Chapter IX: Book II: The Flower of Cavaliers (2)

“You are a singular woman,” he said; “you never forget a wrong. And yet the wrong, people might say, was committed by _you_--not _him_.”

“Do _you_ say that?” exclaimed the woman with sudden venom in her voice.

“I say nothing, madam,” was the gloomy reply. “I only declare that you hate much more strongly than I do. I hate him--and hate him honestly. But I would not take him at disadvantage. You would strike him, wherever you met him--in the dark--in the back--I think you would dance the war-dance around him, when he was dying!”

And Darke uttered a short jarring laugh.

“You are right,” said the woman, coolly. “I wish to see that man die--I expected you to kill him on that night in Pennsylvania. You promised to do it;--redeem your promise!”

“I will try to do so, madam,” said Darke, coolly.

“And I wish to be present on the occasion.”

Darke laughed as before.

“That doubtless has prevented you from having our good friend Mohun--well--assassinated!”

The woman was silent for a moment. Then she said:---

“No, I have tried that.”

“Ah!--recently?”

“Yes.”

“By what means--who was your agent?”

“Swartz.”

Darke waited, listening.

“He has three times waylaid _him_ behind the rebel lines, and fired on him as he was riding at night through the woods,” added the woman.

“Bah!” said Darke; “Swartz told you that?”

“He has done so.”

“Hatred blinds you; I do not believe that story. But I design nothing of that description against Colonel Mohun. I will fight him wherever I meet him in battle--kill him, if I can--but no assassination.”

A mocking smile came to the woman’s lips.

“You seem to dislike the idea of--assassination,” she said.

Darke uttered a sound resembling the growl of a wild animal, and a moment after, seizing the decanter, he dashed some of its contents into a glass, and raised it to his lips.

“Cursed stuff!” he suddenly exclaimed, setting the glass down violently. “I want drink--real drink--to-day!”

The woman looked at him curiously, and said quietly:--

“What is the matter?”

Her companion’s brows were knit until the shaggy masses united over the gloomy eyes. Beneath burned a lurid fire.

“I have seen _him_ again--General Davenant,” he said, in a low voice; “it is the second time.”

As he uttered these words, Darke seemed the prey of some singular emotion.

“It was at Gettysburg first,” he continued. “He was leading the charge, on the third day, against Cemetery Heights. I was there by accident. They were repulsed. When he rode back, he was carrying a bleeding boy in his arms through the smoke. I recognized his tall form and gray hair; and heard his voice in the midst of the cannon, as he cheered on his men.”

The speaker’s face had flushed. His breast rose and fell.

“That was the first time,” he said. “The second was the other day when he was riding among the enemy’s guns near Bristoe--I made him out with my glasses.”

Darke bent down, and gazed at the floor in silence. The fire in the dark eyes had deepened. His heavy under lip was caught in the large, sharp teeth.

All at once a ringing laugh disturbed the silence. There was a mocking intonation in it which was unmistakable.

“General Davenant!” exclaimed the woman. “Well, who is General Davenant?”

Darke looked at the mocking speaker sidewise.

“Who is General Davenant?” he said. “Is it necessary that I enlighten you, madam? He is my bugbear--my death’s head! The sight of him poisons my life, and something gnaws at me, driving me nearly mad! To see that man chills me, like the hand of death!”

The woman looked at him and then began to laugh.

“You do unbend your noble strength, my lord!” she said, “to think so brainsickly of things!” throwing into the word, “brainsickly,” exaggerated stage-rant.

“One would say,” she continued, “that the brave Colonel Darke had the blues to-day! Take care how you meet Colonel Mohun in this mood! The result might be unfortunate.”

Darke made no reply for some moments. He was gazing with knit brows upon the floor. Then he raised his head.

“You return to the subject of your friend,” he said, coldly.

“Yes. The subject is agreeable.”

“Well, I can give you intelligence of him--unless Swartz has anticipated me.”

“What intelligence?”

“Your friend Mohun is in love--again!”

The woman’s face flushed suddenly.

“With whom?” she said.

“Ah! there is the curious part of the affair, madam!” returned Darke.

And in a low tone he added:--

“The name of the young lady is--Georgia Conway.”

The woman half rose from her chair, with flashing eyes, and said:--

“Who told you that?”

Darke smiled. There was something lugubrious in that chilly mirth.

“An emissary on whom I can rely, brought me the intelligence,” he said, “Colonel Mohun was wounded in the battle of Fleetwood, and entering a house where _she_ was nursing the wounded, fainted, and was caught in her arms. From that moment the affair began. She nursed him, and he was soon healed. I had myself inflicted the wound with a pistol ball--but the hurt was trifling. He got well in a few days--and was ready to meet me again at Upperville--but in those few days the young lady and himself became enamored of each other. She is proud, they say, and had always laughed at love--he too is a woman-hater--no doubt from some old affair, madam!--but both the young people suddenly changed their views. Colonel Mohun became devoted; the young woman forgot her sarcasm. My emissary saw them riding out more than once near Culpeper Court-House; and since the return of the army, they have been billing and cooing like two doves, quite love sick! That’s agreeable, is it not, madam?”

And Darke uttered a singular laugh. As for the woman she had grown so pale, I thought she would faint.

“Do you understand, madam?” continued Darke. “Colonel Mohun is in love _again_; and the name of his friend is--Georgia Conway!”

The woman was silent; but I saw that she was gnawing her nails.

“My budget is not exhausted, madam,” continued Darke. “The young lady has a sister; her name is Virginia. She too has a love affair with a young officer of the artillery. His name is William Davenant!”

And the speaker clutched the arm of a chair so violently that the wood cracked in his powerful grasp.

