury, amid the pines; the air was filled with quick spirts of flame, with the clash of sabres, with loud cheers and cries; then the wave of Federal horsemen surged back toward the Rowanty; the Confederates pressed them, with cheer; and the affair terminated in a headlong pursuit.

Tom and myself had gotten into the _mêlée_ early in the action, and my feather had been cut out of my hat by a sabre stroke which a big blue worthy aimed at me. This was my only accident, however. In fifteen minutes I had the pleasure of seeing our friends run.

I followed with the rest, for about a mile. Then I drew rein, and turned back--my horse was completely exhausted. I slowly returned toward Dinwiddie Court-House; hesitated for a moment whether I would lodge at the tavern; shook my head in a manner not complimentary to the hostelry; and set out to spend the night at “Five Forks.”

I did not know, until some days afterward, that a serious accident had happened to the worthy Mr. Alibi, guide and friend of General Darke.

He had been struck by a bullet in the fight; had flapped his wings; cackled; tumbled from his horse; and expired.

Nighthawk’s visit thus went for nothing.

Mr. Alibi was dead.

XV.

FROM FIVE FORKS TO PETERSBURG.

I shall not dwell upon the evening and night spent at “Five Forks”--upon whose threshold I was met and cordially greeted by the gray-haired Judge Conway.

In the great drawing-room I found the young ladies, who hastened to procure me supper; and I still remember that waiter of every species of edibles,--that smiling landscape above which rose the spire-like neck of a decanter! These incessant “bills of fare” will, I fear, revolt some readers! But these are my memoirs; and _memoirs_ mean recollections. I have forgotten a dozen battles, but still remember that decanter-phenomenon in March, 1865. I spent the evening in cordial converse with the excellent Judge Conway and his daughters, and on the next morning set out on my return to Petersburg. Mohun had not been visible. At the first sound of the firing, he had mounted his horse and departed at a gallop.

So much for my visit to Five Forks. I pass thus rapidly over it, with real regret--lamenting the want of space which compels me to do so.

Do you love the queenly rose, and the modest lily of the valley, reader? I could have shown you those flowers, in Georgia and Virginia Conway. They were exquisitely cordial and high-bred--as was their gray-haired father. They spoke, and moved, and looked, as only the high-bred can. Pardon that obsolete word, “high-bred,” so insulting in the present epoch! I am only jesting when I seem to intimate that I considered the stately old judge better than the black servant who waited upon me at supper!

Of Mohun and Will Davenant, I had said nothing, in conversing with the smiling young ladies. But I think Miss Georgia, stately and imposing as she was, looked at me with a peculiar smile, which said, “You are _his_ friend, and cannot be a mere ordinary acquaintance to _me_!”

And here I ought to inform the reader, that since that first visit of mine to Five Forks, affairs had marched with the young lady and her friend. Mohun and Miss Georgia were about to be married, and I was to be the first groomsman. The woman-hating Benedict of the banks of the Rappahannock had completely succumbed, and the satirical Beatrice had also lost all her wit. It died away in sighs, and gave place to reveries--those reveries which come to maidens when they are about to embark on the untried seas of matrimony.

But I linger at Five Forks when great events are on the march. Bidding my hospitable host and his charming daughters good morning, I mounted my horse and set out over the White Oak road toward Petersburg. As I approached the Rowanty, I saw that the new defenses erected by Lee, were continuous and powerful. Long tiers of breastworks, and redoubts crowning every eminence, showed very plainly the great importance which Lee attached to holding the position.

In fact, this was the key to the Southside road. Here was to take place the last great struggle.

I rode on, in deep thought, but soon my reverie was banished. Just as I reached the hill above Burgess’s, who should I see coming from the direction of the Court-House--but Tom Herbert and Katy Dare!

Katy Dare, on a little pony, with a riding skirt reaching nearly to the ground!--with her trim little figure clearly outlined by the fabric--with a jaunty little riding hat balanced lightly upon her ringlets--with her cheeks full of roses, her lips full of smiles, her eyes dancing like two blue waves, which the wind agitates!

Don’t find fault with her, Mrs. Grundy, for having Tom only as an escort. Those were stern and troubled times; our poor girls were compelled often to banish ceremony. Katy had only this means to get back to her family, and went with Tom as with her brother.

She held out both hands to me, her eyes dancing. Three years have passed since then, but if I were a painter, I could make her portrait, reproducing every detail! Nothing has escaped my memory; I still hear her voice; the sun of 1868, not of 1865, seems to shine on the rosy cheeks framed by masses of golden ringlets!

I would like to record our talk as we rode on toward Petersburg--describe that ride--a charming episode, flashing like a gleam of sunlight, amid the dark days, when the black clouds had covered the whole landscape. In this volume there is so much gloom! Suffering and death have met us so often! Can you wonder, my dear reader, that the historian of such an epoch longs to escape, when he can, from the gloom of the tragedy, and paint those scenes of comedy which occasionally broke the monotonous drama? To write this book is not agreeable to me. I wear out a part of my life in composing it. To sum up, in cold historic generalities that great epoch would be little--but to enter again into the hot atmosphere; to live once more that life of the past; to feel the gloom, the suspense, the despair of 1865 again--believe me, that is no trifle! It wears away the nerves, and tears the heart. The cheek becomes pale as the MS. grows! The sunshine is yonder, but you do not see it. The past banishes the present. Across the tranquil landscape of March, 1868, jars the cannon, and rushes the storm wind of March, 1865!

The cloud was black above, therefore, but Katy Dare made the world bright with her own sunshine, that day. All the way to Petersburg, she ran on in the most charming prattle. The winding Boydton road, like the banks of the lower Rowanty, was made vocal with her songs--the “Bird of Beauty” and the whole repertoire. Nor was Tom Herbert backward in encouraging his companion’s mirth. Tom was the soul of joy. He sang “Katy! Katy! don’t marry any other!” with an unction which spoke in his quick color, and “melting glances” as in the tones of his laughing voice. Riding along the famous highway, upon which only a solitary cavalryman or a wagon occasionally appeared, the little maiden and her lover made the pine-woods ring with their songs, their jests, and their laughter!

It is good to be young and to love. Is there any thing more charming? For my part I think that the curly head holds the most wisdom! Tell me which was the happier--the gray-haired general yonder, oppressed by care, or the laughing youth and maiden? It is true there is something nobler, however, than youth, and joy, and love. It is to know that you are doing your duty--to bear up, like Atlas, a whole world upon your shoulders--to feel that, if you fall, the whole world will shake--and that history will place your name beside that of Washington!

As the sun began to decline, we rode into Petersburg, and bidding Katy and Tom adieu, I returned to my Cedars.

I had taken my last ride in the “low grounds” of the county of Dinwiddie; I was never more to see Disaways, unless something carries me thither in the future. To those hours spent in the old mansion, and with my comrades, near it, I look back now with delight. Days and nights on the Rowanty! how you come back to me in dreams! Happy hours at Disaways, with the cavalry, with the horse artillery! you live still in my memory, and you will live there always! Katy Dare runs to greet me again as in the past--again her blue eyes dance, and the happy winds are blowing her bright curls into ripples! She smiles upon me still--as in that “winter of discontent.” Her cheerful voice again sounds. Her small hands are held out to me. All things go--nothing lingers--but those days on the Rowanty, amid the sunset gilded pines, come back with all their tints, and are fadeless in my memory.

Going back thus in thought, to that winter of 1864, I recall the friendly faces of Katy, and all my old comrades--I hear their laughter again, touch their brave hands once more, and salute them, wishing them long life and happiness.

“Farewell!” I murmur, “Rowanty, and Sappony, and Disaways! _Bonne fortune!_ old companions, little maiden, and kind friends all! It has not been time lost to gather together my recollections--to live again in the past,--to catch the aroma of those hours when kindness smoothed the front of war! We no longer wear the gray--my mustache only shows it _now_! but, thank heaven! many things in memory survive. I think of these--of the old comrades, the old times. Health and happiness attend you on your way through life, comrades! May the silver spare the gold of your clustering ringlets, Katy! Joy and gladness follow your steps! all friendly stars shine on you! Wherever you are, old friends, may a kind heaven send you its blessing!”

XVI.

LEE’S LAST GREAT BLOW.

I reached Petersburg on the evening of March 24, 1865.

The ride was a gay comedy--but a tragedy was about to follow it. On the very next morning, in the gray March dawn, Lee was going to strike his last great blow at Grant. A column under Gordon, that brave of braves, was going to be hurled headlong against Hare’s Hill, the enemy’s centre, just below Petersburg.

That design was evidently the result of supreme audacity, or of despair. In either case it indicated the terrible character of the crisis. There could be no two opinions upon that point. Lee aimed at nothing less than to cut General Grant’s army in two--to root himself doggedly in the very centre of his enemies, and to force General Grant to draw back the entire left wing of his army, or run the risk, by holding his position, to have it destroyed.

Was Lee’s motive to open the way for his retreat over the Boydton road toward Danville? I know not. Military critics say so, and it is certain that, a month before, he had endeavored to retreat. The government had checked him, then, but now, that step was plainly the only one left. He might effect his retreat by forcing Grant to draw in his left wing for the support of his centre. Lee could then retire from Hare’s Hill; make a rapid march westward; push for North Carolina; and joining his forces with those of Johnston, continue the war in the Gulf States, falling back if necessary to Texas.

I have always thought that this was his design, but I was much too obscure a personage to gain any personal knowledge of his plans. It is certain that he designed one of two things--either to open the path for his retreat, or to relieve his right wing toward Five Forks, which was bending under the immense pressure upon it. Either motive was that of a good soldier--and what seemed wild audacity was sound common sense.

For the rest, there was little else to do. Some change in the aspect of things was vitally necessary. Grant had been re-enforced by a large portion of Sherman’s army, and the Federal troops in front of Lee now numbered about one hundred and fifty thousand. As Lee’s force, all told, on his entire line, was only about forty thousand, the rupture of the far-stretching defences, at some point, seemed only a question of time. And scarcely that. Rather, a question of the moment selected by Grant for his great blow.

At the end of March the hour of decisive struggle was plainly at hand. The wind had dried the roads; artillery could move; the Federal left was nearly in sight of the Southside road; one spring, and General Grant could lay hold on that great war-artery, and then nothing would be left to Lee but retreat or surrender.

Such was the condition of things at Petersburg, in these last days of March. Grant was ready with his one hundred and fifty thousand infantry to strike Lee’s forty thousand. Sheridan was ready with his twelve thousand superbly mounted cavalry, to hurl himself against the two thousand half-armed horsemen, on starved and broken-down animals, under command of General Fitz Lee. A child could have told the result. The idea of resistance, with any hope, in the defences, any longer, was a chimera. Lee was a great soldier--history contains few greater. The army of Northern Virginia was brave--the annals of the world show none braver. But there was one thing which neither great generalship, or supreme courage could effect. Opposed by one hundred and fifty thousand well-fed troops, with every munition of war, forty thousand starving men, defending a line of forty miles, must in the end meet capture or destruction.

The country did not see it, but General Lee did. The civilians--the brave ones--had a superstitious confidence in the great commander and his old army. It had repulsed the enemy so uninterruptedly, that the unskilled people believed it invincible. Lee had foiled Grant so regularly that he was looked upon as the very God of Victory. Defeat could not come to him. Glory would ever follow his steps. On the banners of the old army of Northern Virginia, led by Lee, the eagles of victory would still, perch, screaming defiance, and untamed to the end.

While the civilians were saying this, Lee was preparing to retreat. Nothing blinded that clear vision--the eyes of the great chief pierced every mist. He saw the blow coming--the shadow of the Grant hammer as the weapon was lifted, ran before--on the 25th of March Lee’s rapier made it last lunge. But when his adversary recoiled to avoid it, it was Lee who was going to retreat.

