“Five Forks” was an old mansion not far _Mohun; Or, the Last Days of Lee and His Paladins. Final Memoirs of a Staff Officer Serving in Virginia. from the Mss. of Colonel Surry, of Eagle's Nest.

now become historical. It was a building of large size; the grounds were

extensive, and had been elegant; the house had evidently been the home

of a long line of gentlemen, whose portraits, flanked by those of their

fair helpmates, adorned the walls of the great drawing-room, between the

lofty windows. In the hall stood a tall bookcase, filled with law

books, and volumes of miscellany. From the woodwork hung pictures of

racehorses, and old engravings. Such was the establishment which the

Federal cavalry had visited, leaving, as always, their traces, in broken

furniture, smashed crockery, and trampled grounds.

I shall not pause to describe my brief visit to this hospitable house.

The young ladies had returned from Richmond some time before, escorted

by the gray-haired Juba, that faithful old African retainer; and, as a

result of the evenings which I had spent with them and their father, I

had the honor to be received in the character of an old friend.

Ten minutes after my arrival I saw that Mohun was passionately in

love with Miss Georgia; and I thought I perceived as clearly that she

returned his affection. Their eyes--those tell-tales--were incessantly

meeting; and Mohun followed every movement of the queenly girl with

those long, fixed glances, which leave nothing in doubt.

The younger sister, Miss Virginia, received me with charming sweetness,

but a secret melancholy weighed down the dusky eye-lashes. The blue eyes

were sad; the very smiles on the rosy lips were sad. All was plain here,

too, at a single glance. The pure girl had given her heart to the brave

Willie Davenant, and some mysterious hostility of her father toward the

young officer, forced them apart.

What was the origin of that hostility? Why had Judge Conway so abruptly

torn his daughter away from Davenant at the ball in Culpeper--and why

had that shadow passed over the old statesman’s brow when I uttered the

name of the young man in Richmond?

I asked myself these questions vainly--and decided in my mind that I

should probably never know.

I was mistaken. I was going to know before midnight.

After an excellent supper, over which Miss Georgia presided with stately

dignity--for she, too, had changed, in as marked a degree as Mohun,--I

rose, declared I must return to Petersburg, and bade the young ladies,

who cordially pressed me to remain, good-night.

Mohun declared that he would remain an hour longer--and having promised

a visit soon, at his camp on the Rowanty, I mounted my horse, and set

out, through the darkness, for Petersburg.

XVII.

GENERAL DAVENANT.

Following the White Oak road, I passed Hatcher’s Run at Burgess’s mill,

and went on over the Boydton road, reflecting upon the scene I had just

left.

All at once my horse placed his foot upon a sharp root in the road,

stumbled, nearly fell, and when I touched him with the spur I found that

he limped painfully.

Dismounting, I examined his foot. The sharp point had entered it, and it

was bleeding profusely. The accident was unfortunate--and, attempting to

ride on, I found the hurt worse than I had expected. My gray staggered

on as if the limb were broken.

I dismounted once more, led him slowly by the bridle, and continued my

way on foot. A quarter of a mile farther, the animal was in such agony

that I looked around for some light, by which to examine the hurt more

fully.

On the right, a glimmer was seen through the trees. I made straight

toward it, through the woods, and soon found myself near a group of

tents, one of which was lit up.

“Whose head-quarters are these?” I asked of a man on post, near.

“Mine, my dear colonel,” said a voice in the darkness near. “My candle

yonder is hospitable and enables me to recognize you.”

With which words the figure advanced into the light, and I recognized

the tall and stately form of General Davenant.

He gave me his hand cordially, and I explained my dilemma. “You are

unfortunate, but fortunate, too,” said Davenant, “as I have a man

among my couriers who knows all about horses. I will send yours to him;

meanwhile come into my tent.”

And intrusting my horse to the orderly with some brief directions, the

general led the way into his head-quarters tent.

A cheerful fire burned in the rude log-built chimney. On one side were a

plain desk and two camp-stools; on the other a rough couch of pine logs,

filled with straw, and spread with blankets. Upon the blankets a boy

of about fourteen was sound asleep, the light auburn curls tossed in

disorder over the rosy young face. At a glance I recognized the youth

who had entered the ranks at Gettysburg, taken part in Pickett’s charge,

and been borne out through the smoke, wounded and bleeding, in the arms

of his father. The young Charley had evidently recovered, and was as

ruddy as before. His little braided jacket was as jaunty, his face as

smiling, as on that evening near Paris.

An hour afterward, General Davenant and myself were conversing like old

friends. We were by no means strangers, as I had repeatedly been thrown

with him in the army, and my intimacy with Will doubtless commended me

to the brave soldier’s regard. An accident now seemed about to make

us still better acquainted. The orderly had reported that it would

be impossible to proceed farther with my horse that night, and I had

accepted the invitation of General Davenant to remain with him until

morning.

“My brigade is holding the right of the army, colonel,” he had said; “we

have just moved to this position, and have not had time to become very

comfortable. But I can offer you a tolerable supper and a camp-bed after

it, with a warm welcome, I assure you.”

I declined the supper, but accepted the bed; and seated opposite the

grizzled old cavalier, in his gray uniform, had begun to converse.

Something about the stately general of infantry, drew me irresistibly

toward him. His bearing was lofty, and not without a species of hauteur;

but under all was an exquisite high-breeding and courtesy, which made

his society quite charming.

At some words of mine, however, in reference to my visit on this day to

his son, a decided expression of gloom had obscured the smiles of the

old soldier.

“Yes, colonel,” he said, with something like a sigh, “Willie has lost

his good spirits, and has been much depressed for more than a year. You

are his friend--you share his confidence--you doubtless know the origin

of this depression.”

“I do, general; a very common cause of trouble to young men--a young

lady.”

“A young lady,” repeated General Davenant, in the same gloomy tone.

“He has committed the imprudence of falling in love, as the phrase is,

with--Miss Conway.”

He paused before the words “Miss Conway,” and uttered them with evident

repugnance. They issued from his lips, indeed, with a species of jerk;

and he seemed glad to get rid of them, if I may so express myself.

“I can talk of this affair with you, colonel,” he added, gloomily, “for

Will has told me of your regard for him.”

I bowed, and said:--

“You are not wrong in supposing that I am one of your son’s best

friends, general. I was long in the cavalry with him--there is no more

heroic soldier in the army--and it has given me sincere sorrow to see

him laboring under such melancholy.”

General Davenant, with his hand covering his brow, listened in silence.

“I have not inquired the origin of this depression,” I added--“that

would have been indiscreet--though I know Will would tell me. I guessed

it, however, and I have visited the young lady at her house to-night. I

will certainly use my utmost exertions to remove all obstacles.”

General Davenant suddenly rose erect. His eye was flashing.

“I beg you will not, colonel!” he exclaimed. “The barrier between

himself and--Miss Conway--can never be removed.”

I looked at the speaker’s flushed face with positive wonder, and

replied:--

“You astonish me, general! Are there any such obstacles in life?”

“There are!”

I made no reply.

“There are, colonel,” repeated the now fiery old soldier. “Judge Conway

has been guilty of a gross wrong to me. No son of mine shall ever form

an alliance with his family!”

I looked up with deep astonishment.

“This is a very great surprise to me, my dear general,” I said; “I

thought, from many things, that it was Judge Conway who opposed this

alliance; and from the belief that _you_ had done _him_ some great

wrong.”

General Davenant had taken his seat again, after his outburst. Once more

his forehead was covered with his hand. For some moments he preserved

a silence so profound, that nothing disturbed the night but the long

breathing of the sleeping boy, and the measured tramp of the sentinel.

Then, all at once, the general raised his head. His expression was no

longer fiery--it was unutterably sad.

“I have been reflecting, colonel,” he said gravely, “and, in these few

minutes, have come to a somewhat singular determination.”

“What is that, general?”

“To tell you why _my_ son can never marry the daughter of Judge Conway!”

XVIII.

TWO MEN AND A WOMAN.

General Davenant leaned his elbow on the desk, rested his forehead in

his hand, and said in a deep, measured voice:--

“My story need not be a long one, colonel. Those who relate gay

adventures and joyous experiences, indulge in endless details--memory is

charming to them at such moments--they go back to the past, with a smile

on the lips, recalling every little detail, every color of the bright

picture.

“My own narrative will be brief, because it is a gloomy one. It is far

from pleasant to return to the scenes I propose to describe. I only do

so to erase a stigma which seems to attach to my family and myself; to

show you that, in spite of Judge Conway, I deserve your good opinion.

Assuredly I do not propose any pleasure to myself in relating these

events. Alas! one of the bitterest things to a proud man--and I am

proud--is to even seem to defend his good name from imputed dishonor!”

Knitting his brows as he spoke, the old soldier looked gloomily into the

blaze before us. In a moment, he went on:--

“I was born in the county of Dinwiddie, colonel, where my family had

lived from the time of the first settlement of Virginia. My father was

a large landholder, and his most intimate friend was Mr. Conway, the

father of the present judge. The family friendship was inherited by the

young people of the two families--and my two most intimate friends

were George and William Conway. One is dead, the other is Judge William

Conway, member of Congress. We had played together as children, been

companions at school. When our fathers died, and we in turn became the

representatives of the two families, our friendship became even more

close. I was half my time at ‘Five Forks’--they paid long visits to me

at ‘The Pines’--we hunted together, went to entertainments together,

drank wine together, and were inseparable.

“George was especially my favorite. He was the soul of amiability;

everybody loved him; and I entertained for him the most tender

friendship. His brother William was equally estimable, but did not

attract you as strongly. Although a person of the highest sense of

honor, and universally respected for talents of the first order, he was

irascible, bitter, and, when once aroused, allowed nothing to restrain

him. At such moments his best friends avoided him, for he was dangerous.

He brooked no opposition. His anger was like a consuming fire; and a

friendship which he had formed with that gentleman of splendid powers,

but venomous antipathies, John Randolph of Roanoke, served still more

to encourage him in the indulgence of the natural acerbity of his

disposition. More than once, I have seen him almost foam at the mouth

as he denounced some political adversary from the stump, and when one

of these fits of passion seized him, he became as ungovernable as a wild

animal. You can scarcely realize that, now. Sorrow has chastened him;

trouble has softened him; I have nothing to say against the Judge

William Conway of to-day. He is a self-sacrificing patriot, a gentleman

of irreproachable courtesy, and sweetness of character; but, as a

young man, he was a firebrand, and I think the fire is still unquenched

beneath the gray hairs of the man of seventy.

“Such were George and William Conway, when I knew them as young men--the

one mild, amiable, the soul of kindness and good-nature; the other

proud, honorable, but subject to fits of stormy passion, which made all

avoid him when the paroxysm was upon him.

“From this hasty description, you will understand why George was a

greater favorite with me than his brother. Our friendship was, indeed,

as close and tender as possible, and we passed our majority and

approached the age of twenty-five, without ever having had a moment’s

interruption of our intimacy.

“Then, all at once, there appeared upon the stage, that cause of so much

happiness, woe, joy, grief, to mankind--a woman. To make a long story

short, George Conway and myself were so unfortunate as to become

attached to the same young lady, and very soon this sentiment amounted,

both on his part and on my own, to a wild and consuming passion. The

young lady--it is unnecessary to mention her name--was a person of rare

beauty, and mistress of all the wiles which bring young men to the feet

of women. She used these unsparingly, too, for nothing delighted her so

much as to attract admiration and inspire love. Perceiving the effect

which her grace and loveliness had produced upon myself and George, she

made every exertion to increase our infatuation--encouraged first one,

then the other; and, in the end, succeeded in breaking those close

ties of friendship which had bound us from the time when we had played

together as children.

“That is a sad confession, colonel, but it is the truth. The bright eyes

and smiles of a girl had terminated a life-long friendship. The mere

love of admiration in the heart of a young girl had interrupted the

affection of years--making George and myself cold and _distrait_ toward

each other. Soon things became still worse. From friends we had become

mere acquaintances--from acquaintances we became strangers, and finally

foes. Busy-bodies whispered, tale-bearers blew the flames. If the young

lady smiled on me at a party where George was present, the good people

around us looked at _him_ with satirical meaning. If she smiled

on George, their eyes were turned toward me, and they giggled and

whispered.

“That is all tedious--is it not? An old story, which every country

neighborhood knows. You laugh, perhaps, at hearing it told of A and

B,--but you do not laugh when you are one of the actors. Well, not to

lengthen my history unduly, an open rivalry and enmity at last arose

between myself and poor George. We had been spurred on to hate each

other, and narrowly escaped having an ‘affair’ together--appealing to

the pistol as the arbiter.

“It never came to that, however. I saw, ere long, that the young lady

had made up her mind. George was in every way a more attractive and

lovable person than myself; and after drawing me on, encouraging me, and

inducing me to offer her my hand, she turned her back on me, and married

George!

