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Mohun; Or, the Last Days of Lee and His Paladins.

by John Esten Cooke · English · Gutenberg #8424 · 965,790 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Mohun; Or, the Last Days of Lee and His Paladins.

Author: John Esten Cooke


        
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MOHUN

OR,

THE LAST DAYS OF LEE AND HIS PALADINS.



FINAL MEMOIRS

OF A

STAFF OFFICER SERVING IN VIRGINIA.

FROM THE MSS. OF

COLONEL SURRY, OF EAGLE’S NEST.



BY

JOHN ESTEN COOKE

AUTHOR OF “SURRY OF EAGLE’S NEST.”



_Nec aspera terrent._




PROLOGUE.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lee’s old army is full of ardor, and seventy thousand men shout!
“Pennsylvania! Pennsylvania!”




MOHUN;

OR,

THE LAST DAYS OF LEE AND HIS PALADINS.



BOOK I.


GETTYSBURG.




I.


THE CAVALRY REVIEW.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




II.


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is a national calamity!” he murmured. “Jackson’s loss is
irreparable!”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

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

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

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

“I have not, general.”

“Would you like to come with me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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




III.


BLUE AND GRAY PHANTOMS.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




IV.


MOHUN AND HIS PRISONER.


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

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

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

His bearing was cold, but courteous.

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

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

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

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

“Will you smoke, sir?” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then you are not dead, madam?”

“No, sir,” the prisoner replied tranquilly.

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

“This meeting is singular,” he said.

A satirical smile passed over the lips of the prisoner.

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

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

“No, madam,” he said.

“You recall that agreeable evening, do you not, sir?”

Mohun coolly inclined his head.

“And you have not seen me since?”

“Never, madam.”

“You are mistaken!”

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

“Yes!”

“Where and when have I seen you since that time?”

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

Mohun shuddered.

“True,” he said, with a bitter smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Impossible! You are deceiving me--”

The prisoner interrupted him with a gay laugh.

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

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

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

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

And calling an officer, he said:--

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

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

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




V.


STUART.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the gay words were accompanied by a musical laugh.

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

The lady made a humorous grimace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stuart laughed in reply.

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

“Yes.”

“But what about the fight?”

I made my report of the events of the evening.

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

“Only a scout.”

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

“She is certainly a beauty.”

“And what eyes!”

“Dangerous.”

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

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

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

[Footnote 2: His words]

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

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

And he rose to his feet.

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: His words.]

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

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

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

“Tell Sweeney to come and bring his banjo!”

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

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

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

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

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





VI.


STUART’S INSTINCT.


The festivities were kept up until nearly midnight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready, general.”

“All right!--Hagan!”

“General!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stuart peered under the coal-scuttle bonnet.

“And this is your ‘old woman’ my friend,” he said with a laugh.

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

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

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

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

“What, general?”

“To let that old fellow go on. I don’t like his looks.”

“The old countryman?”

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

“Arrested them?”

Stuart nodded.

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

“Was not his explanation satisfactory?”

“No.”

“What could be wrong?”

“Everything.”

“And his ‘old woman,’” I said, laughing; “think of that highly
respectable dame.”

“I like her least of all!”

“From instinct?”

“If you choose.”

“I think your instinct misleads you this time, general.”

“I think not.”

“Well, we will see.”

And we did see.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then that ‘old woman’ was the lady?”

“Precisely.”

“And we are fooled?”

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

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




VII.


THE BALL BEFORE THE BATTLE.


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

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

“I can guess, I think.”

“Try.”

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

“You are wrong, old fellow. I don’t dare to go there.”

“Don’t dare?”

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

“I begin to understand now.”

“They are dangerous.”

“Yes.”

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

“Is it possible?”

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

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Miss Georgia Conway, a daughter of Judge William Conway.”

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

“Yes, and yonder he is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready, general!” I replied.

And in five minutes we were galloping toward Fleetwood.

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

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

“Yes.”

“What?”

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

“Certainly.”

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

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

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

“Here I am--what news, Stringfellow?”

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

“Well,--what force?”

“The whole Yankee cavalry, with infantry and artillery supports.”

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

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

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




VIII.


FLEETWOOD.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It must be Wickham’s,” was his reply.

“I am sure they are Yankees!”

“Impossible!” he exclaimed.