“That is all!” he added. “The Mohuns, Davenants and Conways, are about to intermarry, you see! Their blood is going to mingle, their hands to clasp, in spite of the gulf of fire that divides their people! All is forgotten, or they care nothing. They are yonder, billing, and cooing, and kissing! the tender hearts are throbbing--all the world is bright to them--while I am here, and you, tearing our hearts out in despair!”

Darke stopped, uttering a sound between a curse and a groan. The woman had listened with a bitter smile. As he finished, she rose and approached him. Her eyes burned in the pale face like coals of fire.

“There is a better thing than despair!” she said.

“What?”

“Vengeance!”

And grasping his arm almost violently:--

“That man is yonder!” she said, pointing with the other hand toward Warrenton, “Go and meet him, and kill him, and end all this at once! Remember the banks of the Nottaway!--That sword thrust--that grave! Remember, he hates you with a deadly hatred--has wounded you, laughed at you,--driven you back, when you met him, like a hound under the lash! Remember me!--your oath! Break that oath and I will go and kill him myself!”

As she uttered these words a cannon shot thundered across the woods.

“Listen!” the woman exclaimed.

Darke rose suddenly to his feet.

“You are right!” he said, gloomily. “You keep me to the work. I do not hate him as you do--but he is an enemy, and I will kill him. Why do I yield to you, and obey you thus? What makes me love you, I wonder!”

Suddenly a second gun roared from beyond Buckland.

“We will talk of that afterward,” said the woman, with flushed cheeks; “think of one thing only now--that _he_ is yonder.”

“Good!” said Darke, “and I hope that in an hour one of us will be dead, I care not which--come, madam--but you must not expose yourself!”

“What am I!”

“All I have left!” he said.

And with a gloomy look he rushed from the house, followed by the gray woman.

XII.

THE BUCKLAND RACES.

In a moment the voice of Darke was heard, ordering “to horse!” a clatter of sabres followed; and the company of cavalry sat out at full gallop toward the firing.

At their head I saw Darke’s burly figure. The woman, escorted by an orderly, rode toward the rear.

In a few minutes the company of cavalry had entered a belt of woods and disappeared.

We had hastened into the apartment--Tom and myself, and looked now toward the highway. It was dark with a long column of Federal cavalry which seemed to be in great agitation.

The column, as well as I could make out, numbered at least a division. Neither the head nor the tail of the blue serpent was visible--only the main body, with its drawn sabres glittering like silver scales in the sun.

I hesitated not many seconds. Something was evidently going on, and our present whereabouts dangerous.

With a hasty salute to the young ladies who had hurried in, I made a sign to Tom, and ran to my horse.

My companion did not join me for at least five minutes. Impatience began to master me, when he appeared, laughing, and flourishing a knot of red ribbon, which I had observed in Miss Katy’s hair.

With a bound he was in the saddle--I saw him turn and make a gay salute toward the ladies on the steps, and then we set out at full speed across the fields to rejoin Stuart.

He was evidently engaged with the enemy. From the front came quick carbine shots and shouts. From the woods, on the left flank and in rear of the enemy, was heard the rapid thunder of cannon.

Suddenly every thing flashed upon me. I remembered Stuart’s significant smile; the absence of Fitz Lee; a trap had evidently been laid, and General Kilpatrick had fallen into it.

I was not deceived. The gallant Fitz Lee had suggested the ruse. He was to move toward Auburn, while Stuart retreated upon Warrenton, pursued by Kilpatrick. Then Fitz Lee was to attack the enemy in flank and rear, from the direction of Auburn--his cannon would be the signal for Stuart to turn. General Kilpatrick, thus assailed in front, flank and rear, _sauve qui pent_ would, probably, be the order of the day with him.

Every thing turned out exactly as it had been arranged. Stuart retired steadily on Warrenton. When the Federal rear approached Buckland, Fitz Lee came in on their left flank, and then Stuart turned like a tiger, and bore down on the head of their column.

That gun we had heard was the signal of Fitz Lee’s attack. Those carbine shots came from Stuart as his men charged.

We had set out at full speed to rejoin Stuart, as I have said; but he saved Tom and myself the trouble of riding very far. He came to meet us, at full gallop, with drawn sabre, driving the Federal troopers in disorder before him.

The affair that succeeded was one of the most animated of the war.

The enemy were completely dumbfoundered, but a part of Kilpatrick’s force made a hard fight. Sabres clashed, carbines cracked, Fitz Lee’s artillery roared--the fields and woods around Buckland were full of tumult and conflict.

In ten minutes we had caught up with Stuart. He was leading his column in person. At the head of the front regiment rode Mohun, with drawn sabre, and pressing his magnificent gray to headlong speed. In his eye was the splendid joy of combat; his cheeks glowed; his laughing lips revealed the white teeth under the black mustache. It was difficult to recognize in this gay cavalier, the pale, bitter and melancholy cynic of the previous June.

“Look, Surry!” exclaimed Mohun, “we are driving our friend Kilpatrick! Stuart is down on him like a lion!”

“You are driving a personal friend of yours, besides!” I said. “Yonder he is--Colonel Darke!”

Mohun’s smile disappeared suddenly. He looked at Darke, whose burly figure was seen at the head of the charging column; and that glance was troubled and doubtful.

“I am sorry to meet him,” he said, in a low tone.

“Why?”

“He would not strike me yonder, in Pennsylvania, when I was in his power.”

“But he has sworn to kill you to-day!” I exclaimed. “I have just heard him swear that! Look out, Mohun! here they are!”

In an instant the two columns had clashed together, like thunder. What followed was a fierce and confused struggle--sabres clashing, carbines banging, men shouting, groaning, and falling from their horses, which trampled over the dead and wounded alike.

