even to-day, when nearly four years have passed.
In my eyes, the locality is cursed. A gloomy cloud seems ever hanging
over it. No birds sing in the trees. The very sunshine of the summer
days is sad there.
But I pass to my brief description of the place, and the event which
made it one of the black names in Southern history.
Yellow Tavern is an old dismantled hostelry, on the Brook road, about
six miles from Richmond. Nothing more dreary than this desolate wayside
inn can be imagined. Its doors stand open, its windows are gone, the
rotting floor crumbles beneath the heel, and the winds moan through the
paneless sashes, like invisible spirits hovering near and muttering some
lugubrious secret. “This is the scene of some deed of darkness!” you are
tempted to mutter, as you place your feet upon the threshold. When you
leave the spot behind you, a weight seems lifted from your breast--you
breathe freer.
Such was the Yellow Tavern when I went there in the spring of 1864. Is
it different to-day? Do human beings laugh there? I know not; but I know
that nothing could make it cheerful in my eyes. It was, and is, and ever
will be, a thing accursed!
For the military reader, however, a few words in reference to the
topographical features of the locality are necessary.
Yellow Tavern is at the forks of the Telegraph and Mountain roads, six
miles from Richmond. The Telegraph road runs north and south--over this
road Stuart marched. The Mountain road comes into it from the northwest.
By this road Sheridan was coming.
Open the left hand, with the palm upward; the index finger pointing
north. The thumb is the Mountain road; the index-finger the Telegraph
road; where the thumb joins the hand is the Yellow Tavern in open
fields; and Richmond is at the wrist.
Toward the head of the thumb is a wood. Here Wickham, commanding
Stuart’s right, was placed, his line facing the Mountain road so as to
strike the approaching enemy in flank.
From Wickham’s left, or near it, Stuart’s left wing, under Lomax,
extended along the Telegraph road to the Tavern--the two lines thus
forming an obtuse angle.
On a hill, near Lomax’s right, was Breathed with his guns.
The object of this disposition of Stuart’s force will be seen at a
glance. Lomax, commanding the left, was across the enemy’s front;
Wickham, commanding the right, was on their flank; and the artillery was
so posted as to sweep at once the front of both Stuart’s wings.
The enemy’s advance would bring them to the first joint of the thumb.
There they would receive Lomax’s fire in front; Wickham’s in flank; and
Breathed’s transversely. The cross fire on that point, over which the
enemy must pass, would be deadly. Take a pencil, reader, and draw the
diagram, and lines of fire. That will show Stuart’s excellent design.
Stuart had reached Yellow Tavern, and made his dispositions before the
arrival of Sheridan, who was, nevertheless, rapidly advancing by the
Mountain road. Major McClellan, adjutant-general, had been sent to
General Bragg, with a suggestion that the latter should attack from
the direction of the city, at the moment when the cavalry assailed the
Federal flank. All was ready.
It was the morning of May 11th, 1864.
Never was scene more beautiful and inspiring. The men were jaded, like
their horses; but no heart shrank from the coming encounter. Stretching
in a thin line from the tavern into the woods on the right of the
Mountain road, the men sat their horses, with drawn sabres gleaming in
the sun; and the red battle-flags waved proudly in the fresh May breeze,
as though saluting Stuart, who rode in front of them.
Such was the scene at Yellow Tavern. The moment had come. At about
eight, a stifled hum, mixed with the tramp of hoofs, was heard. Then a
courier came at a gallop, from the right, to Stuart. The enemy were in
sight, and advancing rapidly.
Stuart was sitting his horse near Yellow Tavern when that intelligence
reached him. He rose in his saddle, took his field-glasses from their
leathern case, and looked through them in the direction of the woods
across the Mountain road.
Suddenly, quick firing came on the wind--then, loud shouts. Stuart
lowered his glasses, shut them up, replaced them in their case, and drew
his sabre.
Never had I seen him present an appearance more superb. His head
was carried proudly erect, his black plume floated, his blue eyes
flashed--he was the _beau ideal_ of a soldier, and as one of his bravest
officers[1] afterward said to me, looked as if he had resolved on
“victory or death.” I had seen him often aroused and strung for action.
On this morning he seemed on fire, and resembled a veritable king of
battle.
[Footnote 1: Breathed.]
Suddenly, the skirmish line of the enemy appeared in front of the woods,
and a quick fire was opened on Stuart’s sharp-shooters under Colonel
Pate, in the angle of the two roads; Stuart hastened to take the real
initiative. He posted two guns on a rising ground in the angle, and
opened a heavy fire; and galled by this fire, the enemy suddenly made a
determined charge upon the guns.
Stuart rose in his stirrups and gazed coolly at the heavy line advancing
upon him, and forcing Pate’s handful back.
“Take back the guns!” he said.
They were limbered up, and went off rapidly.
At the same moment Colonel Pate appeared, his men obstinately contesting
every foot of ground as they fell back toward the Telegraph road, where
a deep cut promised them advantage.
Colonel Pate was a tall, fair-haired officer, with a ready smile, and a
cordial bearing. He and Stuart had bitterly quarrelled, and the general
had court-martialed the colonel. It is scarcely too much to say that
they had been deadly enemies.
For the first time now, since their collision, they met. But on this day
their enmity seemed dead. The two men about to die grasped each other’s
hands.
“They are pressing you back, colonel!” exclaimed Stuart.
“Yes, general, I have but three skeleton squadrons! and you see their
force.”
“You are right. You have done all that any man could. Can you hold this
cut?”
“I will try, general.”
Their glances crossed. Never was Stuart’s face kinder.
“If you say you will, you will do it! Hold this position to the last,
colonel.”
“I’ll hold it until I die, general.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
With a pressure of the hand they parted.
Fifteen minutes afterward, Pate was dead. Attacked at once in front and
on both flanks in the road, his little force had been cut to pieces. He
fell with three of his captains, and his handful were scattered.
Stuart witnessed all, and his eye grew fiery.
“Pate has died the death of a hero!”[1] he exclaimed.
[Footnote 1: His words.]
“Order Wickham to dismount his brigade, and attack on the right!” he
added to Lieutenant Garnett, aid-de-camp. Twenty minutes afterward,
Wickham’s men were seen advancing, and driving the enemy before them.
This relieved the left, and Wickham continued to push on until he struck
up against a heavy line behind rail breastworks in the woods.
He then fell back, and each side remained motionless, awaiting the
movement of the other.
Such was the preface to the real battle of Yellow Tavern,--the species
of demonstration which preluded the furious grapple.
Stuart’s melancholy had all vanished. He was in splendid spirits. He
hastened back his artillery to the point from which it had been driven,
and soon its defiant roar was heard rising above the woods.
At the same moment a courier galloped up.
“What news?”
“A dispatch from Gordon, general.”
Stuart took it and read it with high good humor.
“Gordon has had a handsome little affair this morning,” he said; “he has
whipped them.”
And looking toward the northwest--
“I wish Gordon was here,”[1] he said.
[Footnote 1: His words.]
The guns continued to roar, and the enemy had not again advanced. It was
nearly four o’clock. Night approached.
But the great blow was coming.
Stuart was sitting his horse near the guns, with Breathed beside him.
Suddenly the edge of the woods on the Mountain road swarmed with blue
horsemen. As they appeared, the long lines of sabres darted from the
scabbards; then they rushed like a hurricane toward the guns.
The attack was so sudden and overpowering, that nothing could stand
before it. For a short time the men fought desperately, crossing sabres
and using their pistols. But the enemy’s numbers were too great. The
left was driven back. With triumphant cheers, the Federal troopers
pressed upon them to drive them completely from the field.
Suddenly, as the men fell back, Stuart appeared, with drawn sabre, among
them, calling upon them to rally. His voice rose above the fire, and a
wild cheer greeted him.
The men rallied, the enemy were met again, sabre to sabre, and the field
became a scene of the most desperate conflict.
Stuart led every charge. I shall never forget the appearance which he
presented at that moment; with one hand he controlled his restive horse,
with the other he grasped his sabre; in his cheeks burned the hot blood
of the soldier.
“Breathed!” he exclaimed.
“General!”
“Take command of all the mounted men in the road, and hold it against
whatever may come! If this road is lost, we are gone!”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
Breathed darted to the head of the men and shouted:--
“Follow me!”
His sword flashed lightning, and digging the spur into his horse, he
darted ahead of the column, disappearing in the middle of a swarm of
enemies.
A superb sight followed. Breathed was seen in the midst of the Federal
cavalry defending himself, with pistol and sabre, against the blows
which were aimed at him on every side.
He cut one officer out of the saddle; killed a lieutenant with a pistol
ball; was shot slightly in the side, and a sabre stroke laid open his
head. But five minutes afterward he was seen to clear a path with his
sabre, and reappear, streaming with blood.[1]
[Footnote: This incident, like all here related as attending this
battle, is rigidly true.]
The momentary repulse effected nothing. The enemy re-formed their line,
and again charged the guns, which were pouring a heavy fire upon them.
As they rushed forward, the hoofs of their horses shook the ground. A
deafening cheer arose from the blue line.
Stuart was looking at them, and spurred out in front of the guns.
His eyes flashed, and, taking off his brown felt hat, he waved it and
cheered.
Then he wheeled to take command of a column of Lomax’s men, coming to
meet the charge.
They were too late. In a moment the enemy were trampling among the guns.
All but one were captured, and that piece was saved only by the terror
of the drivers. They lashed their horses into a gallop, and rushed
toward the Chickahominy, followed by the cannoneers who were cursing
them, and shouting:--
“For God’s sake, boys, let’s go back! They’ve got Breathed! Let’s go
back to him!”[1]
[Footnote 1: Their words.]
That terror of the drivers, which the cannoneers cursed so bitterly,
ended all. The gun, whirling on at wild speed, suddenly struck against
the head of the column advancing to meet the enemy. A war-engine hurled
against it could not have more effectually broken it. Before it could
re-form the enemy had struck it, forced it back; and then the whole
Federal force of cavalry was hurled upon Stuart.
His right, where Fitz Lee commanded in person, was giving back. His left
was broken and driven. The day was evidently lost; and Stuart, with a
sort of desperation, rushed into the midst of the enemy, calling upon
his men to rally, and firing his pistol in the faces of the Federal
cavalrymen.
Suddenly, one of them darted past him toward the rear, and as he did so,
placed his pistol nearly on Stuart’s body, and fired.
As the man disappeared in the smoke, Stuart’s hand went quickly to his
side, he reeled in the saddle, and would have fallen had not Captain
Dorsay, of the First Virginia Cavalry, caught him in his arms.
The bullet had passed through his side into the stomach, and wounded him
mortally. In its passage, it just grazed a small Bible in his pocket.
The Bible was the gift of his mother--but the Almighty had decreed that
it should not turn the fatal bullet.
Stuart’s immense vitality sustained him for a moment. Pale, and
tottering in the saddle, he still surveyed the field, and called on the
men to rally.
“Go back,” he exclaimed, “and do your duty, as I have done mine! And our
country will be safe!”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
A moment afterward he called out again to the men passing him:--
“Go back! go back! I’d rather die than be whipped!”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
The old lightning flashed from his eyes as he spoke. Then a mist passed
over them; his head sank upon his breast; and, still supported in the
saddle, he was led through the woods toward the Chickahominy.
Suddenly, Fitzhugh Lee, who had been stubbornly fighting on the right,
galloped up, and accosted Stuart. His face was flushed, his eyes moist.
“You are wounded!” he exclaimed.
“Badly,” Stuart replied, “but look out, Fitz! Yonder they come!”
A glance showed all. In the midst of a wild uproar of clashing sabres,
quick shots, and resounding cries, the Federal cavalry were rushing
forward to overwhelm the disordered lines.
Stuart’s eye flashed for the last time. Turning to General Fitzhugh Lee,
he exclaimed in a full, sonorous voice:--
“Go ahead, Fitz, old fellow! I know you will do what is right!”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
This was the last order he ever gave upon the field. As he spoke, his
head sank, his eyes closed, and he was borne toward the rear.
There was scarcely time to save him from capture. His wound seemed to
have been the signal for his lines to break. They had now given way
everywhere--the enemy were pressing them with loud shouts. Fighting with
stubborn desperation, they fell back toward the Chickahominy, which they
crossed, hotly pressed by the victorious enemy.
Stuart had been placed in an ambulance and borne across the stream,
where Dr. Randolph and Dr. Fontaine made a brief examination of his
wound. It was plainly mortal--but he was hastily driven, by way of
Mechanicsville, into Richmond.
