UNSHAKEN.
The sun was sinking red and baleful, when I reached Stuart, beyond the
left wing of the army.
From the afternoon of the second to this night of the third of July, the
cavalry had met that of the enemy in stubborn conflict. The columns
had hurled together. General Hampton had been severely wounded in a
hand-to-hand encounter with sabres, while leading his men. Stuart had
narrowly escaped death or capture in the mêlée; and Fitz Lee had fought
hilt to hilt with the Federal horsemen, repulsing them, and coming back
laughing, as was his wont.
All these scenes I have passed over, however. The greater drama absorbed
me. The gray horsemen were fighting heroically; but what was that
encounter of sabres, when the fate of Gettysburg was being decided at
Cemetery Hill?
So I pass over all that, and hasten on now to the sequel. Memory finds
few scenes to attract it in the days that followed Gettysburg.
But I beg the reader to observe that I should have no scenes of a
humiliating character to draw. Never was army less “whipped” than that
of Lee after this fight! Do you doubt that statement, reader? Do you
think that the Southerners were a disordered rabble, flying before the
Federal bayonets? a flock of panic-stricken sheep, hurrying back to the
Potomac, with the bay of the Federal war-dogs in their ears?
That idea--entertained by a number of our Northern friends--is entirely
fanciful.
Lee’s army was not even shaken. It was fagged, hungry, out of
ammunition, and it retired,--but not until it had remained for
twenty-four hours in line of battle in front of the enemy, perfectly
careless of, even inviting, attack.
“I should have liked nothing better than to have been attacked,” said
Longstreet, “and have no doubt I should have given those who tried, as
bad a reception as Pickett received.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
It may be said that this is the boast of the defeated side. But General
Meade, when interrogated before the war committee, stated the exact
facts.
“My opinion is now,” said Meade “that General Lee evacuated that
position, not from the fear that he would be dislodged from it by any
active operations on my part, but that he was fearful a force would be
sent to Harper’s Ferry to cut off his communications.... That was what
caused him to retire.”
“Did you discover,” asked one of the committee, “after the battle of
Gettysburg, any symptoms of demoralization in Lee’s army?”
“No, sir,” was General Meade’s reply, “I saw nothing of that kind.”[1]
[Footnote 1: General Meade’s testimony may be found in the Report on the
Conduct of the War. Part I., p. 337.]
That statement was just, and General Meade was too much of a gentleman
and soldier to withhold it. He knew that his great adversary was still
unshaken and dangerous--that the laurels snatched on Round Top and
Cemetery Heights might turn to cypress, if the wounded lion were
assailed in his own position.
After the repulse of Pickett’s column on the third of July, Lee had
the choice of two courses--to either attack again or retire. Meade was
evidently determined to remain on the defensive. To engage him, Lee
must once more charge the Cemetery Heights. But a third failure might
be ruinous; the Confederate ammunition was nearly exhausted; the
communications with the Potomac were threatened,--and Lee determined to
retire.
That is the true history of the matter.
The force which fell back before Meade was an army of veterans, with
unshaken nerves. It required only a glance to see that these men were
still dangerous. They were ready to fight again, and many raged at the
retreat. Like Lee’s “old war horse,” they were anxious to try another
struggle, to have the enemy return the compliment, and come over to
charge _them_!
Then commenced that singular retreat.
The trains retired in a long line stretching over many miles, by the
Chambersburg road, while the army marched by the shorter route, between
the trains and the enemy, ready to turn and tear the blue huntsmen if
they attempted to pursue.
So the famous army of Northern Virginia--great in defeat as in
victory--took its slow way back toward the soil of Virginia. Never was
spectacle stranger than that retreat from Gettysburg. The badly wounded
had been sent with the army trains; but many insisted upon keeping their
places in the ranks. There was something grim and terrible in these
bandaged arms, and faces, and forms of Lee’s old soldiers--but you did
not think of that as you looked into their pale faces. What struck you
in those eyes and lips was the fire, and the smile of an unconquerable
courage. Never had I witnessed resolution more splendid and invincible.
In the ragged foot soldiers of the old army I could see plainly the
evidences of a nerve which no peril could shake. Was it race--or the
cause--or confidence, through all, in Lee? I know not, but it was there.
These men were utterly careless whether the enemy followed them or not.
They were retreating unsubdued. The terrible scenes through which they
had passed, the sights of horror, the ghastly wounds, the blood, agony,
death of the last few days had passed away from their memories; and they
went along with supreme indifference, ready to fight at any moment, and
certain that they could whip any enemy who assailed them.
General Meade did not attempt that. He kept Lee at arm’s-length, and
followed so slowly that the civilians were in enormous wrath, and looked
_*de haut en bas_ on him--on this timid soldier who had not cut Lee to
pieces.
[Illustration: MEETING OF GENERALS LEE AND DAVENANT.]
Between Meade, however, and the bold civilians, there was this enormous
difference. The soldier knew the mettle of the man and the army retiring
from Gettysburg. The civilians did not. Meade retained the fruits of his
victory over Lee. The civilians would have lost them.
At Williamsport, Lee halted and drew up his army in line of battle. The
Potomac, swollen by rains, presented an impassable obstacle.
Meade, following slowly, was met at every step by Stuart’s cavalry; but
finally faced his adversary.
Every thing presaged a great battle, and Lee’s cannon from the hills
south of Hagerstown laughed,
“Come on!”
But General Meade did not come. Lee, standing at bay with the army of
Northern Virginia, was a formidable adversary, and the Federal commander
had little desire to charge the Confederates as they had charged him at
Gettysburg--in position.
Day after day the adversaries remained in line of battle facing each
other.
Lee neither invited nor declined battle.
At last the Potomac subsided: Lee put his army in motion, and crossing
on a pontoon at Falling Waters took up his position on the south bank of
the river.
Stuart followed, bringing up the rear with his cavalry column; and the
whole army was once more on the soil of Virginia.
They had come back after a great march and a great battle.
The march carried their flags to the south bank of the Susquehanna; the
battle resulted in their retreat to the south bank of the Potomac.
Thus nothing had been gained, and nothing lost. But alas! the South had
counted on a great and decisive victory. When Lee failed to snatch that
from the bloody heights of Gettysburg--when, for want of ammunition, and
to guard his communications, he returned to the Potomac--then the people
began to lose heart, and say that, since the death of Jackson, the cause
was lost.
Gettysburg in fact is the turning point of the struggle. From that day
dated the decadence of the Southern arms.
At Chancellorsville, the ascending steps of victory culminated--and
stopped.
At Gettysburg, the steps began to descend into the valley of defeat, and
the shadow of death.