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

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

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

[Footnote: His words]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

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

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

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

“General, what cavalry is that?”

“Hampton’s!” Stuart exclaimed. “Bring it up like lightning!”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

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

I pointed out the enemy and gave the order.

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

“Forward!”

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

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

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

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

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

“Come on!”

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

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

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




IX.


MOHUN FAINTS AT THE RIGHT MOMENT.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am truly glad to hear it! What news?”

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

“An acquaintance?”

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

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

“What was that, Mohun?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All right, general.”

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

“You are wounded!” he exclaimed.

“A trifle,” laughed Mohun.

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

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

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

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




X.


THE SLIM ANIMAL.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In my opinion Milroy’s men will fight better _under a soldier!_”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




XI.


NIGHTHAWK.


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

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

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

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

Stuart uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.

“Ah! Nighthawk, here you are!” he said.

And turning to me he introduced the new comer as “Mr. Nighthawk, one of
my ‘private friends,’ and true as steel.”

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

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

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

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

“Ah, general!”

“Yes. You pass in the cavalry by the name of the ‘man before the
battle,’ for you always turn up then.”

Mr. Nighthawk smiled.

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

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

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

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

“They are not, general.”

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

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

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

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

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

The worthy smiled.

“You know I am the ‘man before the battle,’ general?”

“Yes, go on, Nighthawk.”

“I have just left General Hooker’s head-quarters.”

“Where are they?”

“Beyond Centreville.”

“You saw him?”

“I conversed with him.”

“Ah!”

“An hour, general, as the Rev. Mr. Ward, from Massachusett, of the
‘Grand Union Sanitary Commission’.”

And Mr. Nighthawk smiled.

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

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

“Perfectly, general.”

“And he intends--”

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

“An order?”

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

“Ah! you saw that order?”

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

“What day did it fix?”

“To-morrow, general.”

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

Mr. Nighthawk inclined in assent.

“When did you leave Hooker’s head-quarters?”

“This afternoon.”

“And you came through the lines to-night?”

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

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

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

Mr. Nighthawk arose.

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

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

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

“Upon _me_?”

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

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

“So he informed me, general.”

“You are friends, then?”

“Close friends.”

And Mr. Nighthawk smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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




XII.


HOW STUART FELL BACK.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quick work!” said Stuart, grimly.

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

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

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

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

“All right, Davenant! Hold your ground!” exclaimed Stuart.

“I will do so, general.”

“Can you keep them from crossing?”

“I can try, general.”

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

“General Stuart seems trying to get himself and everybody killed.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Move back the guns!” exclaimed Stuart.

“Is it necessary, general?” asked Davenant.

“Yes, they will be captured in five minutes!”

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

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

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

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

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

In fifteen minutes we were driven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




XIV.


MOSBY COMES TO STUART’S ASSISTANCE.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: His words.]

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

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

[Footnote 1: His words.]

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

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

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

“Here is Mosby at last!” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




XV.


THE SUPPER NEAR BUCKLANDS.


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

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

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

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

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

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

“All are here, madam!”

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

“I think you are mistaken, general!”

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

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

Stuart grasped his hand warmly.

“Here you are, old fellow!” he exclaimed.

And turning to the company, he added:--

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

And every one sat down, and attacked the supper.

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

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

Behind every chair now stood an officer in uniform.

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

[Footnote 1: A real incident.]




XVI.


AN HONEST FOP.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the matter, Tom?” he said.

“I want a place in the cavalry, general.”

“What claim have you?”

“Shot in the leg--can’t walk--am tired of drilling men in bomb-proof.”

“Good!” he said. “That’s the way to talk. Come in here.”

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

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




XVII.


STUART GRAZES CAPTURE.


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

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

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

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

Stuart did not obey the order.

“Halt! halt!”

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: Real.]

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

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

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

“What are you looking at?” asked Stuart.

“This hole, general,” replied Tom, uttering a piteous sigh.

“Well, it is a trifle.”

“It is a serious matter, general.”

“You have lost something?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“A joint of my new flute.”

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

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




XVIII.


DROWSYLAND.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I was right.

Those guns were the signal of the “First day’s fight at Gettysburg.”




XIX


CARLISLE BY FIRELIGHT.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly he turned and addressed me.

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

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

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

“Worn-out, general, but I can get another.”

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

“I will lose no time, general.”

And saluting, I went out.

