Chapter XI: Book II: The Flower of Cavaliers (4)

“Well,” he said, “now that we begin to understand each other, let us come to the point at once. Where were you on the morning of the thirteenth of December, 1856?”

Swartz replied without hesitation:--

“On the bank of Nottoway River, in Dinwiddie, Virginia, and bound for Petersburg.”

“The object of your journey?”

“To sell dried fruits and winter vegetables.”

“Then you travelled in a cart, or a wagon?”

“In a cart, general.”

“You reached Petersburg without meeting with any incident on the way?”

“I met with two very curious ones, general. I see you know something about the affair, and are anxious to know every thing. I will tell you the whole truth; but it will be best to let me do it in my own way.”

“Do so, then,” said Mohun, fixing his eyes more intently upon the spy.

Swartz was silent again for more than a minute, gazing on the floor. Then he raised his head, passed his red handkerchief over his brow, and said:--

“To begin at the beginning, general. At the time you speak of, December, 1856, I was a small landholder in Dinwiddie, and made my living by carting vegetables and garden-truck to Petersburg. Well, one morning in winter--you remind me that it was the thirteenth of December,--I set out, as usual, in my cart drawn by an old mule, with a good load on board, to go by way of Monk’s Neck. I had not gone two miles, however, when passing through a lonely piece of woods on the bank of the river, I heard a strange cry in the brush. It was the most startling you can think of, and made my heart stop beating. I jumped down from my cart, left it standing in the narrow road, and went to the spot. It was a strange sight I saw. On the bank of the river, I saw a woman lying drenched with water, and half-dead. She was richly dressed, and of very great beauty--but I never saw any human face so pale, or clothes more torn and draggled.”

The spy paused. Mohun shaded his eyes from the light, with his hands, and said coolly:--

“Go on.”

“Well, general--that was enough to astonish anybody--and what is more astonishing still, I have never to this day discovered the meaning of the woman’s being there--for it was plain that she was a lady. She was half-dead with cold, and had cried out in what seemed to be a sort of delirium. When I raised her up, and wrung the wet out of her clothes, she looked at me so strangely that I was frightened. I asked her how she had come there, but she made no reply. Where should I take her? She made no reply to that either. She seemed dumb--out of her wits--and, to make a long story short, I half led and half carried her to the cart in which I put her, making a sort of bed for her of some old bags.

“I set out on my way again, without having the least notion what I should do with her--for she seemed a lady--and only with a sort of idea that her friends might probably pay me for my trouble, some day.

“Well, I went on for a mile or two farther, when a new adventure happened to me. That was stranger still--it was like a story-book; and you will hardly believe me--but as I was going through a piece of woods, following a by-road by which I cut off a mile or more, I heard groans near the road, and once more stopped my cart. Then I listened. I was scared, and began to believe in witchcraft. The groans came from the woods on my left, and there was no doubt about the sound--so, having listened for some time, I mustered courage to go in the direction of the sound. Can you think what I found, general?”

“What?” said Mohun, in the same cool voice; “tell me.”

“A man lying in a grave;--a real grave, general--broad and deep--a man with a hole through his breast, and streaming with blood.”

“Is it possible?”

And Mohun uttered a laugh.

“Just as I tell you, general--it is the simple, naked truth. When I got to the place, he was struggling to get out of the grave, and his breast was bleeding terribly. I never saw a human being look paler. ‘Help!’ he cried out, in a suffocated voice like, when he saw me--and as he spoke, he made such a strong effort to rise, that his wound gushed with blood, and he fainted.”

“He fainted, did he? And what did you do?” said Mohun.

“I took him up in my arms, general, as I had taken the woman, carried him to my cart, when I bound up his breast in the best way I could, and laid him by the side of the half-drowned lady.”

“To get a reward from _his_ friends, too, no doubt?”

“Well, general, we must live, you know. And did I not deserve something for being so scared--and for the use of my mule?”

“Certainly you did. Is not the laborer worthy of his hire? But go on, sir--your tale is interesting.”

“Tale, general? It is the truth--on the word of Swartz!”

“I no longer doubt now, if I did before,” said Mohun; “but tell me the end of your adventure.”

“I can do that in a few words, general. I whipped up my old mule, and went on through the woods, thinking what I had best do with the man and the woman I had saved, I could take them to Petersburg, and tell my story to the mayor or some good citizen, who would see that they were taken care of. But as soon as I said ‘mayor’ to myself, I thought ‘he is the chief of police.’ _Police_!--that is one of the ugliest words in the language, general! Some people shiver, and their flesh crawls, when you cut a cork, or scratch on a window pane--well, it is strange, but I have always felt in that way when I heard, or thought of, the word, _police_! And here I was going to have dealings with the said _police_! I was going to say ‘I found these people on the Nottoway--one half-drowned, and the other in a newly dug grave!’ No, I thank you! We never know what our characters will stand, and I was by no means certain that mine would stand that! Then the reward--I wished to have my lady and gentleman under my eye. So, after thinking over the matter for some miles, I determined to leave them with a crony of mine near Monk’s Neck, named Alibi, who would take care of them and say nothing. Well, I did so, and went on to Petersburg, where I sold my truck. When I got back they were in bed, and on my next visit they were at the point of death. About that time I was taken sick, and was laid up for more than three months. When I went to see my birds at Monk’s Neck, they had flown!”

“Without leaving you their adieux?”

“No, they were at least polite. They left me a roll of bank notes--more than I thought they had about them.”

“You had searched them, of course, when they were lying in your cart,” said Mohun.

Swartz smiled.