What I shall show the reader in this final series of my memoirs, is
Lee and his paladins--officers and privates of the old army of Northern
Virginia--fighting on to the end, true in defeat as in victory, in the
dark days as in the bright--closing up the thin ranks, and standing by
the colors to the last.
That picture may be gloomy--but it will be sublime, too.
BOOK II.
THE FLOWER OF CAVALIERS.
I.
UNDER “STUART’S OAK.”
Crossing to the south bank of the Potomac, Stuart established his
headquarters at “The Bower,” an old mansion on the Opequon.
The family at the ancient hall were Stuart’s cherished friends, and our
appearance now, with the red flag floating and the bugle sounding a
gay salute as we ascended the hill, was hailed with enthusiasm and
rejoicing.
All at the “Bower,” loved Stuart; they love him to-day; and will love
him always.
His tents were pitched on a grassy knoll in the extensive grounds,
beneath some ancient oaks resembling those seen in English parks. It was
a charming spot. Through the openings in the summer foliage you saw the
old walls of the hall. At the foot of the hill, the Opequon stole away,
around the base of a fir-clad precipice, its right bank lined with
immense white-armed sycamores. Beyond, extended a range of hills: and in
the far west, the North Mountain mingled its azure billows with the blue
of the summer sky.
Such was the beautiful landscape which greeted our eyes: such the spot
to which the winds of war had wafted us. Good old “Bower,” and good
days there! How well I remember you! After the long, hard march, and the
incessant fighting, it was charming to settle down for a brief space in
this paradise--to listen idly to the murmur of the Opequon, or the voice
of the summer winds amid the foliage of the century oaks!
The great tree on the grassy knoll, under which Stuart erected his own
tent, is called “Stuart’s Oak” to this day. No axe will ever harm it, I
hope; gold could not purchase it; for tender hearts cherish the gnarled
trunk and huge boughs, as a souvenir of the great soldier whom it
sheltered in that summer of 1863.
So we were anchored for a little space, and enjoyed keenly the repose of
this summer nook on the Opequon. Soon the bugle would sound again, and
new storms would buffet us; meanwhile, we laughed and sang, snatching
the bloom of the peaceful hours, inhaling the odors, listening to the
birds, and idly dreaming.
For myself, I had more dreams than the rest of the gray people there!
The Bower was not a strange place to me. My brethren of the staff
used to laugh, and say that, wherever we went, in Virginia, I found
kins-people. I found near and dear ones at the old house on the Opequon;
and a hundred spots which recalled my lost youth. Every object carried
me back to the days that are dead. The blue hills, the stream, the great
oaks, and the hall smiled on me. How familiar the portraits, and wide
fireplaces, and deers’ antlers. The pictures of hawking scenes, with
ladies and gentlemen in the queerest costumes; the engravings of famous
race-horses, hanging between guns, bird-bags and fishing-rods in the
wide hall--these were not mere dead objects, but old and long-loved
acquaintances. I had known them in my childhood; looked with
delight upon them in my boyhood; now they seemed to salute me,
murmuring--“Welcome! you remember us!”
Thus the hall, the grounds, the pictures, the most trifling object
brought back to me, in that summer of 1863, a hundred memories of the
years that had flown. Years of childhood and youth, of mirth and joy,
such as we felt before war had come to harass us; when I swam in the
Opequon, or roamed the hills, looking into bright eyes, where life was
so fresh and so young. The “dew was on the blossom” then, the flower in
the bud. Now the bloom had passed away, and the dew dried up in the hot
war-atmosphere. It was a worn and weary soldier who came back to the
scenes of his youth.
Suddenly, as I mused thus, dreaming idly under the great oak which
sheltered me, I heard a voice from Stuart’s tent, sending its sonorous
music on the air. It was the great cavalier singing lustily--
“The dew is on the blossom!”
At all hours of the day you could hear that gay voice. Stuart’s
headquarters were full of the most mirthful sounds and sights. The knoll
was alive with picturesque forms. The horses, tethered to the boughs,
champed their bits and pawed impatiently. The bright saddle-blankets
shone under the saddles covered with gay decorations. Young officers
with clanking sabres and rattling spurs moved to and fro. In front of
the head-quarters tent the red battle-flag caught the sunshine in its
dazzling folds.
Suddenly, a new charm is added to the picturesque scene. Maiden figures
advance over the grassy lawn; bright eyes glimmer; glossy ringlets are
lifted by the fingers of the wind; tinkling laughter is heard;--and over
all rings the wild sonorous music of the bugle!
The days pass rapidly thus. The nights bring merriment, not sleep. The
general goes with his staff to the hospitable mansion, and soon the
great drawing-room is full of music and laughter. The song, the dance,
the rattling banjo follow. The long hours flit by like a flock of summer
birds, and Sweeney, our old friend Sweeney, is the king of the revel.
For Sweeney rattles as before on his banjo; and the “Old Gray Horse”
flourishes still in imperishable youth! It is the same old Sweeney,
with his mild and deferential courtesy, his obliging smile, his
unapproachable skill in “picking on the string.” Listen! his voice rings
again as in the days of ‘61 and ‘62. He is singing still “Oh Johnny
Booker, help this nigger!” “Stephen, come back, come back, Stephen!”
“Out of the window I did sail!” “Sweet Evelina,” and the grand,
magnificent epic which advises you to “Jine the Cavalry!”
Hagan listens to him yonder with a twinkle of the eye--Hagan the
black-bearded giant, the brave whose voice resembles thunder, the
devotee and factotum of Stuart, whom he loves. And Sweeney rattles on.
You laugh loud as you listen. The banjo laughs louder than all, and the
great apartment is full of uproar, and mirth, and dance.
Then the couples sink back exhausted; a deep silence follows; Sweeney
has made you laugh, and is now going to make you sigh. Listen! You can
scarcely believe that the singer is the same person who has just been
rattling through the “Old Gray Horse.” Sweeney is no longer mirthful;
his voice sighs instead of laughing. He is singing his tender and
exquisite “Faded Flowers.” He is telling you in tones as soft as the
sigh of the wind in the great oaks, how
“The cold, chilly winds of December,
Stole my flowers, my companions from me!”
Alas! the cold, chilly winds of the coming winter will blow over the
grave of the prince of musicians! Sweeney, the pride and charm of the
cavalry head-quarters, is going to pass away, and leave his comrades and
his banjo forever!
You would say that the future throws its shadow on the present.
Sweeney’s tones are so sweet and sorrowful, that many eyes grow
moist--like Rubini, he “has tears in his voice.” The melting strains
ascend and sigh through the old hall. When they die away like a wind
in the distance, the company remain silent, plunged in sad and dreamy
revery.