“Such was the result of the campaign. George had won,--and I am obliged

to say that I hated him cordially. I should never have done so, from

the simple fact of his success. I am not so ignoble as that, my dear

colonel. Bitter as was my disappointment, I could have bowed to the

fiat--pardoned the young lady--and offered my hand to dear George; but

there were our ‘friends,’ the busy-bodies and talebearers. They were

unresting in their exertions--took the whole affair under their personal

supervision, and invented a hundred fables to sting and arouse me. You

would have said that they were bloody minded--the busy-bodies--and

bent on trouble; that their aim was to profoundly enrage me, and cause

bloodshed. George had laughed at me, they said; never had had a moment’s

doubt of the young lady’s sentiments; had often jested about me, and

expressed his pity for my ‘silly presumption;’ had even amused himself

and the young lady, by mimicking my peculiarities, and raising a laugh

at my expense.

“These reports were persistently and regularly repeated for my

information: I was baited, and worried, and driven nearly mad by

them--finally a duel nearly resulted; but that last step was not taken.

I simply made my bow to the happy pair, left them without a word, and

returned home, determined to drop the whole matter--but none the less

enraged and embittered.

“From that moment George and myself rarely met, and never as friends.

I had been brought to hate him--he knew the fact--and although he was

innocent of all wrong to me, as I know to-day, made no effort to win my

regard again. He was as proud as myself--he said nothing--and our paths

here separated forever.

“Such is the necessary introduction, colonel,” said General Davenant,

“to the events which I propose to relate.”

XIX.

THE MURDER.

“More than twenty years had passed,” continued General Davenant, “when

that old hatred which had been aroused in me, toward George Conway,

produced bitter fruits.

“I was to be taught by a terrible experience that hatred is a deadly

sin; that God punishes it more severely than all other sins, for it is

the poison which turns the whole heart to bitterness. I had indulged

it--made no effort to banish it--nourished it like a snake in the

recesses of my breast, and now God decreed, as a punishment, that the

snake should turn and sting me.

“To go back for a moment, however. George had married--a year afterward

I had imitated him. My wife was an angel upon earth--she is an angel in

heaven now--and in comparison with the deep affection which I felt for

her, the ephemeral fancy for the young lady whom my rival had married,

appeared the veriest trifle. William Conway had also married, and he and

George, with their wives, were living at Five Forks. William was judge

of the circuit--George managed the estate--and their affection for each

other, at this period of their mature manhood, was said to exceed that

of their youth.

“‘Was said to,’ I say, colonel; for I never saw either of them. All

intercourse between “The Pines” and “Five Forks” had ceased twenty years

before; and George and William Conway were as much strangers to me,

as if we lived in opposite quarters of the globe; for time had not

changed--or rather restored--the _entente cordial_ of the past. On the

contrary, the feud had become chronic--the gulf separating us had

grown deeper. When I met either of the brothers, we exchanged no

greetings--passed without looking at each other--and the ‘family feud’

between the Davenants and the Conways was not even alluded to; it had

become an old story, and lost its interest.

“Such was the condition of things--such the attitude which I occupied

toward the two brothers--when the event, which I am about to relate,

took place. The event in question was tragic and terrible. It came

without warning, to shock the entire surrounding country. One night, on

his return from the county seat, whither he was said to have gone

upon some matter of business, George Conway was murdered, and his body

concealed in some bushes by the roadside.

“The body was not discovered until the morning succeeding the murder.

His riderless horse was then seen standing at the door of the stable at

Five Forks, and in great terror. Judge Conway set out rapidly to look

for his brother, who was supposed to have met with some accident. Two or

three neighbors, whom he chanced to meet, joined in the search; the body

was discovered; and, on examination, revealed a deep gash in the region

of the heart, apparently inflicted by a dagger or a knife.

“The blow had evidently been mortal--no other hurt was visible. George

Conway seemed to have been waylaid by some unknown person, and murdered

on his return from the court-house.

“It was impossible to divine the perpetrator of the crime, or form any

idea of his motive. Upon the person of the murdered man a large sum of

money, which he had received that day, was discovered. He had not been

waylaid, thus, by one designing to rob him; and his peaceful and amiable

character excluded the hypothesis that he had aroused such enmity as

could have led to the bloody deed. The whole affair was a profound

mystery--no clue could be discovered to the perpetrator, or the motive

of the crime--and the body was borne to “Five Forks,” where it was laid

in state to await burial on the next day.

“Judge Conway, it was said, had nearly lost his reason at this

sudden and terrible blow. He had loved his brother with extraordinary

affection; and the event struck him like a thunderbolt. His stupor of

grief was succeeded by rage. He fell into one of his paroxysms. With

flushed face, bloodshot eyes, and mouth foaming with a species of

fury, he mounted his horse, went at full speed to the court-house, made

inquiries of everybody who had seen his brother, asked with whom he had

last been seen, and left no stone unturned to ferret out the author of

the crime.

“Meanwhile, the whole county was discussing, with awe-struck eyes, the

extraordinary event. Who could have perpetrated the act? Who could have

waylaid and murdered a man so universally popular? Who was safe, if

such a state of things could exist in a peaceful community,--if a good

citizen could not ride to see a neighbor, or to the county seat, without

danger of being murdered?

“Grief, indignation, horror, were the universal sentiments. Some one

must be discovered upon whom to lay the crime. And that some one was the

individual before you, colonel!”

XX.

THE KNIFE.

“Let me continue, I beg,” continued General Davenant, gloomily. “Your

look of astonishment is quite natural; you feel the indignation of a

gentleman at my words; but allow me to go on with my narrative.

“Poor George Conway was buried on the day after the discovery of his

body, and an immense concourse accompanied him to his grave. The funeral

procession was a mile long, for the notoriety attached to the event

had drawn people from far and near; and when the body reached the

grave-yard, the crowd nearly filled the small enclosure.

“I was present in my carriage with my wife, and my son Charles yonder,

then a child in arms. You will understand, colonel, that I had not the

heart to be absent. I had long ceased to feel a sentiment of any great

regard for the Conways; but at the intelligence of George’s sudden

death, all my old friendship had revived--the old kindly feeling came

back; pity banished all enmity. I thought of his former love for me,

and I determined to do all that remained in my power to show my

sympathy--attend his funeral among those who mourned him.

“Well, the body was borne to the grave, the service read, and

the remains of the unfortunate gentleman deposited in their last

resting-place. Then the clods rattled on the coffin, the service ended,

and George Conway had passed away from all eyes.

“I looked at his poor wife and brother with tears in my eyes. All my

enmity was gone--my memory went back to the old scenes; at that instant

I could have reached out my arms, and drawn the bereaved brother to my

heart, mingling my tears with his own.

“All at once, however, I looked at Judge Conway with astonishment. I

had expected to see him overwhelmed with grief--but as he now raised his

head, and turned in the direction of the spot where I was standing,

I saw that his features were convulsed with wrath. His cheeks were

crimson, his teeth clenched, his eyes injected with blood. Suddenly

these bloodshot eyes met my own--the cheeks a moment before so red,

grew pale--and exclaiming, ‘It is you who murdered my brother!’ he threw

himself upon me with the fury of a wild animal, and his fingers were

nearly buried in my throat.

“The assault was so sudden and terrible that I staggered back, and

nearly fell over the grave.

“Then regaining my self-possession, I caught Judge Conway by the throat

in turn, hurled him from me, and stood confronting him, pale, panting,

my throat bleeding--and resolved if he attacked me again to put him to

death with the first weapon upon which I could lay my hand.

“He was, meanwhile, struggling in the hands of his friends, who, by main

force, held him back.

“‘Let me go!’ he shouted, foaming at the mouth with rage--‘that man

murdered my brother! I will take the law into my own hands! he shall not

leave this spot alive! He dares to come here in the presence of the dead

body of George Conway--and he is his murderer!’

“These words were rather howled than uttered. The speaker seemed to

have lost his reason, from pure excess of rage. If his friends had not

restrained him by main force, he would have thrown himself upon me a

second time, when one of us would have lost his life, colonel, for I was

now as violently enraged as himself.

“That _I_ should be thus publicly branded with the basest crime! that

the representative of the old and honorable house of the Davenants,

should be thus grossly insulted, his person assailed, his good name torn

from him--that he should be denounced thus in the presence of all as a

felon and murderer!

“‘You are insane, sir!’ I at length said, struggling to regain my

coolness. ‘Your grief has affected your brain! I can pardon much in you

today, sir, but beware how you again attempt to degrade me!’

“‘Hear him!’ was the hoarse and furious reply of Judge Conway;

and reaching out his thin fingers, a habit he had caught from Mr.

Randolph--he pointed at me where I stood.

“‘Hear him! He affects innocence! He is outraged! He is indignant!

And yet he waylaid my brother, whom he has hated for twenty years--he

waylaid him like an assassin, and murdered him! There is the proof!’

“And drawing from his pocket a knife, covered with clotted blood, he

threw it upon the grave before all eyes.

“Good God! It was my own!”

XXI.

THE CHAIN OF EVIDENCE.

“At the sight of that terrible object” continued General Davenant, “I

staggered back, and nearly fell. I could not believe my eyes--never

thought of denying the ownership of the fearful witness,--I could only

gaze at it, with a wild horror creeping over me, and then all these

terrible emotions were too much for me.

“I took two steps toward the grave, reached out with a shudder to

grasp the knife whose clots of blood seemed to burn themselves into my

brain--then vertigo seized me, and letting my head fall, I fainted.

“When I regained my senses, I was in my carriage, supported by the arms

of my wife, and rolling up the avenue to my own house.

“Opposite me, in the carriage, little Charley, who, dimly realized

apparently that some trouble had come to me, was crying bitterly, and a

rough personage was endeavoring to quiet his sobbing.

“The personage in question was a constable. When I fainted at the

grave, my friends had caught me in their arms--protested with burning

indignation that the charge against me was a base calumny--and the

magistrate who was summoned by Judge Conway to arrest me, had declined

to do more than direct a constable to escort me home, and see that I did

not attempt to escape.

“That was kind. I was a murderer, and my proper place a jail. Why should

_I_ be more favored than some poor common man charged with that crime?

Had such a person been confronted with such a charge, supported by

such damning evidence as the bloody knife, would any ceremony have been

observed? ‘To jail!’ all would have cried, ‘No bail for the murderer!’

And why should the rich Mr. Davenant be treated with more consideration?

“On the day after my arrest--I spare you all the harrowing scenes, my

poor wife’s agony, and every thing, colonel--on the day after, I got

into my carriage, and went and demanded to be confined in jail. It was

the first time a Davenant had ever been _in jail_--but I went thither

without hesitation, if not without a shudder. No sooner had I taken this

step than the whole country seemed to have left their homes to visit me

in my prison. On the evening of the scene at the grave, twenty persons

had called at the ‘Pines,’ to express their sympathy and indignation

at the charge against me. Now, when the iron door of the law had closed

upon me, and I was a real prisoner, the visitors came in throngs without

number. One and all, they treated the charge as the mere result of Judge

Conway’s fury--some laughed at, others denounced it as an attempt to

entrap and destroy me--all were certain that an investigation would at

once demonstrate my innocence, and restore me to liberty and honor.

“Alas! I could only thank my friends, and reply that I hoped that such

would be the result. But when they had left me alone, I fell into fits

of the deepest dejection.

“What proofs could I give that I was innocent? There was a terrible

array of circumstances, on the contrary, to support the hypothesis of

my guilt--much more than I have mentioned, colonel. I had visited the

courthouse on the same day with poor George Conway, and for the first

time in twenty years had exchanged words with him. And the words were

unfriendly. We had both been in the clerk’s office of the county, when

that gentleman asked me some common-place question--in what year such

a person had died, and his will had been recorded, I think. I replied,

mentioning a year. The clerk shook his head, declaring that it must have

been later, and appealed to poor George Conway, who agreed with him,

adding, ‘Mr. Davenant is certainly in the wrong.’ I was much annoyed

that day--made some curt reply--poor George made a similar rejoinder,

and some harsh, almost insulting words, passed between us. The affair

went no further, however. I left the clerk’s office, and having attended

to the business which brought me, left the court-house about dusk. As

I mounted my horse, I saw poor George Conway riding out of the place. I

followed slowly, not wishing to come up with him, turning into a by-road

which led toward my own house--and knew nothing of the murder until it

was bruited abroad on the next day.

“That is much like the special pleading of a criminal--is it not,

colonel? If I had really murdered the poor man, would not this be my

method of explaining every thing? You see, I do not deny what several

witnesses could prove; the fact that I quarreled with Conway, came to

high words, uttered insults, exhibited anger, followed him from the

court-house at dusk--I acknowledge all that, but add, that I struck into

a by-road and went home! That sounds suspicious, I assure you, even to

myself, to-day. Imagine the effect it promised to have then, when I

was a man charged with murder--who would naturally try to frame such a

statement as would clear him--and when a large portion of the community

were excited and indignant at the murder.

“Such had been the truly unfortunate scene in the clerk’s office,--the

fatality which made me follow the man going to his death, and my known

enmity of long standing, supported the hypothesis of my guilt. There was

another, and even more fatal circumstance still,--the discovery of the

knife with which George Conway had been slain. That knife was my own;

it was one of peculiar shape, with a handle of tortoise-shell, and I

had often used it in presence of my friends and others. A dozen persons

could make oath to it as my property; but it was not needed; the scene

at the grave made that useless. I evidently did not deny the ownership

of the weapon which had been used in the commission of the murder. At

the very sight of it, on the contrary, in the hands of the brother of my

victim, I had turned pale and fainted!