“I acknowledge it, general--I forgot to mention the fact. I had found only a small amount in the gentleman’s pocket-book--nothing on the lady--and I never could understand where he or she had concealed about their persons such a considerable amount of money--though I suppose, in a secret pocket.”

Mohun nodded.

“That is often done--well, that was the last of them?”

Swartz smiled, and glanced at Mohun.

“What is the use of any concealment, my dear Mr. Swartz?” said the latter. “You may as well tell the whole story, as you have gone this far.”

“You are right, general, and I will finish. The war broke out, and I sold my truck patch, and invested in a better business--that is, running the blockade across the Potomac, and smuggling in goods for the Richmond market. On one of these trips, I met, plump, in the streets of Washington, no less a person than the lady whom I had rescued. She was richly dressed, and far more beautiful, but there was no mistaking her. I spoke to her; she recognized me, took me to her house, and here I found _the gentleman_, dressed in a fine new uniform. He was changed too--his wound had long healed, he was stout and strong, but I knew him, too, at a glance. Well, I spent the evening, and when I left the house had accepted an offer made me to combine a new business with that of blockade runner.”

“That of spy, you mean?” said Mohun.

Swartz smiled.

“You speak plainly, general. We call ourselves ‘secret agents’--but either word expresses the idea!”

XXIX.

THE PAPER.

Mohun raised his head, and looked Swartz full in the face. His glance had grown, if possible, more penetrating than before, and a grim smile responded to the unctuous expression of the spy.

“Well, my dear Mr. Swartz,” he said coolly, “that is a curious history. Others might doubt its accuracy, but I give you my word that I do not! I did well to let you proceed in your own way, instead of questioning you--but I have not yet done; and this time shall return to the method of interrogation.”

“At your orders, general,” said Swartz, whose quick glance showed that he was on his guard, and foresaw what was coming.

Mohun leaned toward the spy.

“Let us proceed to ‘call names,’” he said. “The man you rescued from the grave was Colonel Darke?”

“Exactly, general.”

“Is that his real name, or a false one?”

Swartz hesitated; then replied:--

“A false one.”

“His real name?”

“Mortimer.”

“And the lady is--?”

“His wife, general.”

“Good,” said Mohun, “you are well informed, I see, my dear Mr. Swartz; and it is a pleasure to converse with a gentleman who knows so much, and knows it so accurately.”

“You flatter my pride, general!”

“I do you justice--but to the point. Your story was cut off in the middle. After the interview in Washington, you continued to see Colonel Darke and his wife?”

“I saw them frequently, general.”

“In the army--and at their home, both?”

“Yes, general.”

“Where did they live?”

“Near Carlisle, Pennsylvania.”

“Where you were on a visit, just before the battle of Gettysburg?”

“Yes, general.”

“Very good!”

And rising quickly, Mohun confronted the spy, who drew back unconsciously.

“Where is the paper that you stole from the woman that night?” he said.

Swartz was unable to sustain the fiery glance directed toward him by Mohun.

“Then Nighthawk has told you all!” he exclaimed.

“Colonel Surry saw you hide the paper.”

Swartz looked suddenly toward me--his smiles had all vanished.

“The paper! give me the paper!” exclaimed Mohun; “you shall have gold for it!”

“I have left it in Culpeper, general.”

“Liar!--give me the paper!”

Swartz started to his feet.

Mohun caught at his throat--the spy recoiled--when suddenly a quick firing was heard coming rapidly from the direction of Germanna Ford.

“The enemy have crossed, Mohun!” I cried.

Mohun started, and turned his head in the direction of the sound.

“They are advancing!” I said, “but look out!--the spy!--”

Mohun wheeled, drawing his pistol.

Swartz had profited by the moment, when our attention was attracted by the firing, to pass through the door, gain his horse at a bound, and throw himself into the saddle, with an agility that was incredible in one so fat.

At the same moment Mohun’s pistol-shot responded, but the bullet whistled harmlessly over the spy’s head. In an instant he had disappeared in the woods.

Mohun rushed to his horse, I followed, and we were soon riding at full speed in the direction of the firing.

As we advanced, however, it receded. We pushed on, and reached the bank of the Rapidan just as Mohun’s men had driven a party of the enemy over.

It was only a small body, who, crossing at a private ford and surprising the sleepy picket, had raided into the thicket, to retire promptly when they were assailed.

The affair was nothing. Unfortunately, however, it had enabled the Federal spy to elude us.

Swartz had disappeared like a bird of the night; and all pursuit of him in such a wilderness was impossible.

An hour afterward, I had rejoined Stuart.

XXX.

GRANT STRIKES HIS FIRST BLOW.

Such were the singular scenes which I witnessed, amid the shadows of the Spottsylvania Wilderness, in the first days of May, 1864.

The narrative has brought the reader now to an hour past midnight on the third of May.

An hour before--that is to say, at midnight precisely--the Federal forces began to move: at six in the morning, they had massed on the north bank of the Rapidan; and as the sun rose above the Wilderness, the blue columns began to cross the river.

General Grant, at the head of his army of 140,000 men, had set forth on his great advance toward Richmond--that advance so often tried, so often defeated, but which now seemed, from the very nature of things, to be destined to succeed.

Any other hypothesis seemed absurd. What could 50,000 do against nearly thrice their number? What could arrest the immense machine rolling forward to crush the Confederacy? A glance at Grant’s splendid array was enough to make the stoutest heart sink. On this 4th day of May, 1864, he was crossing the Rapidan with what resembled a countless host. Heavy masses of blue infantry, with glittering bayonets--huge parks of rifled artillery, with their swarming cannoneers--long columns of horsemen, armed with sabre and repeating carbines, made the earth shake, and the woods echo with their heavy and continuous tramp, mingled with the roll of wheels.