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




XX.


THE HOUSE BETWEEN CARLISLE AND GETTYSBURG.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




XXI.


FALLEN.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing is stirring. You can go on with your work.”

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

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

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




XXII.


DARKE AND MOHUN.


What followed was instantaneous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look out, colonel! The enemy are on you!”

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

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

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

The singular scene was to have as singular a denouement.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They shall not take you prisoner!” he said.

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

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

Darke had disappeared with the gray woman.

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

“You are unhurt!” I said.

He turned quickly, and held out his hand.

“Slightly wounded--but I am not thinking of that.”

“Of what, then?”

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

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

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




XXIII.


GETTYSBURG.


I came in sight of Gettysburg at sunrise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Federal forces rushed forward, exclaiming:---

“We have come to stay!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come on!” the Federal artillery seemed to mutter fiercely.

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

“We are coming!”




XXIV.


THE ARMY.


Alas!--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What was impossible, was beyond even their strength.




CHAPTER XXV.


THE WRESTLE FOR ROUND TOP HILL.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would not have missed this for any thing?”

Longstreet, laughed grimly.

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

[Footnote 1: His words.]




XXVI.


THE CHARGE OF THE VIRGINIANS.


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

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

What course would Lee now pursue? Would he retire?

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

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

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

Lee determined to attack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote: This was the real reason.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XXVII.


THE GREAT MOMENT OF A GREAT LIFE.


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

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

I spurred toward him.

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

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

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

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

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

I made no reply; something seemed to choke me.

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

General Davenant wheeled and saluted.

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: His words.]

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XXVIII.


UNSHAKEN.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: His words.]

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

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

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

“No, sir,” was General Meade’s reply, “I saw nothing of that kind.”[1]

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

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

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

That is the true history of the matter.

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

Then commenced that singular retreat.

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

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

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


[Illustration: MEETING OF GENERALS LEE AND DAVENANT.]

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

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

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

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

“Come on!”

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

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

Lee neither invited nor declined battle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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





BOOK II.




THE FLOWER OF CAVALIERS.




I.


UNDER “STUART’S OAK.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “The dew is on the blossom!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly Stuart starts up and exclaims:--

“Stop that, Sweeney! you will make everybody die of the blues. Sing the
‘Old Gray Horse’ again, or ‘Jine the Cavalry!’”

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

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



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

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

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




II.


BACK TO THE RAPIDAN.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




III.


THE OPENING OF THE HUNT.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




IV.


THE GAME A-FOOT.


It was a magnificent morning of October,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well!” said Stuart.

“A regiment of infantry, general.”

“Where?”

“Yonder in the gap.”

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

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

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

“I think I can, general.”

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

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

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

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

Stuart explained his design in three words:--

“Are you ready?”

“All ready, general!”

And Young’s sabre flashed from the scabbard.

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

Young darted to the head of his column.

“Charge!” he shouted.

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

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

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

And he rode on rapidly.




V.


THE CHASE.


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

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

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

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

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

Strangest of all, no one was hurt.

Stuart laughed, and mounted his horse.

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

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

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

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

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

All at once quick firing was heard on our right.

“What is that?” Stuart asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For the second time Stuart had charged infantry and broken them. Pushing
on now through the great deserted camps of Stonehouse Mountain, he
descended upon Culpeper.

The enemy’s cavalry retreated, made a stand on the hills beyond, with
their artillery; and seemed to have resolved to retreat no farther.

Suddenly the thunder of artillery came up from the Rapidan. I
was sitting my horse near Stuart and Gordon. They were both
laughing--indeed, Stuart seemed laughing throughout the campaign.

“That is Fitz Lee!” he said; “he has crossed and driven them.”

And turning round,--

“I wish you would go to General Lee, Surry--you will find him toward
Griffinsburg--and tell him we are driving the enemy, and Fitz Lee seems
to be coming up.”

I saluted, and left the two generals laughing as before.

In half an hour I had found General Lee. He was in camp on the
Sperryville road, and was talking to Ewell.

It was a singular contrast. Lee, robust, ruddy, erect, with his large
frank eye--Ewell, slight, emaciated, pale, with small piercing eyes, and
limping on his crutch.

“Thank you, colonel,” General Lee said, with his grave but charming
courtesy; “tell General Stuart to continue to press them back toward the
river.”