That lunge was sudden and terrible--if it did not accomplish its object. In the dark March morning, Gordon, “The Bayard of the army,” advanced with three thousand men across the abatis in front of Hare’s Hill.

What followed was a fierce tragedy, as brief and deadly as the fall of a thunder-bolt.

Gordon rushed at the head of his column over the space which separated the lines; stormed the Federal defences at the point of the bayonet; seized on Fort Steadman, a powerful work, and the batteries surrounding it, then as the light broadened in the East, he looked back for re-enforcements. None came--he was holding the centre of Grant’s army with three thousand men. What he had won was by sheer audacity--the enemy had been surprised, and seemed laboring under a species of stupor; if not supported, and supported at once, he was gone!

An hour afterward, Gordon was returning, shattered and bleeding at every pore. The enemy had suddenly come to their senses after the stunning blow. From the forts and redoubts crowning every surrounding hill issued the thunder. Cannon glared, shell crashed, musketry rolled in long fusillade, on three sides of the devoted Confederates. Huddled in the trenches they were torn to pieces by a tempest of shell and bullets.

As the light broadened, the hills swarmed with blue masses hastening toward the scene of the combat, to punish the daring assailants. Grant’s army was closing in around the little band of Gordon. No help came to them, they were being butchered; to stay longer there was mere suicide, and the few who could do so, retreated to the Confederate lines.

They were few indeed. Of the splendid assaulting column, led by Gordon, more than two thousand were killed or captured. He had split the stubborn trunk, but it was the trunk which now held the wedge in its obdurate jaws.

Gordon retreated with his bleeding handful--it was the second or third time that this king of battle had nearly accomplished impossibilities by the magic of his genius.

He could do only what was possible. To stay yonder was impossible. And the scarred veteran of thirty-three years, came back pale and in despair.

Lee had struck his last great blow, and it had failed.

XVII.

THE WRESTLE FOR THE WHITE OAK ROAD.

It is unsafe to wound the wild-boar, unless the wound be mortal. To change the figure, Grant had parried the almost mortal thrust of Lee; and now, with the famous hammer lifted and whirled aloft, aimed the final and decisive blow at the crest of his great adversary.

On Wednesday, March 29th, the Federal commander commenced the general movement, which had for its object the destruction of Lee’s right wing, and the occupation of the Southside road.

Before dawn, the masses of blue infantry began to move westward across the Rowanty, laying down bridges over the watercourses, as the columns passed on; and on the night of the same day, the corps of Humphreys and Warren were near Dinwiddie Court-House with their extreme right guarded, by Sheridan’s cavalry.

Such was the work of Wednesday. The great moment had evidently arrived. Lee penetrated at a single glance the whole design of his adversary; collected about fifteen thousand men, nearly half his army, and leaving Longstreet north of the James, and only a skirmish line around Petersburg, marched westward, beyond the Rowanty, to meet the enemy on the White Oak road.

On the morning of the 30th, all was ready for General Grant’s great blow. But the elements were hostile to the Federal side. In the night, a heavy rain had fallen. All day on the 30th, it continued to rain, and military movements were impossible. The two great opponents looked at each other,--lines drawn up for the decisive struggle.

On the 31st, Grant was about to open the attack on Lee, when that commander saved him the trouble. The Virginian seemed resolved to die in harness, and advancing.

The corps of Humphreys and Warren had advanced from Dinwiddie Court-House toward the Southside road, and Warren was in sight of the White Oak road, when, suddenly, Lee hurled a column against him, and drove him back. The Confederates followed with wild cheers, endeavoring to turn the enemy’s left, and finish them. But the attempt was in vain. Federal re-enforcements arrived. Lee found his own flank exposed, and fell back doggedly to the White Oak road again, having given the enemy a great scare, but effecting nothing.

As he retired, intelligence reached him that Sheridan’s cavalry were advancing upon Five Forks. That position was the key of the whole surrounding country. If Sheridan seized and occupied this great _carrefour_, Lee’s right was turned.

A column was sent without delay, and reached the spot to find Sheridan in possession of the place. Short work was made of him. Falling upon the Federal cavalry, Pickett and Fitzhugh Lee drove them back upon Dinwiddie--pushed rapidly after them--and, but for the terrible swamp, into which the late rains had converted the low grounds, would have followed them to the Court-House, and gotten in rear of the left wing of the Federal army.

That was the turning point. If Pickett and Fitz Lee had reached Dinwiddie court-house, and attacked in the enemy’s rear, while Lee assailed them in front, it is difficult to believe that the battle would not have resulted in a Confederate victory.

Such was the alarm of General Grant at the new aspect of affairs, that late at night he withdrew Warren, and ordered him to hurry toward Dinwiddie Court-House, to succor Sheridan in his hour of need. Then if our flanking column could have pushed on--if Lee had then advanced--but all this is idle, reader. Providence had decreed otherwise. The flanking column could not advance--at ten at night it was withdrawn by Lee--midnight found the two armies resting on their arms, awaiting the morning of the first of April.

XVIII.

THE BRIDEGROOM.

I have endeavored to present a rapid, but accurate summary of the great events which took place on the lines around Petersburg, from the morning of the 29th of March, when General Grant began his general movement, to the night of the 31st, when he confronted Lee on the White Oak road, ready, after a day of incessant combat, which had decided little, to renew the struggle on the next morning for the possession of the Southside road.

This summary has been, of necessity, a brief and general one. For this volume has for its object, rather to narrate the fortunes of a set of individuals, than to record the history of an epoch, crowded with tragic scenes. I cannot here paint the great picture. The canvass and the time are both wanting. The rapid sketch which I have given will present a sufficient outline. I return, now, to those personages whose lives I have tried to narrate, and who were destined to reach the catastrophe in their private annals at the moment when the Confederacy reached its own.

I shall, therefore, beg the reader to leave the Confederate forces at bay on the White Oak road--the flanking column under Pickett and Johnson falling back on Five Forks--and accompany me to the house of the same name, within a mile of the famous _carrefour_, where, on the night of the 31st of March, some singular scenes are to be enacted.

It was the night fixed for Mohun’s marriage. I had been requested to act as his first groomsman; and, chancing to encounter him during the day, he had informed me that he adhered to his design of being married in spite of every thing.

When night came at last, on this day of battles, I was wearied out with the incessant riding on staff duty; but I remembered my promise; again mounted my horse; and set out for “Five Forks,” where, in any event, I was sure of a warm welcome.

Pushing on over the White Oak road, I turned southward at Five Forks, and riding on toward Judge Conway’s, had just reached the road coming in from Dinwiddie Court-House, when I heard a cavalier approaching from that quarter, at a rapid gallop.

He was darting by, toward Five Forks, when by the starlight I recognized Mohun.

“Halt!” I shouted.

He knew my voice, and drew rein with an exclamation of pleasure.

“Thanks, my dear old friend,” he said, grasping my hand. “I knew you would not fail me.”

“Your wedding will take place, Mohun?”

“Yes, battle or no battle.”

“You are right. Life is uncertain. You will hear cannon instead of marriage-bells probably, at your nuptials--but that will be inspiring. What is the news from the Court-House?”

“Our infantry is falling back.”

“The condition of the roads stopped them?”

“Yes, it was impossible to get on; and they have been recalled by order of General Lee. Listen! There is the column coming--they are falling back to Five Forks, a mile north of Judge Conway’s.”

In fact, as we rode on now, I heard the muffled tramp of a column, and the rattle of artillery chains in the woods.

“The enemy will follow, I suppose?”

“Not before morning, I hope.”

I smiled.

“Meanwhile you are making good use of the time to get married. What will you do with Miss Georgia?”

“You mean Mrs. Mohun, Surry!” he said, smiling.

“Yes.”

“Well, she will be sent off--her father will take the whole family to Petersburg in the morning, to avoid the battle which will probably take place in this vicinity to-morrow.”

“You are right. I predict a thundering fight here, in the morning.”

“Which I hope I shall not balk in, my dear Surry,” said Mohun, smiling.

“Is there any danger of that?”

“I really don’t know. It is not good for a soldier to be too happy. It makes him shrink from bullets, and raises visions of a young widow, in mourning, bending over a tomb.”

“Pshaw! stop that folly!” I said. “Is it possible that a stout-hearted cavalier like General Mohun can indulge in such apprehensions--and at a moment as happy as this?”

I saw him smile sadly, in the dim starlight. “I am much changed,” he said, gently; “I no longer risk my life recklessly--trying to throw it away. Once, as you know, Surry, I was a poor outcast, and my conscience was burdened with a terrible crime. Life was little to me, then, and I would not have cared if a bullet cut it short. I was reckless, desperate, and had no hope. Now, I have hope--and a great deal more than all--I have happiness. My hands are not stained with the blood of that man and woman--I have the love of a pure girl who is going to give her life to me--and I have prayed to God for pardon, and been pardoned, I feel--else that All-merciful Being would not make my poor life bright again! But let me stop this talk! A strange conversation for a wedding night! Let me say again, however, my dear Surry, that I have no enmities now. I no longer hate _that man_, and would not harm _that woman_ for aught on earth. Let them go--they are indifferent to me. I appeal to God to witness the purity of my sentiments, and the sincerity with which I have prayed, ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who have trespassed against us!’”

I reached out my hand in the darkness, and pressed that of the speaker.

“You are right, Mohun--there is something greater, more noble, than vengeance--it is forgiveness. More than ever, I can say now of you, what I said after hearing your history that night.”

“What was that, old friend?”

“That you were no longer the bitter misanthrope, hating your species, and snarling at all things--no longer the gay cavalier rushing to battle as a pastime--that you were altered, entirely changed, rather--that your character was elevated and purified--and that now, you were a patriotic soldier, fit to live or die with Lee!”

“Would that I were!” he murmured, letting his head fall upon his breast.

“That is much to say of any man; but I will add more. You are worthy of her--the blossom of Five Forks!”

As I uttered these words, we reached the gate.

A moment afterward we had entered the grounds, tethered our horses, and were hastening to the house.

XIX.

THE CEREMONY.

On the threshold we were met by Judge Conway, with a bow and a smile.

He pressed our hands cordially, but with a covert sadness, which I suppose comes to the heart of every father who is about to part with a beloved daughter--to give up his place as it were to another--and then we entered the great drawing-room where a gentleman in a white cravat and black coat awaited us. No other persons were visible.

The great apartment was a charming spectacle, with its brilliant lights and blazing fire. The frescoed walls danced in light shadows; the long curtains were drawn down, completely excluding the March air. Coming in out of the night, this smiling interior was inexpressibly home-like and delightful.

As we entered, the clerical-looking gentleman rose, modestly, and smiled.

“The Reverend Mr. Hope,” said Judge Conway, presenting him. And Mr. Hope, with the same gentle smile upon his lips, advanced and shook hands.

At that name I had seen Mohun suddenly start, and turn pale. Then his head rose quickly, his pallor disappeared, and he said with entire calmness:

“Mr. Hope and myself are old acquaintances, I may even say, old friends.”

To these words Mr. Hope made a gentle and smiling reply; and it was plain that he was very far from connecting the personage before him with the terrible tragedy which had taken place at Fonthill, in December, 1856. What was the origin of this ignorance? Had the worthy man, in his remote parsonage, simply heard of the sudden disappearance of Mohun, the lady, and _her brother_? Had his solitary life prevented him from hearing the vague rumors and surmises which must have followed that event? This was the simplest explanation, and I believe the correct one. Certain it is that the worthy Mr. Hope received us with smiling cordiality. Doubtless he recalled the past, but was too kind to spread a gloom over Mohun’s feelings by _alluding to his loss_. In a few moments we were seated, and Judge Conway explained the presence of the parson.