His hard fighting had saved the city. When Sheridan attacked, he was
repulsed.
But the capital was dearly purchased. Twenty-four hours afterward Stuart
was dead.
[Illustration: DEATH OF STUART]
The end of the great cavalier had been as serene as his life was stormy.
His death was that of the Christian warrior, who bows to the will of
God, and accepts whatever His loving hand decrees for him.
He asked repeatedly that his favorite hymns should be sung for him; and
when President Davis visited him, and asked:--
“General, how do you feel?”
“Easy, but willing to die,” he said, “if God and my country think I have
fulfilled my destiny, and done my duty.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
As night came, he requested his physician to inform him if he thought
he would live till morning. The physician replied that his death was
rapidly approaching, when he faintly bowed his head, and murmured:--
“I am resigned, if it be God’s will. I should like to see my wife, but
God’s will be done.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
When the proposed attack upon Sheridan, near Mechanicsville, was spoken
of in his presence, he said:--
“God grant that it may be successful. I wish I could be there.” *
Turning his face toward the pillow, he added, with tears in his eyes,
“but I must prepare for another world.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
Feeling now that his end was near, he made his last dispositions.
“You will find in my hat,” he said to a member of his staff, “a little
Confederate flag, which a lady of Columbia, South Carolina, sent me,
requesting that I would wear it on my horse in battle, and return it to
her. Send it to her.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
He gave then the name of the lady, and added:--
“My spurs--those always worn in battle--I promised to give to Mrs. Lily
Lee, at Shepherdstown. My sabre I leave to my son.”
His horses and equipments were then given to his staff--his papers
directed to be sent to his wife.
A prayer was then offered by the minister at his bedside: his lips moved
as he repeated the words. As the prayer ended he murmured:--
“I am going fast now--I am resigned. God’s will be done!”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
As the words escaped from his lips, he expired.
BOOK III.
BEHIND THE SCENES.
I.
WHAT I DID NOT SEE.
I was not at Stuart’s bedside when he died. While aiding the rest
to hold him in the saddle, I had been shot through the shoulder; and
twenty-four hours afterward I lay, at the house of a friend in Richmond,
turning and tossing with fever.
In my delirium I heard a mournful tolling of bells. It was many days,
however, before I knew that they were tolling for Stuart.
When, at last, after more than a month’s confinement to my bed, I rose,
and began to totter about,--pale, faint, and weak, but convalescent--my
great loss, for the first time, struck me in all its force.
Where should I turn now--and whither should I go? Jackson dead at
Chancellorsville--Stuart at Yellow Tavern--thenceforth I seemed to have
lost my support, to grope and totter in darkness, without a guide! These
two kings of battle had gone down in the storm, and, like the Knight
of Arthur, I looked around me, with vacant and inquiring eyes, asking
whither I was now to direct my steps, and what work I should work in the
coming years. Jackson! Stuart!--who could replace them? They had loved
and trusted me--their head-quarters had been my home. Now, when they
disappeared, I had no friends, no home; and an inexpressible sense
of loss descended upon me, as a dark cloud descends and obscures a
landscape, smiling and full of sunshine.
Another woe had come to me. My father was dead. The war had snapped the
chords of that stout heart as it snapped the chords of thousands, and
the illustrious head of the house had descended into the tomb. From this
double blow I scarcely had strength to rise. For weeks I remained in a
sort of dumb stupor; and was only aroused from it by the necessity of
looking after my family affairs.
As soon as I had strength to mount my horse, I rode to Eagle’s Nest. A
good aunt had come and installed herself as the friend and protector of
my little Annie; and with the arms of my young sister around me, I wept
for my father.
I remained at Eagle’s Nest more than two months. The long ride had made
the wound in my shoulder reopen, and I was again stretched upon a bed of
illness, from which, at one time, I thought I should not rise. More than
once I made a narrow escape from scouting parties of Federal cavalry in
the neighborhood; and on one occasion, an officer entered my chamber,
but left me unmolested, under the impression that I was too ill to live.
It was late in the month of August before I rose from my bed again, and
set out on my return.
In those three months and a half--counting from the time I left
Spottsylvania with Stuart--great events had happened in Virginia.
Grant’s hammer and Lee’s rapier had been clashing day and night. Hill
and valley, mountain and lowland--Virginia and Maryland--had thundered.
General Grant had hastened forward from the Wilderness, only to find
Lee confronting him behind breastworks at Spottsylvania Court-House. The
Confederate commander had taken up a defensive position on the line of
the Po; and for more than two weeks Grant threw his masses against the
works of his adversary, in desperate attempts to break through.
On the 12th of May, at daylight, he nearly succeeded. “The Horse
Shoe” salient was charged in the dusk of morning; the Southerners
were surprised, and bayoneted in the trenches; the works carried; the
artillery captured; and a large number of prisoners fell into the hands
of the enemy.
The blow was heavy, but General Grant derived little advantage from it.
Lee rallied his troops; formed a new line; and repulsed every assault
made on it, throughout the entire day. When night fell, Grant had not
advanced further; Lee’s position was stronger than before, and plainly
impregnable.
For many days, Grant was occupied in reconnoitring and feeling his
adversary. At the end of a week, the hope of breaking Lee’s line was
seen to be desperate.
Then commenced the second great “movement by the left flank” toward
Richmond.
Grant disappeared one morning, and hastened toward Hanover Junction.
When he arrived, Lee was there in his front, ready to receive him. And
the new position was stronger, if any thing, than that of Spottsylvania.
Grant felt it; abandoned the attempt to carry it, at once; and again
moved, on his swift and stealthy way, by the left flank toward Richmond.
Crossing the Pamunkey at Hanovertown, he made straight for the capital;
but reaching the Tottapotomoi, he found Lee again awaiting him.
Then the days and nights thundered, as they had been thundering since
the day when Grant crossed the Rapidan. Lee could not be driven, and the
Federal movement by the left flank began again.
Grant made for Cold Harbor, and massed his army to burst through the
Chickahominy, and seize Richmond. The huge engine began to move at
daylight, on the third of June. Half an hour afterward, 13,000 of
General Grant’s forces were dead or wounded. He was repulsed and driven
back. His whole loss, from the moment of crossing the Rapidan, had been
about 60,000 men.
That ended all hopes of forcing the lines of the Chickahominy. The
Federal commander gave up the attempt in despair, and resumed his
Wandering-Jew march. Moving still by the left flank, he hastened to
cross James River and advance on Petersburg. But Lee was again too rapid
for him. In the works south of the Appomattox the gray infantry, under
the brave General Wise, confronted the enemy. They repulsed every
assault, and Grant sat down to lay siege to Richmond from the distance
of thirty miles.
Such had been the great campaign of the summer of 1864 in Virginia.
Lee had everywhere stood at bay, and repulsed every attack: he had also
struck in return a great aggressive blow, in Maryland.
At Cold Harbor, early in June, news had arrived that a Federal column,
under Hunter, was advancing on Lynchburg. A force was sent to intercept
Hunter, under the command of Early. That hard fighter crossed the
mountains; attacked his adversary; drove him beyond the Alleghanies; and
then, returning on his steps, hurried down the Shenandoah Valley toward
the Potomac, driving every thing before him. Once at the Potomac, he
hastened to cross into Maryland. Once in Maryland, Early advanced,
without loss of time, upon Washington. At Monocacy he met and defeated
General Wallace; pressed after him toward Washington; and reaching
the outer works, advanced his lines to the assault. But he had but a
handful, after the long and prostrating march. His numbers were wholly
inadequate to storm the defences of the capital. Grant had sent forward,
in haste, two army corps to defend the city, and Early was compelled
to retreat across the Potomac to the Shenandoah Valley, with the sole
satisfaction of reflecting that he had given the enemy a great “scare,”
and had flaunted the red-cross flag in front of the ramparts of
Washington.
I have not space to describe the cavalry movements of the summer.
Hampton had succeeded Stuart in command of all the cavalry, and the
country soon heard the ring of his heavy blows.
In June, Sheridan was sent to capture Gordonsville and Charlottesville;
but Hampton checked and defeated him in a fierce action near
Trevillian’s, and in another at Charlottesville; pursued him to the
White House; hurried him on to James River; and Sheridan crossed that
stream on pontoons, glad, no doubt, to get back to the blue infantry.
Hampton crossed also; penetrated to Dinwiddie; defeated the enemy at
Sappony church, capturing their men and artillery--everywhere they had
been routed, with a total loss of more than 2,000 prisoners.
Such were the events which had taken place during my tedious illness.
They came to me only in vague rumors, or by means of chance newspapers
sent by my neighbors. At last, however, I rose from my sick couch, and
embracing my aunt and sister, who were to remain together at Eagle’s
Nest, set out on my return.
Stuart’s staff were all scattered, and seeking new positions. I was one
of them, and I again asked myself more gloomily than at first, “Where
shall I go?” The gentlemen of the red tape at Richmond would doubtless
inform me, however; and riding on steadily, with a keen look out for
scouting parties, I at last reached the city.
On the next day I filed my application in the war office, to be assigned
to duty.
A week afterward I had not heard from it.
Messieurs, the red tapists, were evidently not in the least bit of a
hurry--and hat in hand I awaited their good pleasure.
II.
THE “DOOMED CITY.”
Richmond presented a singular spectacle in that summer of 1864.
It was styled “the doomed city,” by our friends over the border, and in
truth there was something gloomy and tragic in its appearance--in the
very atmosphere surrounding it.
On every countenance you could read anxiety, poverty, the wasting effect
of the terrible suffering and suspense of the epoch. All things combined
to deepen the colors of the sombre picture. Hope long deferred had
sickened the stoutest hearts. Men were nervous, anxious, burnt up by the
hot fever of war. Provisions of every description were sold at enormous
prices. Fathers of families could scarcely procure the plainest food
for their wives and children. The streets were dotted with poor widows,
bereaved sisters, weeping mothers, and pale daughters, whose black
dresses told the story of their loss to all eyes. Hunger clutched at the
stomach; agony tore the heart. Soldiers, pale and tottering from their
wounds, staggered by. Cannon rattled through the streets. Couriers
dashed backward and forward from the telegraph office to the war office.
The poor starved--the rich scarcely fared any better. Black hair had
become white. Stalwart frames were bent and shrunken. Spies and secret
emissaries lurked, and looked at you sidewise. Forestallers crowded
the markets. Bread was doled out by the ounce. Confederate money by
the bushel. Gold was hoarded and buried. Cowards shrunk and began to
whisper--“the flesh pots! the flesh pots! they were better!” Society was
uprooted from its foundations. Strange characters were thrown up. The
scum had come to the top, and bore itself bravely in the sunshine. The
whole social fabric seemed warped and wrenched from its base; and in
the midst of this chaos of starving women, feverish men, spies,
extortioners, blockade-runners,--over the “doomed city,” day and night,
rolled the thunder of the cannon, telling that Grant and Lee were still
holding their high debate at Petersburg.
Such was Richmond at the end of summer in 1864. Society was approaching
one of those epochs, when all things appear unreal, monstrous,
gliding toward some great catastrophe. All rascaldom was rampant. The
night-birds had come forth. Vice stalked, and flaunted its feathers in
the light of day. Chaos seemed coming, and with it all the powers of
darkness.
That spectacle was singular to a soldier, bred in camps, and habituated,
now, for some years, to the breezy airs of “the field.” I looked on
with astonishment. The whole drama seemed unreal--the characters mere
players. Who was A, and B, and what did C do for a living? You knew not,
but they bowed, and smiled, and were charming. They grasped your hand,
offered you cigars, invited you to supper--they wanted nothing. And they
found no difficulty in procuring guests. I was no better than the rest,
reader--there is an honest confession--and, looking back now, I can see
that I knew, and dined or supped with some queer characters in those
days.
Shall I give you a brief sketch of one of these worthies and his
surroundings? It will afford some idea of the strange contrasts then
presented in the “doomed” and starving city.
III.
I DINE WITH MR. BLOCQUE.
He was a prominent personage at that time--my friend (in a parliamentary
sense at least) Mr. Blocque.