And turning to Ewell:--

“You had better move on with your command, general,” he said, in his
measured voice.

Ewell bowed and turned to obey--I returned to Stuart.

He was pushing the Federal cavalry “from pillar to post.” Driven
back from the hill, where they had planted their artillery, they had
retreated on Brandy; Stuart had followed like a fate; Gordon, sent round
to the left, struck their right flank with his old sabreurs; Fitz Lee,
coming up on the right, thundered down on their left--and in the woods
around Brandy took place one of those cavalry combats which, as my
friends, the novelists say, “must be seen to be appreciated!” If the
reader will imagine, in the dusk of evening, a grand hurly-burly made
up of smoke, dust, blood, yells, clashing swords, banging carbines,
thundering cannon, and wild cheers, he will have a faint idea of that
“little affair” at Brandy.

A queer circumstance made this fight irresistibly comic.

Fitz Lee had repulsed Buford on the Rapidan; followed him on his
retreat, harassing him at every step--when, just as Buford reached
Brandy, with Fitz Lee at his heels, Kilpatrick descended on Fitz Lee’s
rear by the Sperryville road, and Stuart thundered down on _his_!

Thus Fitz Lee was pursuing Buford; Kilpatrick, Fitz Lee; and Stuart,
Kilpatrick! It was a grand and comic jumble--except that it came very
near being any thing but comic to that joyous cavalier, “General
Fitz,” as we called him--caught as he was between Generals Buford and
Kilpatrick!

General Fitz was the man for a “tight place,” however--and “his people,”
 as he called his cavalry, soon cut through to Stuart.

It was a tough and heavy fight.

“Old Jeb cut off more than he could _chaw_, that time!” said a veteran
afterward, in describing the fight. And at one time it seemed that the
enemy were going to hold their ground.

Fleetwood, beyond, was lined with bayonets, and every knoll was crowned
with cannon: when night fell, however, the whole force had retreated and
crossed the Rappahannock, leaving the ground strewed with their dead and
wounded.

In the dusky woods near Brandy, Stuart sat his horse, looking toward the
Rappahannock, and laughing still. He was talking with brave Fitz Lee,
whose stout figure, flowing beard, and eyes twinkling with humor, were
plain in the starlight. I shall show you that gallant figure more than
once in this volume, reader. You had but to look at him to see that he
was the bravest of soldiers, and the best of comrades.

So night fell on a victory. Stuart had driven the enemy at every step.
He had charged their infantry, cavalry, and artillery, routing all,--and
he was once more in sight of Fleetwood Hill, where he had defeated them
in the preceding June.

Singular current of war! It used to bear us onward; but be taken with
a sudden fancy to flow back to the old spots! See Manassas,
Fredericksburg, Cold Harbor, Chancellorsville!

Fleetwood takes its place with them--twice bloody and memorable. In
sight of it took place two of Stuart’s hardest combats--and both were
victories.




VI.


THE RUSE.


By sunrise Stuart was pushing rapidly up the bank of the Rappahannock
toward Warrenton Springs.

Meade had retreated from Culpeper, and was falling back rapidly. Lee was
pressing on to cut him off in the vicinity of Auburn.

A hot fight took place at Jeffersonton, a little village beyond Hazel
River; and here the enemy fought from house to house, but finally
retreated.

Stuart followed, and came up with their rear retreating over the bridge
at Warrenton Springs.

On the northern bank the Federal sharp-shooters were posted in double
line.

Stuart turned, and saw, not far from him, the Jefferson Company who had
charged so gallantly at Stonehouse Mountain. A movement of his hand, and
they were charging over the bridge.

Suddenly they recoiled. The head files had stopped,--the horses rearing.
The flooring in the centre of the bridge had been torn up--it was
impossible to cross.

The men wheeled and came back under a hot fire of sharp-shooters.
Stuart’s face was fiery.

“To the ford!” he shouted.

And placing himself in front of the men, sword in hand, he led them
through the ford, in face of a heavy fire, charged up the opposite
slope, and the Federal skirmishers scattered in wild flight.

The Twelfth Virginia Cavalry followed them, and they were cut down or
captured.

As the column moved on, Stuart galloped along the line toward the front.

He had just faced death with these men, and at sight of him they raised
a cheer.

“Hurrah for old Jeb!” rose in a shout from the column.