I was close beside Mohun as he closed in with Darke. The latter had plainly resolved on his enemy’s destruction; and in an instant the two men were cutting furiously at each other with their sabres. They were body to body--their faces flamed--it was rather a wrestle on horseback, than a sword fight.

Suddenly Mohun delivered a blow which fell upon his opponent’s sword hand, nearly cutting through the fingers. Darke’s arm instinctively fell, and he was at his adversary’s mercy.

Instead of plunging his sword into Darke’s breast, however, as he might have done, Mohun let its point fall, and said:--

“Take your life! Now I am even with you, sir!”

Darke recoiled, and a furious flash darted from his eyes. Then his left hand went to his hilt; he drew a pistol; and spurring close up to Mohun, placed the weapon on his enemy’s breast, and fired.

The bullet passed through Mohun’s breast, but at the same instant Darke uttered a fierce cry. Mohun had driven his sword’s point through the Federal officer’s throat--the blood spouted around the blade--a moment afterward the two adversaries had clutched, dragged each other from their rearing horses, and were tearing each other with hands and teeth on the ground, wet with their blood.

One of Mohun’s men leaped from horseback and tore them apart.

“A sword! give me a sword,” exclaimed Mohun, hoarsely.

And rising to his feet, he clutched at an imaginary weapon,--his lips foamed with blood,--and reeling, he fell at full length on the body of his adversary, who was bathed in blood, and seemed to be dying.

What is here described, all took place in a few minutes. In that time the enemy’s column had been broken, and hurled back. Suddenly the wild Southern cheer rang above the woods. Stuart and Fitz Lee had united their forces; in one solid column they pressed the flying enemy, banging and thundering on their rear with carbines and cannon.

Kilpatrick was defeated; his column in hopeless rout.

“Stuart boasts of having driven me from Culpeper;” he is reported to have said just before the fight, “and now I am going to drive _him_.”

But Stuart was not driven. On the contrary, he drove Kilpatrick. Some of the enemy’s column did not stop, it is said, before they reached the banks of the Potomac.

Such was the dramatic termination of the last great cavalry campaign of Stuart.

The affair came to be known as “The Buckland Races,” and Stuart’s old sabreurs still laugh as they recall the comedy.

XIII.

TWO SCENES IN DECEMBER, 1863.

The campaign of October, 1863, was over. Lee was behind the Rapidan.

In December General Meade struck a blow, in turn, at his adversary.

Shall we glance, in passing, at that affair of Mine Run? I saw a spectacle there--and a sad one, too--which I am tempted to describe, though aware it has little to do with my narrative. I have left Colonels Mohun and Darke in a bloody embrace yonder near Buckland. I ought to relate at length how they were not dead, and how they in due time recovered, but for the moment I think of a fine sight, and a weeping face, which I saw in the woods below Verdiersville.

Let us ride thither, reader, it will not take long.

In December, then, General Meade crossed the lower Rapidan, and advanced to assail General Lee in his works above.

A fiasco followed. Meade marched toward Verdiersville; found his adversary behind earth-works, near that place; reconnoitered them, felt them, moved backward and forward before them--and then, one morning, before General Lee was aware of the fact, quietly disappeared, returning to the north bank of the Rapidan.

You see I have no battles to describe on this occasion, reader. We had some hard fighting in the cavalry, but I shall not dwell upon that. It is some handsome fire-necklaces, and a talk with an old woman, which I shall speak of.

The fire-necklaces were manufactured by General Meade’s troops, just before their retreat. The men had fallen into line at the word; moved silently toward the Rapidan, and had not taken the trouble, in leaving the rebel woods, to extinguish their bivouac fires, amid the thickets, carpeted with leaves. The result was a splendid spectacle. The fires had gradually burned outward, devouring the carpet of dry leaves. Great circles of flame were seen everywhere in the woods, and these dazzling fire-necklaces grew larger and larger, twined together, became entangled, twisted about, sparkled, crackled,--of all the sights I ever saw I think this was the most curious!

From time to time the flames crawled along and reached the foot of some tall tree, festooned with dry vines. Then the vine would catch; the flame would dart through the festoons; climb the trunk; stream from the summit,--and above the blazing rings, twisting in endless convolutions, would roar a mighty tongue of flame, crimson, baleful, and menacing.

It was a new “torch of war,” invented by General Meade.

Such was the picturesque spectacle which rose a moment ago to my memory.

Now for the sad scene which I witnessed, as I rode back with Stuart.

Passing a small house, a poor woman came out, and with eyes full of tears, exclaimed, addressing Stuart:--

“Oh, child! stop a minute! Are they coming back? They have took every thing I had--they are _not_ coming back!”[1]

[Footnote 1: Her words.]

Stuart stopped. He was riding at the head of his staff, preceded by his battle-flag. Not a trace of amusement was seen on his features, as he heard himself addressed in that phrase, “Oh, child!”

“Have they treated you so badly?” he said, in his grave, kind voice.

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the poor woman, weeping bitterly, “they have took every hog, cow, and ear of corn I have, and every thing from my daughter; she is a widow, and lives near us. These are her children, my grandchildren, come to get out of the way.”[1]

[Footnote 1: Her words.]

And she pointed to two or three little girls, with frightened faces, and eyes wet with tears.

Stuart seemed deeply affected. Under that stout heart, which never shrunk, was a wealth of sweetness and kindness.

“Well, they are not coming back, my good woman,” he said, in a voice of deep feeling. “You need not be afraid--they are gone now.”

The poor woman clasped her hands.

“Oh! do you believe that, child!”[1] she said; “do you believe they’ll never come back?”

[Footnote 1: Her words.]

“I hope not, at least,” Stuart replied, in a low tone.

“She clasped her hands, and for the third time addressing him as ‘child,’ sobbed:--

“Oh! if they will only never come back!”