“This was the condition of things when the special term of the court,

held expressly to try me, commenced at Dinwiddie.”

XXII.

THE TRIAL.

“A great crowd assembled on the day of the trial. Judge Conway had

vacated the bench, as personally interested, and the judge from a

neighboring circuit had taken his place.

“Below the seat of the judge sat the jury. Outside the railing, the

spectators were crowded so closely that it was with difficulty the

sheriff made a passage for my entrance.

“To one resolution I had adhered in spite of the remonstrances of all

my friends,--to employ no counsel. In this determination nothing

could shake me. A disdainful pride sustained me, mingled with bitter

obstinacy. If I, the representative of one of the oldest and most

honorable families in the county of Dinwiddie was to be branded as a

murderer,--if my past life, my family and personal character, did

not refute the charge,--if I was to be dragged to death on suspicion,

gibbeted as a murderer, because some felon had stolen my pocket-knife,

and committed a crime with it,--then I would go to my death unmoved.

I would disdain to frame explanations; let the law murder _me_ if it

would; no glib counsel should save my life by technicalities; I would be

vindicated by God and my past life, or would die.

“Such was my state of mind, and such the origin of my refusal to employ

counsel. When the court now assigned me counsel, I rose and forbade

them to appear for me. In the midst of a stormy scene, and with the

prosecuting attorney sitting dumb in his chair, resolved to take no

part in the trial, the witnesses appeared upon the stand, and, rather by

sufferance than the judge’s consent, the jury proceeded to interrogate

them.

“The circumstances which I have detailed to you were all proved in the

clearest manner; the altercation in the clerk’s office on the day of the

murder; my long enmity against him, dating back more than twenty years;

the fact that I had followed him out of the village just at dusk on

the fatal night; and the discovery of my knife in the tall grass by the

roadside near the body.

“I had summoned no witnesses, but some appeared of their own accord, and

gave important testimony. Many neighbors testified that my enmity toward

George Conway had almost entirely disappeared in the lapse of years,

and that I had spoken of him, upon more than one occasion, with great

kindness. The clerk of the county described the scene in his office,

stating that the affair had appeared to him a mere interchange of curt

words, without exhibition of the least malice on my part. The most

important witness, however, was a poor man, living in the neighborhood,

who made oath that he had been riding toward the court-house on the

evening of the murder; had passed Mr. Conway, and, riding on farther,

came in sight of me, and he had, before reaching me, seen me turn

into the by-road which led toward my own residence. I could not have

committed the murder, he added, for Mr. Conway had time to pass the spot

where his body was found before I could have ridden back to the highroad

and caught up with him.

“Unfortunately, the witness who gave this testimony bore a very

indifferent character, and I could see that more than one of the jurors

suspected that he was perjuring himself.

“Another ugly-looking circumstance also intervened to neutralize the

favorable impression thus made. From the irregular mode of proceeding,

the fatal knife had not been exhibited in court. Suddenly, a juror

called for it, and it could nowhere be found! The sheriff swore that he

had left it in the clerk’s office, where he supposed it to be entirely

safe. Upon searching for it, however, in the drawer where he had

deposited it, the weapon was missing.

“When that fact was stated, I saw a curious expression pass over the

faces of more than one of the jury. They evidently suspected foul play.

“‘Was the door of the office locked?’ asked one of them.

“‘Yes, sir,’ was the reply.

“‘Were the windows secured?’

“‘By shutters with bolts.’

“‘Are all the bolts on the windows of this building firm?’

“‘I think so, sir.’

“‘There is one, that is not!’ said the juror.

“And he pointed to a long iron bolt on one of the windows, which bore

evident traces of having been rent from its socket.

“The sheriff looked in amazement in the direction indicated.

“‘You are right, sir!’ he said; ‘some one has entered the court-house

by breaking open the shutter, and stolen that knife from the clerk’s

office, which is never locked.’

“A meaning silence followed the words. It was not difficult to

understand it. The jury looked at each other, and in their glances

I could read this--‘Mr. Davenant is on trial for his life. He or his

friends suborn testimony to prove an alibi on the night of the murder,

and not content with that, they hire a burglar to enter the court-house

and steal the knife which proves his connection with the deed--that it

may not appear in evidence against him.’

“The evidence closed. I had not uttered a word. I had sworn in my heart

that I would not stir a finger in the matter--but now, stung beyond

endurance, I rose and addressed the jury in impassioned words. ‘Their

verdict,’ I told them, ‘was of little importance if I was to lose the

respect of my fellow-citizens. I had made no effort to shape their

decision, but now on the brink, it might be of a felon’s grave, I would

utter my dying words. I would confine myself to protesting before God,

and on my honor, that I had long since forgiven George Conway the wrongs

done me--that the scene on the day of his murder was the result

of momentary irritability, caused by business annoyances, and not

malice--that I had forgotten it in an hour--returned directly to my own

house--and only heard of the murder on the day after its commission. As

to the knife--I had been suspected if not charged with having had the

weapon stolen. Well! my answer to that was to declare that, to the

best of my knowledge and belief, _the murder was committed with my own

knife!_ More than that. A witness had sworn that he saw me turn into the

road to my own residence, at such a distance behind George Conway that

I could not have rejoined him before he had passed the fatal spot.

The witness was mistaken. There was time. _By riding across the angle

through the thicket, I could easily have rejoined him_!

“‘And now, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘I have done. I have left you no ground

to charge me with suborning testimony--with having the evidence of my

crime stolen--with plotting in darkness, to hide my crime and blind

your eyes in determining my guilt or innocence. That knife was mine, I

repeat. It was possible for me to rejoin Mr. Conway, and do him to death

by a blow with it. Now, retire, gentlemen! Bring in your verdict! Thank

God! no taint of real dishonor will rest upon a Davenant, and I can

appear before my Maker as I stand here to-day--innocent!’

“Ten minutes afterward the jury had retired, with every mark of

agitation upon their faces. The great concourse of spectators seemed

moved almost beyond control.

“Suddenly the crowd opened, I saw my wife hastening through the space

thus made--a living wall on each side--and in an instant she had thrown

herself into my arms, with a low cry which brought tears to the roughest

faces of the auditory. I placed my arm around her, remonstrated with her

for this ill-advised proceeding, and was trying to soothe her, when she

hastily gave me a letter. A strange man had brought it an hour before,

she said--it was marked ‘In haste--this will save Mr. Davenant’s life.’

She had mounted her riding horse, and brought it at full speed in

person, without waiting to question the stranger, who had at once

disappeared.

“I opened the letter--glanced at its contents--at the same instant the

jury made their appearance--and the clerk said:--

“‘Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?’

“‘We have, sir,’ said the foreman.

“‘What is it?’

“‘Not guilty!’

“The court-house rang with applause. The crowd rushed toward me to

shake me by the hand and congratulate me. Suddenly, in the midst of the

tumult, I heard the furious words:--

“‘Murderer! you have escaped, but I brand you before God and man as the

murderer of my brother!’

“It was Judge Conway, who, mounted upon a bench, with glaring eyes,

foaming lips, teeth clenched, in a wild fury, shook his arm at me, and

denounced me as a convict before God, if not before man.”

XXIII.

WHAT THE LETTER CONTAINED.

General Davenant was silent for a moment. The deep voice, so long

resounding in my ears, made the silence oppressive.

“Now you know, my dear colonel,” he suddenly added, “why my son can not

form an alliance with a daughter of Judge Conway.”

I bowed my head. The whole mystery was patent before me.

“The family opposition is mutual,” said General Davenant, with a proud

smile; “he objects because he believes that I murdered his brother--and

I object because he believes it! He insulted me, outraged me--at the

grave, in the court-house, in public, as in private; and I could not

think of beseeching his honor to give his consent to the marriage of his

daughter with the son of an ‘escaped murderer.’”

The old soldier uttered these words with gloomy bitterness; but in a

moment he had regained his coolness.

“That was the end of the affair,” he said. “I went home, accompanied by

a _cortége_ of friends who seemed never weary of congratulating me;

and on the next day, I wrote a mortal defiance to Judge Conway, which I

placed in the hands of a friend to convey to him. An hour afterward, I

had mounted my horse, ridden rapidly, caught up with this friend on his

way to Five Forks, and had taken from him the challenge, which I tore to

pieces. You will probably comprehend the motive which compelled me to

do this. It was not repugnance to the modern form of single combat, I

am sorry to say. Old as I was, I had still the ancient hallucination on

that subject. I did not then know that duels were mere comedies--child’s

play; that one infantry skirmish results in the shedding of more blood

than all the affairs of a generation. The motive that induced me to

withdraw my challenge, was one which you will probably understand. The

pale face of the dead George Conway had risen up before me--I knew

his brother’s deep love for him--that he regarded me as the dead man’s

murderer; and I no longer writhed under that public insult in the

court-house, or, at least controlled myself. ‘Let him go on his way,

poor, stricken heart!’ I said with deep pity; ‘I forgive him, and will

not avenge that affront to me!’

“Such is my history, colonel. It is sad, you see. I have related it

to explain what has come to your knowledge--the bitter hostility which

Judge Conway indulges toward me, and his frowns at the very name of

Davenant. These events occurred more than ten years ago. During all that

time, he has been laboring under the belief that I am really guilty of

his brother’s blood. See where my ‘high pride’ has conducted me,”

said General Davenant, with a smile of inexpressible melancholy and

bitterness. “I was proud and disdainful on the day of my trial--I would

not use the common weapons of defence--I risked my life by refusing

counsel, and acknowledging the ownership of that knife. Pride, hauteur,

a sort of disdain at refuting a charge of base dishonor--that was my

sentiment then, and I remain as haughty to-day! I am a Davenant--I was

found ‘not guilty’--why go and tell Judge Conway the contents of that

letter received in the court-house?”

“The contents of the letter, general?”

“Yes, colonel.”

“What did it contain?--I beg you to tell me!”

“The confession of the murderer of George Conway!”

XXIV.

“BLOOD.”

General Davenant had scarcely uttered the words which I have just

recorded, when rapid firing was heard in the woods, a quarter of a

mile from his head-quarters; and a moment afterward a courier came at a

gallop, bearing a dispatch.

“My horse!” came in the brief tone of command.

And General Davenant tore open the dispatch, which he read attentively.

“The enemy are advancing to attack me,” he said; “this note was written

ten minutes since. The attack has commenced. Will you go and see it,

colonel?”

“Willingly.”

General Davenant ordered another horse, as my own was useless; we

mounted and rode at full speed through the woods; in five minutes we

were at the scene of action.

A heavy assault was in progress. The enemy had massed a large force in

front of the hastily erected earth-works, and were endeavoring, by a

determined charge, to carry them.

General Davenant was everywhere amid the fight, the guiding and

directing head, and beside him I saw distinctly in the starlight, the

brave figure of little Charley, who had started from his couch, buckled

on a huge sword, and was now galloping to and fro, cheering on the men

as gallantly as his father. It was an inspiring sight to see that child

in his little braided jacket, with his jaunty cap balanced gallantly

on his auburn curls--to see his rosy cheeks, his smiling lips, and his

small hand flourishing that tremendous sabre, as he galloped gaily amid

the fire.

“And yet,” I said, “there are those who will not believe in _blood_--or

race!”

Fill the space which that dash occupies, my dear reader, with an abrupt

“duck” of the head, as a bullet went through my hat!

The charge was repulsed in twenty minutes; but the firing continued

throughout the night. When it ceased, toward daybreak, and I rode

back with General Davenant and Charley, who was as gay as a lark, and

entertained me with reminiscences of Gettysburg, I was completely broken

down with fatigue. Throwing myself upon a bed, in General Davenant’s

tent, I fell asleep.

When I opened my eyes the sun was high in the heavens. I looked around

for the general, he was invisible.

I rose, and at the door of the tent met Charley, with bright eyes, and

cheeks like roses.

“The general has gone to corps head-quarters, colonel, and told me to

present you his compliments, and beg that you will remain to breakfast.”

After which formal and somewhat pompous sentence the youthful Charley

drew near, slapped me in a friendly way upon the back, and exclaimed,

with dancing eyes:--

“I say, colonel! wasn’t that a jolly old he-fight we had last night?”

My reply was a laugh, and a glance of admiration at the gay boy.

I declined the invitation of General Davenant, as I had to return. My

horse was brought, and I found his foot much easier. In half an hour I

was on the road to Petersburg.

XXV.

THE BLUE SERPENT.

Once back at the “Cedars,” I reflected deeply upon the history which I

had heard from the lips of General Davenant.

I shall refrain, however, from recording these reflections. If the

reader will cast his eyes back over the pages of these memoirs, he will

perceive that I have confined myself generally to the simple narration

of events--seldom pausing to offer my own comments upon the scenes

passing before me. Were I to do so, what an enormous volume I should

write, and how the reader would be bored! Now, to bore a reader, is, in

my eyes, one of the greatest crimes of which an author can be guilty.