The explanation was simple. Mohun, incessantly engaged on duty, had begged Judge Conway to send a message to the parson of his parish; the parson was absent, leaving his church temporarily in charge of his brother-clergyman, Mr. Hope; thus that gentleman by a strange chance, was about to officiate at Mohun’s second marriage, as he had at his first.

I have explained thus, perhaps tediously, an incident which struck me at the time as most singular. Are there fatalities in this world? The presence of the Reverend Mr. Hope on that night at “Five Forks,” resembled one of those strange coincidences which make us believe in the doctrine of destiny.

Having exchanged compliments with the clergyman, Mohun and I were shown to a dressing-room.

No sooner had the door closed, than I said to Mohun:--

“That is strange, is it not?”

“Singular, indeed,” he replied, calmly, “but I am not averse to this worthy man’s presence, Surry. I have no concealments. I have related my whole life to Judge Conway and Georgia. They both know the circumstances which lead to the conviction that _that woman_ was already married, when she married _me_--that the proof of her marriage with Darke exists. Judge Conway is a lawyer, and knows that, in legal phraseology, the array of circumstances ‘excludes every other hypothesis;’ thus it is not as an adventurer that my father’s son enters this house: all is known, and I do not shrink from the eye of this good man, who is about to officiate at my marriage.”

“Does he know all?”

“I think not. I had half resolved to tell him. But there is no time now. Let us get ready; the hour is near.”

And Mohun looked at his watch.

“Nine o’clock,” he said. “The ceremony takes place at ten.”

And he rapidly made his toilet. The light fell on a superb-looking cavalier. He was clad in full dress uniform, with the braid and stars of a brigadier-general. The erect figure was clearly defined by the coat, buttoned from chin to waist. Above, rose the proudly-poised head, with the lofty brow, the brilliant black eyes, the dark imperial and mustache, beneath which you saw the firm lips.

We descended to the drawing-room, where Judge Conway and Mr. Hope awaited us.

Fifteen minutes afterward light steps were heard upon the great staircase; the old statesman opened the door, and Miss Georgia Conway entered the apartment, leaning upon the arm of her father.

She was clad in simple white muslin, with a string of pearls in her dark hair; and I have never seen a more exquisite beauty. Her cheeks glowed with fresh roses; a charming smile just parted her lips; and her dark eyes, grand and calm, shone out from the snow-white forehead, from which her black hair was carried back in midnight ripples, ending in profuse curls. It was truly a _grande dame_ whom I gazed at on this night, and, with eyes riveted upon the lovely face, I very nearly lost sight of Miss Virginia, who followed her sister.

I hastened to offer my arm to the modest little flower, and followed Judge Conway, who approached the parson, standing, prayer-book in hand, in the middle of the apartment.

In another instant Mohun was standing beside Miss Georgia, and the ceremony began.

It was not destined to proceed far.

The clergyman had nearly finished the exhortation with which the “form for the solemnization of matrimony,” commences.

All at I once I was certain that I heard steps on the portico, and in the hall of the mansion.

The rest seemed not to hear them, however, and Mr. Hope continued the ceremony.

“Into this holy estate,” he went on, “these two persons present come now to be joined. If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”

As he uttered the words the door was suddenly burst open, and Darke entered the apartment with _the gray woman_.

In the midst of the stupor of astonishment, she advanced straight toward Georgia Conway, twined her arm in that of the young lady, and said quietly:--

“How do you do, cousin? I am Lucretia Conway. Your father is my uncle. I have come to show just cause why you cannot marry General Mohun--my husband!”

XX.

WHAT OCCURRED AT “FIVE FORKS,” ON THE NIGHT OF MARCH 31, 1865.

Mohun turned like a tiger, and was evidently about to throw himself upon Darke. I grasped his arm and restrained him.

“Listen!” I said.

The house was surrounded by trampling hoofs, and clattering sabres.

Darke had not drawn his pistol, and now glanced at me. His face was thin and pale--he was scarce the shadow of himself--but his eyes “burned” with a strange fire under his bushy brows.

“You are right, Colonel Surry!” he said, in his deep voice, to me, “restrain your friend. Let no one stir, or they are dead. The house is surrounded by a squadron of my cavalry. You are a mile from all succor. You can make no resistance. I am master of this house. But I design to injure no one. Sit down, madam,” he added, to his companion, “I wish to speak first.”

The sentences followed each other rapidly. The speaker’s accent was cold, and had something metallic in it. The capture of the party before him seemed to be no part of his design.

All at once the voice of the strange woman was heard in the silence. She quietly released the arm of Georgia Conway, who had drawn back with an expression of supreme disdain; and calmly seating herself in a chair, gracefully cut some particles of dust from her gray riding habit with a small whip which she carried.

“Yes, let us converse,” she said, with her eyes riveted upon Georgia Conway, “nothing can be more pleasant than these sweet family reunions!”

Judge Conway glanced at the speaker with eyes full of sudden rage.

“Who are you, madam,” he exclaimed, “who makes this impudent claim of belonging to my family?”

“I have already told you,” was the satirical reply of the woman.

“And you, sir!” exclaimed the old judge, suddenly turning and confronting Darke, “perhaps you, too, are a member of the Conway family?”

“Not exactly,” was the cold reply.

“Your name, sir!”

“Mortimer Davenant.”

Judge Conway gazed at the speaker with stupor.

“You that person?--you the son of General Arthur Davenant?”

“Yes, I am the son of General Arthur Davenant of the Confederate States army--General Davenant, whom you hate and despise as a felon and murderer--and I have come here to-night to relieve him of that imputation; to tell you that it was I and not he, who murdered your brother!

“A moment, if you please, sir,” continued the speaker, in the same low, cold tone, “do not interrupt me, I beg. I have little time, and intend to be brief. You believe that your brother, George Conway, was put to death by General Davenant. Here is the fact of the matter: I saw him at Dinwiddie Court-House; knew he had a large sum of money on his person; followed him, attacked him, murdered him--and with General Davenant’s pen-knife, which I had accidentally come into possession of. Then I stole the knife from the court-house, to prevent his conviction;--wrote and sent to him on the day of his trial a full confession of the murder, signed with my name--and that confession he would not use; he would not inculpate his son; for ten years he has chosen rather to labor under the imputation of murder, than blacken the name of a castaway son, whose character was wretched already, and whom he believed dead.

“That is what I came here, to-night, to say to you, sir. I am a wretch--I know that--it is a dishonor to touch my hand, stained with every vice, and much crime. But I am not entirely lost, though I told--my father--so, when I met him, not long since. Even a dog will not turn and bite the hand that has been kind to him. I was a gentleman once, and am a vulgar fellow now--but there is something worse than crime, in my estimation; it is cowardice and ingratitude. You shall not continue to despise my father; he is innocent of that murder. You have no right to continue your opposition to my brother’s marriage with your daughter, for he is not the son of the murderer of your brother. _I_ count for nothing in this. I am not my father’s son, or my brother’s brother. I am an outcast--a lost man--dead, as far as they are concerned. It was to tell you this that I have come here to-night--and for that only.”

“And--this woman?” said Judge Conway, pale, and glaring at the speaker.

“Let her speak for herself,” said Darke, coldly.

“I will do so, with pleasure,” said the woman, coolly, but with an intensely satirical smile. That smile chilled me--it was worse than any excess of rage. The glance she threw upon Georgia Conway was one of such profound, if covert, hatred, that it drove my hand to my hilt as though to grasp some weapon.

“I will be brief,” continued the woman, rising slowly, and looking at Georgia Conway, with that dagger-like smile. “General Darke-Davenant has related a pleasing little history. I will relate another, and address myself more particularly to Judge Conway--my dear uncle. He does not, or will not, recognize me; and I suppose I may have changed. But that is not important. I am none the less Lucretia Conway. You do not remember that young lady, perhaps, sir; your proud Conway blood has banished from your memory the very fact of her former existence. And yet she existed--she exists still--she is speaking to you--unbosoming herself in the midst of her dear family! But to tell my little story--it will not take many minutes. I was born here, you remember, uncle, and grew up what is called headstrong. At sixteen, I fell in love with a young Adonis with a mustache; and, as you and the rest opposed my marriage, obdurately refusing your consent, I yielded to the eloquence of Mr. Adonis, and eloped with him, going to the North. Here we had a quarrel. I grew angry, and slapped Adonis; and he took his revenge by departing without leaving me a wedding-ring to recall his dear image. Then I met that gentleman--General Darke-Mortimer-Davenant! We took a fancy to each other; we became friends; and soon afterward travelled to the South, stopping in Dinwiddie. Here I made the acquaintance of General Mohun--there he stands; he fell desperately in love with me--married me--Parson Hope will tell you that--and then attempted to murder me, without rhyme or reason. Luckily, I made my escape from the monster! rejoined my friend, General Darke-Davenant; the war came on; I came back here; have been lately arrested, but escaped by bribing the rebel jailers; only, however, to find that my naughty husband is going to marry my cousin Georgia! Can you wonder, then, that I have exerted myself to be present at the interesting ceremony? That I have yielded to my fond affection, and come to say to my dear Georgia, ‘Don’t marry my husband, cousin!’ And yet you frown at me--you evidently hate me--you think I am _lying_--that I was married before, perhaps. Well, if that be the case, where is the proof of that marriage?” “Here it is!” said a voice, which made the woman turn suddenly.

And opening the heavy window-curtains, which had, up to this moment, concealed him, Nighthawk advanced into the apartment, holding in his hand a paper.

A wild rage filled the eyes of the woman, but now so smiling. Her hand darted to her bosom, and I saw the gleam of a poniard.

“This paper,” said Nighthawk, coolly, “was found on the dead body of a man named Alibi, who had stolen it. See, Judge Conway; it is in regular form. ‘At Utica, New York, Mortimer Davenant to Lucretia Conway.’ Attested by seal and signature. There can be no doubt of its genuineness.”

Suddenly a hoarse exclamation was heard, and a poniard gleamed in the hand of the woman.

With a single bound, she reached Georgia Conway, and struck at her heart. The corsage of the young lady, however, turned the poniard, and at the same instant a thundering volley of musketry resounded without.

Furious cries were then heard; the wild trampling of horses; and a loud voice ordering:--

“Put them to the bayonet!”

Darke drew his sword, and reached the side of the woman at a bound. Throwing his arms around her, he raised her, and rushed, with his burden, through the hall, toward the lawn, where a fierce combat was in progress.

Suddenly the woman uttered a wild cry, and relaxed her grasp upon his neck. A bullet had buried itself in her bosom.

Darke’s hoarse and menacing voice echoed the cry; but he did not release the body; with superhuman strength he raised it aloft, and bounded down the steps.

As he reached the bottom, a man rushed upon him, and drove his bayonet through his breast. It was withdrawn, streaming with blood.

“Put all to the bayonet!” shouted the voice of General Davenant, as he charged with his young son, Charles, beside him.

At that voice Darke stretched out both hands, and dropping his sword, uttered a cry, which attracted the general’s attention.

For an instant they stood facing each other--unutterable horror in the eyes of General Davenant.

“I am--done for,” exclaimed Darke, a bloody foam rushing to his lips, “but--I have told him--that _I_ was the murderer--that _you_ were innocent. Give me your hand, father!”

General Davenant leaped to the ground, and with a piteous groan received the dying man in his arms.

“I am a wretch--I know that--but I was a Davenant once”--came in low murmurs. “Tell Will, he can marry now, for I will be dead--kiss me once, Charley!”

The weeping boy threw himself upon his knees, and pressed his lips to those of his brother.

As he did so, the wounded man fell back in his father’s arms, and expired.

XXI.

FIVE FORKS.