Suddenly Stuart starts up and exclaims:--
“Stop that, Sweeney! you will make everybody die of the blues. Sing the
‘Old Gray Horse’ again, or ‘Jine the Cavalry!’”
Sweeney smiles and obeys. Then, the gay song ended, he commences a reel.
The banjo laughs; his flying fingers race over the strings; youths and
maidens whirl from end to end of the great room--on the walls the “old
people” in ruffles and short-waisted dresses, look down smiling on their
little descendants!
O gay summer nights on the banks of the Opequon! you have flown, but
linger still in memory!
In the autumn of 1867, I revisited the old hall where those summer days
of 1863 had passed in mirth and enjoyment; and then I wandered away to
the grassy knoll where “Stuart’s oak” still stands. The sight of the
great tree brought back a whole world of memories. Seated on one of its
huge roots, beneath the dome of foliage just touched by the finger of
autumn, I seemed to see all the past rise up again and move before me,
with its gallant figures, its bright scenes, and brighter eyes. Alas!
those days were dust, and Stuart sang and laughed no more. The grass
was green again, and the birds were singing; but no martial forms moved
there, no battle-flag rippled, no voice was heard. Stuart was dead;--his
sword rusting under the dry leaves of Hollywood, and his battle-flag was
furled forever.
That hour under the old oak, in the autumn of 1867, was one of the
saddest that I have ever spent.
The hall was there as before; the clouds floated, the stream murmured,
the wind sighed in the great tree, as when Stuart’s tent shone under it.
But the splendor had vanished, the laughter was hushed--it was a company
of ghosts that gathered around me, and their faint voices sounded from
another world!
II.
BACK TO THE RAPIDAN.
But this is a book of incident, worthy reader. We have little time for
musing recollections. The halts are brief; the bugle is sounding to
horse; events drag us, and we are again in the saddle.
Those gay hours on the Opequon were too agreeable to last. The old hall
was a sort of oasis in the desert of war only. We paused for an instant;
rested under the green trees; heard the murmur of the waters--then
the caravan moved, breasting the arid wastes once more, and the coming
simoom.
Stuart’s head-quarters disappeared--we bade our kind friends
good-bye--and, mounting, set out for the Lowland, whither Lee’s column
was then marching.
The short lull had been succeeded by new activity. Meade was advancing
along the east slope of the Blue Ridge to cut Lee off from Richmond.
But the adventure succeeded no better now than in 1862. Meade failed, as
McClellan had failed before him.
The army passed the Blue Ridge; drove back the force sent to assail
them in flank as they moved; and descended to Culpeper, from which they
withdrew behind the Rapidan. Here Lee took up his position, crowned the
south bank with his artillery, and, facing General Meade, occupying the
north bank, rested.
Such had been the result of the great campaign, in its merely military
aspect.
Lee had invaded the North, delivered battle on the territory of the
enemy, suffered a repulse, retired, and was again occupying nearly the
same ground which he had occupied before the advance. Moving backward
and forward on the great chessboard of war, the two adversaries seemed
to have gained or lost nothing. The one was not flushed with victory;
the other was not prostrated by defeat. Each went into camp, ceased
active operations, and prepared for the new conflict which was to take
place before the end of the year.
I shall record some incidents of that rapid and shifting campaign,
beginning and ending in the month of October; then I pass on to the more
important and exciting pages of my memoirs: the mighty struggle between
Lee and Grant.
To return for a moment to the cavalry. It held the front along the
Rapidan and Robertson rivers, from Madison Court-House on the left, to
Chancellorsville on the right. Stuart kept his lynx-eye on all the fords
of the two rivers, having his head-quarters in the forks of the streams
not far from their junction.
I should like to speak of the charming hours spent at the hospitable
mansion near which head-quarters had been established. The sun shone
bright, at the house on the grassy hill, but not so bright as the eyes
which gave us friendly welcome. Years have passed since that time--all
things have changed--but neither time or the new scenes will banish from
some hearts the memory of that beautiful face, and the music of that
voice! We salute to-day as we saluted in the past--health and happiness
attend the fair face and the kindly heart!
I saw much of Mohun in those days, and became in course of time almost
his intimate friend. He exhibited still a marked reserve on the subject
of his past life: but I thought I could see that the ice was melting.
Day by day he grew gayer--gradually his cynicism seemed leaving him.
Who was this singular man, and what was his past history? I often
asked myself these questions--he persisted in giving me no clue to the
secret--but I felt a presentiment that some day I should “pluck out the
heart of his mystery.”
So much, in passing, for my relations with Mohun. We had begun to be
friends, and the chance of war was going to throw us together often. I
had caught one or two glimpses of a past full of “strange matters”--in
the hours that were coming I was to have every mystery revealed.
Meanwhile Lee was resting, but preparing for another blow. His army was
in the highest spirits. The camps buzzed, and laughed, and were full
of mirth. Gettysburg was forgotten, or if remembered, it only served to
inflame the troops, and inspire them with a passionate desire to “try
again.” In the blaze of a new victory, the old defeat would disappear.
Such was the condition of things in the army of Northern Virginia in the
first days of October, 1863.
III.
THE OPENING OF THE HUNT.
It soon became obvious that Lee had resolved to strike a blow at his
adversary.
How to do so with advantage seemed a hard problem. Between the opponents
lay the Rapidan, which would be an ugly obstacle in the path of an army
retreating after defeat--and the same considerations which deterred
General Meade from attacking Lee, operated to prevent a like movement on
the part of his adversary.
Thus an advance of the Southern army on the enemy’s front was far too
hazardous to be thought of--and the only course left was to assail their
flank. This could either be done by crossing lower down, and cutting the
enemy off from the Rappahannock, or crossing higher up, and cutting him
off from Manassas. Lee determined on the latter--and in a bright morning
early in October the great movement began.
Leaving Fitz Lee’s cavalry and a small force of infantry in the works
on the Rapidan fronting the enemy, General Lee put his columns in motion
for the upper fords.
The men hailed the movement with cheers of delight. As they wound along,
with glittering bayonets, through the hills and across the river, you
could easily see that the old army of Northern Virginia was still in
full feather--that Gettysburg had not shaken it--and that Lee could
count on it for new campaigns and harder combats than any in the past.
The head of the column was directed toward Madison Court-House, which
would enable Lee either to advance directly upon the enemy’s flank
by the Sperryville road, or continue his flank movement, pass the
Rappahannock, and cut off his opponent from Washington.
The advance was an inspiring spectacle. The weather was magnificent,
and the crimson foliage of the wood rivalled the tints of the red
battle-flags, fluttering above the long glittering hedge of bayonets.
Stuart’s cavalry had moved out on the right flank to protect the column
from the observation of the enemy. The campaign of October, 1863, had
opened.