He was a charming little fellow, acquainted with everybody--an “employee
of government,” but employed to do heaven knows what; and while others
were starving, Mr. Blocque was as plump as a partridge. He wore the
snowiest shirt bosoms, glittering with diamond studs; the finest
broadcloth coats; the most brilliant patent leather shoes; and his fat
little hands sparkled with costly rings. He was constantly smiling in
a manner that was delightful to behold; hopped about and chirped like a
sparrow or tomtit; and was the soul of good humor and enjoyment. There
was no resisting his charms; he conquered you in five minutes. When he
linked his arm in yours, and chirped, “My dear friend, come and dine
with me--at five o’clock precisely--I shall certainly expect you!” it
was impossible to refuse the small gentleman’s invitation. Perhaps you
asked yourself, “Who is my dear friend, Mr. Blocque--how does he live
so well, and wear broadcloth and fine linen?” But the next moment you
smiled, shrugged your shoulders, elevated your eye-brows, and--went to
dine with him.
I was like all the world, and at five o’clock one evening was shown into
Mr. Blocque’s elegant residence on Shockoe Hill, by a servant in white
gloves, who bowed low, as he ushered me in. Mr. Blocque hastened to
receive me, with his most charming smile; I was introduced to the
guests, who had all arrived; and ten minutes afterward the folding doors
opened, revealing a superb banquet--for the word “dinner” would be
too common-place. The table was one mass of silver. Waxlights, in
candelabra, were already lit; and a host of servants waited, silent and
respectful, behind every chair.
The guests were nearly a dozen in number, and more than one prominent
“government official” honored Mr. Blocque’s repast. I had been
introduced among the rest to Mr. Torpedo, member of Congress, and bitter
foe of President Davis; Mr. Croker, who had made an enormous fortune by
buying up, and hoarding in garrets and cellars, flour, bacon, coffee,
sugar, and other necessaries; and Colonel Desperade, a tall and warlike
officer in a splendid uniform, who had never been in the army, but
intended to report for duty, it was supposed, as soon as he was made
brigadier-general.
The dinner was excellent. The table literally groaned with every
delicacy. Everywhere you saw canvass-back ducks, grouse, salmon, paté
de foie gras, oysters; the champagne, was really superb; the Madeira and
sherry beyond praise; and the cigars excellent Havanas, which at
that time were rarely seen, and cost fabulous prices. Think, old army
comrades, starving on a quarter of a pound of rancid bacon during
that summer of ‘64--think of that magical bill of fare, that array of
wonders!
Who was the magician who had evoked all this by a wave of his wand? How
could smiling Mr. Blocque roll in luxury thus, when everybody else was
starving? How could my host wear broadcloth, and drink champagne
and smoke Havanas, when ragged clothing, musty bacon, and new
apple-abomination, were the order of the day with all others?
These questions puzzled me extremely; but there was the magician before
us, smiling in the most friendly manner, and pressing his rich wines
on his guests, as they sat around the polished mahogany smoking
their cigars. Elegantly clad servants hovered noiselessly behind the
convives--the wine circulated--the fragrant smoke rose--the conversation
became general--and all was animation.
“No, sir!” says Mr. Torpedo, puffing fiercely at his cigar, “the
President never will assign Johnston to command again, sir! You call Mr.
Davis ‘pig-headed,’ Mr. Croker--you are wrong, sir! You do injustice to
the pigs, sir! Pigs are not insane, sir!”
And Mr. Torpedo sucks at his cigar, as though he were a vampire,
extracting the blood of his victim.
Mr. Croker sips his wine; he is large and portly; ruddy and pompous;
his watch seals jingle; and he rounds his periods with the air of a
millionaire, who is accustomed to be listened to with deference.
“You are right, my dear, sir,” says Mr. Croker, clearing his throat.
“The government has assuredly been administered, from its very
inception, in a manner which the most enthusiastic adherents of the
Executive will scarcely venture to characterize as either judicious or
constitutional. In the year which has just elapsed, things have been
managed in a manner which must excite universal reprobation. Even the
alleged performances of the army are problematical, and--”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” says Colonel Desperade, twirling his mustache
in a warlike manner; “do I understand you to call in question the nerve
of our brave soldiers, or the generalship of our great commander?”
“I do, sir,” says Mr. Croker, staring haughtily at the speaker. “I am
not of those enthusiasts who consider General Lee a great soldier. He
has succeeded in defensive campaigns, but is deficient in genius--and I
will add, sir, as you seem to be surprised at my remarks, sir, that in
my opinion the Southern Confederacy will be overwhelmed, sir, and the
South compelled to return to the Union, sir!”
“Upon what do you ground that extraordinary assumption, may I ask, sir?”
“On common sense and experience, sir,” returns Mr. Croker, severely;
“look at the currency--debased until the dollar is merely a piece of
paper. Look at prices--coffee, twenty dollars a pound, and sugar the
same. Look at the army starving--the people losing heart--and strong,
able-bodied men,” adds Mr. Croker, looking at Colonel Desperade,
“lurking about the cities, and keeping out of the way of bullets.”
The mustached warrior looks ferocious--his eyes dart flame.
“And who causes the high prices, sir? Who makes the money a rag? I
answer--the forestallers and engrossers--do you know any, sir?”
“I do not, sir!”
“That is singular!” And Colonel Desperade twirls his mustache
satirically--looking at the pompous Mr. Croker in a manner which makes
that worthy turn scarlet.
I was laughing to myself quietly, and listening for the expected
outbreak, when Mr. Blocque interposed with his winning voice.
“What are you discussing, gentlemen?” he said, with his charming smile.
“But first tell me your opinion of this Madeira and those cigars. My
agent writes me word that he used every exertion to procure the best.
Still, I am not entirely pleased with either the wine or brand of
cigars, and hope you will excuse them. Were you speaking of our great
President, Mr. Torpedo? And you, Mr. Croker--I think you were referring
to the present state of affairs. They appear to me more hopeful than at
any previous time, and his Excellency, President Davis, is guiding the
helm of state with extraordinary courage and good judgment. I know some
of you differ with me in these views, my friends. But let us not be
censorious--let us look on the bright side. The troubles of the country
are great, and we of the South are suffering every privation--but we
must bear up, gentlemen; we must keep brave hearts, and endure all
things. Let us live on dry bread if it comes to that, and bravely fight
to the last! Let us cheerfully endure hardships, and oppose the enemy
at all points. Our present troubles and privations will soon come to
an end--we shall again be surrounded by the comforts and luxuries of
life--and generations now unborn will bless our names, and pity our
sufferings in these days that try men’s souls!”
Mr. Blocque ceased, and smoothing down his snowy shirt bosom, pushed the
wine. At the same moment, an alabaster clock on the marble mantelpiece
struck seven.
“So late?” said Colonel Desperade. “I have an appointment at the war
office!”
Mr. Blocque drew out a magnificent gold watch.
“The clock is fast,” he said, “keep your seats, gentlemen,--unless you
fancy going to the theatre. My private box is at your disposal, and
carriages will be ready in a few minutes.”
As the charming little gentleman spoke, he led the way back to the
drawing-room--the folding doors flanked by silent and respectful
servants as the guests passed in.
In five minutes, coffee and liqueurs were served; both were superb, the
white sugar sparkled like crystal in the silver dish, and the cream in
the solid jug was yellow and as thick as a syrup.
“Shall it be the theatre, gentlemen?” said Mr. Blocque, with winning
smiles. “We can amuse ourselves with cards for an hour, as the curtain
does not rise before eight.”
And he pointed to a silver basket on the centre table of carved walnut,
surmounted by a slab of variegated marble. I looked, and saw the
crowning wonder. The silver basket contained piles of gold coin and
greenbacks! Not a trace of a Confederate note was visible in the mass!
Packs of fresh cards were brought quickly by a servant, on a silver
waiter; the guests helped themselves to the coin and bank notes; in ten
minutes they were playing furiously.
As I do not play, I rose and took my leave. Mr. Blocque accompanied me
to the door, smiling sweetly to the last.
“Come again very soon, my dear colonel,” he said, squeezing my hand, “my
poor house, and all in it, is at your service at all times!”
I thanked my host, shook hands, and went out into the
darkness,--determined never to return.
I had had an excellent dinner, and, physically, had never felt better.
Morally, I must say, I felt contaminated, for, unfortunately, I
had begun to think of Lee’s hungry soldiers, lying in rags, in the
Petersburg trenches.
“Eight o’clock! All is well!” came from the sentinel, as I passed by the
capitol.
IV.
JOHN M. DANIEL.
On the day after this scene, a trifling matter of business led me to
call on John M. Daniel, editor of the _Examiner_.
The career of this singular personage had been as remarkable as his
character. He was not a stranger to me. I had known him in 1849 or ‘50,
when I accompanied my father on a visit to Richmond, and I still recall
the striking appearance of the individual at that time. He had come, a
poor boy of gentle birth, from the bleak hills of Stafford, to the city
of Richmond, to seek his fortune, and, finding nothing better to do, had
accepted the position of librarian to the Richmond library, waiting for
something to “turn up,” and ready to grasp it. About the same time,
that experienced journalist, the late B.M. De Witt, had founded the
_Examiner_. He, no doubt, saw the eminent talents of the youth from
Stafford, and the result had been an invitation to assist in the
editorial department of the journal.
Going to the Richmond library, to procure for my father some volume for
reference, I had made the acquaintance of the youthful journalist.
At the first glance, I felt that I was in the presence of an original
character. His labors on the _Examiner_ had just commenced. He was
seated, half-reclining, in an arm-chair, surrounded by “exchanges,” from
which he clipped paragraphs, throwing the papers, as soon as he had done
so, in a pile upon the floor. His black eyes, long black hair, brushed
behind the ears, and thin, sallow cheeks, were not agreeable; but they
made up a striking physiognomy. The black eyes glittered with a sullen
fire; the thin lips were wreathed with a sardonic smile; and I was
informed that the youth lived the life of a _solitaire_, voluntarily
absenting himself from society, to give his days and nights to
exhausting study.
He read every thing, it was said--history, poetry, political economy,
and theology. Swift was said to be his literary divinity, and Rabelais
was at his elbow always. Poor, uneducated, ignorant of nearly every
thing, he was educating himself for the future--sharpening, by attrition
with the strongest minds in all literatures, ancient and modern, that
trenchant weapon which afterward flashed its superb lightnings in the
heated atmosphere of the great epoch in which he figured.
Bitter, misanthropic, solitary; burning the midnight lamp, instead of
moving among his fellows in the sunshine, he yet possessed hardy virtues
and a high pride of gentleman. He hated the world at large, it was said,
but loved his few friends with an ardor which shrank at nothing. One of
them owed a sum of money--and Daniel went on foot, twenty-two miles, to
Petersburg, paid it, and returned in the same manner. Afterward he went
in person to Charlottesville, to purchase a house for the use of
another friend of limited means. For his friends he was thus willing to
sacrifice his convenience and his means, without thought of return.
All who were not his friends, he is said to have hated or despised.
An acquaintance was in his room one day, and showed him a valuable
pen-knife. Daniel admired it, and the gentleman said “You may have it,
if you like it.” Daniel turned upon him, scowled at him, his lip curled,
and he replied, “What do you expect me to do for you?”
His other virtues were self-denial, and a proud independence. At the
library, he lived on bread and tea--often making the tea himself. Too
poor to possess a chamber, he slept on a lounge in the public room. He
would owe no man any thing, asked no favors, and fawned on nobody. He
would fight his own fight, make his own way; with the intellect heaven
had sent him, carve out his own future, unassisted. The sallow youth,
groaning under dyspepsia, with scarce a friend, and nothing but his
brain, promised himself that he would one day rise from his low estate,
and wield the thunderbolts of power, as one born to grasp and hurl them.
He was not mistaken, and did not overestimate his powers. When I saw
him in 1849 or ‘50, he was obscurest of the obscure. Two or three years
afterward he had made the _Examiner_ one of the great powers of the
political world, and was living in a palace at Turin, minister to
Sardinia. He had achieved this success in life by the sheer force of his
character; by the vigor and recklessness of his pen, and the intensity
of his invective. Commencing his editorial career, apparently, with the
theory that, in order to rise into notice, he must spare nothing and
no one, he had entered the arena of partisan politics like a full armed
gladiator; and soon the whole country resounded with the blows which he
struck. Bitter personality is a feeble phrase to describe the animus of
the writer in those days. There was something incredibly exasperating in
his comments on political opponents. He flayed and roasted them alive.
It was like thrusting a blazing torch into the raw flesh of his victims.
Nor was it simple “abuse.” The satirist was too intelligent to rely upon
that. It was his scorching wit which made opponents shrink. His scalpel
divided the arteries, and touched the vitals of the living subject.