On the day after these events, Lee’s extreme right at Five Forks, was furiously attacked, and in spite of heroic resistance, the little force under Pickett and Fitzhugh Lee was completely routed and dispersed.

Do you regard that term “heroic,” as merely rhetorical, reader?

Hear a Northern writer, a wearer of blue, but too honest not to give brave men their due:--

“Having gained the White Oak road, Warren changed front again to the right, and advanced westward, so continually to take in flank and rear whatever hostile force still continued to hold the right of the Confederate line. This had originally been about three miles in extent, but above two-thirds of it were now carried. Yet, vital in all its parts, what of the two divisions remained, still continued the combat with unyielding mettle. Parrying the thrusts of the cavalry from the front, this poor scratch of a force threw back its left in a new and short crochet, so as to meet the advance of Warren, who continued to press in at right angles to the White Oak road. When the infantry, greatly elated with their success, but somewhat disorganized by marching and fighting so long in the woods, arrived before this new line, they halted and opened an untimely fusillade, though there had been orders not to halt. The officers, indeed, urged their men forward, but they continued to fire without advancing. Seeing this hesitation, Warren dashed forward, calling to those near him to follow. Inspired by his example, the color-bearers and officers all along the front, sprang out, and without more firing, the men charged at the _pas de course_, capturing all that remained of the enemy. The history of the war presents no equally splendid illustration of personal magnetism.... A charge of the cavalry completed the rout, and the remnants of the divisions of Pickett and Johnson fled westward from Five Forks, pursued for many miles, and until long after dark, by the mounted divisions of Merritt and McKenzie.”

That is picturesque, is it not? It is amusing, too--though so tragic.

You can see that “poor scratch of a force” fighting to the death, can you not? You can see the poor little handful attacked by Sheridan’s crack cavalry corps in front, and then suddenly by Warren’s superb infantry corps in both their flank and rear. You can see them, game to the last, throwing back their left in the crochet to meet Warren; see that good soldier cheering on his men “greatly elated,” but “somewhat disorganized,” too--so much so that they suddenly halt, and require the “personal magnetism” of the general to inspire them, and bring them up to the work. Then the little scratch gives way--they are a handful, and two corps are pressing them. They have “continued the combat with unyielding mettle,” as long as they could--now they are driven; and on rushes the thundering cavaliers to destroy them! Sound the bugles! Out with sabres! charge! ride over them! “Hurra!” So’the little scratch disappears.

General Warren, who won that fight, was a brave man, and did not boast of it. Tell me, general--you are honest--is any laurel in your hardwon wreath, labelled “Five Forks?” It would be insulting that other laurel labelled “Gettysburg,” where you saved Meade!

In that bitter and desperate fight, Corse’s infantry brigade and Lee’s cavalry won a renown which can never be taken from them. The infantry remained unbroken to the last moment; and a charge of Lee’s cavalry upon Sheridan’s drove them back, well nigh routed.

But nothing could avail against such numbers. The Confederate infantry, cavalry, and artillery at last gave way. Overwhelmed by the great force, they were shattered and driven. Night descended upon a battlefield covered with heaps of dead and wounded, the blue mingled with the gray.

Among those wounded, mortally to all appearances, was Willie Davenant. He had fought with the courage of the bull-dog which lay _perdu_ under the shy bearing of the boy. All the army had come to recognize it, by this time; and such was the high estimate which General R.E. Lee placed upon him, that it is said he was about to be offered the command of a brigade of infantry. Before this promotion reached him, however, the great crash came; and the brave youth was to fall upon the field of Five Forks, where he fought his guns obstinately to the very last.

It was just at nightfall that he fell, with a bullet through his breast.

The enemy were pressing on hotly, and there was no time to bring off the wounded officer. It seemed useless, too. He lay at full length, in a pool of blood, and was breathing heavily. To attempt to move him, even if it were possible, threatened him with instant death.

A tòuching incident followed. The enemy carried Five Forks as night descended. They had advanced so early, that Judge Conway and his daughters had had no time to leave their home. Compelled to remain thus, they did not forget their duty to the brave defenders of the Confederacy, and when the firing ceased, the old statesman and his daughters went to succor the wounded.

Among the first bodies which they saw was that of Will Davenant. One gleam of the lantern carried by the Federal surgeon told all; and Virginia Conway with a low moan knelt down and raised the head of the wounded boy, placing it upon her bosom.

As she did so, he sighed faintly, and opening his eyes, looked up into her face. The blood rushed to his cheeks; he attempted to stretch out his arms; then falling back upon her bosom the young officer fainted.

A cry from the girl attracted the attention of the Federal surgeon who was attending to the wounded Federalists. He was a kind-hearted man, and came to the spot whence he had heard the cry.

“He is dying!” moaned the poor girl, with bloodless cheeks. “Can you do nothing for him? Oh, save him, sir!--only save him!--have pity upon me!”

She could say no more.

The surgeon bent over and examined the wound. When he had done so, he shook his head.

“His wound is mortal, I am afraid,” he said, “but I will do all I can for him.”

And with a rapid hand he stanched the blood, and bandaged the wound.

The boy had not stirred. He remained still, with his head leaning upon the girl’s breast.

“Can he live?” she murmured, in a tone almost inaudible.

“If he is not moved, he may possibly live; but if he is moved his death is certain. The least change in the position of his body, for some hours from this time, will be fatal.”

“Then he shall not have to change his position!” exclaimed the girl.

And, with the pale face still lying upon her bosom, she remained immovable.

Throughout all the long night she did not move or disturb the youth. He had fallen into a deep sleep, and his head still lay upon her bosom.

Who can tell what thoughts came to that brave child as she thus watched over his sleep? The long hours on the lonely battle-field, full of the dead and dying, slowly dragged on. The great dipper wheeled in circle; the moon rose; the dawn came; still the girl, with the groans of the dying around her, held the wounded boy in her arms.[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

Is there a painter in Virginia who desires a great subject? There it is; and it is historical.

When the sun rose, Willie Davenant opened his eyes, and gazed up into her face. Their glances met; their blushing cheeks were near each other; the presence of her, whom he loved so much, seemed to have brought back life to the shattered frame.

An hour afterward he was moved to “Five Forks,” where he was tenderly cared for. The old statesman had forgotten his life-long prejudice, and was the first to do all in his power to save the boy.

A month afterward he was convalescent. A week more and he was well. In the summer of 1865 he was married to Virginia Conway.

As for Mohun, his marriage ceremony, so singularly interrupted, had been resumed and completed an hour after the death of the unfortunate Darke and his companion.

XXII.

“THE LINE HAS BEEN STRETCHED UNTIL IT HAS BROKEN, COLONEL.”.

At nightfall, on the first of April, the immense struggle had really ended.

Lee’s whole right was swept away; he was hemmed in, in Petersburg; what remained for General Grant was only to give the _coup de grace_ to the great adversary, who still confronted him, torn and shattered, but with a will and courage wholly unbroken.

It is not an exaggeration, reader. Judge for yourself. I am to show you Lee as I saw him in this moment of terrible trial: still undaunted, raising his head proudly amid the crash of all around him; great in the hour of victory; in the hour of ruin, sublime.

Grant attacked again at dawn, on the morning of the second of April. It was Sunday, but no peaceful church-bells disturbed the spring air. The roar of cannon was heard, instead, hoarse and menacing, in the very suburbs of the devoted city.

There was no hope now--all was ended--but the Confederate arms were to snatch a last, and supreme laurel, which time can not wither. Attacked in Fort Gregg, by General Gibbon, Harris’s Mississippi brigade, of two hundred and fifty men, made one of those struggles which throw their splendor along the paths of history.

“This handful of skilled marksmen,” says a Northern writer, “conducted the defence with such intrepidity, that Gibbon’s forces, surging repeatedly against it, were each time thrown back.”

That is the generous but cold statement of an opponent; but it is sufficient. It was not until seven o’clock that Gibbon stormed the fort. Thirty men only out of the two hundred and fifty were left, but they were still fighting.

In the attack the Federal loss was “about five hundred men,” says the writer above quoted.

So fell Lee’s last stronghold on this vital part of his lines. Another misfortune soon followed. The gallant A.P. Hill, riding ahead of his men, was fired on and killed, by a small detachment of the enemy whom he had halted and ordered to surrender.

He fell from his horse, and was borne back, already dying. That night, amid the thunder of the exploding magazines, the commander, first, of the “light division,” and then of a great corps--the hero of Cold Harbor, Sharpsburg, and a hundred other battles--was buried in the city cemetery, just in time to avoid seeing the flag he had fought under, lowered.

Peace to the ashes of that brave! Old Virginia had no son more faithful!

Fort Gregg was the last obstacle. At ten o’clock that had fallen, heavy masses of the enemy were pushing forward. Their bristling battalions, and long lines of artillery had advanced nearly to General Lee’s head-quarters, a mile west of Petersburg.

As the great blue wave surged forward, General Lee, in full-dress uniform, and wearing his gold-hilted sword, looked at them through his field glasses from the lawn, in front of his head-quarters, on foot, and surrounded by his staff. I have never seen him more composed. Chancing to address him, he saluted me with the calmest and most scrupulous courtesy; and his voice was as measured and unmoved as though he were attending a parade. Do you laugh at us, friends of the North, for our devotion to Lee? You should have seen him that day, when ruin stared him in the face; you would have known then, the texture of that stout Virginia heart.

The enemy’s column literally rushed on. Our artillery, on a hill near by, had opened a rapid fire on the head of the column; the enemy’s object was to gain shelter under a crest, in their front.

They soon gained it; formed line of battle, and charged the guns.

Then all was over. The bullets rained, in a hurtling tempest on the cannoneer; the blue line came on with loud shouts; and the pieces were brought off at a gallop, followed by a hailstorm of musket-balls.

Suddenly the Federal artillery opened from a hill behind their line. General Lee had mounted his iron-gray, and was slowly retiring toward Petersburg, surrounded by his officers. His appearance was superb at this moment--and I still see the erect form of the proud old cavalier; his hand curbing his restive horse; his head turned over his shoulder; his face calm, collected, and full of that courage which nothing could break.

All at once a shell screamed from the Federal battery, and bursting close to the general, tore up the ground in a dozen places. The horse of an officer at his side was mortally wounded by a fragment, and fell beneath his rider other animals darted onward, with hanging bridle-reins, cut by the shell--but I was looking at General Lee, feeling certain that he must have been wounded.

He had escaped, however. Not a muscle of his calm face had moved. Only, as he turned his face over his shoulder in the direction of the battery, I could see a sudden color rush to his cheeks, and his eye flashed.

“I should now like to go into a charge!” he said to Stuart, once, after a disaster. And I thought I read the same thought in his face at this moment.

But it was impossible. He had no troops. The entire line on the right of Petersburg had been broken to pieces, and General Lee retired slowly to his inner works, near the city where a little skirmish line, full of fight yet, and shaking their fists at the huge enemy approaching, received him with cheers and cries which made the pulse throb.

There was no _hack_ in that remnant--pardon the word, reader; it expresses the idea.

“Let ‘em come on! We’ll give ‘em ----!” shouted the ragged handful. I dare not change that rough sentence. It belongs to history. And it was glorious, if rude. In front of that squad was a whole army-corps. The corps was advancing, supported by a tremendous artillery fire, to crush them--and the tatterdemalions defied and laughed at them.

This all took place before noon. Longstreet had come in from the north of the James with his skeleton regiments; and these opposed a bold front to the enemy on the right, while Gordon commanding the left, below the city, was thundering. A cordon hemmed in the little army now, in the suburbs of Petersburg. The right, on the Boydton road, was carried away; and the left beyond James River. One hope alone remained--to hold Petersburg until night, and then retreat.

I will not describe that day. This volume approaches its end; and it is fortunate. To describe at length those last days would be a terrible task to the writer.