That scene affected me deeply. The poor woman’s tears brought something into my throat which seemed to choke me. This time the Northern soldiers had been impartial in their marauding. They had not only destroyed the property, and carried off the slaves of the wealthy proprietors, the “bloated aristocrats;” they had taken the bread out of the mouths of the widow and the fatherless--leaving them bare and starving in that bleak December of ‘63.

War conducted in that manner is barbarous--is it not, reader? The cry of that widow and her children must have gone up to Heaven.

Stuart returned to his bivouac in the pine wood near Verdiersville, where he had slept without tents, by his camp-fire, all these freezing nights. Then the army began to move; soon it resumed its former position; the cavalry was sent to watch the fords of the Rapidan; and Stuart returned to his own head-quarters near Orange Court-House, gayly singing, as he had left them to advance and meet the enemy.

XIV.

STUART’S WINTER QUARTERS.

COON HOLLOW!--

What gay memories are evoked by that familiar name! How we laughed and sang in that hollow in the hills near Orange, in the cold winter of 1863!

Stuart called his head-quarters “Wigwam Independence,” but the officers of his staff gave them the sobriquet of “Coon Hollow;” and I adopt in my memoirs the old familiar designation.

Never were soldiers more comfortable than the inhabitants of Coon Hollow!--and Stuart’s tent was the most comfortable of all. He had stretched a large canvas beneath some sheltering trees; and filling up the opening at each end with a picturesque wicker-work of evergreens, ensconced himself there in his sylvan lodge, like some Robin Hood, or ranger of the greenwood in old times. The woodland haunt and open air life seemed, at first, to charm the bold cavalier; nothing seemed wanting to his happiness, lost here in the forest: but soon the freezing airs “demoralized” even the stout cavalryman, and he exchanged his canvas for a regular tent of the largest description, with a plank floor, a camp-couch, and a mighty chimney, wherein sparkled, ere long, a cheerful fire of hickory, driving away the blasts of the cold winter nights, which were sent on their way with song.

Such was Stuart’s own domicile. The staff tents were grouped around, with their solid chimneys of rock. The “cavalry head-quarters” was complete--a warm nest in the woods. Couriers came and went; sabres rattled; spurs jingled; the horses whinnied from their stables, woven of pine boughs, near by; and in and out of the general’s tent played his two boisterous setters, Nip and Tuck, the companions of his idle hours. We all messed together, under a broad canvas, at one table: music resounded; songs were sung; Sweeney, soon, alas! to be dead, was yet king of the woodland revels; Stuart joined in his songs, to the music of the banjo; and not seldom did the bright faces of fair ladies shine on us, bringing back all the warmth of the summer days--the blue sky, the sunshine, and the smiles!

Such was good old “Coon Hollow.” I recall it with delight. The chill airs cut you to the bone when you ventured out on horseback from the sheltered nook; but in Coon Hollow all was warm and bright. In the woods on the crest above, the winds sighed: but in the hollow below, the banjo rattled; laughter resounded; great fires roared; and, as though in open defiance of winter and its tempests, Stuart, carolled in his clear and sonorous voice, his favorite ditty,

“The dew is on the blossom.”

So we sang and laughed all those long winter evenings. The winds carried away the sound of jests, and banjo notes. The long hours of winter thus flew by like birds lost, one by one, in the night of the past. Happy days! happy nights! I remember them still. Stuart is dead--more than one of my dear companions have followed him--but their voices sound again, their eyes again flash, their friendly smiles linger in memory.

So the days fled by--and I wonder if our friends across the Rapidan, who were going to crush us, were as gay as the folk about to be crushed? The future looked stormy, but we laughed--and we did right, did we not, friend? That mirth was not unseemly--not unworthy of approval. It is evidence at least of “game,” _non fractum esse fortunâ et retinere in rebus asperis, dignitatem_--is it not? Good fortune, wealth, and success, are nothing compared to that. For my part, I would rather have the equal mind in arduous things, than money in my purse, or victory. The army of Northern Virginia had that in the winter of 1863, as they had had it in 1861 and ‘62, and were going to have it in the dark year and black winter preceding April, 1865.

But I linger too long on those days at “Coon Hollow.” The wave of war had wafted us to that quiet nook; for a time, we laughed and sang; but the storm was coming. Soon it struck us; and we left the harbor, driven by the tempest.

So I dismiss Coon Hollow, lost amid the hills of Orange. The spot is desolate to-day, and the bleak wood is silent. But for me, Stuart is singing there now as then--and will sing in my memory forever!

XV.

LEE’S “RAGGED REGIMENTS.”

It required a stout heart to laugh and sing, _con amore_, in the last days of that winter, and the first days of spring, 1864.

Those very figures, “1864,” tell the story, and explain this. Do they not, reader?

Each year of the war has its peculiar physiognomy.

1861--that is mirth, adventure, inexperience, bright faces, wreaths of flowers, “boxes” from home, and “honorable mention” in reports, if you only waved your sword and shouted “Hurrah!” Then you heard the brass bands playing, the drum gayly rolling, the bugles sending their joyous notes across the fields and through the forests--blooming fields, untouched forests!--and that music made the pulses dance. Gayly-clad volunteers marched gallantly through the streets; the crowds cheered; the new flags, shaped by fair hands, fluttered;--not a bullet had torn through them, not a rent was seen in the new uniforms. As the trains swept by with the young heroes on board, bevies of lovely girls cheered, waved handkerchiefs, and threw nosegays. Eyes were sparkling, lips smiling, cheeks glowing in ‘61. The youths had havelocks to ward off the sun; gaiters to keep out the dust; woollen belts to prevent rheumatism; fanciful shirt bosoms, and pretty needle-cases and tobacco pouches of silk and velvet, decked with beads and gay needle-work, by the dearest fingers in the world!