Personal peculiarities were satirized with unfailing acumen. The readers
of the _Examiner_, in those days, will still recall the tremendous
flaying which he administered to his adversaries. It may almost be said,
that when the remorseless editor had finished with these gentlemen,
there was “nothing of them left”--what lay before him was a bleeding and
mortally wounded victim. And what was worse, all the world was laughing.
Those who looked with utter disapproval upon his ferocious course,
were still unable to resist the influence of his mordant humor. They
denounced the _Examiner_ without stint, but they subscribed to it, and
read it every morning. “Have you seen the _Examiner_ to-day?” asked the
friend whom you met on the street. “John M. Daniel is down on Blank!”
said A to B, rubbing his hands and laughing. Blank may have been the
personal acquaintance and friend of Mr. A, but there was no resisting
the cartoon of him, traced by the pen of the satirist! The portrait
might be a caricature, but it was a terrible likeness! The long nose
was very long; the round shoulders, very round; the cast in the eye, a
frightful squint; but the individual was unmistakable. The bitter humor
of the artist had caught and embodied every weakness. Thenceforth,
the unfortunate adversary went on his way before all eyes, the mark
of suppressed ridicule and laughing whispers. Whether you approved
or disapproved, you read those tremendous satires. Not to see the
_Examiner_ in those days was to miss a part of the history of the times.
The whole political world felt the presence of a _power_ in journalism.
Into all the recesses of the body politic, those shafts of ridicule or
denunciation penetrated. That venomous invective pierced the hardest
panoply. For the first time in American journalism, the world saw the
full force of ridicule; and tasted a bitterness of invective unknown
since the days of Swift.
Out of these personal attacks grew numerous duels. The butts of the
editor’s ridicule sent him defiances, and he was engaged in several
affairs, which, however, resulted in nothing, or nearly nothing, as I
believe he was wounded only once. They did not induce him to change his
course. He seemed to have marked out his career in cold blood, and
was plainly resolved to adhere to his programme--to write himself into
power. In this he fully succeeded. By dint of slashing and flaying,
he attracted the attention of all. Then his vigorous and masculine
intellect riveted the spell. Hated, feared, admired, publicly
stigmatized as one who “ruled Virginia with a rod of iron,” he had
reached his aim; and soon the material results of success came. The
director of that great political engine, the Richmond _Examiner_, found
no difficulty in securing the position which he desired; and he received
the appointment of minister to Sardinia, which he accepted, selling his
newspaper, but reserving the right to resume editorial control of it on
his return.
His ambition was thus gratified--for the moment at least. The unknown
youth, living once on bread and tea, and too poor to possess a bed, was
now a foreign minister; had an Italian count for his _chef de cuisine_;
and drew a salary which enabled him to return, some years afterward, to
the United States with savings amounting to $30,000.
It was a contrast to his past. The sallow youth was _M. le ministre_!
The garret in Richmond had been turned into a marble palace in Turin.
He had a nobleman for a cook, instead of making his own tea. And the
_Examiner_ had done all that for him!
When war became imminent, he returned to Virginia, and resumed control
of the _Examiner_. With the exception of brief military service with
General Floyd, and on the staff of A.P. Hill, in the battles around
Richmond, when he was slightly wounded in the right arm, he remained in
editorial harness until his death.
As soon as he grasped the helm of the _Examiner_ again, that great
battleship trembled and obeyed him. It had been powerful before, it was
now a mighty engine, dragging every thing in its wake. Commencing by
supporting the Government, it soon became bitterly inimical to President
Davis and the whole administration. The invective in which it indulged
was not so violent as in the past, but it was even more powerful and
dangerous. Every department was lashed, in those brief, terse sentences
which all will remember--sentences summing up volumes in a paragraph,
condensing oceans of gall into a drop of ink. Under these mortal stabs,
delivered coolly and deliberately, the authors of public abuses shrank,
recoiled, and sought safety in silence. They writhed, but knew the power
of their adversary too well to reply to him. When once or twice they
did so, his rejoinder was more mortal than his first attack. The
whole country read the _Examiner_, from the chief officers of the
administration to the humblest soldier in the trenches. It shaped the
opinions of thousands, and this great influence was not due to trick or
chance. It was not because it denounced the Executive in terms of the
bitterest invective; because it descended like a wild boar on the abuses
or inefficiency of the departments; but because this journal, more,
perhaps, than any other in the South, spoke the public sentiment,
uttered its views with fearless candor, and conveyed those views in
words so terse, pointed, and trenchant--in such forcible and excellent
English--that the thought of the writer was driven home, and remained
fixed in the dullest apprehension.
The _Examiner_, in one word, had become the controlling power, almost,
of the epoch. Its views had become those even of men who bitterly
stigmatized its course. You might disapprove of its editorials often,
and regret their appearance--as I did--but it was impossible not to
be carried onward by the hardy logic of the writer: impossible not to
admire the Swift-like pith and vigor of this man, who seemed to have
re-discovered the lost well of undefiled English.
When I went to see John M. Daniel, thus, in this summer of 1864, it was
not a mere journalist whom I visited, but a historic character. For it
was given to him, invisible behind the scenes, to shape, in no small
degree, the destiny of the country, by moulding the views and opinions
of the actors who contended on the public arena.
Was that influence for good or for evil? Let others answer. To-day this
man is dead, and the cause for which he fought with his pen has failed.
I reproduce his figure and some scenes of that great cause--make your
own comments, reader.
V.
THE EDITOR IN HIS SANCTUM.
Knocking at the door of the journalist’s house on Broad Street, nearly
opposite the “African church,” I was admitted by a negro servant, sent
up my name, and was invited by Mr. Daniel to ascend to his sanctum on
the second story.
I went up, and found him leaning back in a high chair of black
horsehair, in an apartment commanding a view southward of James River
and Chesterfield. On a table beside him were books and papers--the
furniture of the room was plain and simple.
He greeted me with great cordiality, bowing very courteously, and
offering me a cigar. I had not seen him since his return from Europe,
and looked at him with some curiosity. He was as sallow as before--his
eyes as black and sparkling; but his long, black hair, as straight as an
Indian’s, and worn behind his ears, when I first knew him, was close-cut
now; and his upper lip was covered by a black mustache. His dress was
simple and exceedingly neat. It was impossible not to see that the
famous journalist was a gentleman.
As I had visited him purely upon a matter of business, I dispatched
it, and then rose to take my departure. But he urged me with persistent
cordiality, not to desert him. He saw few persons, he said; I must stay
and dine with him. I had business? Then I could attend to it, and would
do him the favor to return.
Looking at my watch, I found that it was nearly two o’clock--he had
informed me that he dined at four--and, not to detain the reader with
these details, recurring to a very retentive memory, I found myself, two
hours afterward, seated at table with the editor of the _Examiner_.
The table was of ancient, and brilliantly-polished mahogany. The dinner
consisted of only two or three dishes, but these were of the best
quality, excellently cooked, and served upon china of the most costly
description. Coffee followed--then a great luxury--and, not only the
sugar-dish, cream-jug and other pieces of the service were of silver;
the waiter upon which they rested was of the same material--heavy,
antique, and richly carved.
We lingered at table throughout the entire afternoon, my host having
resisted every attempt which I made to depart, by taking my hat from my
hand, and thrusting upon me another excellent Havana cigar. Cordiality
so extreme, in one who bore the reputation of a man-hater, was at least
something _piquant_--and as my host had appealed to my weak side, by
greatly praising a slight literary performance of mine (“he would be
proud,” he assured me, “to have it thought that _he_ had written it),”
I yielded, surrendered my hat, lit the cigar offered me, and we went on
talking.
I still recall that conversation, the last but one which I ever had with
this singular man. Unfortunately, it does not concern the narrative
I now write, and I would not like to record his denunciations and
invective directed at the Government. He handled it without mercy, and
his comments upon the character of President Davis were exceedingly
bitter. One of these was laughable for the grim humor of the idea.
Opening a volume of Voltaire--whose complete works he had just
purchased--he showed me a passage in one of the infidel dramas of the
great Frenchman, where King David, on his death-bed, after invoking
maledictions upon his opponents, declares that “having forgiven all his
enemies _en bon Juif_, he is ready to die.”
A grim smile came to the face of the journalist, as he showed me the
passage.
“That suits Mr. Davis exactly,” he said. “He forgives his enemies _en
bon Juif_! I believe I will make an editorial, and quote the passage on
him--but he wouldn’t understand it!”
That was bitter--was it not, reader? I raised my pen to draw a line
through the incident, but it can do no harm now.
The solitary journalist-politician spoke freely of himself and his
intentions for the future. With a few passages from our talk on this
point, I will terminate my account of the interview.
“You see I am here chained to the pen,” he said, “and, luckily, I have
that which defies the conscript officers, if the Government takes a
fancy to order editors into the ranks.”
Smiling slightly as he spoke, he showed me his right hand, the fingers
of which he could scarcely bend.
“I was wounded at Cold Harbor, in June, 1862,” he added; “not much
wounded either; but sufficient to prevent me from handling a sword or
musket. It is a trifle. I should like to be able to show an honorable
scar[1] in this cause, and I am sorry I left the army. By this time I
might have, been a brigadier--perhaps a major-general.”[2]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
[Footnote 2: His words.]
“Possibly,” I replied; “but the position of an editor is a powerful
one.”
“Do you think so?”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes, colonel; but what good is the _Examiner_ doing? What can all the
papers in the Confederacy effect? Besides, I like to command men. I love
power.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
I laughed.
“I would recommend the philosophic view of things,” I said. “Why
not take the good the gods provide? As a soldier, you would be in
fetters--whatever your rank--to say nothing of the bullet that might cut
short your career. And yet this life of the brain is wearing too,--”
“But my health is all the better for it,” he said. “A friend was here
to see me the other day, and I startled him by the observation ‘I shall
live to eat the goose that eats the grass over your grave.’[1] When he
inquired my meaning, I replied, ‘For two reasons--I come of a long-lived
race, and have an infallible sign of longevity; I never dream, and my
sleep is always sound and refreshing.’”[2]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
[Footnote 2: His words.]
“Do you believe in that dictum?” I said.
“Thoroughly,” he replied, laughing. “I shall live long, in spite of the
enmities which would destroy me in an instant, if the secret foes I have
could only accomplish their end without danger to themselves.”
“You do not really believe, surely, that you have such foes?”
“Not believe it? I know it. _You_ have them, colonel, too. How long
do you think you would live, if your enemies had their way with you?
Perhaps you think you have no enemies who hate you enough to kill you.
You are greatly mistaken--every man has his enemies. I have them by
the thousand, and I have no doubt you, too, have them, though they are
probably not so numerous as mine.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
“But their enmity comes to nothing.”
“Because to indulge it, would bring them into trouble,” he replied.
“Neither your enemies or mine would run the risk of murdering us in open
day; but suppose they could kill us by simply _wishing it?_ I should
drop down dead before your eyes--and you would fall a corpse in Main
Street before you reached your home!”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
“A gloomy view enough, but I dare not deny it.”
“It would be useless, colonel. That is the way men are made. For myself,
I distrust all of them--or nearly all.”
He uttered the words with intense bitterness, and for a moment remained
silent.
“This is gloomy talk,” he said, “and will not amuse you. Let us change
the topic. When I am not discussing public affairs--the doings of this
wretched administration, and the old man of the sea astride upon the
country’s back--I ought to try and amuse myself.”
“You find the _Examiner_ a heavy weight upon you?”
“It is a mill-stone around my neck.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
“Why not throw it off, if you find it onerous?”
“Because I look to this journal as a father does to an only son--as my
pet, my pride, and the support and honor of myself and my name in the
future.”
“You are proud of it.”
“It has made me, and it will do more for me hereafter than it has ever
done yet.”
He paused, and then went on, with a glow in his swarthy face:
“Every man has his cherished object in this world, colonel. Mine is the
success and glory of the _Examiner_. I intend to make of it what the
London _Times_ is in England, and the world--a great power, which shall
lay down the law, control cabinets, mould parties, and direct events.
It has given me much trouble to establish it, but _ça ira_ now! From the
_Examiner_ I expect to realize the great dream of my life.”
“The dream of your life? What is that?--if I may ask without intrusion.”
“Oh! I make no secret of it, and as a gentleman speaking to a gentleman,
can say what I could not in the society of _roturiers_ or common people.