In front of them, a little army of gaunt and ragged men, looked on and waited, without resisting their advance. What did that waiting mean? Did they intend to dispute the passage of that multitude toward Richmond? It seemed incredible, but that was exactly the intention of Lee.

It is now known that General Grant and his officers felicitated themselves greatly on the safe passage of the Rapidan, and were convinced that Lee would hasten to retreat toward the South Anna.

Instead of retreating, Lee advanced and delivered battle.

The first collision took place on the 5th of May, when the Federal army was rapidly massing in the Wilderness.

Ewell had promptly advanced, and about noon was forming line of battle across the old turnpike, when he was vigorously attacked by Warren, and his advance driven back. But the real obstacle was behind. Ewell’s rear closed up--he advanced in his turn; assailed Warren with fury; swept him back into the thicket; seized two pieces of his artillery, with about 1,000 prisoners; and for the time completely paralyzed the Federal force in his front.

Such was the first blow struck. It had failed, and General Grant turned his attention to A.P. Hill, who had hastened up, and formed line of battle across the Orange plank road, on Ewell’s right.

Hancock directed the assault here, and we have General Lee’s testimony to the fact, that the Federal attempts to drive back Hill were “repeated and desperate.” All failed. Hill stubbornly held his ground. At night the enemy retired, and gave up all further attempts on that day to make any headway.

Grant had expected to find a mere rear-guard, while Lee’s main body was retreating upon Richmond.

He found two full corps in his front; and there was no doubt that a third--that of Longstreet--was approaching.

Lee was evidently going to fight--his aim was, plainly, to shut up Grant in the Wilderness, and drive him back beyond the Rapidan, or destroy him.

XXXI.

THE REPORT.

It was twilight and the fighting was over.

The two tigers had drawn back, and, crouching down, panted heavily,--resting and gathering new strength for the fiercer conflict of the next day.

From the thickets rose the stifled hum of the two hosts. Only a few shots were heard, now and then, from the skirmishers, and these resembled the last drops of a storm which had spent its fury.

I had been sent by General Stuart with an order to General Hampton, who commanded the cavalry on Hill’s right.

Hampton was sitting his horse in a field extending, at this point, between us and the enemy; and, if it were necessary, I would draw his outline. It is not necessary, however; every one is familiar with the figure of this great and faithful soldier, in his old gray coat, plain arms and equipments, on his large and powerful war-horse,--man and horse ready for battle. In the war I saw many great figures,--Hampton’s was one of the noblest.

Having delivered my message to General Hampton, who received it with his air of grave, yet cordial courtesy, I turned to shake hands with Captain Church--a thorough-bred young officer, as brave as steel, and one of my best friends--when an exclamation from the staff attracted my attention, and looking round, I saw the cause.

At the opposite extremity of the extensive field, a solitary horseman was seen darting out of the woods occupied by the Federal infantry, and this man was obviously a deserter, making his way into our lines.

At a sign from General Hampton, Captain Church went to meet him, and as my horse was fresh, I accompanied my friend in his ride.

The deserter came on at full speed to meet us, and for a moment, his horse skimmed the dusky expanse like a black-winged bird.[1] Then, all at once, his speed moderated; he approached at a jog-trot, and through the gathering gloom I recognised, above the blue uniform, the sweetly smiling countenance of Nighthawk!

[Footnote 1: This scene is real.]

“Good evening, colonel,” said Nighthawk; “I am glad to see you again, and hope you are well.”

“So you have turned deserter, Nighthawk?” I said, laughing heartily.

“Precisely, colonel. I could not get off before. Will you inform me where I can find General Stuart?”

“I will take you to him.”

And riding back with Captain Church and Nighthawk, I soon found myself again in presence of General Hampton.

A word from me explained the real character of the pseudo-deserter. General Hampton asked a number of questions, Nighthawk replied to them, and then the latter begged me to conduct him to General Stuart. I did so without delay, and we soon reached Stuart’s bivouac, where he was talking with his staff by a camp-fire.

At sight of the blue figure he scarcely turned; then suddenly he recognized Nighthawk, and burst into laughter.

“Well, my blue night-bird!” he exclaimed, “here you are at last! What news? Is Grant going to cross the river?”

Nighthawk hung his head, and sighed audibly.

“I could not help it, general.”

“Why didn’t you come before?”

“It was impossible, general.”

Stuart shook his head.

“Strike that word out of your dictionary, my friend.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

“That is good advice, general; but this time they nonplussed me. They blocked every road, and I had to join their army.”

“Well, I hope you got the $600 bounty,” said Stuart, laughing.

“That was another impossibility, general; but I enjoyed the very best society yonder.”

“What society, Nighthawk?”

“That of Grant, Meade, and Sedgwick.”

“Ah! my old friend, General Sedgwick! But where are Grant’s headquarters, Nighthawk? Tell me every thing!”

“At Old Wilderness Tavern, general.”

“And you saw him there?”

“In the midst of his generals,--I was temporarily one of his couriers.”

“I understand. Well, their intended movements?”

Nighthawk shook his head.

“I could have foretold you those of to-day, general.”

“How?”

“I heard General Meade dictating his order, through the window of his head-quarters, and can repeat it _verbatim_, if you desire.”

“By all means, Nighthawk,--it will reveal his programme. But is it possible that you can do so?”

“I can, general; I engraved every word on my memory.”