So they went to the wars--those stout and ruddy youths. Every one anxious to have his head taken off by a cannon ball, all for the honor and glory of it. They marched along cheering, as the white handkerchiefs waved; they proudly kept step to the tap of the drum, or moved briskly beside the cannon, or cantered by on their glossy and spirited horses.

The epoch was agitated, but joy coursed in every vein. And when the first successes came, those small affairs were greeted with “thunders of applause.”

General Spoons marched to Bethel; took a look at the gray people; fired a gun or two before retreating--and a thousand Southern journalists shouted “lo, triumphe!--a grand victory!” The brave Del. Kemper fired a shot at the Federal train approaching Vienna, and the journalists cried, “we have driven back the whole Federal army!”

Then some real fighting came, and the applause was again tremendous. When the news of the first Manassas flashed over the wires, the Southern people stood upon their heads, and went wild. The war was ended--the affair was over--the brass bands, and rolling drums, and dazzling uniforms had speedily done the business. The power of the North was broken. She had run upon the breakers. The great hulk was lying stranded, the waves were beating her, and she was about to go to pieces.

Such was 1861--an era of mirth, inexperience, inflated views, brilliant pageants, gay adventures, ruddy cheeks, sparkling eyes and splendid banners, floating proudly in the sunshine of victory!

1862 came, and with it a new phase of the war. Sweat, dust, and blood had replaced the music and wreaths of roses. Faces, were not so ruddy--they began to look war-worn. The rounded cheeks had become gaunt. The bright uniforms were battle-soiled. Smoke had stained them, the bivouac dimmed them, the sun had changed the blue-gray to a sort of scorched yellow. Waving handkerchiefs still greeted the troops--as they greeted them to the end of the war. But few flowers were thrown now--their good angels looked on in silence, and prayed for them.

They were no longer holiday soldiers, but were hardened in battle. They knew the work before them, and advanced to it with the measured tramp of veterans. They fought as well as soldiers have ever fought in this world. Did they not? Answer, Cold Harbor, Malvern Hill, Cedar Mountain, Manassas, Boonsboro’, Sharpsburg, and Fredericksburg! And every battle, nearly, was a victory. In the lowlands and the mountains--in Virginia and Maryland--they bore aloft the banner of the South in stalwart hands, and carried it forward with unshrinking hearts, to that baptism of blood awaiting it. That was the great year for the South. The hour was dark--a huge foe fronted us--but wherever that foe was met, he seemed to reel before the mailed hand that buffeted his front. All frippery and decoration had long been stripped from the army. The fingers of war--real war--had torn off the gaudy trappings; and the grim lips had muttered, “What I want is hard muscle, and the brave heart--not tinsel!” The bands were seldom heard--the musicians were tending the wounded. The drums had ceased their jovial rattle, and were chiefly used in the “long roll,” which said “Get ready, boys! they are coming!”

So in the midst of smoke and dust,--with yells of triumph, or groans of agony, in place of the gay cheering--passed that year of battles, 1862.

The South was no longer romantic and elated on the subject of the war. The soldiers no longer looked out for adventures, or for the glorious cannonball to carry off their heads, and make their names immortal. At home, the old men were arming, and the women sending words of cheer to their husbands and sons, and praying. In the camps, the old soldiers had forgotten the wreaths of roses. Their havelocks were worn out, and they no longer minded the sun. Gray flannel had replaced the “fancy” shirt bosoms; they carried tobacco in their pockets; and you saw them, seated on some log, busy sewing on buttons, the faces once so round and ruddy, now gaunt and stained with powder.

1863 came, and it was an army of veterans that struck Hooker at Chancellorsville. It was no longer a company of gay gallants marching by, amid music, waving scarfs, and showers of nosegays from fairy hands. It was a stormy wave of gaunt warriors, in ragged clothes and begrimed faces, who clutched their shining muskets, rushed headlong over the breastworks, and, rolling through the blazing and crackling woods, swept the enemy at the point of the bayonet, with the hoarse and menacing cry, “Remember Jackson!” Gettysburg followed--never was grapple more fierce than that, as we have seen; and when the veterans of Lee were hurled back, the soil of the continent seemed to shake. They were repulsed and retreated, but as the lion retreats before the huntsman, glaring back, and admonishing him not to follow too closely, if he would consult his own safety. At Williamsport the wounded lion halted and turned--his pursuer did not assail him--and he crossed the Potomac, and descended to the Rapidan, to strike in turn that dangerous blow in October, when Meade was nearly cut off from Washington.

With that campaign of Bristoe, and the fiasco of Mine Run, the year of 1863 ended.

It left the South bleeding, and what was worse,--discouraged. Affairs were mismanaged. The army had scarcely sufficient meat and bread to live on. The croakers, clad in black coats, and with snowy shirt bosoms, began to mutter under their breath, “It is useless to struggle longer!”--and, recoiling in disgust from the hard fare of “war times,” began to hunger for the flesh-pots of Egypt. Manna was tasteless now; the task-master was better than the wilderness and the scant fare. Oh! to sit by the flesh-pots and grow fat, as in the days when they did eat thereof! Why continue the conflict? Why waste valuable lives? Why think of still fighting when flour was a hundred dollars a barrel, coffee twenty dollars a pound, cloth fifty dollars a yard, and good whiskey and brandy not to be purchased at any price? Could patriotism live amid trials like that? Could men cling to a cause which made them the victims of Yankee cavalry? Why have faith any longer in a government that was bankrupt--whose promises to pay originated the scoffing proverb, “as worthless as a Confederate note!” Meat and drink was the religion of the croakers in those days. Money was their real divinity. Without meat and drink, and with worthless money, the Confederacy, in their eyes, was not the side to adhere to. It was unfortunate--down with it! Let it be anathema-maranatha!