It is the unpardonable sin, indeed, in a writer. For which reason, and

acting upon the theory that a drama ought to explain itself and be its

own commentator, I spare the worthy reader of these pages all those

reflections which I indulged in, after hearing General Davenant’s

singular narrative.

“Pride! pride!” I muttered, rising at the end of an hour. “I think I can

understand that--exceptional as is this instance; but I wish I had heard

who was the ‘real murderer’ of George Conway!”

Having thus dismissed the subject, I set about drawing up my official

report, and this charmingly common-place employment soon banished from

my mind every more inviting subject!

It was nearly ten days after this my first ride into the wilds of

Dinwiddie, before I again set out to look after the cavalry. The end of

October was approaching. Grant had continued to hammer away along his

immense line of earth-works; and day by day, step by step, he had gone

on extending his left in the direction of the Southside railroad.

If the reader will keep this in view, he will understand every movement

of the great adversaries. Grant had vainly attempted to carry Lee’s

works by assault, or surprise,--his only hope of success now was to

gradually extend his lines toward the Southside road; seize upon that

great war artery which supplied life-blood to Lee’s army; and thus

compel the Confederate commander to retreat or starve in his trenches.

One thing was plain--that when Grant reached the Southside railroad,

Lee was lost, unless he could mass his army and cut his way through the

forces opposed to him. And this fact was so obvious, the situation was

so apparent--that from the moment when the Weldon road was seized upon

by General Grant, that officer and his great adversary never removed

their eyes from the real point of importance, the true key of the

lock--namely the Southside railroad, on Lee’s right.

Elsewhere Grant attacked, but it was to cover some movement, still

toward his left. He assaulted Lee’s works, north of the James--but it

was south of the Appomattox that he was looking. The operations of the

fall and winter, on the lines around Petersburg were a great series of

marches and counter-marches to and fro, suddenly bursting into battles.

Grant massed his army heavily in front of the works in Charles City

opposite the left of Lee; attempted to draw in that direction his

adversary’s main force; then suddenly the blue lines vanished; they were

rushed by railroad toward Petersburg, and Grant hastened to thrust his

columns still farther beyond Lee’s right, in order to turn it and seize

the Southside road.

That was not the conception of a great soldier, it may be, reader;

but it was ingenious. General Grant was not a man of great military

brain--but he was patient, watchful, and persevering. To defeat Lee,

what was wanted was genius, or obstinacy--Napoleon or Grant. In the

long run, perseverance was going to achieve the results of genius.

The tortoise was going to reach the same goal with the hare. It was a

question of time--that was all.

So, throughout October, as throughout September, and August, and July,

General Grant thundered everywhere along his forty miles of earth-works,

but his object was to raise a smoke dense enough to hide the blue

columns moving westward. “Hurrah! we have got Fort Harrison!” exclaimed

his enthusiastic subordinates. Grant would much rather have heard,

“We have got the White Oak road!” Fort Harrison was a strong out-post

simply; the White Oak road was the postern door into the citadel.

Gradually moving thus, from the Jerusalem plank road to the Weldon

railroad, from the Weldon railroad to the Squirrel Level road, from the

Squirrel Level road toward the Boydton road, beyond which was the White

Oak road, Grant came, toward the end of October, to the banks of the

Rowanty. As this long blue serpent unfolded its coils and stretched its

threatening head into the Dinwiddie woods, Lee had extended his right

to confront it. The great opponents moved _pari passu_, each marching

in face of each other. Like two trained and skillful swordsmen, they

changed ground without moving their eyes from each others’ faces--the

lunge was met by the parry; and this seemed destined to go on to

infinity.

That was the unskilled opinion, however. The civilians thought that--Lee

did not. It was plain that this must end somewhere. Lee’s line would

not bear much further extension. It reached now from a point on

the Williamsburg road, east of Richmond, to Burgess’s Mill, west of

Petersburg. His forty thousand men were strung over forty miles. That

made the line so thin that it would bear little more. Stretched a little

farther still, and it would snap.

Lee called in vain for more men. The Government could not send them. He

predicted the result of failure to receive them. They did not come.

And Grant continued to move on, and Lee continued to stretch his thin

line, until it began to crack.

Such was the situation of affairs at the end of October--when Grant

aimed a heavy blow to cut the line in pieces. The blue serpent raised

its head, and sprung to strike.

XXVI.

THE HOUSE NEAR MONK’S NECK, AND ITS OWNER.

Such was the critical condition of affairs when I again set out to make

my regular tour of inspection of the cavalry.

Crossing Hatcher’s Run at Burgess’s Mill, I turned to the left, and soon

found myself riding on between the lofty walls of pine, through which

the roads of Dinwiddie wind like a serpent.

When near Monk’s Neck, I determined to stop and feed my horse. I always

carried, strapped behind my saddle, a small bag containing about a feed

of corn for that purpose; and as I generally selected some wayside house

where I could, myself, rest while my horse was feeding, I now looked

about me to discover such.

My search was speedily rewarded. Three hundred yards from the road, in

a clump of stunted trees, I saw a small house, which I soon reached. The

surroundings of the establishment were poor and mean beyond expression.

Through the open door I could see that the interior was even more

poverty-stricken than the outside.

As I dismounted, a man came to this door. Are you fond of natural

history, reader; and have you ever amused yourself by instituting

comparisons between certain human beings and certain animals--beasts,

birds, or fishes? I have seen men who resembled horses, owls, hawks,

sheep,--and geese. This one resembled the bird called the penguin. Read

the description of the penguins: “Their feet are placed more posteriorly

than in any other birds, and only afford them support by resting on the

tarsus, which is enlarged, like the sole of the foot of a quadruped. The

wings are very small, and are furnished with rudiments of feathers only,

resembling scales. Their bodies are covered with oblong feathers, harsh

to the touch, and closely applied over each other. * * * * * Their

motions are slow and awkward, and from the form of their wings, they can

not fly.”

The individual before me recalled the penguin--except that he was

excessively lean instead of fat. The feet accorded with the above

description; the arms were short, and hung like wings; the coat of the

worthy was a ragged “cut-away,” which ended in a point behind, like

the tail of a bird; and the movements of the individual were “slow

and awkward” to a degree which forbade the supposition that, under any

circumstances, he could be induced to fly. Add a long, crane-like neck,

two bleared eyes, a mouth stretching from ear to ear, and a nose like

the bill of a duck. You will then have before you the gentleman who

bore, as I soon discovered, the classic name of Mr. Alibi.

When the worthy, who had flapped his arms, by way of greeting, and shown

me into his mansion, informed me that such was his name, I knew that the

house at which I now found myself was the place of meeting agreed upon

between Nighthawk and Swartz, at their interview in Richmond. Here,

also, the man and woman, rescued by Swartz on the Nottoway, had been

left, on his way to Petersburg, as the spy had informed us in the

Wilderness.

“Well, general,” croaked Mr. Alibi, with a smile, and in a nasal voice,

“wha--a--t’s the news?”

“I am only a lieutenant-colonel, Mr. Alibi.”

“Well, colonel, any thing stirring?”

“Nothing, I think. Any news with you, Mr. Alibi? I have heard of you

from a friend of yours.”

“Eh! And who mout that be, colonel?”

“Mr. Nighthawk. Have you seen him lately?”

“Na--a--a--w,” said Mr. Alibi, with a prolonged drawl through his nose,

and flapping his arms in an uncouth fashion, “I ain’t seen him for a

long spell now.”

“Nor Swartz, either?”

Mr. Alibi looked keenly at me.

“Na--a--a--w, nor him nuther, leftenant-colonel.”

“Leave out the ‘leftenant,’ my dear Mr. Alibi; and call me ‘colonel’--it

is shorter,” I said, laughing, as I looked at the queer figure. “And

so you have not seen Swartz lately? He made an appointment to meet

Nighthawk here.”

“Made an app’intment, did he, leftenant--least ways, colonel?”

“Yes.”

“With Mr. Nighthawk?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I reckon they are both dead, or they’d ‘a’ kept their

app’intment.”

“Nighthawk dead!”

“He must be, sartain.”

“You are mistaken, friend Alibi,” said a voice behind him.

And Nighthawk, in person, entered the house.

XXVII.

STARVATION.

Nighthawk had appeared, as was his wont, as if he had risen from the

earth.

But this circumstance disappeared from my mind at once. I was looking at

his face. It had completely lost its benignant expression; was pale,

and bore marks of great fatigue. Something of the old clerical benignity

came to the eyes as he greeted me cordially; but sitting down in the

nearest chair, as though completely wearied out, he became as dispirited

as before.

“And what mout be the matter with you, Mr. Nighthawk?” said Mr. Alibi:

“you look ‘s if the night hags had been a-riding of you with spurs on.”

And Mr. Alibi flapped his wings, stretched out his neck, and seemed

about to cackle.

“I am tired, Alibi,” said Nighthawk, briefly, “go to the spring and get

me some fresh water. You needn’t come back in a hurry, as I wish to talk

with Colonel Surry.”

And Mr. Nighthawk rose, and carelessly sat down near the window, through

which he could reconnoitre.

The object of this movement was soon evident. Mr. Alibi took a bucket,

and went out as though to seek the spring. When he had gone a few paces,

however, he turned to the right and disappeared behind the house, toward

the opposite window, which was open.

Nighthawk rose, went to the door, and caught Mr. Alibi

eavesdropping--the result of which was that the penguin hastily moved

off, muttering. In a minute he had shambled along and disappeared.

No sooner had his figure vanished than Nighthawk turned hastily toward

me.

“Will you go with me to-night, colonel, on an expedition I intend to

make?” he said.

“An expedition, Nighthawk?”

“A work of mercy, colonel; let us talk quickly. That man, Alibi, is

a spy--for both sides--and I wish to arrange every thing before he

returns.”

“Explain, Nighthawk.”

“I will, colonel. Do you remember that night in Richmond, when Swartz

made an appointment to meet me at a house near Monk’s Neck?”

“Perfectly.”

“Well, this is the house,--and I expected important results from that

meeting. Unfortunately, I was prevented, by some pickets who arrested

me, from reaching this spot on the appointed day. I was here two days

afterward, however--asked for Swartz--he had not been here--and as that

was the most unaccountable thing in the world to me, I set out to find

him.”

“In the enemy’s lines?”

“Yes, colonel. I had no doubt I would come across him somewhere. So I

went through the country behind the Federal lines; looked everywhere for

my man, have been looking ever since I left you--and at last have found

him.”

“Where?”

“In the upper room of a deserted house, not three miles from this place,

within the enemy’s picket line.”

“The upper room of a deserted house?”

‘“Confined--put to starve there, colonel! The work of Darke, and that

she-devil who goes about with him, I am willing to swear, colonel!”

“Good heavens! Is it possible?” I said, “Swartz is shut up and left to

starve?”

“Exactly, colonel--and here is how I know it. I was coming back, worn

out by my long search after Swartz, when in passing this house, I came

suddenly upon a picket of about fifty men. To avoid being seen, I ran,

being on foot, and got behind the house. I had no sooner done so, than

I heard groans from the upper part of it--and as the house was entirely

uninhabited, these sounds excited my curiosity--not to say astonishment.

Well, I determined to, find the origin of them. I crawled through a

broken window--reached the second floor by a dusty staircase, and

went straight toward a door, behind which I heard the groaning. It

was heavily locked, and I could not even shake it. Then I ran to the

partition between the room and the passage--found it made of boards,

between the cracks of which I could see--and looking in, I saw Swartz!

He was sitting on an old broken chair, beside a table with three legs,

and his hand was buried in his hair, as if he was trying to tear it out.

“When I called to him, he started, and his groans stopped. He turned his

head. No sooner had he recognized me than he cried out with joy; and for

some moments he could say nothing but ‘Save me! save me! Nighthawk! They

are starving me to death!’

“I will not lengthen out my story, colonel. I see Alibi coming back. I

had scarcely exchanged ten words with Swartz, when I heard the gallop of

a horse, and running to the window, saw _that woman_ get off. A second’s

reflection told me that she was coming into the house; I knew that,

if discovered, I would be shot or taken prisoner--and I decided on my

course in a minute. I said to Swartz, ‘wait a few hours--I will go and

bring you help.’ I glided through a back window, dropped to the ground,

ran into the bushes--and here I am, colonel, waiting for night to come,

to return and rescue Swartz.”

“Can you do so?”

“With one companion--to look out while I pick the lock.”

“Good--I’ll go with you; and provide for contingencies, too.”

I had seen a cavalryman passing along the road in front of the house,

and as Mr. Alibi came in at the same moment, I sent him to hail the

wayfarer, and bring him to the house. As soon as Mr. Alibi had left us

on his errand, I tore a sheet from my note-book, obtained from Nighthawk

an exact description of the locality where Swartz was confined, and

writing a note to Mohun, informed him of our intention. If he could send

a squadron of cavalry to drive in the picket near the house, it would

insure the success of our design, I added.