And, fixing his eyes intently upon vacancy, Nighthawk commenced in a low, monotonous voice:--

“The following movements are ordered for the 5th May, 1864. General Sheridan, commanding cavalry corps, will move with Gregg’s and Torbert’s divisions against the enemy’s cavalry, in the direction of Hamilton’s Crossing. General Wilson, with the Third cavalry division, will move at 5 A.M., to Craig’s meeting-house, on the Catharpin road. He will keep out parties on the Orange Court-House pike, and plank road, the Catharpin road, Pamunkey road, and in the direction of Troyman’s store and Andrew’s store, or Good Hope church. 2. Major-General Hancock, commanding Second Corps, will move at 5 A.M., to Shady Grove church, and extend his right toward the Fifth Corps at Parker’s store. 3. Major-General Warren, commanding Fifth Corps, will move at 5 A.M., to Parker’s store, on the Orange Court-House plank road, and extend his right toward the Sixth Corps at Old Wilderness Tavern. 4. Major-General Sedgwick, commanding Sixth Corps, will move to the Old Wilderness Tavern, on the Orange Court-House pike, as soon as the road is clear.”

The monotonous voice stopped. I had listened with astonishment, and found it difficult to credit this remarkable feat of memory, though it took place before my eyes, or rather, in my ears.

“It is really wonderful,” said Stuart, gravely.

“You see,” said Nighthawk, returning to his original voice, so to speak, “you see, general, this would have been of some importance yesterday.”

“It is very important now,” said Stuart; “it indicates Grant’s programme--his wish to get out of the Wilderness. He is at Old Wilderness Tavern?”

“He was this morning, general, with Meade and Sedgwick.”

“You were there?”

“I was, general.”

“What did you gather, Nighthawk?”

“Little or nothing, general. True, I heard one or two amusing things as I loitered among the couriers near.”

“What?”

“General Grant came out talking with Meade, Sedgwick, and Warren. General Meade said, ‘_They have left a division to fool us here, while they concentrate, and prepare a position toward the North Anna,--and what I want is to prevent these fellows from getting back to Mine Run._’”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Stuart laughed.

“Well, ‘these fellows’ don’t appear to be going back. What did Grant say?”

“He smoked, general.”

“And did not open his lips?”

“Only once, when General Meade said something about ‘manoeuvring.’”

“What did he say?”

“I can give you his words. He took his cigar from his lips--puffed out the smoke--and replied, ‘_Oh! I never manoeuvre_!’”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

“So much the better,” said Stuart: “the general that does not manoeuvre sacrifices his men: and I predict that General Grant will soon alter his programme.”

Stuart had ordered his horse to be saddled, and now mounted to go to General Lee’s head-quarters.

“By the bye,” he said, “did you hear Warren or Sedgwick say any thing, Nighthawk?”

Nighthawk smiled.

“I heard Sedgwick utter a few words, general.”

“What?”

“He said to Warren, ‘_I hear Hood is to take Stuart’s place. I am glad of it, for Stuart is the best cavalry officer ever foaled in North America_!’”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

XXXII.

THE UNSEEN DEATH.

The morning of the 6th of May was ushered in with thunder.

The battle of the preceding day had been a sort of “feeler”--now the real struggle came.

By a curious coincidence, Grant and Lee both began the attack and at the same hour. At five o’clock in the morning the blue and gray ranks rushed together, and opened fire on each other. Or rather, they fired when they heard each others’ steps and shouts. You saw little in that jungle.

I have already spoken more than once of this sombre country--a land of undergrowth, thicket, ooze; where sight failed, and attacks had to be made by the needle, the officers advancing in front of the line with drawn--compasses!

The assaults here were worse than night fighting; the combats strange beyond example. Regiments, brigades, and divisions stumbled on each other before they knew it; and each opened fire, guided alone by the crackling of steps in the bushes. There was something weird and lugubrious in such a struggle. It was not a conflict of men, matched against each other in civilized warfare. Two wild animals were prowling, and hunting each other in the jungle. When they heard each others’ steps, they sprang and grappled. One fell, the other fell upon him. Then the conqueror rose up and went in pursuit of other game--the dead was lost from all eyes.

In this mournful and desolate country of the Spottsylvania Wilderness, did the bloody campaign of 1864 begin. Here, where the very landscape seemed dolorous; here, in blind wrestle, as at midnight, did 200,000 men, in blue and gray, clutch each other--bloodiest and weirdest of encounters.

War had had nothing like it. Destruction of life had become a science, and was done by the compass.

The Genius of Blood, apparently tired of the old common-place mode of killing, had invented the “Unseen Death,” in the depths of the jungle.

On the morning of May 6th, Lee and Grant had grappled, and the battle became general along the entire line of the two armies. In these rapid memoirs I need only outline this bitter struggle--the histories will describe it.

Lee was aiming to get around the enemy’s left, and huddle him up in the thicket--but in this he failed.

Just as Longstreet, who had arrived and taken part in the action, was advancing to turn the Federal flank on the Brock road, he was wounded by one of his own men; and the movement was arrested in mid career.

But Lee adhered to his plan. He determined to lead his column in person, and would have done so, but for the remonstrances of his men.

“To the rear!” shouted the troops, as he rode in front of them; “to the rear!”

And he was obliged to obey.

He was not needed.

The gray lines surged forward: the thicket was full of smoke and quick flashes of flame: then the woods took fire, and the scene of carnage had a new and ghastly feature added to it. Dense clouds of smoke rose, blinding and choking the combatants: the flames crackled, soared aloft, and were blown in the men’s faces; and still, in the midst of this frightful array of horrors, the carnival of destruction went on without ceasing.

At nightfall, General Lee had driven the enemy from their front line of works--but nothing was gained.

What _could_ be gained in that wretched country, where there was nothing but thicket, thicket!

General Grant saw his danger, and, no doubt, divined the object of his adversary,--to arrest and cripple him in this tangle-wood, where numbers did not count, and artillery could not be used.