Lee telegraphed to the President that he was going to retreat that night; and at the moment when the officers of the government hastily left Richmond by the Danville railroad, the army at Petersburg began to retire.

Did you witness what I describe, reader? What a spectacle!--the army of Northern Virginia, or what was left of it, rather, stealing away amid darkness. I sat my horse on the Hickory road, north of the Appomattox, near the city, and looked at the ragged column, which defiled by from the bridge over the river. In the starlight I could see their faces. There was not a particle of depression in them. You would have said, indeed, that they rejoiced at being out of the trenches--to be once more on the march, with Lee, riding his old iron-gray, in front of his old soldiers--with the battle-flags of a hundred battles still floating defiantly.

General Lee stood at the forks of the road, directing his column. He had said little during the day, and said little now, but his voice was as calm and measured, his eye as serene as before.

“This is a bad business, colonel!”[1] I had heard him say, at the moment when the shell burst near him in the morning.

[Footnote 1: His words.]

I heard but one other allusion which he made to the situation.

“Well, colonel,” he said to an officer, in his deep and sonorous voice, “it has happened as I told them it would, at Richmond. The line has been stretched until it has broken.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

So, over the Hickory road, leading up the northern bank of the Appomattox, in the direction of Lynchburg--amid the explosion of magazines, surging upward like volcanoes, the old army of Northern Virginia, reduced to fifteen thousand men, went forth, still defiant, into the night.

XXIII.

WHAT I SAW FROM THE GRAVE OF STUART.

Three hours afterward I was in Richmond.

Sent with a message for General Ewell, I had taken the last train which left for the capital, and reached the city toward midnight.

The first person whom I saw was Tom Herbert, who ran to meet me. His face was pale, but his resolute smile still lit up the brave face.

“Come and wait on me, my dear old friend,” he said; “I am to be married to-night!”

And in a few words he informed me that Katy had consented to have the ceremony performed before Tom followed General Lee southward.

Half an hour afterward I witnessed a singular spectacle: that of a wedding, past midnight, in the midst of hurry, confusion, uproar, universal despair--the scene, a city about to fall into the hands of the enemy--from which the government and all its defenders had fled.[1]

[Footnote 1: Real.]

Katy acted her part bravely. The rosy cheeks were unblanched still--the sweet smile was as endearing. When I took an old friend’s privilege to kiss the smiling lips, there was no tremor in them, and her blue eyes were as brave as ever.

So Tom and Katy were married--and I bestowed upon them my paternal blessing! It was a singular incident--was it not, reader? But war is full of such.

I did not see Tom again until I met him on the retreat. And Katy--I have never seen her sweet face since--but heaven bless her!

An hour afterward I had delivered my message to General Ewell, who was already moving out with his small force to join Lee. They defiled across the bridges, and disappeared. For myself, tired out, I wrapped my cape around me, and stretching myself upon a sofa, at the house of a friend, snatched a little rest.

I was aroused toward daybreak by a tremendous explosion, and going to the window, saw that the city was in flames. The explosion had been caused, doubtless, by blowing up the magazines, or the rams in James River. The warehouses and bridges had been fired in anticipation of the approach of the enemy.

It behooved me to depart now, unless I wished to be captured. I had taken the precaution to provide myself with a horse from one of the government stables; the animal stood ready saddled behind the house; I bade my alarmed friends farewell, and mounting, rode through the streets of the devoted city toward the Capitol, amid bursting shell from the arsenal, exploding magazines, and roaring flames.

I can not describe the scenes which followed. They were terrible and would present a fit subject for the brush of Rembrandt. Fancy crowds of desperate characters breaking into the shops and magazines of stores--negroes, outcasts, malefactors, swarming in the streets, and shouting amid the carnival. The state prison had disgorged its convicts--the slums and subterranean recesses of the city its birds of the night--and now, felons and malefactors, robbers, cut-purses and murderers held their riotous and drunken carnival in the streets, flowing with whiskey. Over all surged the flames, roaring, crackling, tumultuous--the black clouds of smoke drifting far away, under the blue skies of spring.

Then from the Capitol hill, where I had taken my stand, I saw by the early light, a spectacle even more terrible--that of the enemy entering the city. They came on from Charles City in a long blue column resembling a serpent. Infantry and troopers, artillery and stragglers--all rushed toward the doomed city where they were met by a huge crowd of dirty and jabbering negroes and outcasts.

Suddenly a shout near at hand, thundered up to the hill. In front of the Exchange a column of negro cavalry, with drawn sabres rushed on. As they came, they yelled and jabbered--that was the darkest spectacle of all.

I remained looking at the frightful pageant with rage in my heart, until the advance force of the enemy had reached the railing of the Capitol. Then I turned my horse, and, pursued by carbine shots, rode out of the western gate, up Grace Street.

Fifty paces from St. Paul’s I saw Colonel Desperade pass along--smiling, serene, in black coat, snow-white shirt, tall black hat, and with two ladies leaning upon his arms.

“Ah! gallant to the last, I see!” I growled to him as I rode by. “‘None but the brave desert the fair!’”

The colonel smiled, but made no reply.

A hundred yards farther I met little Mr. Blocque joyously approaching.

In his hand he carried his safeguard, brought him by the gray woman. At his breast fluttered a miniature United States flag. The little gentleman was radiant, and exclaimed as he saw me:--

“What! my dear colonel! you are going to leave us? Come and dine with me--at five o’clock, precisely!”

My reply was not polite. I drew my pistol--at which movement Mr. Blocque disappeared, running, at the corner of St. Paul’s.

On his heels followed a portly and despairing gentleman--Mr. Croaker.

“Save my warehouse! it is on fire! I shall be a beggar!” yelled Mr. Croaker.

I laughed aloud as the wretched creature rushed by, puffing and panting. Ten minutes afterward I was out of the city.

My last view of Richmond was from Hollywood Hill, near the grave of Stuart. The spectacle before me was at once terrible and splendid. The city was wrapped in a sea of flame. A vast black cloud swept away to the far horizon. A menacing roar came up from beneath those flames surging around the white Capitol;--the enemy’s guns, troopers, musketeers and the rabble, were rushing with shouts, yells, and curses into the devoted city, which had at last fallen a prey to the Federal arms.

A last pang was to tear my heart. The sight before me was not enough, I had turned my horse to ride westward, throwing a parting glance upon the city, when suddenly the Virginia flag descended from the summit of the Capitol and the United States flag was run up.

I turned and shook my clenched hand at it.

“That is not my flag, and shall never be!” I exclaimed, aloud.

And taking off my hat as I passed the grave of Stuart, I rode on, thinking of the past and the present.

XXIV.

THE RETREAT.

Crossing James River, above the city, I pushed after the army, which I rejoined on the evening of the 4th, as it was crossing the Appomattox opposite Amelia Court-House.

It reached that village on Wednesday April 5th, and you could see at a glance that its spirit was unbroken. As to General Lee, his resolution up to that time had astonished all who saw him. Never had he seemed in more buoyant spirits.

“I have got my army safe out of its breastworks,” he said, “and in order to follow me, my enemy must abandon his lines, and can derive no further benefit from his railroads, or James River.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

It was only the faint-hearts who lost hope. Lee was not of those. Mounted upon his old iron-gray--at the head of his old army, if his little handful of about fifteen thousand men could be called such--Lee was still the great cavalier. The enemy had not yet checkmated him: his heart of hope was untouched. He would cut his way through, and the red flag should again float on victorious fields!

The army responded to the feeling of its chief. The confidence of the men in Lee was as great as on his days of victory. You would have said that the events of the last few days were, in the estimation of the troops, only momentary reverses. The veterans of Hill and Longstreet advanced steadily, tramping firm, shoulder to shoulder, with glittering gun barrels, and faces as resolute and hopeful as at Manassas and Chancellorsville.

“Those men are not whipped,” said a keen observer to me, as he looked at the closed-up column moving. And he was right. The morale of this remnant of the great army of Northern Virginia was untouched. Those who saw them then will testify to the truth of my statement.

At Amelia Court-House a terrible blow, however, awaited them. General Lee had ordered rations to be sent thither from North Carolina. They had been sent, but the trains had gone on and disgorged them in Richmond. When Lee arrived with his starved army, already staggering and faint, not a pound of bread or meat was found; there was nothing.

Those who saw General Lee at this moment, will remember his expression. For the first time the shadow of despair passed over that brave forehead. Some one had, indeed, struck a death-blow at him. His army was without food. All his plans were reversed. He had intended to reprovision his force at Amelia, and then push straight on. His plan, I think I can state, was to attack the detached forces of Grant in his front; cut his way through there; cross the Nottoway and other streams by means of pontoons, which had been provided; and, forming a junction with General Johnston, crush Sherman or retreat into the Gulf States. All this was, however, reversed by one wretched, microscopic incident. The great machine was to be arrested by an atom in its path. The rations were not found at Amelia Court-House; the army must have food, or die; half the force was dispersed in foraging parties throughout the surrounding country, and the delay gave Grant time to mass heavily in Lee’s front, at Burksville.

Then all was decided. Lee had not doubted his ability to crush a corps, or even more, before the main force of the enemy came up. He saw as clearly now, that there was no hope of his cutting his way through Grant’s army. It was there in his front--the failure of rations had caused all. With what must have been a terrible weight upon his heart, Lee directed his march toward Lynchburg, determined to fight to the end; and, as he had said during the winter, “die sword in hand.”

Then commenced the woeful tragedy. What words can paint that retreat? There is only one other that equals it--Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. The army staggered on, fighting, and starving, and dying. Stalwart men fell by the roadside, or dropped their muskets as they tottered on. The wagons were drawn by skeleton mules, without food like the soldiers. If an ear of corn was found, the men seized and munched it fiercely, like animals. Covered with mud, blackened with powder, with gaunt frames, and glaring eyes, the old guard of the army of Northern Virginia still stood to their colors--fighting at every step, despairing, but not shrinking; and obeying the orders of Lee to the last.

You would not doubt that confidence in, and love for, their commander, reader, if you had witnessed the scene which I did, near Highbridge. The enemy had suddenly assailed Ewell and Custis Lee, and broken them to pieces. The blue horsemen and infantry pressing fiercely on all sides, and hunting their opponents to the death, seemed, at this moment, to have delivered a blow from which the Confederates could not rise. The attack had fallen like a thunderbolt. Ewell, Anderson, and Custis Lee were swept away by mere weight of numbers; the whole army seemed threatened with instant destruction.

Lee suddenly appeared, however, and the scene which followed was indescribable. He had rushed a brigade across, riding in front on his iron-gray; and at that instant he resembled some nobleman of the old age on the track of the wild-boar. With head erect, face unmoved, eyes clear and penetrating, he had reached the scene of danger; and as the disordered remnants of Ewell’s force crowded the hill, hot and panting, they had suddenly seen, rising between them and the enemy, a wall of bayonets, flanked by cannon.

A great painter should have been present then. Night had fallen, and the horizon was lit up by the glare of burning wagons. Every instant rose, sudden and menacing, the enemy’s signal rockets. On the summit of the hill, where the infantry waited, Lee rode among the disordered men of Ewell, and his presence raised a storm.

“It’s General Lee!”

“Uncle Robert!”

“Where’s the man who won’t follow old Uncle Robert!”

Such were the shouts, cries, and fierce exclamations. The haggard faces flushed; the gaunt hands were clenched. On all sides explosions of rage and defiance were heard. The men called on the gray old cavalier, sitting his horse as calm as a statue, to take command of them, and lead them against the enemy.

No attack was made on them. An hour afterward the army moved again--the rear covered by General Fitzhugh Lee with his cavalry, which, at every step, met the blue huntsmen pressing on to hunt down their prey.