As I finished this note, Mr. Alibi appeared with the cavalryman. He

proved to belong to Mohun’s command. I entrusted the note to

him, cautioning him that it was important, and must reach Mohun

promptly--then I looked at my watch.

It was four o’clock. Already the sun was declining toward the wooded

horizon; I looked toward it, and then at Nighthawk, who nodded.

“In an hour, colonel,” he said, “and as I am broken down, I will sleep.”

With these words, Nighthawk leaned back in his split-bottom chair,

covered his face with his handkerchief, and in ten seconds his long,

quiet breathing showed plainly that he was asleep.

“A cur’ous man, leftenant-colonel! a cur’ous man is Mr. Nighthawk!” said

Mr. Alibi.

And he flapped his arms, and wriggled about in a manner so extraordinary

that he looked more like a penguin than ever.

XXVIII.

BIRDS OF PREY.

Night came on. I left my horse at Mr. Alibi’s; set off on foot with

Nighthawk; crossed the Rowanty, separating the opposing pickets, by a

moss-covered log, in a shadowy nook, and was approaching the house in

which Swartz was shut up.

Nighthawk moved with the stealthy and gliding step of a wildcat. I could

see the man was a born scout; intended by nature for the calling he had

adopted--secret service. He scarcely uttered a word; when he did, it was

in tones so low that they were lost in the whisper of the wind, amid the

great trailing vines depending from the trees, and I was compelled to

lean my ear close to catch the words.

Fifty paces from the bank, a shadowy object on horseback was visible by

the dim light.

“The vedette,” murmured Nighthawk, “but he need not see us.”

And plunging, or rather gliding into the shadow of the trees, he led the

way without noise, to a point directly in rear of the vedette.

A hundred yards farther a fire twinkled; and around this fire were the

dusky figures of men and horses. This was evidently the picket.

Three hundred paces to the left, rose a dark object, sombre and

lugubrious against the night, which it exceeded in blackness. Only in

the upper portion of the house, a dim light, like a star, glittered.

“Some one is yonder,” came from Nighthawk in a murmur as before, “let us

go there, colonel.”

And crouching down until his body nearly reached the earth, my companion

glided, snake-like, toward the house. I imitated him; we passed

unobserved, and almost immediately were behind the house.

Nighthawk then rose erect, and said in a whisper:--

“I am going to reconnoitre. Remain here, colonel. If I think you can

come up without danger, I will make you a signal through that window.”

With these words Nighthawk pointed to an open window about ten feet from

the ground; glided past me through the broken sash of one beside which

we were standing, and disappeared like a shadow.

I waited, holding my breath. From the upper portion of the house came

the muffled sound of voices. I was endeavoring to distinguish the words

uttered, when I saw Nighthawk appear at the upper window, and make me a

sign.

That sign indicated that I might ascend with a reasonable amount of

safety; and passing without noise through the window, I found myself in

a bare and deserted apartment, with a single shutterless window opposite

me. On the right was an open door. I passed through it, and found myself

at the foot of a rough stairway, occupying half of a narrow passage.

Ascending, not without more than one creak, which, I must confess, sent

a tingle through my nerves, I reached the upper landing, found myself

in front of a closed door, and beside this door encountered the warning

hand of Nighthawk.

“Look!” he said.

And drawing me toward him, he pointed through a crack in the board

partition, which separated the passage from the apartment.

XXIX.

DARKE’S PAST LIFE.

Leaning on Nighthawk’s shoulder, I placed my eye at the aperture.

On a broken chair beside the three-legged table sat Darke, booted,

spurred, and armed with pistol and sabre. In an old rocking-chair,

without arms, the singular woman, who seemed to accompany him

everywhere, sat rocking to and fro, and carelessly tapping with a small

whip, the handsome gray riding-habit which defined her slender and

graceful figure.

Facing them, on an old bed frame, sat the unfortunate Swartz--but I

would scarcely have recognized him, if I had not known that it was he.

His frame had fallen away almost to nothing. His clothes hung upon him

as upon a wooden pole. His cheeks were pale, sunken; his eyes hollow;

his bearing, cowed, abject, and submissive beyond expression. Let me

spare the reader one horror, however. Hunger was not torturing the

unfortunate man at this moment. Beside him, on the floor, lay a piece

of meat, and an unfinished loaf--thus it was evident that food had been

brought to him; and as some of that food remained uneaten, he must have

satisfied his hunger.

From Swartz, my glance passed to Darke. This second survey of the worthy

proved to me that he was what is succinctly styled “half-drunk.” But

drink appeared not to have exhilarated him. It seemed even to have made

him more morose. In the eyes and lips of the heavily bearded Hercules

could be read a species of gloomy sarcasm--a something resembling bitter

melancholy.

The woman in the gray dress, had never appeared cooler. She rocked to

and fro in her chair with an air of perfect _insouciance_.

The interview had evidently lasted some time before our arrival at the

house; but, as the reader will perceive, we came soon enough to overhear

a somewhat singular revelation.

As I reached my position near the door, Darke was speaking to Swartz:--

“You ask why you are shut up here to starve,” he said, “and as I have

some time on my hands to-night, I am going to tell you. That might be

called ‘imprudent.’ No! I am talking to a dead man! You see I hold out

no false hopes--you will not leave this house alive probably--I will go

back, and tell you something which will serve to explain the whole.”

Darke paused a moment, and then gazed with a strange mixture of gloom

and tenderness upon the gray woman.

“Perhaps you, too, madam,” he said, speaking in a low tone, “may be

ignorant of a part of my history. You know the worst--but not all. You

shall know every thing. Listen; and I beg you will not interrupt me.

About ten years ago, I chanced to be at Dinwiddie Court-House, a few

miles only from this spot; and one day a certain Mr. George Conway

visited the courthouse to receive a considerable sum of money which was

to be paid to him.”

At the words “a certain Mr. George Conway,” uttered by the speaker, in a

hoarse and hesitating voice, I very nearly uttered an exclamation. That

name, which General Davenant’s recent narrative had surrounded with so

many gloomy associations, produced a profound effect on me, as it

now escaped from this man’s lips; and had it not been for Nighthawk’s

warning pressure on my arm, I should probably have betrayed our

vicinity. Fortunately I suppressed the rising exclamation; it had

attracted no attention; and Darke went on in the same low tone:--

“I was in the clerk’s office of Dinwiddie when the money I refer to was

paid to Mr. Conway. It amounted to about ten thousand dollars, and as I

had at that time no business in the region more important than hanging

around the tavern, and drinking and playing cards--as, besides this, I

was at the end of my resources, having lost my last penny on the night

before, at the card-table--the idea occurred to me that it would not be

a bad plan to ride after Mr. Conway; accost him on the road; represent

my necessities to him, and request a small loan out of his abundant

means, to prevent myself from being deprived of my luxuries--liquor

and cards. Is that a roundabout way of saying I intended to act the

highwayman, perhaps the--murderer--on this occasion? By no means, madam!

What is highway robbery? Is it not the brutal and wanton robbery of the

poor as well as the rich? Well, I was not going to rob anybody. I was

going to request a small loan--and so far from intending violence,

or--murder--,” he uttered that word always in a hesitating voice--“I

swear, I had no such intention. I was entirely unarmed; upon my whole

person there was not one deadly weapon--it was only by accident that I

found, when riding out of the court-house, that I had a small pen-knife

in my pocket. This I had picked up, by pure accident from the table of

the clerk’s office, where some one had laid it down. I had carelessly

commenced paring my nails with it--my attention was attracted by

something else. I finished paring my nails, and without being aware of

what I was doing, put the knife in my pocket.

“Well, you may think, perhaps, all this is irrelevant. You are mistaken.

Many things turned on that knife. The devil himself placed it in my

grasp that day!”

XXX.

STABBED “NOT MURDERED.”

“Well,” Darke continued, “I have told you my design, and now I will

inform you how I carried it out.

“I saw Mr. George Conway receive the money--in notes, bank notes, and

gold. That was enough; I knew the road he would take; and going to the

stable of the tavern I saddled my horse, and rode out of the place in a

western direction. When I was out of sight, however, I turned eastward

toward Five Forks, pushed into the woods, and about sunset took my stand

in a piece of timber, on the side of the road which--he--was coming by.”

There was always a marked hesitation when he came to the name of his

victim. He went on more rapidly now.

“Well, he came along about dusk. Some one followed him, but I could

not make out who. Another man came on from the direction of Petersburg;

passed me and _him_; and the other who had followed _him_ out of the

court-house turned into a by-road and disappeared. Then I saw that the

game was in my own hands; I waited, looking at him as he approached me.

I swear I did not intend to harm him. I was half-drunk, but I remember

what I intended. He came on. I rode toward him, demanded the money, he

refused. I threw myself on him, as he struck at me with the butt of

his heavy riding-whip, then we both rolled to the ground, I under! His

clutch was on my throat, I was choking. ‘Help,’ he cried, and I came

near crying it, too! All at once my hand fell upon my pocket, I felt the

knife, I drew it out, opened it, and stabbed him as he was strangling

me!

“That was the whole! Do you call it a _murder_? I rose up, as _he_

fell back. His breast was all bloody; his eyes turned round; he gasped

something, and fell back dead.”

The speaker paused and wiped his brow with his huge, muscular hand. His

face was a strange spectacle. The most bitter and terrible emotions of

the human heart were written there as with a pen of fire.

“Then I looked at him;” he went on, “I said to myself, ‘this is a

murder,’ foolishly, for he was stabbed, not murdered; and my first

thought was to conceal the body. I dragged it to the roadside, hid it in

some bushes, and thinking I heard some one coming, leaped on my horse,

who had stood by quietly--_his_ had galloped away--and left the cursed

spot as fast as I could go. The money was left on him. I swear I did not

touch a penny of it, and would not have touched it, even if I had not

been interrupted. I had not intended to kill him. It was the result of

the struggle. I took nothing of _his_ away from that place, but I left

something of my own; the knife with which I had struck him!

“The devil had put the cursed thing into my hand; and now the devil made

me drop it there, within ten feet of the dead body.”

XXXI.

THE TWO PAPERS.

Darke had spoken in a low, dull, gloomy voice; and something like a

shudder had passed through his frame as he painted, in brief words, the

sombre scene. This emotion now seemed even to grow deeper. Was there

good left in this wild animal?

“That knife,” he continued, “was very nearly the means of hanging an

innocent man. It belonged to a gentleman of the neighborhood who had

accidentally laid it on the table of the clerk’s office, a few moments

before I, as accidentally, picked it up--and this gentleman had just had

angry words with--_him_--about a trifle. What made things worse was that

they had long been enemies--and when _he_ was found there, dead in

the bushes, next day, the owner of the knife found near the body was

arrested as the murderer.

“Well, he went to jail, and the trial was coming on soon. The evidence

against him was strong. He was the known enemy of--Mr. Conway. He

had quarrelled with him on that day, and his knife was found by--the

body--on which the money had not been touched. A robber, you see, would

have taken the money; as it was untouched the crime must have been

committed by a personal enemy. Who was that enemy? The prisoner--whose

name was Davenant!

“Well, the trial was near. I had gone back to the court-house on _that

day_, and was still hanging around the place. What was I to do? I had to

determine whether I would let an innocent man be hanged for my crime,

or go to the sheriff and say, ‘release the prisoner--I am the murderer.’

That was rather more than I was ready for, and I hit on a means which

might serve. The knife was important evidence--the _most_ important--and

I was in the clerk’s office one day, hanging round and listening, when

I saw the sheriff put the knife in a drawer, to have it ready near

court on the day of trial. Well, that night I broke into the

court-house--stole the knife--and waited to see what would occur on the

trial.

“As the day drew near I felt like a real murderer, and had the prisoner

all the time before my eyes, hanging on a gallows. I drank harder than

ever, but I could not get that picture out of my mind. I saw worse

pictures than before. So I determined what to do. I sat down, wrote

a full confession of the murder, which I signed; and a friend of mine

carried this to the prisoner’s wife. I had put on it ‘In haste, this

will save Mr. Davenant’s life’--and his wife carried it, at full speed,

with her own hands to the court-house, where she arrived just as the

jury had retired.

“The prisoner opened and read it. When he had finished it, he folded

it up and put it in his pocket. As he did so, the jury came in with a

verdict of ‘Not guilty’--and he went out of the court-room accompanied

by a crowd of friends.

“So he was cleared, you see--without using the document which I had

written. That was in his pocket; was of no further use; and as it might

become dangerous I entered his house that night, broke open the desk

in which he kept his private papers, and took this one out, reading and

making sure that it was the genuine document, by the light of the moon

which streamed in at the window.

“I was still looking at the paper, when a noise behind me attracted my

attention, and turning round I saw--Mr. Davenant. He had heard the noise

I made in breaking open the secretary; put on his dressing-gown; and

coming down, pistol in hand, was on me before I knew it. The few minutes

that followed were rather angry, and noisy. Unexpectedly, Mr. Davenant

did not fire on me. After an interchange of compliments, I put the paper

in my pocket, passed out through the window, and mounting my horse, rode

away.

“After that I went far, and saw many persons. Among the rest you, madam;

and our matrimonial life has been chequered!