There was but one thing to do--to get out of the jungle.

So, on the day after this weird encounter, in which he had lost nearly 20,000 men, and Lee about 8,000, Grant moved toward Spottsylvania.

The thickets of the Wilderness were again silent, and the blue and gray objects in the undergrowth did not move.

The war-dogs had gone to tear each other elsewhere.

XXXIII.

BREATHED AND HIS GUN.

In the din and smoke of that desperate grapple of the infantry, I have lost sight of the incessant cavalry combats which marked each day with blood.

And now there is no time to return to them. A great and sombre event drags the pen. With one scene I shall dismiss those heroic fights--but that scene will be superb.

Does the reader remember the brave Breathed, commanding a battalion of the Stuart horse artillery? I first spoke of him on the night preceding Chancellorsville, when he came to see Stuart, at that time he was already famous for his “do-or die” fighting. A Marylander by birth, he had “come over to help us:” had been the right-hand man of Pelham; the favorite of Stuart; the admiration of the whole army for a courage which the word “reckless” best describes;--and now, in this May, 1864, his familiar name of “Old Jim Breathed,” bestowed by Stuart, who held him in high favor, had become the synonym of stubborn nerve and _élan_, unsurpassed by that of Murat. To fight his guns to the muzzles, or go in with the sabre, best suited Breathed. A veritable bull-dog in combat, he shrank at nothing, and led everywhere. I saw brave men in the war--none braver than Breathed. When he failed in any thing, it was because reckless courage could not accomplish it.

He was young, of vigorous frame, with dark hair and eyes, and tanned by sun and wind. His voice was low, and deep; his manners simple and unassuming; his ready laugh and off-hand bearing indicated the born soldier; eyes mild, friendly, and full of honesty. It was only when Breathed was fighting his guns, or leading a charge, that they resembled red-hot coals, and seemed to flame.

To come to my incident. I wish, reader, to show you Breathed; to let you see the whole individual in a single exploit. It is good to record things not recorded in “history.” They are, after all, the real glory of the South of which nothing can deprive her. I please myself, too, for Breathed was my friend. I loved and admired him--and only a month or two before, he had made the whole army admire--and laugh with--him too.

See how memory leads me off! I am going to give ten words, first, to that incident which made us laugh.

In the last days of winter, a force of Federal cavalry came to make an attack on Charlottesville--crossing the Rapidan high up toward the mountains, and aiming to surprise the place. Unfortunately for him, General Custer, who commanded the expedition, was to find the Stuart horse artillery in winter quarters near. So sudden and unexpected was Custer’s advance, that the artillery camps were entirely surprised. At one moment, the men were lying down in their tents, dozing, smoking, laughing--the horses turned out to graze, the guns covered, a profound peace reigning--at the next, they were running to arms, shouting, and in confusion, with the blue cavalry charging straight on their tents, sabre in hand.

Breathed had been lounging like the rest, laughing and talking with the men. Peril made him suddenly king, and, sabre in hand, he rushed to the guns, calling to his men to follow.

With his own hands he wheeled a gun round, drove home a charge, and trained the piece to bear upon the Federal cavalry, trampling in among the tents within fifty yards of him.

“Man the guns!” he shouted, in his voice of thunder. “Stand to your guns, boys! You promised me you would never let these guns be taken!”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

A roar of voices answered him. The bull-dogs thrilled at the voice of the master. Suddenly the pieces spouted flame; shell and canister tore through the Federal ranks. Breathed was everywhere, cheering on the cannoneers. Discharge succeeded discharge; the ground shook: then the enemy gave back, wavering and losing heart.

Breathed seized the moment. Many of the horses had been caught and hastily saddled. Breathed leaped upon one of them, and shouted:--

“Mount!”

The men threw themselves into the saddle--some armed with sabres, others with clubs, others with pieces of fence-rail, caught up from the fires.

“Charge!” thundered Breathed.

At the head of his men, he lead a headlong charge upon the Federal cavalry, which broke and fled in the wildest disorder, pursued by the ragged cannoneers, Breathed in front, with yells, cheers, and cries of defiance.

They were pursued past Barboursville to the Rapidan, without pause. That night Stuart went after them: their officers held a council of war, it is said, to decide whether they should not bury their artillery near Stannardsville, to prevent is capture. On the day after this, they had escaped.

In passing Barboursville, on their return from Charlottesville, one of the Federal troopers stopped to get a drink of water at the house of a citizen.

“What’s the matter?” asked the citizen.

“Well, we are retreating.”

“Who is after you?”

“Nobody but old Jim Breathed and his men, armed with fence-rails.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Such was one of a dozen incidents in Breathed’s life. Let me come to that which took place near Spottsylvania Court-House.

Grant had moved, as we have seen, by his left flank toward that place. General Fitzhugh Lee opposed him on the way, and at every step harassed the head of the Federal column with his dismounted sharp-shooters and horse artillery. Near Spottsylvania Court-House, it was the stand made by Fitz Lee’s cavalry that saved the position, changing the aspect of the whole campaign.

Sent by Stuart with a message to the brave “General Fitz,” I reached him near Spottsylvania Court-House, at the moment when he had just ordered his cavalry to fall back slowly before the advancing enemy, and take a new position in rear.

Two guns which had been firing on the enemy were still in battery on a hill; upon these a heavy Federal skirmish line was steadily moving: and beside the guns, Breathed and Fitzhugh Lee sat their horses, looking coolly at the advancing line.

“Give them a round of canister, Breathed!” exclaimed General Fitz Lee.

Breathed obeyed, but the skirmish line continued bravely to advance. All at once, there appeared in the woods behind them, a regular line of battle advancing, with flags fluttering.