Such were some of the scenes of the retreat, up to the 7th. Who has the heart to narrate what followed in the next two days? A great army dying slowly--starving, fighting, falling--is a frightful spectacle. I think the memory of it must affect even the enemies who witnessed it.

It is only a small portion of the tragic picture that the present writer has the heart to paint.

XXV.

HUNTED DOWN.

On the morning of the 7th of April, and throughout the 8th, the horrors of the retreat culminated.

The army was fighting at every step. Hope had deserted them, but they were still fighting.

On every side pressed the enemy like bands of wolves hunting down the wounded steed.

Gordon and Longstreet, commanding the two skeleton corps of infantry, and Fitzhugh Lee the two or three thousand cavalry remaining, met the incessant attacks, with a nerve which had in it something of the heroic.

Fitz Lee had commanded the rear guard on the whole retreat. All along the route he had confronted the columns of Sheridan, and checked them with heavy loss.

At Paynesville he had driven Sheridan back, killing, wounding, and capturing two hundred of his men. At Highbridge he captured seven hundred and eighty more, killing many, among the rest the Federal General Read. On the morning of the 7th, beyond the river, he drove back a large column, capturing General Irwin Gregg.

That was a brave resistance made by the old army of Northern Virginia, reader, as it was slowly advancing into the gulf of perdition.

Beyond Farmville there was no longer any hope. All was plainly over. I shrink from the picture, but here is that of one of my friends. “It became necessary to burn hundreds of wagons. At intervals the enemy’s cavalry dashed in and struck the interminable train, here or there, capturing and burning dozens on dozens of wagons. Hundreds of men dropped from exhaustion, and thousands let fall their muskets from inability to carry them any farther. The scenes were of a nature which can be apprehended in its vivid reality only by men who are thoroughly familiar with the harrowing details of war. Behind, and on either flank, a ubiquitous and increasingly adventurous enemy; every mud-hole and every rise in the road choked with blazing wagons; the air filled with the deafening reports of ammunition exploding, and shell bursting when touched by the flames; dense columns of smoke ascending to heaven from the burning and exploding vehicles; exhausted men, worn-out mules and horses, lying down side by side; gaunt famine glaring hopelessly from sunken lack-lustre eyes; dead mules, dead horses, dead men, everywhere; death many times welcomed as God’s blessing in disguise--who can wonder if many hearts tried in the fiery furnace of four unparalleled years, and never hitherto found wanting, should have quailed in presence of starvation, fatigue, sleeplessness, misery, un-intermitted for five or six days, and culminating in hopelessness?”[1]

[Footnote 1: The Hon. Charles Francis Lawley, in the London _Times_.]

They did not “quail,” they fell. It was not fear that made them drop the musket, their only hope of safety; it was weakness. It was an army of phantoms that staggered on toward Lynchburg--and what had made them phantoms was hunger.

Let others describe those last two days in full. For myself I can not. To sum up all in one sentence. The Army of Northern Virginia, which had for four years snatched victory upon some of the bloodiest battle-fields of history, fought, reeled, fired its last rounds, and fell dead from starvation, defying fiercely with its last breath, gurgling through blood in its throat, the enemy who was hunting it down to its death.

Call it what you will, reader--there was something in those men that made them fight to the last.

XXVI.

THE LAST COUNCIL OF WAR OF THE ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA.

On the night of the 8th of April, within a few miles of Appomattox Court-House, took place the last council of war of the army of Northern Virginia.

It was in the open air, beside a camp-fire, near which were spread General Lee’s blankets; for throughout the retreat he had used no tent, sleeping, shelterless like his men, by the bivouac fire.

To this last council of war, none but the corps commanders were invited. Thus the only persons present were Gordon and Longstreet, commanding the skeleton corps of infantry, and Fitzhugh Lee, the cavalry of the army.

Gordon was stretched near Fitzhugh Lee, upon the blankets of the commander-in-chief; Gordon, with his clear complexion, his penetrating eyes, his firm lip, his dark hair, and uniform coat buttoned to his chin--the man to fight and die rather than surrender. Near him lay Fitz Lee, the ardent and laughing cavalier, with the flowing beard, the sparkling eyes, the top-boots, and cavalry sabre--the man to stand by Gordon. On a log, a few feet distant, sat the burly Longstreet, smoking with perfect nonchalance--his heavily bearded face exhibiting no emotion whatever. Erect, within a few paces of these three men, stood General Lee--grave, commanding, unmoved; the fire-light revealing every outline of his vigorous person, clad in its plain gray uniform, the gray beard and mustache, the serene eyes, and that stately poise of the head upon the shoulders, which seemed to mark this human being for command.

All these persons were composed. Their faces were haggard from want of rest, but there was nothing in their expressions indicating anxiety, though some gloom.

“It was a picture for an artist,” said that one of them who described the scene to me afterward. The ruddy light brought out every detail of these martial figures. By that fire on the roadside had assembled for the last time General Robert E. Lee and his corps commanders.

The council was brief.

General Lee succinctly laid before his listeners the whole situation.

His army was on a strip of land between the James River and the enemy. He could not cross the river--if he could not break through the enemy in his front the army was lost. General Grant had understood his situation, and a correspondence had taken place. He would read General Grant’s notes and copies of his own replies.

By the light of the fire, General Lee then proceeded to read the papers alluded too.

Grant had opened the correspondence. “The result of the last week must convince General Lee,” he wrote, “of the hopelessness of further resistance on the part of the army of Northern Virginia.” He therefore “asked the surrender” of that army to prevent bloodshed.

Lee had written in reply, requesting Grant to state the terms.

Grant had stated them on this 8th of April, and Lee had replied at once that he “did not intend to propose the surrender of the army of Northern Virginia, but to ask the terms of General Grant’s proposition. To be frank,” he had added, “I do not think the emergency has arisen to call for the surrender.” But he would meet General Grant on the next morning to discuss the whole affair.

There the correspondence had terminated. What was the opinion of his corps commanders?

Their replies were brief and informal. The scene was august but simple. What was determined upon was this---

That the army should continue its march on the next day toward Lynchburg, breaking through Sheridan’s cavalry which was known to be in front; but in case the Federal infantry, a very different thing from the cavalry, was found to be “up,” then Gordon, who was to lead the advance, should inform the commander-in-chief of that fact, when a flag of truce would be sent to General Grant acceding to the terms of capitulation proposed in his last note to General Lee.

Fitzhugh Lee only stipulated that if he saw that the Federal infantry in his front, rendered surrender inevitable, he should be allowed to go off with his cavalry to save the horses of his men.

This was agreed to, and it will be seen that Fitz Lee availed himself of the conmmander-in-chief’s permission.

So ended that last council of war, by the camp fire.

With grave salutes and a cordial pressure of the brave hands, the famous soldiers took leave of Lee.

As they disappeared he drew his blanket around him and fell asleep by the blazing fire.

It was the night of April 8th, 1865--three years, day for day, from the moment when these lines are written.

XXVII.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE SURRENDER.

Throughout that strange night of the eighth of April, 1865, I was in the saddle, carrying orders.

Those who saw it will remember how singularly brilliant it was. The moon and stars shone. The light clouds sweeping across the sky scarcely obscured the mournful radiance. All was still. The two armies--one surrounded and at bay, the other ready to finish the work before it--rested silently on their arms, waiting for that day which would bring the thunder.

Every arrangement had been made by Lee to break through the force in his front, and gain Lynchburg, from which he could retreat to the southwest.

The column of infantry to open the way was about one thousand six hundred men, under Gordon. The cavalry, numbering two or three thousand, was commanded by Fitzhugh Lee. The artillery, consisting of three or four battalions, was placed under that brave spirit, Colonel Thomas H. Carter.

For the tough work, Lee had selected three braves.

I saw them all that night, and read in their eyes the fire of an unalterable resolution.

You know those men, reader. If _you_ do not, history knows them. It was their immense good fortune to bear the red cross banner in the last charge on the enemy, and with their handful of followers to drive the Federal forces back nearly a mile, half an hour before Lee’s surrender.

I had just left General Fitzhugh Lee, near Appomattox Court-House, and was riding through the pines, when a sonorous voice halted me.

“Who goes there?” said the voice.

“Surry, Mordaunt!”

For I had recognized the voice of the general of cavalry. We have seen little of him, reader, in this rapid narrative; but in all the long hard battles from the Rapidan to this night, I had everywhere found myself thrown in collision with the great soldier--that tried and trusty friend of my heart. The army had saluted him on a hundred fields. His name had become the synonym of unfaltering courage. He was here, on the verge of surrender now, looking as calm and resolute as on his days of victory.

“Well, old friend,” said Mordaunt, grasping my hand and then leaning upon my shoulder; “as the scriptures say, what of the night?”

“Bad, Mordaunt.”

“I understand. You think the enemy’s infantry is up.”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll have hard work; but we are used to that, Surry.”

“The work is nothing. It is death only. But something worse than death is coming Mordaunt.”

“What?”

“Surrender.”

Mordaunt shook his head.

“I am not going to surrender,” he said. “I have sworn to one I love more than my life--you know whom I mean, Surry--that I would come back, or die, sword in hand; and I will keep my oath.”

The proud face glowed. In the serene but fiery eyes I could read the expression of an unchangeable resolution.

“Another friend of ours has sworn that too,” he said.

“Who?”

“Mohun.”

“And just married! His poor, young wife, like yours, is far from him.”

“You are mistaken; she is near him. She went ahead of the army, and is now at the village here.”

“Is it possible? And where is Mohun?”

“He is holding the advance skirmish line, on the right of Gordon. Look! Do you see that fire, yonder, glimmering through the woods? I left him there half an hour since.”

“I will go and see him. Do nothing rash, to-morrow, Mordaunt. Remember that poor Old Virginia, if no one else, needs you yet!”

“Be tranquil, Surry,” he replied, with a cool smile. “Farewell; we shall meet at Philippi!”

And we parted with a pressure of the hand.

I rode toward the fire. Stretched on his cape, beside it, I saw the figure of Mohun. He was reading in a small volume, and did not raise his head until I was within three paces of him.

“What are you reading, Mohun?”

He rose and grasped my hand.

“The only book for a soldier,” he said, with his frank glance and brave smile--“the book of books, my dear Surry--that which tells us to do our duty, and trust to Providence.”

I glanced at the volume, and recognized it. I had seen it in the hands of Georgia Conway, at Five Forks. On the fly leaf, which was open, her name was written.

“That is _her_ Bible,” I said, “and doubtless you have just parted with her.”

“Yes, I see you know that she is here, not far from me.”

“Mordaunt told me. It must be a great delight to you, Mohun.”

He smiled, and sighed.

“Yes,” he replied, “but a sort of sorrow, too.”

“Why a sorrow?”

Mohun was silent. Then he said:---

“I think I shall fall to-morrow.”

“Absurd!” I said, trying to laugh, “Why should you fancy such a thing?”

“I am not going to surrender, Surry. I swore to Chambliss, my old comrade, that I would never surrender, and he swore that to me. He was killed in Charles City--he kept his word; I will not break mine, friend.”

My head sank. I had taken my seat on Mohun’s cape, and gazed in silence at the fire.

“That is a terrible resolution, Mohun,” I said at length.

“Yes,” he replied, with entire calmness, “especially in me. It is hard to die, even when we are old and sorrowful--when life is a burden. Men cling to this miserable existence even when old age and grief have taken away, one by one, all the pleasures of life. Think, then, what it must be to die in the flush of youth, and health, and happiness! I am young, strong, happy beyond words. The person I love best in all the world, has just given me her hand. I have before me a long life of joy, if I only live! But I have sworn that oath, Surry! Chambliss kept his; shall I break mine? Let us not talk further of this, friend.”

And Mohun changed the conversation, refusing to listen to my remonstrances.