“A word to you, now,” he added, turning toward Swartz. “I shut you up

here to starve you to death because you were trusted and have betrayed

me. Listen, and I will tell you how. You are greedy for gold, and this

greed has tempted you to an act which will be your destruction. In

Pennsylvania, one night, just before the battle of Gettysburg, you were

at my house, and stole a paper from madam, who was collecting every

thing to hide it from the enemy. No matter how I know that; I have made

the discovery, and you deny it--refusing to deliver up that paper, which

you state you never had, and consequently have not in your possession.

In saying that, you lied! You stole that paper, and promise yourself

that you will sell it for a large sum of money--you have already been

bargaining, and have tried to finish the business.

“Well, that paper is interesting--to madam at least; and she has kept it

with care from the eyes of the very person you would sell it to! Folded

with it was another paper which is no less valuable to me. Thus, you

see, that we are interested; and we will probably be informed in a day

from this time where to find both the documents--as you will then be

starving, and will reveal every thing!

“You think me jesting, perhaps--you imagine I will spare you. Undeceive

yourself--your life is a small matter compared with these two papers.

“One is the certificate of madam’s marriage with your very humble

servant; the other the letter which I took from Mr. Davenant’s desk

that night, in which I confess myself the--well! the murderer--of George

Conway!”

XXXII.

A PISTOL-SHOT.

Darke’s deep and gloomy voice ceased to resound, and for a moment the

silence of the apartment was only disturbed by the slight creaking made

by the chair of the woman, as she quietly rocked backward and forward.

Swartz had risen to his feet while Darke was uttering his final words.

With clasped hands, and trembling lips, he was about to throw himself

upon his knees;--when suddenly a shot resounded without, a cry was

heard, and then this was succeeded by rapid firing, mingled with

hoof-strokes, in the immediate vicinity of the house.

Darke rose to his feet, and in two strides was at the window.

“An attack!” he exclaimed. “Can the friends of this carrion be trying to

catch me!”

And springing toward the door, he tore it open.

Suddenly, another thought seemed to come to him. Returning at a bound to

the side of Swartz, he seized him by the throat, dragged him through the

door, and rushed down the steps, still dragging the unfortunate man.

As he passed me, I drew my revolver and fired on him, but the ball

did not strike him. Then I saw the woman dart past like a shadow. When

Nighthawk and myself reached the foot of the stairs, she and Darke were

already in the saddle.

The collar of Swartz was still in his clutch. He seemed determined to

bear him off at the risk of being himself captured; for a second glance

showed me that a party of Confederate cavalry was rushing headlong

toward the house, led by an officer whom I made out to be Mohun.

Darke saw that the small force on picket could not contend with the

attacking party.

By the starlight, I could see his face, as he glared over his shoulder

at Mohun, whom he had evidently recognized. An expression of profound

hate was in that glance; a hoarse growl issued from his lips; and I

distinguished the low words addressed to Swartz, whom he was dragging on

beside his horse.

“So, you are rescued, you think! You have laid this trap for me,

jailbird!”

He drew his pistol as he spoke, and placed it close to the unhappy man’s

temple. I had mine in my hand, and, aiming at Darke, fired.

It was too late. The bullet did not strike him; and the report of his

own weapon followed that of mine like an echo.

Swartz staggered back, threw up his hands, and uttering a wild cry, fell

at full length upon the ground.

The scene which followed was as brief as this tragedy. Mohun charged,

at the head of his men, and drove the picket force before him. In five

minutes the whole party were dispersed, or captured.

Darke had escaped with the gray woman, in the darkness.

The pursuit did not continue far. The Federal lines were near; and Mohun

soon recalled his men.

Grasping me cordially by the hand, he exclaimed:--

“Well, Surry! the prisoner! Where is Swartz?”

I pointed to the spot where his body lay, and went thither with Mohun.

Swartz lay perfectly dead, in a pool of blood. Darke had blown out his

brains.

XXXIII.

PRESTON HAMPTON.

An hour afterward the body of the unfortunate man had been buried, and

I had returned with Mohun and Nighthawk to the opposite bank of the

Rowanty.

I had never seen Mohun so gloomy. He scarcely uttered a word during the

whole march back; and when I announced my intention to spend the night

at the house of Mr. Alibi, as the long tramp had wearied me out, he

scarcely invited me to his head-quarters, and when I declined, did not

urge me. Something evidently weighed heavily on the mind of Mohun, and a

few moment’s reflection explained the whole to me.

He had conversed rapidly and apart with Nighthawk near the lonely house;

and his gloom had dated from that conversation. Nighthawk had evidently

explained every thing: the cause of Swartz’s imprisonment; his

statement in reference to the paper--and now that Swartz was dead, the

hiding-place of the document seemed forever undiscoverable.

If the reader does not understand the terrible significance of this

fact, and Mohun’s consequent gloom, I promise that he shall comprehend

all before very long.

Mohun returned to his camp, and I remained at the house of Mr. Alibi

until morning, stretched on a lounge, and wrapped in my cape.

I awoke about sunrise. As I opened my eyes, quick firing came from the

direction of Burgess’s Mill. The fire speedily became more rapid and

continuous; I hastened to mount my horse; and as I did so, a courier

passed at full gallop.

“What news?” I asked.

“The enemy are advancing in force! They have crossed!”

“Where?”

“Near Armstrong’s!”

And the courier disappeared, at full speed, in the woods. In a moment I

had abandoned my design of inspecting, and was riding back.

“Armstrong’s” was a mill on the Rowanty, near the Boydton road. If the

enemy had crossed there, in force, it was to make a heavy advance toward

the Southside road.

I was not mistaken. Reaching the debouchment of the “Quaker road,” I

found the cavalry drawn up in order of battle--a dispatch had been sent

to hurry up the rest--on the lower waters of the Rowanty, and General

Hampton informed me of the situation of affairs.

The enemy had advanced in heavy force at sunrise, driven in the pickets,

and, crossing the Rowanty, seized on the Boydton road and the bridge at

Burgess’s Mill. From prisoners taken, it was ascertained that the force

consisted of the Second, Fifth, and part of the Ninth Corps; Grant,

Meade, and Hancock, accompanying the troops in person.

That left nothing in doubt. If any remained, it was dispelled by the

fact, stated to me by General Hampton, that the Federal troops “had

eight days’ rations, and were certainly bound for the Southside

road.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

I had scarcely received this intelligence from General Hampton, when a

heavy attack was made upon General William H.F. Lee, holding the Quaker

road.

From that moment the battle began to rage with determined fury, and

the entire force of cavalry was engaged in an obstinate fight with the

advancing enemy. It was a bitter and savage affair. The men charged;

dismounted and fought behind impromptu breastworks of rails; fell back

only when they were pushed by the weight of the great column rolling

forward; and for hours the whole field was a hurly-burly of dust, smoke,

blood, uproar, carbine shots, musket shots, and the long threatening

roar of cannon.

The Stuart horse artillery fought like tigers. The men stuck to their

guns amid a storm of bullets, and vindicated, as they had done before

on many fields, the name of “my pets,” given them by Stuart! Among the

officers, Will Davenant was seen, sitting his horse amid the smoke, as

calm as a May morning; and I shall never forget the smile on the face of

this young bull-dog, when he said:--

“I think we can hold our ground, colonel.”

And looking over his shoulder, in the direction of Five Forks, he

murmured:--

“This is a good place to die, too.”

A thundering cheer rose suddenly above the roar of the guns, and the

line of dismounted sharp-shooters behind their rail breastworks opened a

more steady and resolute fire as the enemy appeared to pause.

At the same moment young Preston Hampton, a son of the general, and one

of my favorites, from his courage and courtesy, passed by at a gallop,

cheering and encouraging the skirmishers.

I spurred after him. Just as I reached him, I saw the arm waving above

his head suddenly drop; his sword escaped from his grasp, and he fell

from the saddle to the ground.

In an instant I had dismounted, and with other officers who hastened up,

had raised him from the earth.

As we did so, the group, consisting now of no less than seven, attracted

the enemy’s attention; a hot fire was opened on us, and before we could

bear the dying youth in our arms beyond the reach of the fire, four out

of the seven officers were shot.[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact]

The boy was placed in an ambulance, and borne to the rear; but the wound

was fatal, and he soon afterward expired. A staff officer afterward

informed me that General Hampton did not leave his tent for a

fortnight--scarcely replying when he was spoken to, and prostrated by

grief.

I could understand that. The death of the brave youth sent a pang to my

own heart--and he was only my friend. The great heart of the father must

have been nearly broken.

So fell Preston Hampton. Peace to his ashes! No kinder or braver spirit

ever died for his country!

XXXIV.

I AM CAPTURED.

Hour after hour the battle continued to rage; the enemy making resolute

attempts to brush off the cavalry.

It was now discovered that Hancock’s corps had crossed the Rowanty,

supported by Crawford’s division, with two corps behind; and as General

Hancock held the bridge at Burgess’s, there seemed little probability

that Lee could cross a force to attack him.

But this was done. While the cavalry fought the blue masses with

obstinate courage on the Boydton road, Mahone, that daring soldier,

crossed a column of three brigades over the Rowanty, below Burgess’s;

and suddenly the enemy found themselves attacked in flank and rear.

Mahone did not pause. He advanced straight to the assault; swept every

thing before him, and thrusting his small force in between Hancock

and Crawford, tore from the former four hundred prisoners, three

battle-flags, and six pieces of artillery.

The assault had been sudden and almost overwhelming. While hotly engaged

with Hampton in front, the enemy had all at once staggered beneath the

heavy blow dealt on their flank and rear. They turned to strike at this

new foe; and the shock which followed was rude, the onset bloody.

Mahone met it with that dash and stubbornness now proverbial in the

army; and, hurling his three brigades against the advancing column,

broke through three lines of battle, and drove them back.[1]

[Footnote 1: “In the attack subsequently made by the enemy, General

Mahone broke three lines of battle.”--General Lee’s Dispatch of October

28, 1864.]

Night was near, and the fighting still continued. The enemy seemed both

to give up the ground; and were holding their position obstinately, when

a determined charge from a brigade of Mahone’s drove every thing in its

front.

I had been to carry a message for General Hampton, upon whose staff

I served during the battle, and now found myself swept forward by the

brigade charging.

In front of them, I recognized General Davenant, on horseback, and sword

in hand, leading the charge. His son Charley was beside him.

“We are driving them, colonel!” exclaimed the general, with a proud

smile “and look! yonder are some of their general officers flying from

that house!”

As he spoke, he pointed to three horsemen, riding at full speed from

a house known as Burgess’s; their splendid suit of staff officers

indicated that they were of high rank.

In fact, the three horsemen who retired thus hastily, would have proved

a rich prize to us. They were Generals Grant, Meade and Hancock.[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

They made a narrow escape, and the question suggests itself, “What would

have been the result of their capture?” I know not; I only know that

Grant, Meade and Hancock, came near having an interview with General Lee

that night--a peaceful and friendly talk at his head-quarters.

I did not think of all this then. The hot charge dragged me. I had come

to participate in it by the mere chance of battle--but this apparent

accident was destined to have very singular results.

I had ridden with General Davenant, as his brigade swept forward, and we

were breasting a heavy fire on his front, when a sudden cry of “Cavalry!

look out!” came from our left.

General Davenant wheeled his horse; went at full speed, accompanied by

his son and myself, through the bullets, in the direction indicated;

and carried onward by his animal, as I was by my own, rode right into a

column of blue cavalry, advancing to attack our flank.

Such was the “chance of battle!” At one moment General Davenant was in

command of a brigade which was driving the enemy, and sweeping every

thing before it. At the next moment he had been carried by the powerful

animal which he bestrode straight into the ranks of the Federal cavalry,

hidden by the woods and approaching darkness--had been surrounded in

an instant, fired upon, and half dragged from his saddle, and captured,

together with his son Charley.

What was still more unfortunate to me, personally, was the fact that

having followed the old soldier, I was surrounded, and made a prisoner

in the same manner.

XXXV.

FACE TO FACE.

We had scarcely time to realize the truly disgusting fact, that we were

captured at the very instant that the enemy were being driven, when the

charge of the Federal cavalry was met by a hail-storm of bullets which

drove them back in disorder.

For some moments the woods presented a singular spectacle. Horsemen

flying in wild confusion; riderless animals darting madly toward the

rear; the groans of wounded men tottering in the saddle as they rushed

by--all this made up a wild scene of excitement, and confusion worse

confounded.

General Davenant, his son, and myself had been ordered to the rear,

under escort; and the old cavalier had turned his horse’s head in that

direction, boiling with rage at his capture, when the repulse ensued,

and the Federal cavalry streamed by us toward the rear.

All at once a loud voice was heard shouting in the half darkness:--

“Halt! halt! you cursed cowards! Halt! and form column!”

The speaker rushed toward us as he spoke, mounted upon a huge black

horse, and I heard the noise made by his sabre, as with the flat of it,

he struck blows upon the brawny shoulders of the fugitives.