The croakers said that--and the brave hearts whom they insulted could not silence them. There were stout souls in black coats--but the croakers distilled their poison, working busily in the darkness. It was the croakers who bought up the supplies, and hoarded them in garrets, and retailed them in driblets, thereby causing the enormous prices which, according to them, foretold the coming downfall. They evaded the conscript officers; grew fat on their extortions; and one day you would miss them from their accustomed haunts--they had flitted across the Potomac, and were drinking their wine in New York, London, or Paris.

Meanwhile, three classes of persons remained faithful to the death:--the old men, the army, and the women.

The gray-beards were taking down their old guns and swords, and forming home-battalions, to fight the enemy to the death when his cavalry came to lay waste the country.

The women were weaving homespun, knitting socks, nursing the wounded, and praying. They had never ceased to pray, nor had they lost the heart of hope. The croakers believed in success, and their patron saint was Mammon. The women believed in the justice of the cause, and in God. In 1861, they had cheered the soldiers, and waved their handkerchiefs, and rained bouquets. In 1862, they had sent brave words of encouragement, and bade their sons, and brothers, and husbands fight to the end. In 1863, they repeated that--sent the laggards back to the ranks--and when they were not sewing, or nursing the sick, were praying. O women of Virginia, and the great South to her farthest limits, there is nothing in all history that surpasses your grand record! You hoped, in the dark days as in the bright;--when bearded men shrunk, you fronted the storm unmoved! Always you hoped, and endured, and prayed for the land. Had the rest done their duty like the women and the army, the red-cross flag would be floating to-day in triumph!

The army--that was unshaken. Gettysburg had not broken its strength, nor affected its stout manhood. Lee’s old soldiers believed in him after Gettysburg, in the winter of ‘63, as they had believed in him after Fredericksburg, in the winter of ‘62. They had confidence still in their great leader, and in their cause. The wide gaps in their ranks did not dismay them; want of food did not discourage them; hunger, hardships, nakedness, defeat,--they had borne these in the past, they were bearing them still, they were ready to bear them in the future. War did not fright them--though the coming conflict was plainly going to be more bitter than any before. The great array of Grant on the north bank of the Rapidan did not depress them--had they not met and defeated at Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville a force as great, and could not they do it again?

So they lay in their camps on the Rapidan, in that cold winter of 1863--a little army of ragged and hungry men, with gaunt faces, wasted forms, shoeless feet; with nothing to encourage them but the cause, past victories, and Lee’s presence. That was much; what was enough, however, was the blood in their veins; the inspiration of the great race of fighting men from whom they derived their origin. Does any one laugh at that? The winner will--but the truth remains.

That ragged and famished army came of a fighting race. It was starving and dying, but it was going to fight to the last.

When the cannon began to roar in May, 1864, these gaunt veterans were in line, with ragged coats, but burnished bayonets. When Lee, the gray cavalier, rode along their lines, the woods thundered with a cheer which said, “Ready!”

XVI.

HAMMER AND RAPIER.

I pass to the great collision of armies in the first days of May.

Why say any thing of that dark episode called “Dahlgren’s raid?” A full account would be too long--a brief sketch too short. And whatever our Northern friends may think, it is not agreeable to us to dwell on that outrage. Was that _war_? Was it civilized warfare to march in the darkness upon a city full of women and children--to plan the assassination of the Southern President and his cabinet; the destruction of the city by the torch; the release of the Federal prisoners at Belle Isle, to be let loose afterward with fire and sword on Richmond?

Alas! all that was planned. The orders were captured, and exist still. Was that war? I repeat. Answer, friends of the North. Or, did you think us mere wild beasts?

I omit all that, passing on to the real fighting.

General Ulysses S. Grant had been appointed commander-in-chief of the armies of the United States, and had taken command in person of the army of the Potomac, confronting Lee on the Rapidan.

Before the curtain rises, and the cannon begin to roar, let us glance at the relative numbers, and the programme of the Federal leader.

Grant’s “available force present for duty, May 1, 1864,” was, according to the report of the Federal Secretary of War, 141,166 men.

Lee’s force, “present for duty,” as his army rolls will show, was 52,626 men. That is to say, rather more than one-third of his adversary’s.

Lee afterward received about 10,000 re-enforcements from Beauregard’s columns. Grant received about 50,000.

With about 62,000 men Lee repulsed the attacks of Grant with about 200,000 men, from the Rapidan to Petersburg--inflicting a loss on his adversary, by the Federal statement of more than 60,000 men.

These numbers may be denied, but the proof is on record.

The programme of General Grant in the approaching campaign was one of very great simplicity. He intended to “hammer continuously” as he wrote to President Lincoln, and crush his adversary at whatever expense of money and blood. From 1861 to 1864, war had been war, such as the world understands it. Pitched battles had been fought--defeats sustained--or victories gained.

Then the adversaries rested before new pitched battles: more defeats or victories. General Grant had determined to change all that. It had been tried, and had failed. He possessed a gigantic weapon, the army of the United States. In his grasp was a huge sledge-hammer--the army of the Potomac. He was going to clutch that tremendous weapon, whirl it aloft like a new Vulcan, and strike straight at Lee’s crest, and try to end him. If one blow did not suffice, he was going to try another. If that failed, in its turn, he would strike another and another. All the year was before him; there were new men to fill the places of those who fell; blood might gush in torrents, but the end was worth the cost. Would it hurl a hundred thousand men into bloody graves? That was unfortunate, but unavoidable. Would the struggle frighten and horrify the world? It was possible. But these things were unimportant. The rebellion must be crushed. The sledge-hammer must strike until Lee’s keen rapier was shattered. Hammer and rapier were matched against each other--the combat was _à l’outrance_--the hammer must beat down the rapier, or fall from the grasp of him who wielded it.