To remain longer on the hill was to lose the guns. The bullets were whizzing around us, and there was but one course left--to fall back.

“Take the guns off, Breathed!” exclaimed the general; “there is no time to lose! Join the command in the new position, farther down the road!”

Breathed looked decidedly unwilling.

“A few more rounds, general!”

And turning to the men, he shouted:--

“Give them canister!”

At the word, the guns spouted flame, and the canister tore through the line of skirmishers, and the Federal line of battle behind; but it did not check them. They came on more rapidly, and the air was full of balls.

“Look out for the guns, Breathed! Take them off!” exclaimed the general.

Breathed turned toward one of the pieces, and ordered:--

“Limber to the rear!”

The order was quickly obeyed.

“Forward!”

The piece went off at a thundering gallop, pursued by bullets.

“Only a few more rounds, general!” pleaded Breathed; “I won’t lose the guns!”

“All right!”

As he spoke, the enemy rushed upon the single gun.

Breathed replied by hurling canister in their faces. He sat his horse, unflinching. Never had I seen a more superb soldier.

The enemy were nearly at the muzzle of the piece.

“Surrender!” they were heard shouting; “surrender the gun!” Breathed’s response was a roar, which hurled back the front rank.

Then, his form towering amid the smoke, his eyes flashing, his drawn sabre whirled above his head, Breathed shouted,--

“Limber up!”

The cannoneers seized the trail; the horses wheeled at a gallop; the piece was limbered up; and the men rushed down the hill to mount their horses, left there.

Then around the gun seemed to open a volcano of flame. The Federal infantry were right on it. A storm of bullets cut the air. The drivers leaped from the horses drawing the piece, thinking its capture inevitable, and ran down the hill.

In an instant they had disappeared. The piece seemed in the hands of the enemy--indeed, they were almost touching it--a gun of the Stuart horse artillery for the first time was to be captured!

That thought seemed to turn Breathed into a giant. As the drivers disappeared, his own horse was shot under him, staggered, sunk, and rolled upon his rider. Breathed dragged himself from beneath the bleeding animal, rose to his feet, and rushing to the lead horses of the gun, leaped upon one of them, and struck them violently with his sabre to force them on.

As he did so, the horse upon which he was mounted fell, pierced by a bullet through the body.

Breathed fell upon his feet, and, with the edge of his sabre, cut the two leaders out of the traces. He then leaped upon one of the middle horses--the gun being drawn by six--and started off.

He had not gone three paces, when the animal which he now rode fell dead in turn. Breathed rolled upon the ground, but rising to his feet, severed the dead animal and his companion from the piece, as he had done the leaders.

He then leaped upon one of the wheel-horses--these alone being now left--struck them furiously with his sabre--started at a thundering gallop down the hill--and pursued by a hail-storm of bullets, from which, as General Lee says in his report, “he miraculously escaped unharmed,” carried off the gun in safety, and rejoined the cavalry, greeted by a rolling thunder of cheers.

Such was the manner in which Breathed fought his artillery, and the narrative is the barest and most simple statement of fact.

Breathed came out of the war a lieutenant-colonel only. Napoleon would have made him a marshal.

XXXIV.

MY LAST RIDE WITH STUART.

More than one stirring incident marked those days of desperate fighting, when, barricading all the roads, and charging recklessly, Stuart opposed, at every step, Grant’s advance toward the Po.

But I can not describe those incidents. They must be left to others. The pen which has paused to record that exploit of Breathed, is drawn onward as by the hand of Fate toward one of those scenes which stand out, lugubrious and bloody, from the pages of history.

From the moment when Grant crossed the Rapidan, Stuart had met the horsemen of Sheridan everywhere in bitter conflict; and the days and nights had been strewed all over with battles.

Now, on the ninth of May, when the two great adversaries faced each other on the Po, a more arduous service still was demanded of the great sabreur. Sheridan had been dispatched to sever General Lee’s communications, and, if possible, capture Richmond. The city was known to be well nigh stripped of troops, and a determined assault might result in its fall. Sheridan accordingly cut loose a heavy column, took command of it in person, and descended like a thunderbolt toward the devoted city.

No sooner, however, had he begun to move, than Stuart followed on his track. He had no difficulty in doing so. A great dust-cloud told the story. That cloud hung above the long column of Federal cavalry, accompanied it wherever it moved, and indicated clearly to Stuart the course which his adversary was pursuing.

If he could only interpose, with however small a force, between Sheridan and Richmond, time would be given for preparation to resist the attack, and the capital might be saved. If he failed to interpose, Sheridan would accomplish his object--Richmond would fall.

It was a forlorn hope, after all, that he could arrest the Federal commander. General Sheridan took with him a force estimated at 9,000. Stuart’s was, in all, about 3,000; Gordon, who was not in the battle at Yellow Tavern, included. That action was fought by Fitz Lee’s division of 2,400 men all told. But the men and officers were brave beyond words; the incentive to daring resistance was enormous; they would do all that could be done.

Such was the situation of affairs on the 9th of May, 1864.

Stuart set out at full gallop on his iron gray, from Spottsylvania Court-House, about three o’clock in the day, and reached Chilesburg, toward Hanover Junction, just as night fell.

Here we found General Fitz Lee engaged in a hot skirmish with the enemy’s rear-guard; and that night Stuart planned an attack upon their camp, but abandoned the idea.

His spirits at this time were excellent, but it was easy to see that he realized the immense importance of checking the enemy.

An officer said in his presence:--

“We won’t be able to stop Sheridan.”

