Chapter III: Book I: Gettysburg (2)

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.