Stuart turned: his face glowed: rising in his stirrups, he took off his
hat and exclaimed:---

“Bully for the old Twelfth!”

The words were unclassic, it may be, reader, but they raised a storm.

“I felt like I could die for old Jeb after that,” one of the men said to
me.

Stuart disappeared, followed by tumultuous cheers, and his column
continued to advance upon Warrenton ahead of the army. He had ridden on
for a quarter of an hour, when he turned to me, and said:--

“I am getting uneasy about things at Culpeper. I wish you would ride
back to Rosser, who is there with two hundred men, and tell him to call
on Young, if he is pushed.” I turned my horse.

“You know where Young is?”

“On the Sperryville road.”

“Exactly--Rosser can count on him. I am going on toward Warrenton.”

And the general and myself parted, riding in opposite directions.

I returned toward Hazel River; passed that stream, and the long rows of
army wagons; and as the sun was sinking, drew near Culpeper.

As I pressed on, I heard the long thunder of cannon coming up from the
direction of Brandy.

What could that sound mean? Had the enemy again advanced and assailed
the small force of cavalry there?

Going on now at full speed, I heard the cannon steadily approaching
Culpeper Court-House. All at once, as I drew near the village, I heard a
tremendous clatter in the streets; a column of cavalry was advancing to
the front--soon the crack of carbines was heard beyond the town.

A short ride brought me to the field, and all was explained. Colonel
Rosser had been attacked by a whole corps of Federal infantry, and two
divisions of cavalry--while his own force was about two hundred men, and
a single gun.

He had offered an obstinate resistance, however, fallen back slowly, and
when about to be driven into the town, Young had come to his aid.

Then followed one of the gayest comedies of the war. Young was the
author of it. You laugh sometimes still, do you not, old comrade, at the
trick you played our friends on that October evening?

Young threw himself into the fight with the true cavalry élan.
Dismounting his whole brigade, he opened a rapid fire on the advancing
enemy; and this obstinate resistance evidently produced a marked effect
upon their imaginations. They had been advancing--they now paused. They
had been full of audacity, and now seemed fearful of some trap. It
was evident that they suspected the presence of a heavy force of
infantry--and night having descended, they halted.

This was the signal for the fifth act of the comedy. Young kindled
camp-fires along two miles of front; brought up his brass band and
played “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” and “Dixie.” It was obvious to the enemy
that at least a corps of Lee’s infantry was there in their front, ready
to renew the action at dawn!

The finale was comic--I shared the blankets of the gallant Georgian that
night--when we rose the enemy’s whole force had disappeared.

Such had been the result of the ruse, and I always regarded the affair
as one of the gayest incidents of the war.

When I left the brave Young, he was laughing in triumph.

If your eye meets this page, old comrade, it may give you another
laugh--and laughter is something in this dull epoch, is it not?

But whether you laugh or sigh, and wherever you may be, health and
happiness attend you!

In the afternoon, I was at Warrenton.




VII.


STUART CAUGHT IN THE TRAP.


I found the general moving toward Auburn, on a reconnoissance.

Meade had been delayed much by uncertainty as to his adversary’s
designs--had scarcely advanced beyond the Rappahannock--and the object
of Stuart was to discover his position and intentions.

That was the work always assigned to the “Eyes and Ears” of the army
Stuart’s cavalry; and the stout cavalier, now at the head of his column,
was on for the railroad, along which the enemy must retreat.

Another comedy was to follow--which came near being a tragedy.

Stuart steadily advanced, and about sunset had passed Auburn, when, as
he was riding at the head of his column, a messenger rode up hastily
from Gordon, holding the rear.

“Well!” said Stuart.

“The enemy are in your rear, general!”

“Impossible!”

“General Gordon sent me to say so.”

Stuart turned and galloped back. Gordon came to meet him.

“The Yankee army are in our rear, general,” said Gordon. “Come, and I
will show you.”

And riding to an eminence he pointed out across the fields, in the
gathering gloom, long lines of infantry and artillery moving toward
Manassas.

Stuart gazed at them keenly. As he sat looking toward them, a staff
officer from the front came up rapidly.

“Well, captain!”

“The enemy are in front, general.”

“Infantry?”

“Yes, with artillery.”

Stuart looked at Gordon.

“A real trap,” he said coolly, knitting his brows.

“Have they seen you, Gordon?” he asked.