My family is an old and honorable one in Virginia--this, by way of
explanation only, I beg you to note. We are thus, people of old descent,
but my branch of the family is ruined. My object is to reinstate it; and
you will perhaps compare me to the scheming young politician in Bulwer’s
‘My Novel,’ who seeks to restore the family fortunes, and brighten up
the lonely old house--in Yorkshire, is it? You remember?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, I always sympathized with that character. He is morally bad, you
say: granted; but he is resolute and brave--and his object is noble.”
“I agree with you, the object _is_ noble.”
“I am glad you think so, colonel. I see I speak to one who has the old
Virginia feeling. You respect family.”
“Who does not? There are those who profess to care naught for it, but it
is because they are new-comers.”
“Yes,” was the journalist’s reply, “mushrooms--and very dirty ones!”
I laughed at the speaker’s grimace.
“For my own part,” I said, “I do not pretend to be indifferent whether
or not my father was a gentleman. I bow as politely to the new-comer
as if it were the Conqueror he came over with; but still I am glad my
father was a gentleman. I hope no one will quarrel with that.”
“You are mistaken. They will hate you for it.”
“You are right--but I interrupted you.”
“I am glad the interruption came, colonel, for it gave you an
opportunity of showing me that my views and your own are in exact accord
on this subject. I will proceed, therefore, without ceremony, to tell
you what I design doing some day.”
I listened with attention. It is always interesting to look into the
recesses of a remarkable man’s character. This human being was notable
in an epoch filled with notabilities; and chance was about to give me an
insight into his secret thoughts.
He twirled a paper-cutter in his fingers, reflected a moment, and
said:--
“I am still young--not very young either, for I will soon be forty--but
I know no young man who has better prospects than myself, and few who
have done so well. I suppose I am worth now nearly $100,000 in good
money. I have more gold coin than I know what to do with. The _Examiner_
is very valuable property, and is destined to be much more so. I expect
to live long, and if I do, I shall be rich. When I am rich, I shall buy
the old family estate in Stafford County, and shall add to it all the
land for miles around. I shall build a house to my fancy, and, with all
my possessions walled in, I shall teach these people what they never
knew--how to live like a gentleman.”[1]
[Footnote 1: This paragraph is in Mr. J.M. Daniel’s words.]
The glow had deepened on the sallow face. It was easy to see that the
speaker had unfolded to me the dream of his life.
“Your scheme is one,” I said, “which takes my fancy greatly. But why do
you intend to wall in your property?”
“To keep out those wolves called men.”
“Ah! I forgot. You do not like those bipeds without feathers.”
“I like some of them, colonel; but the majority are worse than my dogs,
Fanny and Frank, yonder. Sometimes I think they are human--they bite
each other so!”
I laughed. There was something _piquant_ in the grim humor of this
singular personage.
“What is your ideal man?” I said, “for, doubtless, you have such an
ideal?”
“Yes. I like a man of bronze, who does not snivel or weep. I like
Wigfall for his physique and his magnificent courage. It is the genuine
thing. There is no _put on_ there. He has native pluck--the actual
article--and it is no strain on him to exhibit it. The grit is in him,
and you can’t shake him.”[1]
[Footnote 1: This paragraph is in Mr. J.M. Daniel’s words.]
“You would admit your men of bronze, then, into the walled-up domain in
Stafford?”
“I don’t know,” he said grimly. “With my violin, a good cook, English
books and papers--I hate your Yankee trash--and occasional travel, I
think I could get through life without very great ennui. I do not expect
to be governor of Virginia for ten years yet!”
And smiling, the journalist said:--
“Let us change the subject. What are people talking about? I never ask
what is the news.[1] Is any thing said of evacuating Virginia? That is a
pernicious idea![2] Whom have you seen lately?”
[Footnote 1: His words.]
[Footnote 2: His words.]
“A queer set,” I said.
And I gave him an account of my dinner at Mr. Blocque’s.
“What a little wretch!” he said. “I think I will run a pin through that
bug, and impale him. He would make a fine dish served up _à la Victor
Hugo_. You have read _Les Misérables_ yonder? It is a trashy affair.”
And taking up the elegantly bound volume, which must have cost him a
considerable sum, he quietly pitched it out of the window.
As he did so, the printer’s devil appeared at the door, holding proof in
his hand.
“You see I am never safe from intrusion, colonel. This _Examiner_
newspaper keeps me at the oar.”
I rose and put on my hat.
“Come and see me again soon, if it suits your convenience,” he said. “I
am going to write an editorial, and I think I will serve up your host,
Blocque.”
“Do not use his name.”
“Be tranquil. He will be the type only.”
And, escorting me to the door, Mr. Daniel bestowed a courteous bow upon
me, which I returned. Then the door closed.
VI.
AN EDITORIAL IN THE EXAMINER.
On the following morning I opened the _Examiner_, and the first article
which I saw was the following one, on
THE BLOCKADE-RUNNER.
“We owe to the kindness of SHEM’S Express Company, which has charge
of the line between the front door of the State Department and the
back door of the Tuileries kitchen, the advance sheets of a new
novel by VICTUS HAUTGOUT, which bears the striking title, _Les
Fortunés_, and which consists of five parts--ABRAHAM, ISAAC, JACOB,
JUDAH, and BENJAMIN. Of course, the discerning reader will not
suppose for a moment that there is any connection between _Les
Fortunés_ and _Les Misérables_; between the chaste style of
HAUTGOUT and the extravaganzas of HUGO; whose works, in former
days, were not considered fit reading for an Anglo-Saxon public,
whose latest and most corrupt fiction owes its success (let us
hope) rather to the dearth of new literature than to the vitiated
taste of the Southern people. How great the difference between the
two authors is, can best be appreciated by comparing the
description of the _gamin_ in _Marius_, with the following extracts
from HAUTGOUT’S portraiture of the BLOCKADE-RUNNER:--
“Yankeedom has a bird, and the crocodile has a bird. The
crocodile’s bird is called the Trochilus. Yankeedom’s bird is
called the blockade-runner. Yankeedom is the crocodile. The
blockade-runner is the Trochilus.
“Couple these two ideas--Yankeedom and the crocodile. They are
worth the coupling. The crocodile is asleep. He does not sleep on
both ears; he sleeps with one eye open; his jaws are also open.
Rows of teeth appear, sharped, fanged, pointed, murderous,
carnivorous, omnivorous. Some of the teeth are wanting: say a
dozen. Who knocked those teeth out? A demon. What demon?
Or perhaps an angel. What angel? The angel is secession: the
demon is rebellion. ORMUZD and AHRIMAN: BALDUR and LOKI:
the DEVIL and ST. DUNSTAN. So we go.
“The Trochilus picks the crocodile’s teeth. Does the crocodile
object? Not he. He likes to have his teeth picked. It is good for
his health. It promotes his digestion. It is, on the whole, a
sanitary measure. ‘Feed yourself,’ he says, ‘my good Trochilus, on
the broken meats which lie between my grinders. Feed your little
ones at home. I shan’t snap you up unless I get very hungry. There
are Confederates enough. Why should I eat _you_?’
“This little creature--this _Trochilus obsidionalis_--this
blockade-running tomtit--is full of joy. He has rich food to eat
every day. He goes to the show every evening, when he is not on
duty. He has a fine shirt on his back; patent-leather boots on his
feet; the pick and choice of a dozen houses. He is of any
age--chiefly of the conscript age; ranges singly or in couples;
haunts auction houses; dodges enrolling officers; eats
canvass-backs; smells of greenbacks; swears allegiance to both
sides; keeps faith with neither; is hand and glove with ABE’S
detectives as well as with WINDER’S Plugs; smuggles in an ounce of
quinine for the Confederate Government, and smuggles out a pound of
gold for the Lincolnites; fishes in troubled waters; runs with the
hare and hunts with the hounds; sings Yankee Doodle through one
nostril, and My Maryland through the other; is on good terms with
everybody--especially with himself--and, withal, is as great a
rascal as goes unhung.
“He has sports of his own; roguish tricks of his own, of which a
hearty hatred of humdrum, honest people is the basis. He has his
own occupations, such as running for hacks, which he hires at
fabulous prices; crossing the Potomac in all kinds of weather;
rubbing off Yankee trade-marks and putting English labels in their
stead. He has a currency of his own, slips of green paper, which
have an unvarying and well regulated circulation throughout this
gipsy band.
“He is never satisfied with his pantaloons unless they have a
watch-fob, and never satisfied with his watch-fob unless it
contains a gold watch. Sometimes he has two watch-fobs; sometimes
a score.
“This rosy child of Richmond lives, develops, gets into and out of
scrapes--a merry witness of our social unrealities. He looks on
ready to laugh; ready also for something else, for pocketing
whatever he can lay his hands on. Whoever you are, you that call
yourselves Honor, Justice, Patriotism, Independence, Freedom,
Candour, Honesty, Right, beware of the grinning blockade-runner.
He is growing. He will continue to grow.
“Of what clay is he made? Part Baltimore street-dirt, part James
River mud, best part and worst part sacred soil of Palestine. What
will become of him in the hands of the potter, chance? Heaven
grant that he may be ground into his original powder before he is
stuck up on our mantel-pieces as a costly vase, in which the
choice flowers of our civilization can but wither and die.”
Admire that grim humor, reader--the firm stroke with which this
Aristophanes of 1864 drew my friend, Mr. Blocque. See how he reproduced
every trait, delineated the worthy in his exact colors, and, at the foot
of the picture, wrote, as it were, “Here is going to be the founder of
‘one of the old families,’--one of the ornaments of the future, who
will come out of the war rich, and be a costly vase, not a vessel of
dishonor, as at present.”
Grim satirist! You saw far, and I think we want you to-day!
VII.
UNDER THE CROSSED SWORDS.
I had dined with Mr. Blocque; two days afterward I went to sup with
Judge Conway.
Does the reader remember his appearance at Culpeper Court-House, on the
night of the ball after the review in June, 1863? On that evening he had
excited my astonishment by abruptly terminating the interview between
his daughter and Captain Davenant; and I little supposed that I would
ever penetrate the motive of that action, or become intimate with the
performer.
Yet the chance of war had decreed that both events should occur. All
will be, in due time, explained to the reader’s satisfaction; at present
we will simply make the acquaintance of one of the most distinguished
statesmen of the epoch.
My friendly relations with the judge came about in a very simple manner.
He was an intimate associate of the gentleman at whose house I was
staying; had taken great interest in my recovery after Yellow Tavern;
and therefore had done me the honor to bestow his friendship upon me.
On the day to which we have now come, Judge Conway had made a speech of
surpassing eloquence, in Congress, on the condition of the country,
and I had listened, thrilling at the brave voice which rang out its
sonorous, “All’s well!” amid the storm. I was now going to call on the
statesman to express my admiration of his eloquent appeal, and converse
upon the exciting topics of the hour.
I found him in a mansion not far from the splendid residence of Mr.
Blocque. Here he occupied “apartments,” or rather a single room,--and,
in 1864, my dear reader, that was a very common mode of living.
Like others, Judge Conway was too poor to occupy a whole house,--even
too poor to board. He had a single apartment, containing a few chairs
and a bed; was waited on by a maid; and, I think, prepared his own
meals, which were plain to poverty.
He met me at the door of his bare and poor-looking apartment, extending
his hand with the gracious and stately courtesy of the ancient régime.
His figure was small, slight, and bent by age; his face, thin and pale;
his hair nearly white, and falling in long curls upon his shoulders;
under the gray brows sparkled keen, penetrating, but benignant eyes.
As I pressed the hand of my host, and looked around the poor apartment,
I could not refrain from a sentiment of profound bitterness. Two days
before I had dined at the table of a peddling blockade-runner, who ate
canvass-backs, drank champagne, wore “fine linen,” and, dodging the
conscript officers, revelled in luxury and plenty. And now here before
me was a gentleman of ancient lineage, whose ancestors had been
famous, who had himself played a great part in the history of the
commonwealth,--and this gentleman was poor, lived in lodgings, had
scarce a penny; he had been wealthy, and was still the owner of great
possessions; but the bare land was all that was left him for support. He
had been surrounded with luxury, but had sacrificed all to the cause.
He had had two gallant sons, but they had fallen at the first
Manassas--their crossed swords were above his poor bare mantel-piece.
From the splendid table of the sneaking blockade-runner, I had come to
the poverty-stricken apartment of this great statesman and high-bred
gentleman. “Oh, Juvenal!” I muttered, “it is your satires, not the
bucolics of Virgil, that suit this epoch!”