Stuart turned at those words; his cheeks flushed; his eyes flamed, and he said:--

“No, sir! I’d rather die than let him go on!”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words]

On the next morning, he moved in the direction of Hanover Junction; riding boot to boot with his friend General Fitz Lee. I had never seen him more joyous. Some events engrave themselves forever on the memory. That ride of May 10th, 1864, was one of them.

Have human beings a presentiment, ever, at the near approach of death? Does the shadow of the unseen hand ever reveal itself to the eye? I know not, but I know that no such presentiment came to Stuart; no shadow of the coming event darkened the path of the great cavalier. On the contrary, his spirits were buoyant beyond example, almost; and, riding on with General Fitz Lee, he sang in his gallant voice his favorite ditties “Come out of the Wilderness!” and “Jine the Cavalry!”

As he rode on thus, he was the beau ideal of a cavalier. His seat in the saddle was firm; his blue eyes dazzling; his heavy mustache curled with laughter at the least provocation. Something in this man seemed to spring forward to meet danger. Peril aroused and strung him. All his energies were stimulated by it. In that ride through the May forest, to attack Sheridan, and arrest him or die, Stuart’s bearing and expression were superbly joyous and inspiring. His black plume floated in the spring breeze, like some knight-errant’s; and he went to battle humming a song, resolved to conquer or fall.

Riding beside him, I found my eyes incessantly attracted to his proud face; and now I see the great cavalier as then, clearly with the eyes of memory. What a career had been his! what a life of battles!

As we went on through the spring woods, amid the joyous songs of birds, all the long, hard combats of this man passed before me like an immense panorama. The ceaseless scouting and fighting in the Shenandoah Valley; the charge and route of the red-legged “Zouaves” at Manassas; the falling back to the Peninsula, and the fighting all through Charles City; the famous ride around McClellan; the advance and combats on the Rapidan and Rappahannock, after Cedar Mountain; the night attack on Catlett’s, when he captured Pope’s coat and papers; the march on Jackson’s flank, and the capture of Manassas; the advance into Maryland; the fights at Frederick, Crampton’s, and Boonsboro’, with the hard rear-guard work, as Lee retired to Sharpsburg; his splendid handling of artillery on the left wing of the army there; the retreat, covered by his cavalry; the second ride around McClellan, and safe escape from his clutches; the bitter conflicts at Upperville and Barbee’s, as Lee fell back; the hard fighting thereafter, on the banks of the Rappahannock; the “crowding ‘em with artillery,” on the night of Fredericksburg; the winter march to Dumfries; the desperate battle at Kelly’s Ford; the falling back before Hooker; the battle of Chancellorsville, when he succeeded Jackson; the stubborn wrestle of Fleetwood; the war of giants below Upperville; the advance across Maryland into Pennsylvania, when the long march was strewed all over with battles, at Westminister, Hanover, Carlisle, Gettysburg, where he met and repulsed the best cavalry of the Federal army; the retreat from Gettysburg, with the tough affair near Boonsboro’; guarding the rear of the army as it again crossed the Potomac; then the campaign of October, ending with Kilpatrick’s route at Buckland; the assault on Meade’s head of column, when he came over to Mine Run; the bold attack on his rear there; and the hard, incessant fighting since Grant had come over to the Wilderness;--I remembered all these splendid scenes and illustrious services as I rode on beside Stuart, through the fields and forests of Hanover, and thought, “This is one of those great figures which live forever in history, and men’s memories!”

To-day, I know that I was not mistaken, or laboring under the influence of undue affection and admiration. That figure has passed from earth, but still lives!

Stuart is long dead, and the grass covers him; but there is scarce a foot of the soil of Virginia that does not speak of him. He is gone, but his old mother is proud of him--is she not?

Answer, mountains where he fought--lowlands, where he fell--river, murmuring a dirge, as you foam through the rocks yonder, past his grave!

XXXV.

“SOON WITH ANGELS I’LL BE MARCHING.”

Let me rapidly pass over the events of the tenth of May.

Gordon’s little brigade had been ordered to follow on the rear of the enemy, while Fitz Lee moved round by Taylorsville to get in front of them.

Stuart rode and met Gordon, gave the brave North Carolinian, so soon to fall, his last orders; and then hastened back to Fitz Lee, who had continued to press the enemy.

They had struck the Central railroad, but the gray cavaliers were close on them. Colonel Robert Randolph, that brave soul, doomed like Gordon, charged them furiously here, took nearly a hundred prisoners, and drove them across the road.

At this moment Stuart returned, and pushed forward toward Taylorsville, from which point he intended to hasten on and get in their front.

About four in the afternoon we reached Fork church, and the command halted to rest.

Stuart stretched himself at full length, surrounded by his staff, in a field of clover; and placing his hat over his face to protect his eyes from the light, snatched a short sleep, of which he was very greatly in need.

The column again moved, and that night camped near Taylorsville, awaiting the work of the morrow.

At daylight on the 11th, Stuart moved toward Ashland. Here he came up with the enemy; attacked them furiously, and drove them before him, and out of the village, killing, wounding, and capturing a considerable number.

Then he put his column again in motion, advanced rapidly by the Telegraph road toward Yellow Tavern, a point near Richmond, where he intended to intercept the enemy--the moment of decisive struggle, to which all the fighting along the roads of Hanover had only been the prelude, was at hand.

Stuart was riding at the head of his column, looking straight forward, and with no thought, apparently, save that of arriving in time.

He was no longer gay. Was it the coming event; was it the loss of sleep; the great interest at stake; the terrible struggle before him? I know not; but he looked anxious, feverish, almost melancholy.

“My men and horses are tired, jaded, and hungry, but all right,” he had written to General Bragg, from Ashland.