It was to be one of the briefest, but most adventurous movements of the
war. Deciding little, it was yet rich in incident and dramatic scenes.
A brilliant comedy, as it were--just tinged with tragedy--was that
rapid and shifting _raid_ of Lee’s whole army, on Meade. Blood, jests,
laughter, mourning--these were strangely mingled, in the cavalry
movements at least: and to these I proceed.
From the heights, whence you see only the “great events,” the movements
of armies, and the decisive battles, let us now descend into the
lowland, good reader. I will lay before you some incidents, not to be
found in the “official reports;” and I promise to carry you on rapidly!
IV.
THE GAME A-FOOT.
It was a magnificent morning of October,
Stuart leaped to saddle, and, preceded by his red flag rippling gayly
in the wind, set out from his head-quarters in the direction of the
mountains.
He was entering on his last great cavalry campaign--and it was to be one
of his most successful and splendid.
The great soldier, as he advanced that morning, was the beau ideal of a
cavalier. His black plume floated proudly; his sabre rattled; his eyes
danced with joy; his huge mustache curled with laughter; his voice was
gay, sonorous, full of enjoyment of life, health, the grand autumn, and
the adventurous and splendid scenes which his imagination painted. On
his brow he seemed already to feel the breath of victory.
It was rather an immense war-machine, than a man which I looked at
on that morning of October, 1863. Grand physical health, a perfectly
fearless soul, the keenest thirst for action, a stubborn dash which
nothing could break down--all this could be seen in the face and form of
Stuart, as he advanced to take command of his column that day.
On the next morning at daylight he had struck the enemy.
Their outposts of cavalry, supported by infantry, were at Thoroughfare
Mountain, a small range above the little village of James City. Here
Stuart came suddenly upon them, and drove in their pickets:--a moment
afterward he was galloping forward with the gayety of a huntsman after a
fox.
A courier came to meet him from the advance guard, riding at full
gallop.
“Well!” said Stuart.
“A regiment of infantry, general.”
“Where?”
“Yonder in the gap.”
And he pointed to a gorge in the little mountain before us.
Stuart wheeled and beckoned to Gordon, the brave North Carolinian,
who had made the stubborn charge at Barbee’s, in 1862, when Pelham was
attacked, front and rear, by the Federal cavalry.
“We have flushed a regiment of infantry, Gordon. Can you break them?”
“I think I can, general.”
The handsome face of the soldier glowed--his bright eyes flashed.
“All right. Get ready, then, to attack in front. I will take Young, and
strike them at the same moment on the right flank!”
With which words Stuart went at a gallop and joined Young.
That gay and gallant Georgian was at the head of his column; in his
sparkling eyes, and the smile which showed the white teeth under the
black mustache, I saw the same expression of reckless courage which I
had noticed on the day of Fleetwood, when the young Georgian broke the
column on the hill.
Stuart explained his design in three words:--
“Are you ready?”
“All ready, general!”
And Young’s sabre flashed from the scabbard.
At the same instant the crash of carbines in front, indicated Gordon’s
charge.
Young darted to the head of his column.
“Charge!” he shouted.
And leading the column, he descended like a thunderbolt on the enemy’s
flank.
As he did so, Gordon’s men rushed with wild cheers into the gorge.
Shouts, carbine-shots, musket-shots, yells resounded. In five minutes
the Federal infantry, some three hundred in number, were scattered in
headlong flight, leaving the ground strewed with new muskets, whose
barrels shone like burnished silver.
“Good!” Stuart exclaimed, as long lines of prisoners appeared, going to
the rear, “a fair beginning, at least!”
And he rode on rapidly.
V.
THE CHASE.
The cavalry pressed forward without halting and reached the hills above
James City--a magniloquent name, but the “city” was a small affair--a
mere village nestling down amid an amphitheatre of hills.
On the opposite range we saw the enemy’s cavalry drawn up; and, as we
afterward learned, commanded by General Kilpatrick.
They presented a handsome spectacle in the gay autumn sunshine; but we
did not attack them. Stuart’s orders were to protect the march of Ewell
from observation; and this he accomplished by simply holding the Federal
cavalry at arm’s-length. So a demonstration only was made. Skirmishers
advanced, and engaged the enemy. The whole day thus passed in apparent
failure to drive the Federals.
A single incident marked the day. Stuart had taken his position, with
his staff and couriers, on a hill. Here, with his battle-flag floating,
he watched the skirmishers,--and then gradually, the whole party,
stretched on the grass, began to doze.
They were to have a rude waking. I was lying, holding my bridle, half
asleep, when an earthquake seemed to open beneath me. A crash like
thunder accompanied it. I rose quickly, covered with dust. A glance
explained the whole. The enemy had directed a gun upon the tempting
group over which the flag rose, and the percussion-shell had fallen and
burst in our midst.
Strangest of all, no one was hurt.
Stuart laughed, and mounted his horse.
“A good shot!” he said, “look at Surry’s hat!” which, on examination, I
found covered half an inch deep with earth.
In fact, the shell had burst within three feet of my head--was a “line
shot,” and with a little more elevation, would have just reached me.
Then, exit Surry! in a most unmilitary manner, by the bursting of a
percussion-shell.
At nightfall the enemy was still in position, and Stuart had not
advanced.
We spent the night at a farm-house, and were in the saddle again at
dawn.
The hills opposite were deserted. The enemy had retreated. Stuart
pushed on their track down the Sperryville road, passed the village
of Griffinsburg, and near Stonehouse Mountain came on, and pushed them
rapidly back on Culpeper Court-House.
All at once quick firing was heard on our right.
“What is that?” Stuart asked.
“An infantry regiment, general!” said Weller, one of our couriers,
galloping quickly up.
The words acted upon Stuart like the blow of a sword. A wild excitement
seemed to seize him.
“Bring up a squadron!” he shouted--for we were riding ahead without
support; “bring up the cavalry! I am going to charge! Bring me a
squadron!”
And drawing his sword, Stuart rushed at full gallop, alone and
unattended, toward the Federal infantry, whose gun-barrels were seen
glittering in the woods.
Never had I seen him more excited. He was plainly on fire with the idea
of capturing the whole party.
The staff scattered to summon the cavalry, and soon a company came on at
full gallop. It was the “Jefferson Company,” under that brave officer,
Captain George Baylor.
“Charge, and cut them down!” shouted Stuart, his drawn sword flashing
as he forced his horse over fallen trees and the debris of the great
deserted camp.
A fine spectacle followed. As the Federal infantry double-quicked up a
slope, Baylor charged.
As his men darted upon them, they suddenly halted, came to a front-face,
and the long line of gun-barrels fell, as though they were parts of some
glittering war-machine.
The muzzles spouted flame, and the cavalry received the fire at thirty
yards.