Such was the programme of General Grant. It was not war exactly, in the old acceptation of the term. It was not taught by Jomini, or practised by Napoleon. You would have said, indeed, at the first glance, that it rejected the idea of generalship _in toto_. Let us give General Grant his just dues, however. He was not a great commander, but he _was_ a man of clear brain. He saw that brute force could alone shatter the army of Northern Virginia; that to wear it away by attrition, exhaust its blood drop by drop, was the only thing left--and he had the courage to adopt that programme.

To come back to events on the Rapidan in the month of May, 1864.

Lee is ready for the great collision, now seen to be inevitable. His right, under Ewell, occupies the works on the southern bank of the Rapidan, above Chancellorsville. His centre, under A.P. Hill, lies near Orange Court-House. His left, under Longstreet, is in reserve near Gordonsville.

The army of Northern Virginia is thus posted in echelon of corps, extending from Gordonsville, by Orange, toward the fords of the Rapidan.

When the enemy cross on their great advance, Ewell is ready to face east; Hill will close in on his right; and Longstreet in the same manner on Hill’s right. Then the army will be in line, ready to strike at Grant’s flank as he moves through the Wilderness.

For Lee is going to strike at him. The fifty thousand are going to order the one hundred and forty thousand to halt.

Stuart’s cavalry is watching. It extends from Madison Court-House, along Robertson River, on the left of the army; and on the right, from Ewell’s camps, past Chancellorsville, to Fredericksburg.

Such was the situation on the first of May. The two tigers were watching each other--and one was about to spring.

XVII.

FORT DELAWARE.

To descend now from the heights of generalization to the plains of incident and personal observation.

For this volume is not a history of the war in Virginia, but the memoirs of a staff officer belonging to Stuart’s cavalry.

May, 1864, had come; we were soon to be in the saddle; the thundering hammer of General Grant was about to commence its performances.

One night--it was the night of the first of May--I was sitting in General Stuart’s tent, looking into his blazing log fire, and musing. In this luxury I was not interrupted. It was nearly midnight, and the rest of the staff had retired. Stuart was writing at his desk, by the light of a candle in a captured “camp candlestick,” and from time to time, without turning his head, ejaculated some brief words upon any subject which came into his head.

After writing ten minutes, he now said briefly:--

“Surry.”

“General,” was my as brief response.”

“I think Mohun was a friend of yours?”

“Yes, general, we became intimate on the march to Gettysburg.”

“Well, I have just received his commission--”

“You mean as--”

“Brigadier-general. You know I long ago applied for it.”

“I knew that--pity he has not been exchanged.”

“A great pity,--and you miss a pleasure I promised myself I would give you.”

“What pleasure, general?”

“To take Mohun his commission with your own hands.”

“I am truly sorry I can not. You know he was terribly wounded, and we had to leave him in Warrenton; then the enemy advanced; for a long time we thought him dead. Thus I am sorry I am debarred the pleasure you offer. Some day I hope to accept your offer.”

“Accept it now, colonel,” said a benignant voice at the door. I turned suddenly, as did the general. At the opening of the tent, a head was seen--the head passed through--was followed by a body,--and Mr. Nighthawk, private and confidential emissary, glided in with the stealthy step of a wild-cat.

He was unchanged. His small eyes were as piercing, his smile as benignant, his costume--black coat, white cravat, and “stove-pipe” hat--as clerical as before.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Mr. Nighthawk, smiling sweetly; “I bring news of Colonel Mohun.”

“And fly in like an owl, or your namesake!” laughed Stuart.

“An owl? I am told that is the bird of wisdom, gentlemen!”

“You hit the nail on the head, when you said ‘gentlemen!’”[1] replied Stuart, laughing; “but how about Mohun? Is he exchanged, Nighthawk?”

[Footnote 1: A favorite phrase of Stuart’s.]

And Stuart wheeled round and pointed to a chair.

Nighthawk sat down modestly.

“Not exchanged, exactly, general; but safe!” he said.

“He escaped?”

“Exactly, general.”

“And you helped him?”

“I believe so.”

“Good! You really are a trump, Nighthawk--and you seem to have a peculiar fancy for Mohun.”

“He is the best friend I have in the world, general.”

“Well, that accounts for it. But how did he escape?”

“I will tell you in a few words, general. I rather pride myself on the manner in which I conducted the little affair. You remember, Colonel Mohun was very badly wounded when you defeated Kilpatrick at Buckland. It was in a fight with Colonel Darke, of the Federal cavalry, who was also wounded and left dying, as was erroneously supposed, at a small house on the roadside, when you fell back. Colonel Mohun was left at Warrenton, his wound being so severe that he could not be brought farther in his ambulance, and here he staid until he was convalescent. His recovery was miraculous, as a bullet had passed through his breast; but he is a gentleman of vigorous constitution, and he rallied at last, but, unfortunately, to find himself a prisoner. General Meade had reoccupied the country, and Colonel Mohun was transferred from hospital to Fort Delaware, as a prisoner of war.

“I have informed you, general,” continued Mr. Nighthawk, smiling, and turning the rim of his black hat between his fingers, “that Colonel Mohun was one of my best friends. For that reason, I went to see him at Warrenton, and had arranged a very good plan for his escape, when, unfortunately, he was all at once sent away, thereby disappointing all my schemes. I followed, however, saw that he was taken to Fort Delaware, and proceeded thither at once. You have probably not visited this place, general, or you, colonel. It is a fort, and outside is a pen, or stockade as it is called, covering two or three acres. Inside are cabins for the prisoners, in the shape of a semicircle, and grounds to walk in, except in the space marked off by the ‘dead line.’ If any prisoner crosses that he is shot by the sentries, whose beat is on a platform running round upon the top of the stockade.