The old statesman pointed, with all the grace of a nobleman, to a bare
rocking-chair, and received my congratulations upon his speech with
modest simplicity.
“I am glad that my views are honored by your good opinion, colonel,” he
said, “and that you approve of the tone of them. I am naturally given
to invective--a habit derived from my friend, the late Mr. Randolph; but
the country wants encouragement.”
“And yet not to satirize is so hard, my dear sir!”
“Very hard.”
“Think of the army depleted--the soldiers starving--the finances in
ruin, and entire destruction threatening us!”
The old statesman was silent. A moment afterward he raised his head,
and with his thin finger pointed to the crossed swords above his
mantelpiece.
“I try to bear and forbear since I lost my poor boys,” he said. “They
died for their country--I ought to live for it, and do what I can in my
sphere--to suppress my bitterness, and try to utter words of good
cheer. But we are discussing gloomy topics. Let us come to more cheerful
matters. I am in very good spirits to-day. My daughters have come to
make me a visit,” and the old face glowed with smiles; its expression
was quite charming.
“I see you do not appreciate that great treat, my dear colonel,” he
added, smiling. “You are yet unmarried, though I rejoice to hear you are
soon to be united to a daughter of my old friend, Colonel Beverly, of
“The Oaks.” Some day I hope you will know the great charm of paternity.
This morning I was lonely--this evening I am no longer so. Georgia
and Virginia have come up from my house, “Five Forks,” escorted by my
faithful old Juba, and they burst in upon me like the sunshine!”
The words had scarcely been uttered when a tap came at the door; a voice
said, “May we come in, papa?” and a moment afterward the door opened,
and admitted Miss Georgia Conway and her sister Virginia.
Miss Georgia was the same tall and superb beauty, with the dark hair and
eyes; Miss Virginia the same winning little blonde, with the blue eyes,
and the smiles which made her lips resemble rose-buds. The young ladies
were clad in poor, faded-looking calicoes, and the slippers on the
small feet, peeping from their skirts, were full of holes. Such was the
appearance presented in that summer of 1864, my dear reader, by two of
the most elegant and “aristocratic” young ladies of Virginia!
But you did not look at the calicoes, and soon forgot the holes in the
shoes. My bow was such as I should have bestowed on two princesses,
and the young ladies received it with a grace and courtesy which were
charming.
In ten minutes we were all talking like old friends, and the young
ladies were making tea.
This was soon ready; some bread, without butter, was placed upon the
little table; and the meal was the most cheerful and happy imaginable.
“Oh, my dear Mr. Blocque!” I could not help saying to myself, “keep your
champagne, and canvass-backs, and every luxury, and welcome! I like dry
bread and tea, with this company, better!”
I have not room to repeat the charming words, mingled with laughter,
of the young women, on that evening. Their presence was truly
like sunshine, and you could see the reflection of it upon the old
statesman’s countenance.
Only once that countenance was overshadowed. I had uttered the name of
Willie Davenant, by accident; and then all at once remembering the scene
at Culpeper Court-House, had looked quietly at Judge Conway and Miss
Virginia. A deep frown was on his face--that of the young girl was
crimson with blushes, and two tears came to her eyes, as she caught her
father’s glance of displeasure.
I hastened to change the topic--to banish the dangerous subject; and
in a few moments everybody was smiling once more. Miss Georgia, in her
stately and amusing way, was relating their experiences from a scouting
party of the enemy, at “Five Forks.”
“I heard something of this from old Juba,” said the Judge; “you do not
mention your deliverer, however.”
“Our deliverer, papa?”
“General Mohun.”
Miss Georgia unmistakably blushed in her turn.
“Oh, I forgot!” she said, carelessly, “General Mohun _did_ drive them
off. Did I not mention it?--I should have done so before finishing,
papa.”
As she spoke, the young lady happened to catch my eye. I was laughing
quietly. Thereupon her head rose in a stately way--a decided pout
succeeded--finally, she burst into laughter.
The puzzled expression of the old Judge completed the comedy of the
occasion--we all laughed in a perfectly absurd and foolish way--and the
rest of the evening passed in the most cheerful manner imaginable.
When I bade my friends good evening, I knew something I had not known
before:--namely, that Mohun the woman-hater, had renewed his “friendly
relations” with Miss Georgia Conway, at her home in Dinwiddie.
Exchanging a pressure of the hand with my host and his charming
daughters, I bade them good evening, and returned homeward. As I went
along, I thought of the happy circle I had left; and again I could
not refrain from drawing the comparison between Judge Conway and Mr.
Blocque.
At the fine house of the blockade-runner--champagne, rich viands,
wax-lights, gold and silver, and profuse luxury.
At the poor lodgings of the great statesman,--a cup of tea and cold
bread; stately courtesy from my host, charming smiles from his beautiful
daughters, clad in calico, with worn-out shoes--and above the simple
happy group, the crossed swords of the brave youths who had fallen at
Manassas!
VIII.
MR. X-----.
It was past ten in the evening when I left Judge Conway. But I felt
no disposition to retire; and determined to pay a visit to a singular
character of my acquaintance.
The name of this gentleman was Mr. X-----.
Looking back now to the days spent in Richmond, in that curious
summer of ‘64, I recall, among the representative personages whom
I encountered, no individual more remarkable than the Honorable Mr.
X-----. You are acquainted with him, my dear reader, either personally
or by reputation, for he was a prominent official of the Confederate
Government, and, before the war, had been famous in the councils of “the
nation.”
He resided at this time in a small house, on a street near the capitol.
You gained access to his apartment after night--if you knew the way--by
a winding path, through shrubbery, to the back door of the mansion.
When you entered, you found yourself in presence of a tall, powerful,
gray-haired and very courteous personage, who sat in a huge arm-chair,
near a table littered with papers, and smoked, meditatively, a cigar,
the flavor of which indicated its excellent quality.
I enjoyed the intimacy of Mr. X----- in spite of the difference of our
ages and positions. He had been the friend of my father, and, in my
turn, did me the honor to bestow his friendship upon me. On this evening
I was seized with the fancy to visit him--and passing through the
grounds of the capitol, where the bronze Washington and his great
companions looked silently out into the moonlight, reached the small
house, followed the path through the shrubbery, and opening the door
in the rear, found myself suddenly enveloped in a cloud of cigar smoke,
through which loomed the portly figure of Mr. X-----.
He was seated, as usual, in his large arm-chair, by the table, covered
with papers; and a small bell near his hand seemed placed there for the
convenience of summoning an attendant, without the trouble of rising.
Near the bell lay a package of foreign-looking documents. Near the
documents lay a pile of telegraphic dispatches. In the appearance and
surroundings of this man you read “Power.”
Mr. X----- received me with easy cordiality.
“Glad to see you, my dear colonel,” he said, rising and shaking my hand;
then sinking back in his chair, “take a cigar, and tell me the news.” I
sat down,--having declined the proffered cigar.
“The news!” I said, laughing; “I ought to ask that of you.”
“Ah! you think I am well-informed?”
I pointed to the dispatches. Mr. X----- shrugged his shoulders.
“Papers from England and France--they are not going to recognize us.
“And those telegrams--nothing. We get little that is worth attention,
except a line now and then, signed ‘R.E. Lee.’”
“Well, there is that signature,” I said, pointing to an open paper.
“It is a private letter to me--but do you wish to see a line which I
have just received? It is interesting, I assure you.”
And he handed me a paper.
It was a telegram announcing the fall of Atlanta!
“Good heavens!” I said, “is it possible? Then there is nothing to stop
Sherman.”
“Nothing whatever,” said Mr. X-----, coolly.
“What will be the consequence?”
“The Confederacy will be cut in two. Sherman will be at Savannah before
Grant reaches the Southside road--or as soon, at least.”
“You think Grant will reach that?”
“Yes, by April; and then--you know what!”
“But Lee will protect it.”
Mr. X----- shrugged his shoulders.
“Shall I tell you a secret?”
I listened.
“Lee’s force is less than 50,000--next spring it will not number 40,000.
Grant’s will be at least four times that.”
“Why can not our army be re-enforced?”
Mr. X----- helped himself to a fresh cigar.
“The people are tired, and the conscript officers are playing a farce,”
he said. “The commissary department gives the army a quarter of a
pound of rancid meat. That even often fails, for the quartermaster’s
department does not supply it. The result is--no conscripts, and a
thousand desertions. The soldiers are starving; their wives and children
are writing them letters that drive them mad--the end is not far off;
and when Grant reaches the Southside road we are gone.”
Mr. X----- smoked his cigar with extreme calmness as he spoke.
“But one thing remains,” I said.
“What is that?”
“Lee will retreat from Virginia.”
Mr. X----- shook his head.
“He will not.”
“Why not?”
“He will be prevented from doing so.”
“Under any circumstances?”
“Until too late, at least.”
“And the result?”
“Surrender--though he said to me the other day, when he came to see me
here, ‘For myself, I intend to die sword in hand.’”
I could not refrain from a sentiment of profound gloom, as I listened to
these sombre predictions. It seemed incredible that they could be well
founded, but I had more than once had an opportunity to remark the
extraordinary prescience of the remarkable man with whom I conversed.
“You draw a black picture of the future,” I said. “And the South seems
moving to and fro, on the crust of a volcano.”
“No metaphor could be more just.”
“And what will be the result of the war?”
“That is easy to reply to. Political slavery, negro suffrage, and the
bayonet, until the new leaven works.”
“The new leaven?”
“The conviction that democratic government is a failure.”
“And then--?”
“An emperor, or dictator--call him what you will. The main fact is, that
he will rule the country by the bayonet--North and South impartially.”
Mr. X----- lit a fresh cigar.
“Things are going on straight to that,” he said. “The future is
perfectly plain to me, for I read it in the light of history. These
events are going to follow step by step. Lee is brave--no man is braver;
a great leader. I think him one of the first captains of the world.
But in spite of his courage and skill--in spite of the heroism of
his army--in spite of the high character and pure motives of the
president--we are going to fail. Then the rest will follow--negro
suffrage and the bayonet. Then the third era will begin--the disgust of
the white man at the equality of the negro; his distrust of a government
which makes such a farce possible; consequent revulsion against
democracy; a tendency toward monarchy; a king, emperor or dictator, who
will restore order out of the chaos of misrule and madness. England is
rushing toward a democracy, America is hastening to become an
empire. For my own part I think I prefer the imperial to the popular
idea--Imperator to Demos. It is a matter of taste, however.”
And Mr. X----- turned his head, calling out, calmly,
“Come in!”
The door opened and a stranger glided into the apartment. He was clad
in a blue Federal uniform, half-concealed by a brown linen overall. His
face was almost covered by a red beard; his lips by a mustache of the
same color; and his eyes disappeared behind huge green goggles.
“Come in,” repeated Mr. X-----, who seemed to recognize the intruder;
“what news?”
The personage glanced quickly at me.
“Speak before him,” said Mr. X-----, “he is a friend.”
“I am very well acquainted with Colonel Surry,” said the other, smiling,
“and have the honor to number him, I hope, among my own friends.”
With which words, the new-comer quietly removed his red beard, took off
his green spectacles, and I saw before me no less a personage than Mr.
Nighthawk!
IX.
“SEND ME A COPY.--IN CANADA!”
Nothing was more surprising in this singular man than these sudden
appearances at places and times when you least expected him.
I had parted with him in Spottsylvania, on the night when he “deserted”
from the enemy, and rode into our lines; and he was then the secret
agent of General Stuart. Now, he reappeared in the city of Richmond,
with an excellent understanding, it was evident, between himself and Mr.
X-----!
Our greeting was cordial, and indeed I never had classed Nighthawk
among professional spies. General Stuart assured me one day, that
he invariably refused all reward; and his profound, almost romantic
devotion to Mohun, had deeply impressed me. Love of country and watchful
care of the young cavalier, whose past life was as mysterious as his
own, seemed the controlling sentiments of Nighthawk; and he always
presented himself to me rather in the light of a political conspirator,
than as a “spy.”
His first words now indicated that he was a secret agent of the
Government. He seemed to have been everywhere, and gained access to
everybody; and once more, as in June, 1863, when he appeared at Stuart’s
head-quarters, near Middleburg, he astonished me by the accuracy and
extent of his information. Political and military secrets of the highest
importance, and calling for urgent action on the part of the Government,
were detailed by Nighthawk, in his calm and benignant voice; he gave
us an account of a long interview which he had had at City Point,
with General Grant; and wound up as usual by announcing an impending
battle--a movement of the enemy, which duly took place as he announced.