It seemed to check them, but it did not. They had come to an impassable
ditch. In another moment, the infantry broke, every man for himself, and
making a detour, the cavalry pursued, and captured large numbers.
For the second time Stuart had charged infantry and broken them. Pushing
on now through the great deserted camps of Stonehouse Mountain, he
descended upon Culpeper.
The enemy’s cavalry retreated, made a stand on the hills beyond, with
their artillery; and seemed to have resolved to retreat no farther.
Suddenly the thunder of artillery came up from the Rapidan. I
was sitting my horse near Stuart and Gordon. They were both
laughing--indeed, Stuart seemed laughing throughout the campaign.
“That is Fitz Lee!” he said; “he has crossed and driven them.”
And turning round,--
“I wish you would go to General Lee, Surry--you will find him toward
Griffinsburg--and tell him we are driving the enemy, and Fitz Lee seems
to be coming up.”
I saluted, and left the two generals laughing as before.
In half an hour I had found General Lee. He was in camp on the
Sperryville road, and was talking to Ewell.
It was a singular contrast. Lee, robust, ruddy, erect, with his large
frank eye--Ewell, slight, emaciated, pale, with small piercing eyes, and
limping on his crutch.
“Thank you, colonel,” General Lee said, with his grave but charming
courtesy; “tell General Stuart to continue to press them back toward the
river.”
And turning to Ewell:--
“You had better move on with your command, general,” he said, in his
measured voice.
Ewell bowed and turned to obey--I returned to Stuart.
He was pushing the Federal cavalry “from pillar to post.” Driven
back from the hill, where they had planted their artillery, they had
retreated on Brandy; Stuart had followed like a fate; Gordon, sent round
to the left, struck their right flank with his old sabreurs; Fitz Lee,
coming up on the right, thundered down on their left--and in the woods
around Brandy took place one of those cavalry combats which, as my
friends, the novelists say, “must be seen to be appreciated!” If the
reader will imagine, in the dusk of evening, a grand hurly-burly made
up of smoke, dust, blood, yells, clashing swords, banging carbines,
thundering cannon, and wild cheers, he will have a faint idea of that
“little affair” at Brandy.
A queer circumstance made this fight irresistibly comic.
Fitz Lee had repulsed Buford on the Rapidan; followed him on his
retreat, harassing him at every step--when, just as Buford reached
Brandy, with Fitz Lee at his heels, Kilpatrick descended on Fitz Lee’s
rear by the Sperryville road, and Stuart thundered down on _his_!
Thus Fitz Lee was pursuing Buford; Kilpatrick, Fitz Lee; and Stuart,
Kilpatrick! It was a grand and comic jumble--except that it came very
near being any thing but comic to that joyous cavalier, “General
Fitz,” as we called him--caught as he was between Generals Buford and
Kilpatrick!
General Fitz was the man for a “tight place,” however--and “his people,”
as he called his cavalry, soon cut through to Stuart.
It was a tough and heavy fight.
“Old Jeb cut off more than he could _chaw_, that time!” said a veteran
afterward, in describing the fight. And at one time it seemed that the
enemy were going to hold their ground.
Fleetwood, beyond, was lined with bayonets, and every knoll was crowned
with cannon: when night fell, however, the whole force had retreated and
crossed the Rappahannock, leaving the ground strewed with their dead and
wounded.
In the dusky woods near Brandy, Stuart sat his horse, looking toward the
Rappahannock, and laughing still. He was talking with brave Fitz Lee,
whose stout figure, flowing beard, and eyes twinkling with humor, were
plain in the starlight. I shall show you that gallant figure more than
once in this volume, reader. You had but to look at him to see that he
was the bravest of soldiers, and the best of comrades.
So night fell on a victory. Stuart had driven the enemy at every step.
He had charged their infantry, cavalry, and artillery, routing all,--and
he was once more in sight of Fleetwood Hill, where he had defeated them
in the preceding June.
Singular current of war! It used to bear us onward; but be taken with
a sudden fancy to flow back to the old spots! See Manassas,
Fredericksburg, Cold Harbor, Chancellorsville!
Fleetwood takes its place with them--twice bloody and memorable. In
sight of it took place two of Stuart’s hardest combats--and both were
victories.
VI.
THE RUSE.
By sunrise Stuart was pushing rapidly up the bank of the Rappahannock
toward Warrenton Springs.
Meade had retreated from Culpeper, and was falling back rapidly. Lee was
pressing on to cut him off in the vicinity of Auburn.
A hot fight took place at Jeffersonton, a little village beyond Hazel
River; and here the enemy fought from house to house, but finally
retreated.
Stuart followed, and came up with their rear retreating over the bridge
at Warrenton Springs.
On the northern bank the Federal sharp-shooters were posted in double
line.
Stuart turned, and saw, not far from him, the Jefferson Company who had
charged so gallantly at Stonehouse Mountain. A movement of his hand, and
they were charging over the bridge.
Suddenly they recoiled. The head files had stopped,--the horses rearing.
The flooring in the centre of the bridge had been torn up--it was
impossible to cross.
The men wheeled and came back under a hot fire of sharp-shooters.
Stuart’s face was fiery.
“To the ford!” he shouted.
And placing himself in front of the men, sword in hand, he led them
through the ford, in face of a heavy fire, charged up the opposite
slope, and the Federal skirmishers scattered in wild flight.
The Twelfth Virginia Cavalry followed them, and they were cut down or
captured.
As the column moved on, Stuart galloped along the line toward the front.
He had just faced death with these men, and at sight of him they raised
a cheer.
“Hurrah for old Jeb!” rose in a shout from the column.
Stuart turned: his face glowed: rising in his stirrups, he took off his
hat and exclaimed:---
“Bully for the old Twelfth!”
The words were unclassic, it may be, reader, but they raised a storm.
“I felt like I could die for old Jeb after that,” one of the men said to
me.
Stuart disappeared, followed by tumultuous cheers, and his column
continued to advance upon Warrenton ahead of the army. He had ridden on
for a quarter of an hour, when he turned to me, and said:--
“I am getting uneasy about things at Culpeper. I wish you would ride
back to Rosser, who is there with two hundred men, and tell him to call
on Young, if he is pushed.” I turned my horse.
“You know where Young is?”
“On the Sperryville road.”
“Exactly--Rosser can count on him. I am going on toward Warrenton.”
And the general and myself parted, riding in opposite directions.
I returned toward Hazel River; passed that stream, and the long rows of
army wagons; and as the sun was sinking, drew near Culpeper.
As I pressed on, I heard the long thunder of cannon coming up from the
direction of Brandy.
What could that sound mean? Had the enemy again advanced and assailed
the small force of cavalry there?