And these words will serve in large measure to describe the condition of the great commander himself.

I was riding beside him, when he turned to me and said, in a low tone:--

“Do you remember a conversation which we had at Orange, Surry, that night in my tent?”

“Yes, general.”

“And what I said?”

“Every word is engraved, I think, upon my memory.”

“Good. Do not let one thing ever escape you. Remember, that I said what I say again to-day, that ‘Virginia expects every man to do his duty!’”

“I will never forget that, general.”

He smiled, and rode on. For half a mile he was silent. Then I heard escape from his lips, in a low, musing voice, a refrain which I had never heard him sing before--

“Soon with angels I’ll be marching!”[1]

[Footnote 1: Real]

I know not why, but that low sound made me shiver.

XXXVI.

YELLOW TAVERN, MAY 11, 1864.

Yellow Tavern! At the mention of that name, a sort of tremor agitates me even to-day, when nearly four years have passed.

In my eyes, the locality is cursed. A gloomy cloud seems ever hanging over it. No birds sing in the trees. The very sunshine of the summer days is sad there.

But I pass to my brief description of the place, and the event which made it one of the black names in Southern history.

Yellow Tavern is an old dismantled hostelry, on the Brook road, about six miles from Richmond. Nothing more dreary than this desolate wayside inn can be imagined. Its doors stand open, its windows are gone, the rotting floor crumbles beneath the heel, and the winds moan through the paneless sashes, like invisible spirits hovering near and muttering some lugubrious secret. “This is the scene of some deed of darkness!” you are tempted to mutter, as you place your feet upon the threshold. When you leave the spot behind you, a weight seems lifted from your breast--you breathe freer.

Such was the Yellow Tavern when I went there in the spring of 1864. Is it different to-day? Do human beings laugh there? I know not; but I know that nothing could make it cheerful in my eyes. It was, and is, and ever will be, a thing accursed!

For the military reader, however, a few words in reference to the topographical features of the locality are necessary.

Yellow Tavern is at the forks of the Telegraph and Mountain roads, six miles from Richmond. The Telegraph road runs north and south--over this road Stuart marched. The Mountain road comes into it from the northwest. By this road Sheridan was coming.

Open the left hand, with the palm upward; the index finger pointing north. The thumb is the Mountain road; the index-finger the Telegraph road; where the thumb joins the hand is the Yellow Tavern in open fields; and Richmond is at the wrist.

Toward the head of the thumb is a wood. Here Wickham, commanding Stuart’s right, was placed, his line facing the Mountain road so as to strike the approaching enemy in flank.

From Wickham’s left, or near it, Stuart’s left wing, under Lomax, extended along the Telegraph road to the Tavern--the two lines thus forming an obtuse angle.

On a hill, near Lomax’s right, was Breathed with his guns.

The object of this disposition of Stuart’s force will be seen at a glance. Lomax, commanding the left, was across the enemy’s front; Wickham, commanding the right, was on their flank; and the artillery was so posted as to sweep at once the front of both Stuart’s wings.

The enemy’s advance would bring them to the first joint of the thumb. There they would receive Lomax’s fire in front; Wickham’s in flank; and Breathed’s transversely. The cross fire on that point, over which the enemy must pass, would be deadly. Take a pencil, reader, and draw the diagram, and lines of fire. That will show Stuart’s excellent design.

Stuart had reached Yellow Tavern, and made his dispositions before the arrival of Sheridan, who was, nevertheless, rapidly advancing by the Mountain road. Major McClellan, adjutant-general, had been sent to General Bragg, with a suggestion that the latter should attack from the direction of the city, at the moment when the cavalry assailed the Federal flank. All was ready.

It was the morning of May 11th, 1864.

Never was scene more beautiful and inspiring. The men were jaded, like their horses; but no heart shrank from the coming encounter. Stretching in a thin line from the tavern into the woods on the right of the Mountain road, the men sat their horses, with drawn sabres gleaming in the sun; and the red battle-flags waved proudly in the fresh May breeze, as though saluting Stuart, who rode in front of them.

Such was the scene at Yellow Tavern. The moment had come. At about eight, a stifled hum, mixed with the tramp of hoofs, was heard. Then a courier came at a gallop, from the right, to Stuart. The enemy were in sight, and advancing rapidly.

Stuart was sitting his horse near Yellow Tavern when that intelligence reached him. He rose in his saddle, took his field-glasses from their leathern case, and looked through them in the direction of the woods across the Mountain road.

Suddenly, quick firing came on the wind--then, loud shouts. Stuart lowered his glasses, shut them up, replaced them in their case, and drew his sabre.

Never had I seen him present an appearance more superb. His head was carried proudly erect, his black plume floated, his blue eyes flashed--he was the _beau ideal_ of a soldier, and as one of his bravest officers[1] afterward said to me, looked as if he had resolved on “victory or death.” I had seen him often aroused and strung for action. On this morning he seemed on fire, and resembled a veritable king of battle.

[Footnote 1: Breathed.]

Suddenly, the skirmish line of the enemy appeared in front of the woods, and a quick fire was opened on Stuart’s sharp-shooters under Colonel Pate, in the angle of the two roads; Stuart hastened to take the real initiative. He posted two guns on a rising ground in the angle, and opened a heavy fire; and galled by this fire, the enemy suddenly made a determined charge upon the guns.

Stuart rose in his stirrups and gazed coolly at the heavy line advancing upon him, and forcing Pate’s handful back.

“Take back the guns!” he said.

They were limbered up, and went off rapidly.

At the same moment Colonel Pate appeared, his men obstinately contesting every foot of ground as they fell back toward the Telegraph road, where a deep cut promised them advantage.