Mr. X----- listened with close attention, asking few questions.
When Nighthawk had made his report, the statesman looked at his watch,
said, _sotto voce_, “Midnight--too late,” and added aloud:--
“Come back at ten to-morrow morning, my friend; your information is
highly interesting and important.”
Nighthawk rose, and I did likewise, declining the courteous request
of Mr. X----- to prolong my visit. He held the door open with great
politeness and said, smiling:--
“I need not say, my dear colonel, that the views I have expressed this
evening are confidential--for the present, at least.”
“Assuredly,” I replied, with a bow and a smile.
“Hereafter you are at liberty to repeat them, if you wish, only I beg
you will ascribe them to Mr. X-----, an unknown quantity. If you write a
book, and put me in it, send me a copy--in Canada!”
A moment afterward I was wending my way through the shrubbery, thinking
of the curious personage I had left.
At the gate Nighthawk awaited me, and I scarcely recognized him. He had
resumed his red beard, and green glasses.
“I am glad to see you again, colonel,” he said benignantly; “I heard
that you were in the city and called at your lodgings, but found you
absent.”
“You wished to see me particularly, then, Nighthawk.”
“Yes, and to-night, colonel.”
“Ah!”
“I know you are a friend of General Mohun’s.”
“A very sincere friend.”
“Well, I think we will be able to do him a very great service by
attending to a little matter in which he is interested, colonel. Are you
disengaged, and willing to accompany me?”
X.
THE WAY THE MONEY WENT.
I looked intently at Nighthawk. He was evidently very much in earnest.
“I am entirely disengaged, and perfectly willing to accompany you,” I
said; “but where?”
Nighthawk smiled.
“You know I am a mysterious person, colonel, both by character and
profession. I fear the habit is growing on me, in spite of every
exertion I make. I predict I will end by burning my coat, for fear it
will tell some of my secrets.”
“Well,” I said with a smile, “keep your secret then, and lead the way. I
am ready to go far to oblige Mohun in any thing.”
“I thank you, colonel, from my heart. You have only to follow me.”
And Nighthawk set out at a rapid pace, through the grounds of the
capitol, toward the lower part of the city.
There was something as singular about the walk of my companion, as about
his appearance. He went at a great pace, but his progress was entirely
noiseless. You would have said that he was skimming along upon invisible
wings.
In an incredibly short time we had reached a street below the capitol,
and my companion, who had walked straight on without turning his head
to the right or the left, all at once paused before a tall and
dingy-looking house, which would have appeared completely uninhabited,
except for a bright red light which shone through a circular opening in
the door.
At this door Nighthawk gave a single tap. The glass covering the
circular space glided back, and a face reconnoitred. My companion
uttered two words; and the door opened, giving access to a stairs, which
we ascended, the janitor having already disappeared.
At the head of the stairs was a door which Nighthawk opened, and we
found ourselves in an apartment where a dozen persons were playing faro.
Upon these Nighthawk threw a rapid glance--some one whom he appeared to
be seeking, was evidently not among the players.
Another moment he returned through the door, I following, and we
ascended a second flight of stairs, at the top of which was a second
door. Here another janitor barred the way, but my companion again
uttered some low words,--the door opened; a magnificently lit apartment,
with a buffet of liquors, and every edible, presented itself before us;
and in the midst of a dozen personages, who were playing furiously, I
recognized--Mr. Blocque, Mr. Croker, Mr. Torpedo, and Colonel Desperade.
For some moments I stood watching the spectacle, and it very
considerably enlarged my experience. Before me I saw prominent
politicians, officers of high rank, employees of government holding
responsible positions, all gambling with an ardor that amounted to
fury. One gentleman in uniform--apparently of the quartermaster’s
department--held in his hand a huge package of Confederate notes, of
the denominations, of $100 and $500, and this worthy staked, twice, the
pretty little amount of $10,000 upon a card, and each time lost.
The play so absorbed the soldiers, lawgivers, and law-administrators,
that our presence was unperceived. My friend, Mr. Blocque, did not turn
his head; Mr. Croker, Mr. Torpedo, and Colonel Desperade, were red in
the face and oblivious.
After that evening I knew where some of the public money went.
As I was looking at the strange scene of reckless excitement, one of the
players, a portly individual with black mustache, rich dark curls,
gold spectacles, and wearing a fine suit of broadcloth--rose and looked
toward us. Nighthawk was already gazing at him; and suddenly I saw their
glances cross like steel rapiers. They had evidently recognized each
other; and going up to the gentleman of the spectacles, Nighthawk said a
few words in a low voice, which I did not distinguish.
“With pleasure, my dear friend,” said the portly gentleman, “but you are
sure you are not provided with a detective of General Winder’s?”
“Can you believe such a thing?” returned Nighthawk, reproachfully.
“I thought it possible you might have one waiting below; but if you give
me your word, Nighthawk--”
And without further objection the worthy followed Nighthawk and myself
down the stairs.
As we approached the outer door, the invisible janitor opened it; we
issued forth into the street; and the portly gentleman, fixing a keen
look upon me in the clear moonlight, said:--
“I believe we have had the pleasure of meeting before, colonel.”
“I am ashamed to say I do not remember where, sir,” I said.
“My memory is better, colonel; we met last May, in a house in the
Wilderness, near Chancellorsville.”
“Is it possible that you are--”
“Swartz, very much at your service. It is wonderful what a difference is
made by a wig and spectacles!”
As he spoke, he gracefully removed his black wig and the gold
spectacles. In the man with gray hair, small eyes, and double chin, I
recognized the spy of the Wilderness.
XI.
THE PASS.
Replacing his wig and spectacles, Mr. Swartz smiled in a good-humored
manner, and said:--
“May I ask to what I am indebted for this visit?”
Nighthawk replied even more blandly:--
“I wish to have a conversation with you, my dear Swartz, before
arresting you.”
“Ah! you intend to arrest me!”
“Unless you make it unnecessary.”
“How?”
“By producing the paper which we spoke of in the Wilderness,” said
Nighthawk, briefly.
Swartz shook his head.
“That is not in my power, my friend. I did not bring it with me.”
“Will you think me very impolite if I say I do not believe you, my dear
Swartz?”
Swartz smiled.
“Well, that would be speaking without ceremony, my friend--but I assure
you I am unable to do as you desire.”
“Aha! you repeat that curious statement, my dear Swartz! Well, oblige me
by accompanying me to the provost-marshal’s.”
“You arrest me?”
“Precisely.”
“As a spy?”
“Why not?”
“It is impossible, Nighthawk!”
“You resist?”
“I might do so.”
And, opening his coat, Mr. Swartz exhibited a bowie-knife and revolver.
“I show you these little toys,” said he, laughing good-humoredly, “to
let you see, my friend, that I might oppose your project--and you know I
am not backward in using them on occasion. But I make a difference.
You are not a common police-officer or detective, Nighthawk--you are
a friend and comrade, and I am going to prove that I appreciate your
feelings, and respect your wishes.”
Nighthawk fixed his eyes on the speaker and listened.
“You are a friend of General Mohun’s,” said Mr. Swartz, with bland good
humor; “you wish to secure a certain document in which he is interested;
you fancy I have that document here in the city of Richmond; and your
object, very naturally, is to force me to surrender it. Well, I do not
object to doing so--for a consideration. I fully intend to produce
it, when my terms are accepted. I would have stated them to you in the
Wilderness, but you were unable to meet me--or to General Mohun, but his
violence defeated every thing. You meet me now, and without discussion,
demand the paper. I reply, that I have not brought it with me, but
three days from this time will meet you at a spot agreed on, with the
document, for which you will return me--my consideration.”
Nighthawk shook his head.
“Unfortunately, my dear Swartz, experience tells me that the present is
always the best time for business--that ‘a bird in the hand is worth two
in the bush.’”
Mr. Swartz smiled sweetly.
“And I am the bird in your hand?”
“Something like it.”
“I am a spy?”
“Don’t use hard names, my friend.”
“By no means, my dear Nighthawk, and if I have hurt your feelings, I
deeply regret it. But I am speaking to the point. You regard me as a
Federal spy, lurking in Richmond--you penetrate my disguise, and are
going to arrest me, and search my lodgings for that paper.”
“The necessity is painful,” said Nighthawk.
“It is useless, my friend.”
“I will try it.”
Swartz smiled, and drew a paper from his pocket, which he unfolded.
“You are then determined to arrest your old comrade, Nighthawk.”
“Yes, my dear Swartz.”
“As a spy?”
“Exactly.”
“In spite of this?”
And Mr. Swartz held out the paper.
“Do me the favor to read this, colonel, and then oblige me by returning
it.”
I took the paper, and easily read it by moonlight. It contained the
following words:--
“The bearer is employed on secret service, by the Confederate
Government, and will not be molested.”
The paper was signed by a personage of high position in the government,
and was stamped with the seal of the department over which he presided.
There could be no doubt of the genuineness of the paper. The worthy
Mr. Swartz loomed up before me in the novel and unexpected light of a
_Confederate_ emissary!
I read the paper aloud to Nighthawk, and pointed to the official
signature and seal.
Nighthawk uttered a groan, and his chin sank upon his breast.
That spectacle seemed to excite the sympathy of his friend.
“There, my dear Nighthawk,” said Mr. Swartz, in a feeling tone, “don’t
take the blow too much to heart. I have beaten you, this game, and your
hands are tied at present. But I swear that I will meet you, and produce
that paper.”
“When?” murmured Nighthawk.
“In three days from this time.”
“Where?”
“At the house of our friend Alibi, near Monk’s Neck, in Dinwiddie.”
“On your word?”
“On the word of Swartz!”
“That is enough, my dear Swartz; I will be at Alibi’s, when we will
come to terms. And now, pardon this visit, which has put you to so much
inconvenience. I was merely jesting, my dear friend, when I spoke
of arresting you. Arrest you! Nothing could induce me to think of so
unfriendly a proceeding. And now, good night, my dear friend. I will
return with you, colonel.”
With which words Nighthawk saluted his “friend,” and we returned toward
the upper part of the city.
Such were the scenes of a night in the summer of 1864.
XII.
THE GRAVE OF STUART.
On the next morning a piece of good fortune befell me. In spite of
continued visits to the war-office, and an amount of importunity which
must have been exceedingly annoying to the gentlemen of the red tape,
I found myself, at the end of August, apparently no nearer to an
“assignment to duty” than at first.
It really seemed that the Confederate States had no need of my services;
that the privilege of performing military duty in behalf of the
Government was one jealously guarded, and not to be lightly bestowed
upon any one. I was in despair, and was revolving the project of
resigning my empty commission, and enlisting in the cavalry as a
private soldier, when the _deus ex machinâ_ to extricate me from all
my troubles, appeared in the person of Colonel P-----, of army
head-quarters.
This accomplished soldier and gentleman met me as I was coming out of
the war-office, on the morning after the visit to Mr. X-----, looking
I suppose, like some descendant of the Knight of the Sorrowful
Countenance, and stopped to inquire the cause of my dejection. I
informed him of the whole affair, and he laughed heartily. “You have
set about your affairs, my dear colonel, in a manner entirely wrong,”
he said. “You should have gone to some general, discovered that your
grandmother and his own were third cousins; expressed your admiration
of his valor; denounced the brother-general with whom he was quarreling;
written puffs to the papers about him; and then, one morning said, ‘By
the by, general, you are entitled to another staff officer.’ The result
would have been a glowing letter to the war department, requesting your
assignment--you would have attained your object--you would have been
torn from the horrors of Richmond, and once more enjoyed the great
privilege of being shot at!”
I echoed the colonel’s laugh.
“Alas!” I said, “I have no genius for all that. I never yet could ‘crook
the hinges of the knee that thrift might follow fawning,’ and I suppose
I shall be compelled to resign, and enter the ranks. Why not? Better men
are there, carrying musket or carbine, or pulling the lanyard.”
“Still you gained your rank by your services--and I am going to make you
an offer which will enable you to retain it. Come and be my assistant
inspector-general--an officer is required to inspect the cavalry and
horse artillery, which is so distant, often, that I have no time to
visit them.”
“A thousand thanks, colonel! You could not offer me a more pleasant
duty.”
“You will have to ride a great deal, but will have a great deal of
freedom. If you consent to my proposition, I will have the matter
arranged at once, and will request you to make a tour of inspection to
General Early’s army, near Winchester.”
He looked at me, laughing.