Going on now at full speed, I heard the cannon steadily approaching
Culpeper Court-House. All at once, as I drew near the village, I heard a
tremendous clatter in the streets; a column of cavalry was advancing to
the front--soon the crack of carbines was heard beyond the town.
A short ride brought me to the field, and all was explained. Colonel
Rosser had been attacked by a whole corps of Federal infantry, and two
divisions of cavalry--while his own force was about two hundred men, and
a single gun.
He had offered an obstinate resistance, however, fallen back slowly, and
when about to be driven into the town, Young had come to his aid.
Then followed one of the gayest comedies of the war. Young was the
author of it. You laugh sometimes still, do you not, old comrade, at the
trick you played our friends on that October evening?
Young threw himself into the fight with the true cavalry élan.
Dismounting his whole brigade, he opened a rapid fire on the advancing
enemy; and this obstinate resistance evidently produced a marked effect
upon their imaginations. They had been advancing--they now paused. They
had been full of audacity, and now seemed fearful of some trap. It
was evident that they suspected the presence of a heavy force of
infantry--and night having descended, they halted.
This was the signal for the fifth act of the comedy. Young kindled
camp-fires along two miles of front; brought up his brass band and
played “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” and “Dixie.” It was obvious to the enemy
that at least a corps of Lee’s infantry was there in their front, ready
to renew the action at dawn!
The finale was comic--I shared the blankets of the gallant Georgian that
night--when we rose the enemy’s whole force had disappeared.
Such had been the result of the ruse, and I always regarded the affair
as one of the gayest incidents of the war.
When I left the brave Young, he was laughing in triumph.
If your eye meets this page, old comrade, it may give you another
laugh--and laughter is something in this dull epoch, is it not?
But whether you laugh or sigh, and wherever you may be, health and
happiness attend you!
In the afternoon, I was at Warrenton.
VII.
STUART CAUGHT IN THE TRAP.
I found the general moving toward Auburn, on a reconnoissance.
Meade had been delayed much by uncertainty as to his adversary’s
designs--had scarcely advanced beyond the Rappahannock--and the object
of Stuart was to discover his position and intentions.
That was the work always assigned to the “Eyes and Ears” of the army
Stuart’s cavalry; and the stout cavalier, now at the head of his column,
was on for the railroad, along which the enemy must retreat.
Another comedy was to follow--which came near being a tragedy.
Stuart steadily advanced, and about sunset had passed Auburn, when, as
he was riding at the head of his column, a messenger rode up hastily
from Gordon, holding the rear.
“Well!” said Stuart.
“The enemy are in your rear, general!”
“Impossible!”
“General Gordon sent me to say so.”
Stuart turned and galloped back. Gordon came to meet him.
“The Yankee army are in our rear, general,” said Gordon. “Come, and I
will show you.”
And riding to an eminence he pointed out across the fields, in the
gathering gloom, long lines of infantry and artillery moving toward
Manassas.
Stuart gazed at them keenly. As he sat looking toward them, a staff
officer from the front came up rapidly.
“Well, captain!”
“The enemy are in front, general.”
“Infantry?”
“Yes, with artillery.”
Stuart looked at Gordon.
“A real trap,” he said coolly, knitting his brows.
“Have they seen you, Gordon?” he asked.
“I think not, general.”
“Well, so far all is well. There is nothing to do but to lay low, and
take the chances of getting out.”
Stuart’s voice was never cooler. He looked quietly at the huge column
cutting off his retreat.
“A splendid chance to attack them!” he all at once exclaimed.
And tearing a leaf out of his dispatch-book, he wrote a hasty note to
General Lee. I afterward knew what it contained. Stuart described his
situation, and proposed that Rodes, then near Warrenton, should
attack at dawn--when he would open with his artillery, charge with his
horsemen, and cut his way out.
“A good man in blue uniform now, Gordon.”
Gordon sent off an aid, and the man soon appeared. From top to toe he
was of irreproachable blue; and he listened keenly to his instructions.
Five minutes afterward he had dismounted, given his horse to a comrade,
and was stealing on foot through the thicket toward the Federal column.
A moment afterward he had mingled with their column and disappeared.
Other messengers, also in Federal uniform, were dispatched: the whole
force of cavalry was massed, and concealed in the woods: then darkness
descended; and the long night of anxiety began.
The situation was not agreeable. Stuart was caught in a veritable trap.
On both sides--in his rear and his front--were passing heavy corps of
Federal infantry; their numerous artillery; and their long-drawn columns
of cavalry. Discovery was destruction; the only hope was that the enemy
would not suspect our proximity. If we were once known to be lurking
there, good-bye to Stuart and his men!
So the long night commenced. The hours passed on, and still we were not
discovered. It seemed miraculous that some noise did not betray Stuart’s
hiding-place; but an Unseen Eye seemed to watch over him, and an Unseen
Hand to guard him.
More than once the neigh of a horse rang out on the air of night;
and two or three times the discordant bray of a mule attached to the
artillery startled the silence of the woods. But these sounds were
unheeded. They evidently attracted no attention from the enemy.
Leaning down in their saddles, the men, half overcome by sleep, but
afraid of a rough waking, passed sleepless hours, looking for the dawn.
Stuart was never cooler. On his horse, at the head of his men, he
betrayed no emotion. You would not have known, except for his subdued
tones when speaking to some one, that he and his command were in a
veritable “tight place.” Cool and resolute, he was equal to any event.
Certain capture or destruction of his whole force was imminent.
Thus the night glided away. We had not been discovered. Over the trees
was seen the yellow streak of dawn.
I looked round. The men’s faces were haggard from want of sleep. But
they evidently felt perfect confidence in Stuart.
He hastened to justify it.
No sooner had light come than he placed his artillery in position. As it
grew and broadened, the enemy were seen just on a hill in front of us,
busily cooking their breakfasts.
Suddenly a single cannon sent its long thunder, dull and reverberating,
through the woods, from the direction of Warrenton.
Stuart rose erect in his saddle, and looked in the direction of the
sound, his eyes glowing.
Another followed; then another; then a long, continuous bellow of
artillery, making the hills echo.
There was no longer any doubt about the fate of the messengers. Lee
had received the dispatches; Rodes had opened on the Federal columns,
attacking as that good soldier knew how to attack.
Stuart darted to his guns. On his countenance was a grim smile.
“Attention!” he exclaimed.
The cannoneers ran to their posts, a cheer rose, the next instant the
guns spouted flame; shell after shell in rapid succession screamed
through the woods--and bursting in the midst of the blue groups, threw
them into the wildest disorder.