At his summons, and the blows of his sabre, the men halted, and again

fell into column. Under the shadowy boughs of the woods, and in the

gathering darkness, the long line of horsemen resembled phantoms rather

than men. Near them glimmered some bivouac fires; and the flickering

light illumined their persons, gleamed on their scabbards, and lit up

the rough bearded faces.

“Cowardly scoundrels!” exclaimed their leader, in fierce accents, “where

are the prisoners that ran into us?”

“Here, colonel. One is a general!” said a man.

“Let me see them!”

General Davenant struck the spur violently into his horse, and rode

close to the Federal officer, in whom I had recognized Colonel Darke.

“Here I am, wretch!--look at me!” exclaimed General Davenant, foaming

with rage. “Accursed be the day when I begat a murderer and a renegade!”

XXXVI.

THE CURSE.

Darke’s hand unconsciously drew the rein, and man and horse both seemed

to stagger back before the furious old soldier.

“General--Davenant!” muttered Darke, turning pale.

“Yes, General Davenant!--a gentleman, an honest man; not a traitor and a

murderer!”

“Good God!” muttered Darke, “it is my father, truly--and my little

brother! The proud face, the eyes, the mouth--and yet they told me you

were killed.”

“Ah! ‘Killed!’ Killing is a favorite topic with you!” exclaimed General

Davenant, furiously; “well, kill _me_, now!--Strike your dastardly

sword, or _your knife_ if you have one, straight into my breast! Murder

me, I say, as you murdered George Conway!--I have a purse in my pocket,

and you can rob me when I am dead. Strike! strike!--but not with the

sword! That is the weapon of a gentleman. Draw your knife, and stab me

in the back--the knife is the weapon of the assassin!”

And crossing his arms upon his breast, the fiery old cavalier confronted

his son, with eyes full of bitter wrath and disdain--eyes which I shall

never forget; for their fire burnt them into my memory.

Darke did not dare to meet them. I had listened with amazement to those

words, which indicated that the Federal officer was General Davenant’s

son; then this sentiment of astonishment, profound as it was, had

yielded to one of expectation, if I may so express myself. What I

expected was a furious outbreak from the man of fierce and violent

passions, thus taunted and driven to bay by the repeated insults of the

general. No outburst came, however. On the contrary, the Federal officer

bowed his head, and listened in silence, while a mortal pallor diffused

itself over his swarthy face. His gaze was bent upon the ground, and his

brows so closely knit that they extended in an unbroken ridge of black

and shaggy hair above his bloodshot eyes. He sat his horse, in the

light of the camp-fire,--a huge cavalier upon an animal as powerful and

forbidding in appearance as himself,--and for more than a minute after

the scornful outburst from General Davenant, Darke remained silent and

motionless, with his eyes still fixed upon the ground:

Then he raised his head, made a sign with his hand to an officer, and

said, briefly:--

“Move back with the column--leave these prisoners here.”

At the word, the column moved back slowly; the shadowy figures were lost

sight of in the darkness; General Davenant, his son Charles, Darke, and

myself, were left alone beside the camp-fire.

Then the Federal officer, with a face over which seemed to pass “the

shadow of unutterable things,” looked first with a long, wistful,

absorbed glance toward the boy Charles, his brother--lastly, toward his

father.

“Why do you taunt me?” he said, in a low tone. “Will that result in

any good now? Yes, I committed murder. I intended, if I did not commit,

robbery. I killed--yes, I killed!--with a knife--as a murderer kills.

But I do not wish to kill you--or Charley--or this officer--or rob you.

Keep your life and your money. There is the road before you, open. Go;

you are free!”

General Davenant had sat his horse--the boy Charley beside

him--listening in sullen wrath. As Darke ended, the general’s hand

went to the hilt of his sword, and he half drew it, by an instinctive

movement, from the scabbard. “Well!” added the Federal officer, in the

same low tone, with a deeper flush in his cheeks, “draw your sword,

sir--strike me if you think proper. For myself, I am done with murder,

and shrink from it, so that, if my father wishes to kill me, I will open

my breast, to give him a fair opportunity. You see I am not altogether

the murderous wretch you take me for. I am a murderer, it is true, and

soiled with every vice--you see I am frank--but I will not resist, if

you plunge your sword into my heart. Strike! strike! While I am dying I

will have time to say the few words I have to say to you!”

General Davenant shuddered with wrath still, but a strange emotion was

mingled with the sentiment now--an emotion which I could not fathom.

Before he could open his lips, however, Darke resumed, in the same

tone:--

“You hesitate--you are not ready to become my executioner. Well, listen,

and I will utter that which may deprive you of all self-control. Yes,

once more, I killed a man, and killed him for money; but _you_ made me

what I was! You petted, and spoiled, and made me selfish. In addition,

you hated--that man. You had hated him for twenty years. When I grew up,

I found out that. If you did not strike him, you had the desire to do

so--and, like a good son, I shared my ‘father’s loves and hatreds.’ I

heard you speak of--him--harshly; I knew that an old grudge was between

you; what matter if I met this enemy of the family on the high-road,

and, with the dagger at his throat, said: ‘Yield me a portion of your

ill-gotten gains!’ for that money was the proceeds of a forced sale for

cash, by which the father of a family was turned out of house and home!

Well, I did that--and did it under the effect of drink. I learned

the habit at _your_ table; wine was placed in my hands, in my very

childhood, by you; you indulged all my vile selfishness; made me a

miserable, arrogant wretch; I came to hang about the village tavern, and

gamble, and fuddle myself, until I was made worthless! Then, when

one day the devil tempted me, I committed a crime--and that crime was

committed by _you_! for _you_ cultivated in me the vile habits which led

me on to murder!”

Darke’s eyes were gloomy, and full of a strange fire. As he uttered the

last words, he spurred close to his father, tore open his uniform until

his bare breast was visible, and added in accents full of vehement and

sullen passion:--

“Strike me! Bury your sword’s point in my heart! I am your son. You are

as noble a gentleman as Brutus was! Kill me, then! I am a murderer: but

I am a Davenant, and no coward!”

From the fierce and swollen face, in which the dark eyes burned like

firebrands, my glance passed to the countenance of General Davenant. A

startling change had taken place in the expression of the old cavalier.

He was no longer erect, fiery, defiant. His glance no longer darted

scorn and anger. His chin had fallen upon his breast; his frame drooped;

his cheeks, but now so flushed, were covered with a deep pallor.

For a moment he remained silent. The hand which had clutched at the

sword hilt hung listless at his side. All at once his breast heaved, and

with a sound which resembled a groan, he said, in low tones:--

“I am punished! Yes, my hatred has brought forth fruit, and the fruit

is bitter! It was I who warped this life, and the tree has grown as I

inclined it.”

“Yes,” said Darke, in his deep voice, “first warped--then, when cut

down, cast off and forgotten!”

General Davenant looked at the speaker with bitter melancholy.

“Ah! you charge me with that, do you, sir?” he said, “You do not

remember, then, that I have suffered for you--you do not know, perhaps,

that for ten years I have labored under the imputation of that crime,

and have preserved silence that I might shield your memory--for I

thought you dead! You do not know that I never breathed a syllable of

that letter which you sent to me on the day of my trial--that I have

allowed the world to believe I was saved by a legal technicality! You

have not heard, perhaps, that a daughter of Judge Conway is beloved by

your brother, and that her father rejects with scorn the very idea of

forming an alliance with _my_ son--the son of one whom he regards as

the murderer of his brother! Oh! yes, sir! truly I have cast off and

forgotten you and your memory! I have not wept tears of blood over

the crime you committed--over the dishonor that rested on the name of

Davenant! I have not writhed beneath the cold and scornful eye of Judge

Conway and his friends! I have not seen your brother’s heart breaking

for love of that girl; and suppressed all, concealed every thing,

borne the brand on my proud forehead, and _his_ young life, that _your_

tombstone might at least not have ‘murderer’ cut on it! And now you

taunt me with my faults!--with my injudicious course toward you when

your character was forming. You sneer and say that I first hated George

Conway, and that the son only inherited the family feud, and struck the

enemy of the family! Yes, I acknowledge those sins; I pray daily to

be forgiven for them. I have borne for ten years this bitter load of

dishonor. But there is something more maddening even than my faults,

and the stain on my name--it is to be taunted to my face, here, with the

charge that I struck that blow! that I made you the criminal, and then

threw you off, and drove you to become a renegade in the ranks of our

enemies!”

The last words of the speaker were nearly drowned in a heavy fusillade

which issued from the woods close by.

“Listen!” exclaimed General Davenant, “that is the fire of your

hirelings, sir, directed at the hearts of your brethren! _You_ are

leading that scum against the gentlemen of Virginia! Well join them!

Point _me_, and my son, and companion out to them! Tear us to pieces

with your bullets! Trample us beneath your hireling heels! That will not

prevent me from branding you again in your dishonored forehead!--from

cursing you as renegade, debauchee, and murderer!”

The whistle of bullets mingled with these furious and resounding words;

and then the crackle of footsteps was heard, the undergrowth suddenly

swarmed with figures--a party of Confederates rushed shouting into the

little glade.

Darke wheeled not from, but toward them, as though to charge them. The

stern courage of the Davenant blood burned in his cheeks and eyes. Then,

with a harsh and bitter laugh, he turned and pushed his horse close up

beside that of his father.

“I would call this meeting and parting strange, if any thing were

strange in this world!” he said, “but nothing astonishes me, or moves

me, as of old! The devil has brought it about! he put a knife in

my hands once! to-night he brings me face to face with you and my

boy-brother--and makes you curse and renounce me! Well, so be it! have

your will! Henceforth I am really lost--my father!”

And drawing his pistol, he coolly discharged barrel after barrel in the

faces of the men rushing upon him; wheeled his horse, and dug the spurs

into him; an instant afterward, with his sneering face turned over his

shoulder, he had disappeared in the woods.

Two hours afterward I was on my way to Petersburg.

The enemy were already falling back from their adventurous attempt to

seize the Southside road.

In the morning they had retired across the Rowanty, and disappeared.

So ended that heavy blow at Lee’s great war-artery.

[Illustration: THE FLIGHT]

BOOK IV.

THE PHANTOMS.

RICHMOND BY THE THROAT.

I was again back at the “Cedars,” after the rapid and shifting scenes

which I have endeavored to place before the reader.

The tragic incidents befalling the actors in this drama, had most

absorbed my attention; but sitting now in my tent, with the newspapers

before me, I looked at the fight in which I had participated, from the

general and historic point of view.

That heavy advance on the Boydton road, beyond Lee’s right, had been

simultaneous with a determined assault on the Confederate left, north

of James River, and on Lee’s centre opposite Petersburg; and now the

extracts from Northern journals clearly indicated that the movement was

meant to be decisive.

“I have Richmond by the throat!” General Grant had telegraphed; but

there was good ground to believe that the heavy attack, and the

eloquent dispatch, were both meant to “make capital” for the approaching

Presidential election.

These memoirs, my dear reader, are written chiefly to record some

incidents which I witnessed during the war. I have neither time nor

space for political comments. But I laid my hand yesterday, by accident,

on an old number of the _Examiner_ newspaper; and it chanced to contain

an editorial on the fight just described, with some penetrating views on

the “situation” at that time.

Shall I quote a paragraph from the yellow old paper? It will be

bitter--we were all bitter in those days! though to-day we are so

fraternal and harmonious. With his trenchant pen, Daniel pierced to the

core of the matter; and the paper may give some idea of the spirit of

the times.

I could fancy the great satirist sitting in his lonely study, and

penning the lines I shall quote, not without grim smiles at his own

mordant humor.

Here is the slip I cut out. The old familiar heading may recall those

times to some readers, as clearly as the biting sentences, once read,

perhaps, by the camp-fire.

* * * * * DAILY EXAMINER. * * * * * MONDAY MORNING OCT. 31, 1864. * * *

* *

“Every day must now bring its brilliant bulletin to the Yankee

nation. That nation does not regard the punctual rising of the sun

as more lawfully due to it than a victory every morning. And those

glorious achievements of SHERIDAN in the Valley were grown cold and

stale, and even plainly hollow and rotten--insomuch that, after

totally annihilating the army of EARLY at least three times, and so

clearing the way to Lynchburg, instead of marching up to Lynchburg

the heroick victor goes whirling down to Winchester. Then the

superb victory obtained on Sunday of last week over PRICE in

Missouri, has taken a certain bogus tint, which causes many to

believe that there was, in fact, no victory and no battle. This

would not do. Something fresh must be had; something electrifying;

above all, something that would set the people to cheering and

firing off salutes about the very day of the election;--something,

too, that could not be plainly contradicted by the events till

after that critical day--then let the contradiction come and

welcome: your true Yankee will only laugh.