Half an hour afterward I left him, with a strange sinking of the heart.

Taking my way back to the Court-House, I passed through the little village, rode on for a mile, and then, overwhelmed by fatigue, lay down by a camp fire in the woods, and fell asleep.

I was waked by a single gun, sending its dull roar through the gray dawn.

Rising, I buttoned my cape around me, mounted my horse, and rode toward the front.

As I ascended the hill, upon which stands Appomattox Court-House, a crimson blush suddenly spread itself over the fields and woods.

I looked over my shoulder. In the east, on the summit of the forest, the newly risen sun was poised, like a great shield bathed in blood.

Such was the spectacle which ushered in the ninth of April, 1865, at Appomattox Court-House.

XXVIII.

THE LAST CHARGE OF THE OLD GUARD.

I rode on rapidly to the front.

It was the morning of the ninth of April, 1865. Since that time three years, day for day, nearly hour for hour have passed; for these lines are written on the morning of the ninth of April, 1868.

Gordon had formed his line of battle across the road just beyond the court-house--and supported by Fitzhugh Lee’s cavalry, and Carter’s artillery on his right, was advancing with measured steps to break through the enemy.

It was a spectacle to make the pulse throb. The little handful was going to death unmoved. The red light of morning darted from the burnished gun-barrels of the infantry, the sabres of the cavalry, and the grim cannon following, in sombre lightnings.

Gordon, the “Bayard of the army,” was riding in front of his line. The hour and the men had both come. Steadily the old guard of the army of Northern Virginia advanced to its last field of battle.

Suddenly, in front of them, the woods swarmed with the enemy’s infantry, cavalry, and artillery. The great multitude had evidently employed the hours of night well. Grant’s entire army seemed to have massed itself in Gordon’s front.

But the force was not the question. Gordon’s one thousand six hundred men were in motion. And when Gordon moved forward he always fought, if he found an enemy.

In five minutes the opponents had closed in, in stubborn fight, and the woods roared with musketry, cannon, and carbines.

Then a resounding cheer rose. The enemy had recoiled before Gordon, and he pressed forward, sweeping every thing in his path for nearly a mile beyond the court-house.

On his right Fitzhugh Lee’s horsemen thundered forward on the retiring enemy; and Carter’s guns advanced at a gallop, taking positions--Starke to the left and Poague to the right of the road--from which they opened a rapid fire upon the Federal line of battle.

I had accompanied the advance and looked on with positive wonder. A miracle seemed about to be enacted before my very eyes. Gordon’s poor little skirmish-line of less than two thousand men, with the half-equipped horsemen of Fitzhugh Lee, on their broken-down animals, seemed about to drive back the whole Federal army, and cut their way through in safety.

Alas! the hope was vain. In front of the handful were eighty thousand men! It was not Sheridan’s cavalry only--that would have speedily been disposed of. During the night, General Grant’s best infantry had pressed forward, and arrived in time to place itself across Lee’s path. What Gordon and Fitzhugh Lee encountered was the Federal army.

Right and left, as in front, were seen dense blue columns of infantry, heavy masses of cavalry, crowding batteries, from which issued at every instant that quick glare which precedes the shell.

From this multitude a great shout arose; and was taken up by the Federal troops for miles. From the extreme rear, where Longstreet stood stubbornly confronting the pursuers, as from the front, where Gordon was trying to break through the immense obstacles in his path, came that thunder of cheers, indicating clearly that the enemy at last felt that their prey was in their clutch.

The recoil was brief. The great Federal wave which had rolled backward before Gordon, now rolled forward to engulf him. The moment seemed to have come for the old guard of the army of Northern Virginia to crown its victories with a glorious death.

The Federal line rushed on. From end to end of the great field, broken by woods, the blue infantry delivered their fire, as they advanced with wild cheers upon the line of Gordon and Lee.

The guns of Carter thundered in vain. Never were cannon fought more superbly; the enemy were now nearly at the muzzle of the pieces.

Gordon was everywhere encouraging his men, and attempting to hold them steady. With flaming eyes, his drawn sword waving amid the smoke, his strident voice rising above the din of battle, Gordon was superb.

But all was of no avail. The Federal line came on like a wave of steel and fire. A long deafening crash, mingled with the thunder of cannon, stunned the ear; above the combatants rose a huge smoke-cloud, from which issued cheers and groans.

Suddenly an officer of General Lee’s staff passed by like lightning; was lost in the smoke; then I saw him speaking to Gordon. At the few words uttered by the officer, the latter turned pale.

A moment afterward a white flag fluttered--the order to surrender had come.

What I felt at that instant I can not describe. Something seemed to choke me. I groaned aloud, and turned toward the cavalry.

At fifty paces from me I saw Mordaunt, surrounded by his officers and men.

His swarthy face glowed--his eyes blazed. Near him, General Fitzhugh Lee--with Tom Herbert, and some other members of his staff--was sitting his horse, pale and silent.

“What will you do, general?” said Mordaunt, saluting with drawn sabre.

Fitzhugh Lee uttered a groan.

“I don’t wish to be included in the surrender,” he said. “Come, let’s go. General Lee no longer requires my poor services!”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Mordaunt saluted again, as General Lee and his staff officers turned away.

“We’ll go out sword in hand!” Mordaunt said. “Let who will, follow me!”

A wild cheer greeted the words. The men formed column and charged.

As they moved, a second cheer was heard at fifty paces from us. I turned my head, and saw Mohun, in front of about fifty cavalrymen, among whom I recognized Nighthawk.

In an instant I was at Mohun’s side.

“You are going to charge!” I said.

“And die, Surry! A gentleman gives his word but once!”

And, following Mordaunt with long leaps, Mohun and his horsemen burst upon the enemy.

Then was presented a spectacle which made the two armies hold their breath.

The column of cavalry under Mordaunt and Mohun, had struck the Federal line of battle.

For an instant, you could see little, hear little, in the smoke and uproar. A furious volley unhorsed at least half of the charging column, and the rest were seen striking with their sabres at the blue infantry, who stabbed with their bayonets at the rearing horses.

Then a thundering shout rose. The smoke was swept away by the wind, and made all clear.

Mordaunt had cut his way through, and was seen to disappear with a dozen followers.

Mohun, shot through the breast, and streaming with blood, had fallen from the saddle, his foot had caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged by his frightened animal toward the Confederate lines.

The horse came on at a headlong gallop, but suddenly a cavalier came up with him, seized the bridle, and threw him violently on his haunches.

The new-comer was Nighthawk.

Leaping to the ground, he seized the body of Mohun in his arms, extricated his foot from the stirrup, and remounted his own horse, with the form of his master still clasped to his breast.

Then, plunging the spurs into his animal, he turned to fly. But his last hour had come.

A bullet, fired at fifty paces, penetrated his back, and the blood spouted. He fell from the flying animal to the earth, but his arms still clasped the body of Mohun, whose head lay upon his breast.

A loud cheer rose, and the blue line rushed straight upon him. Nighthawk’s head rose, and he gazed at them with flashing eyes--then he looked at Mohun and groaned.

Summoning his last remains of strength, he drew from his breast a pencil and a piece of paper, wrote some words upon the paper, and affixed it to Mohun’s breast.

This seemed to exhaust him. He had scarcely finished, when his head sank, his shoulders drooped, and falling forward on the breast of Mohun, he expired.

An hour afterward, all was still. On the summit of the Court-House hill a blue column was stationary, waving a large white flag.

General Lee had surrendered.

XXIX.

THE SURRENDER.

Lee had surrendered the army of Northern Virginia.

Ask old soldiers of that army to describe their feelings at the announcement, reader. They will tell you that they can not; and I will not attempt to record my own.

It was, truly, the bitterness of death that we tasted at ten o’clock on the morning of that ninth of April, 1865, at Appomattox Court-House. Gray-haired soldiers cried like children. It was hard to say whether they would have preferred, at that moment, to return to their families or to throw themselves upon the bayonets of the enemy, and die.

In that hour of their agony they were not insulted, however. The deportment of the enemy was chivalric and courteous. No bands played; no cheers were heard; and General Grant was the first to salute profoundly his gray-haired adversary, who came, with a single officer, to arrange, in a house near the field, the terms of surrender.

They are known. On the tenth they were carried out.

The men stacked the old muskets, which they had carried in a hundred fights, surrendered the bullet-torn colors, which had waved over victorious fields, and silently returned, like mourners, to their desolate homes.

Two days after the surrender, Mohun was still alive.

Three months afterward, the welcome intelligence reached me that he was rapidly recovering.

He had made a narrow escape. Ten minutes after the death of the faithful Nighthawk, the Federal line had swept over him; and such was the agony of his wound, that he exclaimed to one of the enemy:--

“Take your pistol, and shoot me!”

The man cocked his weapon, and aimed at his heart. Then he turned the muzzle aside, and uncocking the pistol, replaced it in its holster.

“No,” he said, “Johnny Reb, you might get well!”

[Footnote: These details are all real.]

And glancing at the paper on Mohun’s breast, he passed on, muttering--

“It’s a general!”

The paper saved Mohun’s life. An acquaintance in the Federal army saw it, and speedily had him cared for. An hour afterward his friends were informed of his whereabouts. I hastened to the house to which he had been borne. Bending over him, the beautiful Georgia was sobbing hopelessly, and dropping tears upon the paper, which contained the words--

_“This is the body of General Mohun, C.S.A.”_

The army had surrendered; the flag was lowered: with a singular feeling of bewilderment, and a “lost” feeling that is indescribable, I set out, followed by my servant, for Eagle’s Nest.

I was the possessor of a paper, which I still keep as a strange memorial.

“The bearer,” ran this paper, “a paroled prisoner of the army of Northern Virginia, has permission to go to his home, and there remain undisturbed--with two horses!”

At the top of this document, was, “Appomattox Court-House, Va., April, 10, 1865.” On the left-hand side was, “Paroled Prisoner’s Pass.”

So, with his pass, the paroled prisoner passed slowly across Virginia to his home.

Oh! that Virginia of 1865--that desolate, dreary land! Oh! those poor, sad soldiers returning to their homes! Everywhere burned houses, unfenced fields, ruined homesteads! On all sides, the desolation of the torch and the sword! The “poor paroled prisoners,” going home wearily in that dark April, felt a pang which only a very bitter foe will laugh at.

But all was not taken. Honor was left us--and the angels of home! As the sorrowful survivors of the great army came back, as they reached their old homes, dragging their weary feet after them, or urging on their jaded horses, suddenly the sunshine burst forth for them, and lit up their rags with a sort of glory. The wife, the mother, and the little child rushed to them. Hearts beat fast, as the gray uniforms were clasped in a long embrace. Those angels of home loved the poor prisoners better in their dark days than in their bright. The fond eyes melted to tears, the white arms held them close; and the old soldiers, who had only laughed at the roar of the enemy’s guns, dropped tears on the faces of their wives and little children!

EPILOGUE.

In the autumn of last year, 1867, I set out on horseback from “Eagle’s Nest,” and following the route west by Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Germanna Ford, Culpeper, and Orleans, reached “The Oaks” in Fauquier.

I needed the sunshine and bright faces of the old homestead, after that journey; for at every step had sprung up some gloomy or exciting recollection.

It was a veritable journey through the world of memory.

Fredericksburg! Chancellorsville! the Wilderness! the plains of Culpeper!--as I rode on amid these historic scenes, a thousand memories came to knock at the door of my heart. Some were gay, if many were sorrowful--laughter mingled with the sighs. But to return to the past is nearly always sad. As I rode through the waste land now, it was with drooping head. All the old days came back again, the cannon sent their long dull thunder through the forests; again the gray and blue lines closed in, and hurled together; again Jackson in his old dingy coat, Stuart with his floating plume, Pelham, Farley, all whom I had known, loved, and still mourned, rose before me--a line of august phantoms fading away into the night of the past.