Stuart did not allow the panic to subside. His sharp-shooters opened
at the same instant a determined fire; the great cavalier went at
full speed to the head of his column:--then rushing like an avalanche,
troopers and artillery, charged the column in front, burst through,
trampling it as he went, and at a gallop the gray horsemen, with guns
following, broke out; and were again free.
Stuart was out of the trap. From one of the “tightest places” that a
commander was ever in he had extricated his whole command.
Once in safety, he turned like a wild boar on his enemies. In ten
minutes his artillery had taken a new position--its thunders had
opened--its roar told the army, that his feather still floated, his star
was still in the ascendant.
Such was that queer affair of Auburn. Few more curious incidents
occurred in the war.
A brave officer of the infantry had accompanied us as an amateur.
“I’ve got enough of the cavalry,” he said, laughing; “I am going back to
the infantry. It is safer!”
VIII.
GENERAL MEADE’S “EYE-TEETH.”
Stuart came back laughing from his adventure.
The army hailed his reappearance with joy and cheers.
They had already split the air with shouts in honor of the cavalry, on
that evening at Warrenton Springs, when Stuart charged through the ford.
“Hurrah for Stuart!” was now the exclamation everywhere. And let me add
that the stout cavalier keenly enjoyed his popularity. He was brave and
fond of glory--approbation delighted him. In his ears, praise, sympathy,
admiration, sounded sweet.
General Lee continued to press forward, but the golden moment for
intercepting Meade had fled.
He had not been cut off in Culpeper; he had not been cut off at
Warrenton; he was not going to be cut off at Bristoe, near Manassas.
Hill had been sent in that direction to intercept the enemy’s retreat,
but on the afternoon succeeding the adventure of Stuart, an ugly blow
was dealt him on the banks of Deep Run.
He came up with the enemy’s rear guard under their brave General Warren;
assailed it in front of an embankment furiously, and suffered a heavy
repulse.
General Cooke was shot down at the head of his men; the brigade was
nearly cut to pieces; and Warren retreated across Deep Run, in grim
triumph, carrying off several pieces of Hill’s artillery.
It was a grievous blow, and affected the brave Hill deeply. General Lee
was no less melancholy; it is said that he was both gloomy and restive.
It was reported, I know not upon what authority, that when he and
General Hill were riding over the field, and Hill essayed to explain the
unfortunate affair, the commander-in-chief shook his head, and said in
grave tones:--
“Say no more, general--have these poor dead soldiers buried.”
From the hill above Bristoe, General Lee, accompanied by Stuart, looked
out in the direction of Manassas. Not a blue coat was to be seen. Meade
had made good his retreat. Everywhere he had eluded the blows of his
great adversary--and in parting from him, finally, at Bristoe, had left
blood in his foot-steps--the blood of some of Lee’s best soldiers.
It is said that General Meade made this retreat under protest--and
that he was everywhere looking for a position to fight. A Northern
correspondent described how, sitting with him by the camp-fire, General
Meade had said:--
“It was like pulling out my eye-teeth not to have had a fight!”
Did he say that? Then he was out-generalled.
But he had succeeded in retreating safely. He was behind the works of
Centreville: Lee had stopped the pursuit.
There was nothing more, indeed, to be done. Lee must retire, or attack
the enemy behind their earth-works. That was not very promising, and he
fell back toward his old camps, on the Rapidan.
Nothing prevented the cavalry, however, from “feeling” the enemy in
their new position; and Stuart rapidly advanced to Bull Run, across
which Fitz Lee drove the Federal horsemen.
A raid toward their rear, by Stuart, followed. He moved toward Groveton;
deflected to the left, and crossed the Catharpin in a violent storm;
advanced next day toward Frying-Pan; then striking the Second Corps of
Meade, and throwing it into confusion, by producing the impression that
his force was Lee’s whole army, he quietly retired by the way he had
come.
His disappearance revealed all. The enemy perceived that the attack
was only a “cavalry raid,” and were seized with immense indignation. A
picked division was sent out in pursuit of the daring raiders--and this
force of horsemen, about three thousand in number, hurried across Bull
Run to punish Stuart.
They were commanded by the ardent General Kilpatrick:--what followed is
known as the “Buckland Races.”
IX.
WHAT THE AUTHOR HAS OMITTED.
Such is a rapid summary of the cavalry operations succeeding the action
of Bristoe.
Those readers who cry out for “movement! movement!” are respectfully
requested to observe that I have passed over much ground, and many
events in a few paragraphs:--and yet I might have dwelt on more than one
scene which, possibly, might have interested the worthy reader.
There was the gallant figure of General Fitz Lee, at the head of
his horsemen, advancing to charge what he supposed to be the enemy’s
artillery near Bristoe, and singing as he went, in the gayest voice:--
“Rest in peace! rest in peace!
Slumb’ring lady love of mine;
Rest in peace! rest in peace!
Sleep on!”
There was the charge over the barricade near Yates’s Ford, where a
strange figure mingled just at dusk with the staff, and when arrested as
he was edging away in the dark, coolly announced that he belonged to the
“First Maine Cavalry.”
There was the march toward Chantilly, amid the drenching storm, when
Stuart rode along laughing and shouting his camp songs, with the rain
descending in torrents from his heavy brown beard.
There was the splendid advance on the day succeeding, through the rich
autumn forest, of all the colors of the rainbow.
Then the fight at Frying-Pan; arousing the hornets’ nest there, and the
feat performed by Colonel Surry, in carrying off through the fire of
the sharp-shooters, on the pommel of his saddle, a beautiful girl who
declared that she was “not at all afraid!”
These and many other scenes come back to memory as I sit here at Eagle’s
Nest. But were I to describe all I witnessed during the war, I should
never cease writing. All these must be passed over--my canvas is
limited, and I have so many figures to draw, so many pictures to paint,
that every square inch is valuable.
That is the vice of “memoirs,” reader. The memory is an immense
receptacle--it holds every thing, and often trifles take the prominent
place, instead of great events. You are interested in those trifles,
when they are part of your own experience; but perhaps, they bore your
listener and make him yawn--a terrible catastrophe!
So I pass to some real and _bona fide_ “events.” Sabres are going to
clash now, and some figures whom the reader I hope has not forgotten are
going to ride for the prize in the famous Buckland Races.
X.
I FALL A VICTIM TO TOM’S ILL-LUCK.
Stuart had fallen back, and had reached the vicinity of Buckland.
There was a bright light in his blue eyes, a meaning smile on his
mustached lip, which in due time I was going to understand.
Kilpatrick was following him. From the rear guard came the crack of
skirmishers. It seemed hard to understand, but the fact was perfectly
evident, that Stuart was retreating.