“‘The Oaks’ is--a charming place,” he added, “and you are certain to
be very tired when you reach the vicinity of Markham’s! If you find it
convenient to stop there--say, for a day or more--present my regards to
Colonel Beverly, and any of the family you find present!”
With which words he laughed again, shook me by the hand, and then his
tall form disappeared in the doorway of the war office.
On the next day I found my assignment awaiting me. I was appointed
assistant inspector-general of the cavalry and horse artillery of the
army of Northern Virginia. Tremendous title!
That evening I went by railway to Petersburg, to visit Colonel P-----,
and receive his instructions. Returning the same night, the next day
set out on horseback for the Valley of the Shenandoah, by way of Orange,
Gaines’s Cross Roads, and Ashby’s Gap.
Of this journey it is unnecessary for me to speak in the present volume.
Some curious adventures occurred to me, in the valley, near Millwood,
and I made the acquaintance of St. Leger Landon, of “Bizarre,” one
of the bravest and truest gentlemen I have ever known. The adventures
alluded to, and some events in the strange history of my friend, Captain
Landon, are embraced in a separate memoir, to which I have given the
fanciful title, _Hilt to Hilt, or Days and Nights on the Banks of the
Shenandoah_.
I remained in the valley from the first to the eighteenth of September,
when I set out on my return to Petersburg, little thinking that, on the
very next day, General Early would be attacked on the Opequon, driven
from Winchester, and forced to retreat up the valley, in spite of
fighting which was never surpassed.
I had received some rough handling in a cavalry combat near the Old
Chapel, beyond Millwood, and my ride back was tedious. But at last I
reached Richmond, and made preparations to set out at once for the army.
On the evening before my departure, I went to visit the grave of Stuart
at Hollywood, on the beautiful hill above the falls, west of the city.
As I approached the lonely spot, where the great cavalier was lying
beside his little Flora, of whom he had often spoken to me with tears, a
thousand memories knocked at the door of my heart. With head bent down,
and chin resting on my breast, I drew near the grassy mound over which
waved the autumn foliage, tinted with yellow and crimson--and in these
few moments, all the splendid career of Stuart passed before me, as on
that day when I rode with him toward the fatal field of Yellow Tavern.
I remembered all his hard combats, his glorious encounters, his
victories over such odds as vindicated his claim to a descent from the
dashing Rupert, and ranked him with the most famous leaders of cavalry
in all history. I recalled the courage, the joy, the gay laughter of the
great soldier--the blue eyes that flashed so--the sonorous voice singing
the merry songs. I remembered all the occasions when he had led his men
in the charge--how he had wept for Jackson, bowed his head above the
cold face of Pelham--how he had met the torrent unmoved, shrunk from
nothing in his path, fallen to save the Virginia capital, and died
murmuring “God’s will be done!”--I remembered all that, and with
something in my throat that seemed choking me, drew near the quiet
mound, beneath which rested such a career, and so much glory.
The birds were twittering and singing, the foliage waving gently--I
raised my head--when suddenly I became aware that a solitary mourner was
bending over the grave.
He was an officer in gray uniform. He held a flower in his hand, which
he dropped upon the grave, uttering a low sob as he did so.
At the same moment he turned round, and I recognized the great partisan,
Colonel Mosby.[1]
[Footnote 1: Real.]
XIII.
THE CEDARS.
Twenty-four hours after, I had passed over the same number of miles,
and found myself at the staff head-quarters, on the left bank of the
Appomattox, above Petersburg.
I had soon pitched my tent, with the assistance of a servant; had
erected a hedge of cedar boughs to protect it from the cutting blasts of
the coming winter; and, a few days afterwards, was surrounded with
many objects of comfort. My tent had been floored; at one end rose an
excellent chimney; strips of planks, skillfully balanced on two logs,
supplied a spring bed; I had secured a split bottom chair, and my
saddle and bridle were disposed upon a rough rack, near a black valise
containing my small stock of apparel, and the pine table and desk
holding official papers.
Having christened this castle “The Cedars,” I settled down for a long
winter,--and it was not a great while before I congratulated myself on
the good fortune which had provided me with that warm nest. More than
once, however, I experienced something like a sentiment of shame, when,
in the dark and freezing nights, with the hail rattling on my tent, I
sat by my warm fire, and heard the crack of the sharp-shooters, along
the lines beyond Petersburg. What right had I to be there, by that
blazing fire, in my warm tent, when my brethren--many of them my
betters--were yonder, fighting along the frozen hills? What had I done
to deserve that comfort, and exemption from all pain? I was idling, or
reading by my blazing fire,--_they_ were keeping back the enemy, and,
perhaps, falling and dying in the darkness. I was musing in my chair,
gazing into the blaze, and going back in memory to the fond scenes of
home, so clearly, that I laughed the heart’s laugh, and was happy. And
they? They, too, were thinking of home, perhaps,--of their wives and
children, to sink down the next moment shivering with cold, or stagger
and fall, with spouting blood, as the bullet pierced them. Why should
_I_ be thus favored by a good Providence? I often asked myself that
question, and I could not answer it. I could only murmur, “I did not
sneak here to get out of the way of the bullets,--those, yonder, are my
betters,--God guard and keep the brave soldiers of this army!”
And now, worthy reader, having given you some idea of the manner in
which the more fortunate ones wintered near Petersburg, in 1864, I am
going to drop the subject of army head-quarters, and my surroundings
there. Jackson and Stuart are dead, and have become figures of history.
I have drawn them as well as I could,--I dare not attempt to do the same
with the great commander-in-chief. He is alive. May he live long!--and,
saluting him, I pass on.
So if I speak of General Lee, it will be of the individual in his
official character. What he utters, he will have uttered in the hearing
of many.
With these words of preface, I resume the thread of my history.
XIV.
THE SITUATION.
October, 1864, had come.
The “situation” may be described in a few words.
Grant had drawn his lines from a point in Charles City, on the left bank
of James River, across that stream and across the Appomattox, around
Petersburg to the Squirrel Level road, where he threatened the Southside
railroad, Lee’s line of communication with the south and west. Fort
Harrison had just been taken. Grant was gradually hemming in his
opponent along the immense line extending across the two rivers, past
the scene of the famous “Crater” explosion, to the vicinity of the
Rowanty, a distance of nearly forty miles. One incessant crash and
thunder went up, day and night. Grant was “hammering continuously,”
carrying out his programme; and, the military view apart, never was
spectacle more picturesque than that presented in these combats.
The long lines of works were wreathed with the smoke of battle. The
glare of cannon lit the smoke-cloud; mortar shells rose, described their
fiery curves, and descended in the trenches, and these were saluted as
they rose and fell by the crack of musketry, the roar of artillery, the
echoing cheers of the blue and gray people, who never seemed weary of
fighting, yelling, and paying their compliments to each other. At night
the spectacle was superb; the mortars were like flocks of fire-birds,
swooping down upon their prey. The horizon glared at each cannon-shot;
shell burst in vivid lightnings, shining for a moment, then
extinguished. And yonder object, like a bloodshot eye, shining grimly
through the darkness,--what is that? It is a lamp, my dear reader, with
a transparent shade; and on this shade is written, for the information
of the graybacks:--
“While yet the lamp holds out to burn,
The vilest rebel may return.”
Lee’s lines faced Grant’s, following the blue cordon across the rivers,
around Petersburg, toward the Southside railroad.
Beyond the right of the Confederate infantry stretched the cavalry,
which consisted of the divisions of Wade Hampton and W.H.F. Lee,--the
former commanding. Fitz Lee, with his division, was in the Valley.
Such, reader was the situation, when I joined the army. The great fifth
act of the tragic drama was approaching.
XV.
MOHUN AGAIN.
Three days after my arrival, I mounted my horse, crossed the Appomattox,
followed the Boydton road, struck southward at the Quaker road, and soon
found myself in the heart of the shadowy pine woods of that singular
country, Dinwiddie.
My official duty was to inspect and report the condition of the cavalry
and horse artillery of the army at the beginning and middle of each
month. And now, first assuring the reader that I performed my duty in
all weather, and amid every difficulty, I will drop the official phase
of my history, and proceed to matters rather more entertaining.
On the day after my departure from Petersburg, I had made my
inspections, and was returning.
I had been received by my old friends of the cavalry with every mark of
cordial regard. General Hampton, General Lee, and the various officers
and men whom I had known as a staff-officer of General Stuart, seemed to
welcome the sight of a face which, perhaps, reminded them of their
dead leader; and I had pressed all these warm hands, and received these
friendly greetings not without emotion--for I, too, was carried back to
the past.
I saw Mordaunt and Davenant, but not Mohun--he was absent, visiting
his picket line. Mordaunt was the same stately soldier--his grave and
friendly voice greeted me warmly as in old days; and Willie Davenant,
now a major, commanding a battalion of horse artillery, shook hands with
me, as shy and blushing as before--and even more sad.
“How had his suit prospered? Were things more encouraging?”
I asked him these questions with a laugh, apologizing for my intrusion.
He assured me sadly that it was not in the least an intrusion; but that
he had not seen the person to whom I alluded, for many months.
And executing a blush which would have become a girl, this young
tiger of the horse artillery--for such he always proved himself, in
a fight--hastened to change the subject. Soon afterward I took my
departure, turned my horse’s head toward Petersburg, and set out at a
round trot between the walls of pine.
It was dusk when I reached the debouchment of the “military road,”
and, tired and hungry, I was contemplating ruefully the long ride still
before me, when rapid hoof-strokes behind me attracted my attention,
and, turning my head, I recognized the bold figure of Mohun.
He was mounted on a fine animal, and came at full speed.
In a moment he had caught up, recognized, and we exchanged a warm grasp
of the hand.
“I am delighted to see you, Surry. I thought you had deserted us, old
fellow. The sight of you is a treat!”
“And the sight of you, my dear Mohun. You look beaming.”
Indeed, Mohun had never presented a better appearance, with his dark
eyes; his tanned and glowing cheeks; his raven mustached lips, which,
parting with a smile, showed white and regular teeth. He was the picture
of a gallant soldier; all his old melancholy and cynical bitterness
gone, as mist is swept away by the morning sunshine.
“You are positively dazzling, Mohun. Where are you going, and what has
happened to you? Ah!--I begin to understand!”
And pointing northward, I said:--
“Five Forks is not far from here, is it?”
Mohun colored, but, the next moment, burst into laughter.
“You are right, old friend! It is impossible to hide any thing from
you.”
“And a friend of yours is there--whom you are going to see?”
“Yes, my dear Surry,” was his reply, in a voice of sudden earnestness,
“you are not mistaken, and you see I am like all the rest of the world.
When we first met on the Rapidan, I was a woman-hater. I despised
them all, for I had had reason. That was my state of mind, when a very
beautiful and noble girl, whom you have seen, crossed my path. Events
threw us together--first, the wound I received at Fleetwood--she caught
me as I was falling on that day--and several times afterward I saw
and conversed with her, finding her proud, satirical, indifferent to
admiration, but as honest and true as steel. Still, our relations
did not proceed beyond friendship, and when I told you one day in
the Wilderness that I was not her suitor, I spoke the truth. I am not
exactly able to say as much to-day!--But to finish my account of myself:
I came here to Dinwiddie on the right of the army, and a week or two
after my arrival the enemy made a cavalry raid toward the Southside
railroad. I followed, and came up with them as they were plundering a
house not far from Five Forks. Well, I charged and drove them into the
woods--when, who should make her appearance at the door but Miss Conway,
whom I had last seen in Culpeper! As you know, her father resides
here--he is now at Richmond--and, after following the enemy back to
their own lines, hurrying them up with sabre and carbine, I came back to
inquire the extent of their depredations at Five Forks.
“Such is the simple explanation of the present ‘situation,’ my dear
friend. Miss Virginia cordially invited me to come whenever I could do
so, and although Miss Georgia was less pressing--in fact, said nothing
on the subject--I was not cast down thereby! I returned, have been often
since, and--that’s all.”
Mohun laughed the heart’s laugh. You have heard that, have you not,
reader? “Now tell me about yourself,” he added, “and on the way to
Five Forks! I see you are tired and hungry. Come! they have the easiest
chairs yonder, and are the soul of hospitality!”
The offer was tempting. Why not accept it? My hesitation lasted exactly
three seconds.
At the end of that time, I was riding beside Mohun in the direction of
Five Forks, which we reached just as I terminated my account of myself
since Mohun and I had parted in the Wilderness.
XVI.
“FIVE FORKS.”