“Well, I went to the place, and found that Colonel Mohun was confined with other officers in the pen, where they had the usual Federal ration of watery soup, bad meat, and musty crackers. For a gentleman, like himself, accustomed before the war to every luxury that unbounded wealth could supply, this was naturally disagreeable, and I determined to omit no exertion to effect his escape.

“Unfortunately, the rules of Fort Delaware are very strict, however. To cross the ‘dead line’ is death; to attempt to burrow is confinement in irons, and other degrading punishments; and to bribe the sentinels invariably resulted in having the whole affair revealed, after they had received the money. It really seemed as if Colonel Mohun were doomed to the living death of a filthy prison until the end of the war, since exchanges had ceased, and it was only by devising a ruse of very great risk that I accomplished the end in view.”

“What was your plan, Nighthawk?” said Stuart, rising and moving to the fireplace, where he stood basking in the warmth. “Original, I lay my life, and--quiet.”

“Exactly that, general.”

And Nighthawk smiled sweetly.

XVIII.

THE UNIFORM.

“I have always observed, general,” said Mr. Nighthawk, raising his eyes in pious meditation, as it were, “that there is no better rule for a man’s conduct in life than to make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness--people in power.”

“A profound maxim,” laughed Stuart; “friends are useful--that was your principle?”

“Yes, general; and I made one of the quartermaster of the post--a certain major Woodby--who was exceedingly fond of the ‘root of all evil.’ I made that gentleman’s acquaintance, applied for the place of sutler in _the pen_; and this place I acquired by agreeing to pay a heavy bonus in thirty days.

“This was Saturday night. On Monday morning I presented myself before the gate, and demanded admittance as the newly appointed sutler of the pen.

“I was admitted, and taken before the officer of the day, in his quarters.

“‘Who are you?’ he asked, gruffly.

“‘The new sutler, lieutenant.’

“‘Where are your papers?’

“I had them ready, and presented them to him. He read them carefully, looked at me superciliously, and said:--

“‘That is wholly informal.’

“I looked at him. He had a red nose.

“‘I have some excellent French brandy, captain,’ I said, promoting him.

“At sight of the portly flask which I drew half from my pocket and exhibited to him, I saw his face relax.

“‘You are a keen fellow, and know the world, I perceive,’ he said.

“And taking the flask, he poured out nearly a glass full of the brandy, and drank it.

“‘Do you intend to keep that article of brandy?’ he said.

“‘For my friends, captain,’ I replied, with a wink which he evidently understood.

“‘Let me see your papers again.’

“I unfolded them, and he glanced at them.

“‘All right--they are in regular form. There is the key of the sutler’s shop, on that nail. Take possession.’

“And my friend the captain emptied a second glass of the brandy, and made me a sign that I could go.

“I bowed profoundly; took the key; and went and opened the sutler’s shop; after which I strolled out to look at the prisoners in the area. The sentinel had seen me visit the officer of the day, and go to the sutler’s shop.

“Thus he did not interfere with me when I went into the area, as I was obviously a good Union man and an employee of the post.

“Such was the manner in which I secured a private interview with Colonel Mohun: we could talk without the presence of a corporal; and we soon arranged the plan for his escape.

“I had determined to procure a Federal uniform, to be smuggled in to him, and an hour afterward, I left him, promising to see him again as soon as I could visit Wilmington, and return with the intended disguise.

“A strange piece of good fortune aided me, or rather accomplished my purpose at once. I had scarcely returned to the sutler’s shop, and spread some blankets to sleep upon, when the officer of the day came in, and I saw at a glance that he was half intoxicated, in consequence of the large amount of brandy which he had swallowed. In a thick and husky voice he cursed the ‘stuff’ vended at the post, extolled ‘the article’ I carried, and demanded another pull at the flask. I looked at him--saw that a little more would make him dead-drunk--and all at once resolved on my plan.

“This was,” continued Mr. Nighthawk, with modest simplicity, and smiling as he spoke, “to make my friend, the officer of the day, dead-drunk, and then borrow his uniform; and I succeeded. In half an hour he was maudlin. In three-quarters of an hour, drunk. Five minutes afterward he fell out of his chair, and began to snore, where he lay.

“I secured the door tightly, stripped off his uniform, then my own clothing; put on his, and then replaced my own citizen’s dress over all, concealed his cap and boots beneath my overcoat, wrapped the prostrate lieutenant in my blankets for fear he would take cold, and going out, locked the door and proceeded to the quarters of the prisoners. Again the sentinel took no notice of me. I found Colonel Mohun in his ‘bunk.’ Ten minutes afterward he had replaced his gray uniform with that of the Federal lieutenant, and, watching the moment when the back of the sentinel was turned, we walked together toward the gate of the pen.

“That was the moment of real danger. Outside the narrow gate another sentinel was posted, and the man might be personally acquainted with the officer of the day, or have noticed his appearance. Luckily, the guard had been relieved about an hour before--the new sentinel had not seen the officer of the day--and when Colonel Mohun put his head through the little window beside the gate, ordering ‘Open!’ the gate flew open, the sentinel presented arms as he passed, and I followed modestly--the door banging-to behind us.”[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

XIX.

THE NOTE.

“Thus the colonel was out of the pen,” continued Nighthawk, smiling. “The rest was not very dangerous, unless the alarm were given. They might miss the locked-up officer--he might have been seen to go into the sutler’s shop--and I admonished Colonel Mohun, in a low tone, to proceed as rapidly as possible in a direction which I pointed out.