I had fallen out of the column, and was riding with Tom Herbert. Have
you forgotten that worthy, my dear reader? Has the roar of Gettysburg
driven him quite from your memory? I hope not. I have not mentioned
him for a long time, so many things have diverted me--but we had ridden
together, slept together, fought together, and starved together! Tom had
come to be one of my best friends, in fact, and his charming good humor
beguiled many a weary march. To hear him laugh was real enjoyment; and
when he would suddenly burst forth with,
“Oh look at the riggings
On Billy Barlo--o--o--ow!”
the sternest faces relaxed, the sourest personages could not but laugh.
Brave and honest fop! Where are you to-day, _mon garçon_! I wish I could
see you and hear you sing again!
But I am prosing. Riding beside Tom, I was looking down and thinking
of a certain young lady, when an exclamation from my companion made me
raise my head.
“By George! there’s the house, old fellow!”
“The house?”
“Of the famous supper.”
“So it is!”
“And my inamorata, Surry! I wonder if she is still there?”
“Inamorata? What is her other name?”
Tom laughed, and began to sing in his gayest voice,
“Oh, Katy! Katy!
Don’t marry any other;
You’ll break my heart, and kill me dead,
And then be hanged for murder!”
“That is answer enough,” I said, laughing.
“Suppose we go and see if they are still alive,” Tom said, blushing;
“ten minutes will take us to the house.”
In fact, I saw across the fields, embowered in foliage, the hospitable
mansion in which we had eaten the famous supper, on the route to
Pennsylvania.
“It is risky,” I said, hesitating.
“But pleasing,” retorted Tom, with a laugh.
And I saw, from his flushed face, that he had set his heart on the
visit.
That conquered me. I never could refuse Tom Herbert any thing; and we
were soon cantering toward the house.
Leaving our horses in a little grove, near the mansion, in order that
they might not attract the attention of any of the enemy’s vedettes, we
hastened up the steps.
As we reached the door, it opened, and Miss Katy Dare, the heroine of
Tom’s dreams, very nearly precipitated herself into our arms.
“Oh, I am so glad to see you!” she exclaimed, with her auburn ringlets
dancing, her eyes sparkling,--and taking care to look at _me_ as she
uttered the words.
Then a whole bevy of young ladies hastened out to welcome us.
Where had we been? Why were we going back? Could General Stuart intend
to leave them in the Yankee lines again? Oh, no! he could not! He could
not have the heart to! Was he coming to see them? Oh, the sight of gray
uniforms was HEAVENLY!!!
And the young damsels positively overwhelmed me with exclamations and
interrogatories. Eyes danced, lips smiled, cheeks glowed--they hung
around me, and seemed wild with enthusiasm and delight.
Around _me_, I say--for Tom and Miss Katy had accidentally strolled into
a conservatory near at hand. A glass door gave access to it, and they
had “gone to examine the flowers,” the young ladies said, with rapturous
smiles and little nods.
Meanwhile, “the wants of the soldiers” were by no means forgotten. Busy
hands brought in china, silver, and snowy napkins. On the table the
waiter was soon deposited, containing a splendid, miraculous array
of edibles, and these were flanked by decanters containing excellent
home-made wine.
This consumed half an hour--but at last the repast was ready, and one of
the young ladies hastened toward the conservatory, uttering a discreet
little “ahem!” which made her companions laugh.
In an instant Tom made his appearance with a decided color in his
cheeks; and Miss Katy--well, Miss Katy’s face was the color of a peony,
or a carnation.
Shall I reveal to you, gentle reader, what Tom told me long afterward?
He had advanced and been repulsed--had attacked and been “scattered.”
Pardon the slang of the army, and admire the expeditious operations of
the gentlemen of the cavalry!
Tom was blushing, but laughing too. He was game, if he _was_
unfortunate. He did not even decline the material enjoyment of lunch,
and having led in the young Miss Katy, with a charmingly foppish air,
took his seat at the table, which promised so much pleasure of another
description.
The fates frowned on us. Tom was unlucky that day, and I was drawn into
the vortex of bad fortune.
Suddenly a clatter of hoofs came from the grass plat in front of the
house; the rattle of sabres from a company of cavalry followed; and the
young ladies had just time to thrust us into the conservatory, when
the door opened, and an officer in blue uniform, accompanied by a lady,
entered the apartment.
XI.
I OVERHEAR A SINGULAR CONVERSATION.
I recognized the new-comers at a glance. They were Darke, and the gray
woman.
There was no mistaking that powerful figure, of low stature, but
herculean proportions; that gloomy and phlegmatic face, half-covered
with the black beard; and the eye glancing warily, but with a reckless
fire in them, from beneath the heavy eye-brows.
The woman wore an elegant gray riding habit--gray seemed a favorite with
her. Her cheeks were as white as ever, and her lips as red. Her bearing
was perfectly composed, and she advanced, with the long riding skirt
thrown over her arm, walking with exquisite grace.
All this I could easily see. The glass door of the conservatory had been
left ajar in the hurry of our retreat, and from behind the lemon-trees
and flower-bushes, we could see into the apartment without difficulty.
There was evidently little danger of our discovery. The new-comers had
plainly entered the house with no design to search it. Darke advanced
into the apartment; made the ladies a bow, which more than ever
convinced me that he had been familiar with good society; and requested
food for the lady. She had tasted none for many hours, and was faint. He
would not ask it for himself, inasmuch as he was an enemy.
He bowed again as he spoke, and was silent.
The young ladies had listened coldly. As he finished, they pointed to
the waiter, and without speaking, they left the apartment.
Darke was left alone with the woman in gray. She seemed to have regarded
ceremony as unnecessary. Going to the table, she had already helped
herself, and for some moments devoured, rather than ate, the food before
her.
Then she rose, and went and took her seat in a rocking-chair near the
fire. Darke remained erect, gazing at her, in silence.
The lady rocked to and fro, pushed back her dark hair with the snowy
hand, and looking at her companion, began to laugh.
“You are not hungry?” she said.
“No,” was his reply.
“And to think that a romantic young creature like myself _should_ be!”
“It was natural. I hoped that you would have given up this fancy of
accompanying me. You can not stand the fatigue.”
“I can stand it easily,” she said. “When we have a cherished object,
weariness does not count.”
“A cherished object! What is yours?”
“Sit down, and I will tell you. I am tired. You can rejoin the column in
ten minutes.”
“So be it,” said Darke, gloomily.
And he sat down near her.
“You wish to be informed of my object in going with you everywhere,” she
said. And her voice which had at first been gay and careless, assumed a
mocking accent, making the nerves tingle. “I can explain in a very few
words my romantic desire. I wish to see _him_ fall.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Darke, coldly; “you mean--”
“That man--yes. You promised to kill him, when you next met. Did you not
promise me that?”
Darke looked at the speaker with grim admiration.
“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.