“I think not, general.”

“Well, so far all is well. There is nothing to do but to lay low, and
take the chances of getting out.”

Stuart’s voice was never cooler. He looked quietly at the huge column
cutting off his retreat.

“A splendid chance to attack them!” he all at once exclaimed.

And tearing a leaf out of his dispatch-book, he wrote a hasty note to
General Lee. I afterward knew what it contained. Stuart described his
situation, and proposed that Rodes, then near Warrenton, should
attack at dawn--when he would open with his artillery, charge with his
horsemen, and cut his way out.

“A good man in blue uniform now, Gordon.”

Gordon sent off an aid, and the man soon appeared. From top to toe he
was of irreproachable blue; and he listened keenly to his instructions.

Five minutes afterward he had dismounted, given his horse to a comrade,
and was stealing on foot through the thicket toward the Federal column.
A moment afterward he had mingled with their column and disappeared.

Other messengers, also in Federal uniform, were dispatched: the whole
force of cavalry was massed, and concealed in the woods: then darkness
descended; and the long night of anxiety began.

The situation was not agreeable. Stuart was caught in a veritable trap.
On both sides--in his rear and his front--were passing heavy corps of
Federal infantry; their numerous artillery; and their long-drawn columns
of cavalry. Discovery was destruction; the only hope was that the enemy
would not suspect our proximity. If we were once known to be lurking
there, good-bye to Stuart and his men!

So the long night commenced. The hours passed on, and still we were not
discovered. It seemed miraculous that some noise did not betray Stuart’s
hiding-place; but an Unseen Eye seemed to watch over him, and an Unseen
Hand to guard him.

More than once the neigh of a horse rang out on the air of night;
and two or three times the discordant bray of a mule attached to the
artillery startled the silence of the woods. But these sounds were
unheeded. They evidently attracted no attention from the enemy.

Leaning down in their saddles, the men, half overcome by sleep, but
afraid of a rough waking, passed sleepless hours, looking for the dawn.

Stuart was never cooler. On his horse, at the head of his men, he
betrayed no emotion. You would not have known, except for his subdued
tones when speaking to some one, that he and his command were in a
veritable “tight place.” Cool and resolute, he was equal to any event.
Certain capture or destruction of his whole force was imminent.

Thus the night glided away. We had not been discovered. Over the trees
was seen the yellow streak of dawn.

I looked round. The men’s faces were haggard from want of sleep. But
they evidently felt perfect confidence in Stuart.

He hastened to justify it.

No sooner had light come than he placed his artillery in position. As it
grew and broadened, the enemy were seen just on a hill in front of us,
busily cooking their breakfasts.

Suddenly a single cannon sent its long thunder, dull and reverberating,
through the woods, from the direction of Warrenton.

Stuart rose erect in his saddle, and looked in the direction of the
sound, his eyes glowing.

Another followed; then another; then a long, continuous bellow of
artillery, making the hills echo.

There was no longer any doubt about the fate of the messengers. Lee
had received the dispatches; Rodes had opened on the Federal columns,
attacking as that good soldier knew how to attack.

Stuart darted to his guns. On his countenance was a grim smile.

“Attention!” he exclaimed.

The cannoneers ran to their posts, a cheer rose, the next instant the
guns spouted flame; shell after shell in rapid succession screamed
through the woods--and bursting in the midst of the blue groups, threw
them into the wildest disorder.

Stuart did not allow the panic to subside. His sharp-shooters opened
at the same instant a determined fire; the great cavalier went at
full speed to the head of his column:--then rushing like an avalanche,
troopers and artillery, charged the column in front, burst through,
trampling it as he went, and at a gallop the gray horsemen, with guns
following, broke out; and were again free.

Stuart was out of the trap. From one of the “tightest places” that a
commander was ever in he had extricated his whole command.

Once in safety, he turned like a wild boar on his enemies. In ten
minutes his artillery had taken a new position--its thunders had
opened--its roar told the army, that his feather still floated, his star
was still in the ascendant.

Such was that queer affair of Auburn. Few more curious incidents
occurred in the war.

A brave officer of the infantry had accompanied us as an amateur.

“I’ve got enough of the cavalry,” he said, laughing; “I am going back to
the infantry. It is safer!”




VIII.


GENERAL MEADE’S “EYE-TEETH.”


Stuart came back laughing from his adv

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