Once more I looked upon Pelham, holding in his arms the bleeding form of Jean--passing “Camp-no-camp,” only a desolate and dreary field now, all the laughing faces and brave forms of Stuart and his men returned--in the Wilderness I saw Jackson fight and fall; saw him borne through the moonlight; heard his sighs and his last greeting with Stuart. A step farther, I passed the lonely old house in the Wilderness, and all the strange and sombre scenes there surged up from the shadows of the past. Mordaunt, Achmed, Fenwick, Violet Grafton!--all reappeared, playing over again their fierce tragedy; and to this was added the fiercer drama of May, 1864, when General Grant invented the “Unseen Death.”

Thus the journey which I made through the bare and deserted fields, or the mournful thickets, was not gay; and these were only a part of the panorama which passed before me. Looking toward the south, I saw as clearly with the eyes of the memory, the banks of the Po, the swamps of the Chickahominy, the trenches at Petersburg, the woods of Dinwiddie, Five Forks, Highbridge--Appomattox Court-House! Nearer was Yellow Tavern, where Stuart had fallen. Not a foot of this soil of Old Virginia but seemed to have been the scene of some fierce battle, some sombre tragedy!

“Well, well,” I sighed, as I rode on toward the Oaks, “all that is buried in the past, and it is useless to think of it. I am only a poor paroled prisoner, wearing arms no more--let me forget the red cross flag which used to float so proudly here, and bow my head to the will of the Supreme Ruler of all worlds.”

So I went on, and in due time reached the Oaks, in Fauquier.

You recall the good old homestead, do you not, my dear reader? I should be sorry to have you forget the spot where I have been so happy. It was to this honest old mansion that I was conducted in April, 1861, when struck from my horse by a falling limb in the storm-lashed wood, I saw come to my succor the dearest person in the world. She awaited me now--having a month before left Eagle’s Nest, to pay a visit to her family--and again, as in the spring of ‘63, she came to meet me as I ascended the hill--only we met now as bridegroom and bride!

This May of my life had brought back the sunshine, even after that black day of 1865. Two white arms had met the poor paroled prisoner, on his return to Eagle’s Nest--a pair of violet eyes had filled with happy tears--and the red lips, smiling with exquisite emotion, murmured “All is well, since you have come back to me!”

It was this beautiful head which the sunshine of that autumn of 1867 revealed to me, on the lawn of the good old chateau of the mountains! And behind, came all my good friends of the Oaks--the kind lady of the manor, the old colonel, and Charley and Annie, who were there too! With his long gray hair, and eyes that still flashed, Colonel Beverly came to meet me--brave and smiling in 1867 as he had been in 1861. Then, with Annie’s arm around me--that little sister had grown astonishingly!--I went in and was at home.

At home! You must be a soldier to know what that simple word means, reader! You must sleep under a tree, carry your effects behind your saddle, lie down in bivouac in strange countries, and feel the longing of the heart for the dear faces, the old scenes.

“Tell my mother that I die in a foreign land!” murmured my poor dear Tazewell Patton, at Gettysburg. I have often thought of those words; and they express much I think. Oh! for home! for a glimpse, if no more, of the fond faces, as life goes! You may be the bravest of the brave, as my dear Tazewell was; but ‘tis home where the heart is, and you sigh for the dear old land!

The Oaks was like home to me, for the somebody with violet eyes, and chestnut hair, was here to greet me.

The sun is setting, and we wander in the fields touched by the dreamy autumn.

“Look,” says the somebody who holds my hand, and smiles, “there is the rock where we stopped in the autumn of 1862, and where you behaved with so little propriety, you remember, sir!”

“I remember the rock but not the absence of propriety. What were a man’s arms made for but to clasp the woman he loves!”

“Stop, sir! People would think we were two foolish young lovers.”

“Young lovers are not foolish, madam. They are extremely intelligent.”

Madam laughs.

“Yonder is the primrose from which I plucked the bud,” she says.

“That sent me through Stuart’s head-quarters in April, 1863?” I say.

“Yes; you have not forgotten it I hope.”

“Almost; Stay! I think it meant ‘Come,’--did it not?--And you sent it to me!”

Madam pouts beautifully.

“You have ‘almost forgotten’ it! Have you, indeed, sir?”

“These trifles will escape us.”

May loses all her smiles, and her head sinks.

I begin to laugh, taking an old porte-monnaie from my pocket. There is very little money in it, but a number of worn papers, my parole and others. I take one and open it. It contains a faded primrose.

“Look!” I say, with a smile, “it said ‘Come,’ once, and it brings me back again to the dearest girl in the world!”

A tear falls from the violet eyes upon the faded flower, but through the tears burst a smile!

They are curious, these earthly angels--are they not, my dear reader? They are romantic and sentimental to the last, and this old soldier admires them!

So, conversing of a thousand things, we return to the Oaks wandering like boy and girl through the “happy autumn fields.” May Surry flits through the old doorway and disappears.

As she goes the sun sinks behind the forest. But it will rise, as she will, to-morrow!

The smiling Colonel Beverly meets me on the threshold, with a note in his hand.

“A servant has just brought this,” he says, “it is from your friend, Mordaunt.”

I opened the note and read the following words:--

“_My dear Surry_:--

“I send this note to await your appearance at the Oaks. Come and see me. Some old friends will give you a cordial greeting, in addition to

“Your comrade,

“Mordaunt.”

I had intended visiting Mordaunt in a day or two after my arrival. On the very next morning I mounted my horse, and set out for the house in the mountain, anxious to ascertain who the “old friends” were, to whom he alluded.

In an hour I had come within sight of Mordaunt’s mansion. Passing through the great gate, I rode on between the two rows of magnificent trees; approached the low mansion with its extensive wings, overshadowed by the huge black oaks; dismounted; raised the heavy bronze knocker, carved like the frowning mask of the old tragedians; and letting it fall sent a peal of low thunder through the mansion.

Mordaunt appeared in a few moments; and behind him came dear Violet Grafton, as I will still call her, smiling. Mordaunt’s face glowed with pleasure, and the grasp of his strong hand was like a vice. He was unchanged, except that he wore a suit of plain gray cloth. His statuesque head, with the long black beard and mustache, the sparkling eyes, and cheeks tanned by exposure to the sun and wind, rose as proudly as on that morning in 1865, when he had charged and cut through the enemy at Appomattox.

Violet was Violet still! The beautiful tranquil face still smiled with its calm sweetness; the lips had still that expression of infantile innocence. The blue eyes still looked forth from the shower of golden ringlets which had struck me when I first met her in the lonely house in the Wilderness, in the gay month of April, 1861.

I had shaken hands with Mordaunt, but I advanced and “saluted” madam, and the cheek was suddenly filled with exquisite roses.

“For old times’ sake, madam!”

“Which are the best of all possible times, Surry!” said Mordaunt, laughing.

And he led the way into the great apartment, hung round with portraits, where we had supped on the night of Pelham’s hard fight at Barbee’s, after Sharpsburg.

“You remember this room, do you not, my dear Surry?” said Mordaunt. “It escaped during the war; though you see that my poor little grandmother, the child of sixteen there, with the curls and laces, received a sabre thrust in the neck. But you are looking round for the friends I promised. They were here a moment since, and only retired to give you a surprise.

“See! here they are!”

The door opened, and I saw enter--Mohun and Landon!

In an instant I had grasped the hands of these dear friends; and they had explained their presence. Mohun had come to make a visit to Mordaunt, and had prolonged his stay in order to meet me. Then Mordaunt had written to Landon, at “Bizarre,” just over the mountain, to come and complete the party--he had promptly arrived--and I found myself in presence of three old comrades, any one of whom it would have been a rare pleasure to have met.

Mohun and Landon were as unchanged as Mordaunt. I saw the same proud and loyal faces, listened to the same frank brave voices, touched the same firm hands. They no longer wore uniforms--that was the whole difference. Under the black coats beat the same hearts which had throbbed beneath the gray.

I spent the whole day with Mordaunt, After dinner he led the way into the room on the right of the entrance--that singular apartment into which I had been shown by accident on my first visit to him, and where afterward I witnessed the test of poor Achmed’s love. The apartment was unchanged. The floor was still covered with the rich furs of lions, tigers, and leopards--the agate eyes still glared at me, and the grinning teeth seemed to utter growls or snarls. On the walls I saw still the large collection of books in every language--the hunting and battle pictures which I had before so greatly admired--the strange array of outlandish arms--and over the mantel-piece still hung the portrait of Violet Grafton.

Seated in front of a cheerful blaze, we smoked and talked--Mordaunt, Mohun, Landon, and myself--until the shades of evening drew on.

Landon told me of his life at “Bizarre,” near the little village of Millwood, through which we had marched that night to bury his dead at the old chapel, and where he had surrendered in April, 1865. Arden and Annie lived near him, and were happy: and if I would come to “Bizarre,” he would show me the young lady whom I had carried off, that night, from the chapel graveyard, on the croup of my saddle!

Landon laughed. His face was charming; it was easy to see that he was happy. To understand how that expression contrasted with his former appearance, the worthy reader must peruse my episodical memoir, _Hilt to Hilt_.

Mohun’s face was no less smiling. He had lost every trace of gloom.

He gave me intelligence of all my old friends. General Davenant and Judge Conway had become close friends again. Will and Virginia were married. Charley was cultivating a mustache and speculating upon a new revolution. Tom Herbert and Katy were on a visit to “Disaways.”

“Poor Nighthawk is the only one whom I miss, my dear Surry,” said Mohun. “He died trying to save me, and I have had his body taken to Fonthill, where it is buried in the family graveyard.”

“He was a faithful friend; and to be killed on that very last morning was hard. But many were. _You_ had a narrow escape, Mohun.”

“Yes, and was only preserved by a Bible.”

“A Bible?”

“Do you remember that I was reading by the camp fire, when you came to visit me on the night preceding the surrender?”

“Yes--in your wife’s Bible.”

“Well, my dear Surry, when I had finished reading, I placed the volume in my breast, as usual. When I was shot, on the next morning, the bullet struck the book and glanced. Had the Bible not been there, that bullet would have pierced my heart. As it was, it only wounded me in the breast. Here is my old Bible--I carry it about me still.”

As he spoke, Mohun drew from his breast the small leather-bound volume, in the cover of which was visible a deep gash.

He looked at it with a smile, and said:---

“This book has been the salvation of my body and soul, Surry. I was haughty and a man-hater once--now I try to be humble. I had no hope once, now I am happy. I have one other souvenir of that memorable day at Appomattox--this scrap of paper between the leaves of my old Bible.”

He drew out the scrap, which was dirty and discolored with blood.

Upon it was written in pencil, the words:--

“This is the body of General Mohun, C.S.A.”

As Mohun pointed to it, a ray of sunset shot athwart the forest, and fell on his serene features, lighting them up with a sort of glory. The clear eyes gave back the ray, and there was something exquisitely soft in them. Mordaunt and Landon too, were bathed in that crimson light of evening, disappearing beyond the shaggy crest of the Blue Ridge--and I thought I saw on their proud faces the same expression.

“These three men are happy,” I thought. “Their lot has been strange; they have been nearly lost; but heaven has sent to each an angel, to bring back hope to them. Ellen Adair, Georgia Conway, Violet Grafton--these fond hearts have changed your lives, Landon, Mohun, and Mordaunt!”

In an hour I was at the “Oaks.”

A month afterward, I had returned to “Eagle’s Nest.”

And in this April, 1868, when the flowers are blooming, and the sun is shining--when a pair of violet eyes make the sunshine still brighter--I end the last volume of my memoirs.

THE END.