“From this necessity came the great ‘reconnoissance in force’ of

last Thursday on our lines before Richmond and Petersburg; a

‘reconnoissance’ in very heavy force indeed upon three points of

our front at once both north and south of the James river; so that

it may be very properly considered as three reconnoissances in

force; made with a view of feeling, as it were, LEE’S position; and

the object of the three reconnoissances having been fully

attained--that is, LEE having been felt--they retired. That is the

way in which the transactions of Thursday last are to appear in

STANTON’S bulletin, we may be all quite sure; and this

representation, together with the occupation of a part of the

Boydton plank-road (which road the newspapers can call for a few

days the Southside Road) will cause every city from Boston to

Milwaukee to fire off its inevitable hundred guns. Thus, the

Presidential election will be served, just in the nick of time; for

that emergency it is not the real victory which is wanted, so much

as the jubilation, glorification and cannon salutes.

“Even when the truth comes to be fully known that this was the

grand pre-election assault itself: the resistless advance on

Richmond which was to lift the Abolitionists into power again upon

a swelling high-tide of glory unutterable--easily repulsed and sent

rolling back with a loss of about six or seven thousand men in

killed, wounded and prisoners; even when this is known, does the

reader imagine that the Yankee nation will be discouraged? Very far

from it. On the contrary it will be easily made to appear that from

these ‘reconnoissances in force,’ an advantage has been gained,

which is to make the next advance a sure and overwhelming success.

For the fact is, that a day was chosen for this mighty movement,

when the wind was southerly, a soft and gentle breeze, which wafted

the odour of the Yankee whiskey-rations to the nostrils of

Confederate soldiers. The Confederates ought to have been taken by

surprise that morning; but the moment they snuffed the tainted

gale, they knew what was to be the morning’s work. Not more

unerring is the instinct which calls the vulture to the

battle-field before a drop of blood is shed; or that which makes

the kites ‘know well the long stern swell, that bids the Romans

close;’ than the sure induction of our army that the Yankees are

coming on, when morn or noon or dewy eve breathes along the whole

line a perfumed savour of the ancient rye. The way in which this

discovery may be improved is plain. It will be felt and understood

throughout the intelligent North, that it gives them at last the

key to Richmond. They will say--Those rebels, to leeward of us,

smell the rising valour of our loyal soldiers: the filling and

emptying of a hundred thousand canteens perfumes the sweet South as

if it had passed over a bed of violets, stealing and giving

odours:--when the wind is southerly it will be said, rebels know a

hawk from a handsaw. Therefore it is but making our next grand

assault on some morning when they are to windward of us--creeping

up, in the lee of LEE, as if he were a stag--and Richmond is ours.”

That is savage, and sounds unfraternal to-day, when peace and good

feeling reign--when the walls of the Virginia capitol re-echo the

stately voices of the conscript fathers of the great commonwealth and

mother of States: conscript fathers bringing their wisdom, mature

study, and experience to the work of still further improving the work of

Jefferson, Mason, and Washington.

“I have Richmond by the throat!” General Grant wrote in October, 1864.

In February, 1868, when these lines are written, black hands have got

Virginia by the throat, and she is suffocating; Cuffee grins, Cuffee

gabbles--the groans of the “Old Mother” make him laugh.

Messieurs of the great Northwest, she gave you being, and suckled you!

Are you going to see her strangled before your very eyes?

II.

NIGHTMARE.

In truth, if not held by the throat, as General Grant announced,

Richmond and all the South in that autumn of 1864, was staggering,

suffocating, reeling to and fro under the immense incubus of

all-destroying war.

At that time black was the “only wear,” and widows and orphans were

crying in every house throughout the land. Bread and meat had become no

longer necessaries, but luxuries. Whole families of the old aristocracy

lived on crusts, and even by charity. Respectable people in Richmond

went to the “soup-houses.” Men once rich, were penniless, and borrowed

to live. Provisions were incredibly dear. Flour was hundreds of dollars

a barrel; bacon ten dollars a pound; coffee and tea had become unknown

almost. Boots were seven hundred dollars a pair. The poor skinned the

dead horses on battle-fields to make shoes. Horses cost five thousand

dollars. Cloth was two hundred dollars a yard. Sorghum had taken the

place of sugar. Salt was sold by the ounce. Quinine was one dollar a

grain. Paper to write upon was torn from old blank books. The ten or

twenty dollars which the soldiers received for their monthly pay, was

about sufficient to buy a sheet, a pen, and a little ink to write home

to their starving families that they too were starving.

In town and country the atmosphere seemed charged with coming ruin. All

things were in confusion. Everywhere something jarred. The executive

was unpopular. The heads of departments were inefficient. The army was

unfed. The finances were mismanaged. In Congress the opposition bitterly

criticised President Davis. The press resounded with fierce diatribes,

_pro_ and _con_, on all subjects. The _Examiner_ attacked the

government, and denounced the whole administration of affairs. The

_Sentinel_ replied to the attacks, and defended the assailed officials.

One could see nothing that was good. The other could see nothing that

was bad. Their readers adopted their opinions; looking through glasses

that were deep green, or else _couleur de rose_. But the green glasses

outnumbered the rose-colored more and more every day.

Thus, in the streets of the city, and in the shades of the country,

all was turmoil, confusion--a hopeless brooding on the hours that were

coming. War was no longer an affair of the border and outpost. Federal

cavalry scoured the woods, tearing the last mouthful from the poor

people. Federal cannon were thundering in front of the ramparts of the

cities. In the country, the faint-hearted gathered at the court-houses

and cross-roads to comment on the times, and groan. In the cities,

cowards croaked in the market-places. In the country, men were hiding

their meat in garrets and cellars--concealing their corn in pens, lost

in the depths of the woods. In the towns, the forestallers hoarded

flour, and sugar, and salt in their warehouses, to await famine prices.

The vultures of troubled times flapped their wings and croaked joyfully.

Extortioners rolled in their chariots. Hucksters laughed as they counted

their gains. Blockade-runners drank their champagne, jingled their coin,

and dodged the conscript officers.

The rich were very rich and insolent. The poor were want-stricken and

despairing. Fathers gazed at their children’s pale faces, and knew

not where to find food for them. Mothers hugged their frail infants to

bosoms drained by famine. Want gnawed at the vitals. Despair had come,

like a black and poisonous mist, to strangle the heart.

The soldiers were agonized by maddening letters from their families.

Their fainting loved ones called for help. “Father! come home!” moaned

the children, with gaunt faces, crying for bread. “Husband, come home!”

murmured the pale wife, with her half-dead infant in her arms. And the

mothers--the mothers--ah! the mothers! They did not say, “Come home!” to

their brave boys in the army; they were too proud for that--too faithful

to the end. They did not summon them to come home; they only knelt down

and prayed: “God, end this cruel war! Only give me back my boy! Do not

bereave me of my child! The cause is lost--his blood not needed! God,

pity me and give me back my boy!”

So that strange autumn of that strange year, 1864, wore on. The country

was oppressed as by some hideous nightmare; and Government was silent.

The army alone, kept heart of hope--Lee’s old soldiers defied the enemy

to the last.

III.

LEE’S MISERABLES.

They called themselves “Lee’s Miserables.”

That was a grim piece of humor, was it not, reader? And the name had

had a somewhat curious origin. Victor Hugo’s work, _Les Misérables_, had

been translated and published by a house in Richmond; the soldiers, in

the great dearth of reading matter, had seized upon it; and thus, by a

strange chance the tragic story of the great French writer, had become

known to the soldiers in the trenches. Everywhere, you might see

the gaunt figures in their tattered jackets bending over the dingy

pamphlets--“Fantine,” “Cosette,” or “Marius,” or “St. Denis,”--and

the woes of “Jean Valjean,” the old galley-slave, found an echo in the

hearts of these brave soldiers, immured in the trenches and fettered by

duty to their muskets or their cannon.

Singular fortune of a writer! Happy M. Hugo! Your fancies crossed the

ocean, and, transmitted into a new tongue, whiled away the dreary hours

of the old soldiers of Lee, at Petersburg! Thus, that history of “The

Wretched,” was the pabulum of the South in 1864; and as the French title

had been retained on the backs of the pamphlets, the soldiers,

little familiar with the Gallic pronunciation, called the book “Lees

Miserables!” Then another step was taken. It was no longer the book, but

themselves whom they referred to by that name. The old veterans of the

army thenceforth laughed at their miseries, and dubbed themselves grimly

“_Lee’s_ Miserables!”[1]

[Footnote 1: It is unnecessary to say that this is not a jest or fancy

on the part of Colonel Surrey. It is a statement of fact.--ED.]

[Illustration: THE TRENCHES.]

The sobriquet was gloomy, and there was something tragic in the

employment of it; but it was applicable. Like most popular terms,

it expressed the exact thought in the mind of every one--coined the

situation into a phrase. Truly, they were “The Wretched,”--the soldiers

of the army of Northern Virginia, in the fall and winter of 1864. They

had a quarter of a pound of rancid “Nassau bacon”--from New England--for

daily rations of meat. The handful of flour, or corn-meal, which they

received, was musty. Coffee and sugar were doled out as a luxury, now

and then only; and the microscopic ration became a jest to those who

looked at it. A little “grease” and cornbread--the grease rancid, and

the bread musty--these were the food of the army.

Their clothes, blankets, and shoes were no better--even worse. Only at

long intervals could the Government issue new ones to them. Thus the

army was in tatters. The old clothes hung on the men like scarecrows.

Their gray jackets were in rags, and did not keep out the chilly wind

sweeping over the frozen fields. Their old blankets were in shreds,

and gave them little warmth when they wrapped themselves up in them,

shivering in the long cold nights. The old shoes, patched and yawning,

had served in many a march and battle--and now allowed the naked sole to

touch the hard and frosty ground.

Happy the man with a new blanket! Proud the possessor of a whole

roundabout! What millionaire or favorite child of fortune passes

yonder--the owner of an unpatched pair of shoes?

Such were the rations and clothing of the army at that epoch;--rancid

grease, musty meal, tattered jackets, and worn-out shoes. And these were

the fortunate ones! Whole divisions often went without bread even, for

two whole days. Thousands had no jackets, no blankets, and no shoes.

Gaunt forms, in ragged old shirts and torn pantaloons only, clutched

the musket. At night they huddled together for warmth by the fire in the

trenches. When they charged, their naked feet left blood-marks on the

abatis through which they went at the enemy.

That is not an exaggeration, reader. These facts are of record.

And that was a part only. It was not only famine and hardship which

they underwent, but the incessant combats--and mortal tedium--of the

trenches. Ah! the trenches! Those words summed up a whole volume of

suffering. No longer fighting in open field; no longer winter-quarters,

with power to range; no longer freedom, fresh air, healthful

movement--the trenches!

Here, cooped up and hampered at every turn, they fought through all

those long months of the dark autumn and winter of 1864. They were no

longer men, but machines loading and firing the musket and the cannon.

Burrowing in their holes, and subterranean covered-ways, they crouched

in the darkness, rose at the sound of coming battle, manned the

breastworks, or trained the cannon--day after day, week after week,

month after month, they were there in the trenches at their grim work;

and some fiat of Destiny seemed to have chained them there to battle

forever! At midnight, as at noon, they were at their posts. In the

darkness, dusky figures could be seen swinging the sponge-staff,

swabbing the cannon, driving home the charge. In the starlight, the

moonlight, or the gloom lit by the red glare, those figures, resembling

phantoms, were seen marshalled behind the breastworks to repel the

coming assault. Silence had fled from the trenches--the crash of

musketry and the bellow of artillery had replaced it. That seemed never

to cease. The men were rocked to sleep by it. They slept on in the dark

trenches, though the mortar-shells rose, described their flaming curves,

and, bursting, rained jagged fragments of iron upon them. And to

many that was their last sleep. The iron tore them in their tattered

blankets. They rose gasping, and streaming with blood. Then they

staggered and fell; when you passed by, you saw a something lying on the

ground, covered with the old blanket. It was one of “Lee’s Miserables,”

killed last night by the mortars--and gone to answer, “Here!” before the

Master.

The trenches!--ah! the trenches! Were you in them, reader? Thousands

will tell you more of them than I can. There, an historic army was

guarding the capital of an historic nation--the great nation of

Virginia--and how they guarded it! In hunger, and cold, and nakedness,

they guarded it still. In the bright days and the dark, they stood

at their posts unmoved. In the black night-watches as by day--toward

morning, as at evening--they stood, clutching the musket, peering out

into the pitchy darkness; or lay, dozing around the grim cannon, in the

embrasures. Hunger, and cold, and wounds, and the whispering voice of

Despair, had no effect on them. The mortal tedium left them patient.

When you saw the gaunt faces contract, and tears flow, it was because

they had received some letter, saying that their wives and children were

starving. Many could not endure that. It made them forget all. Torn with

anguish, and unable to obtain furloughs for a day even, they went home

without leave--and civilians called them deserters. Could such men be

shot--men who had fought like heroes, and only committed this breach of

discipline that they might feed their starving children? And, after all,

it was not desertion that chiefly reduced Lee’s strength. It was battle

which cut down the army--wounds and exposure which thinned its ranks.

But thin as they were, and ever growing thinner, the old veterans who

remained by the flag of such glorious memories, were as defiant in this

dark winter of 1864, as they had been in the summer days of 1862 and

1863.

Army of _Northern Virginia_!--old soldiers of Lee, who fought beside

your captain until your frames were wasted, and you were truly his

“wretched” ones--you are greater to me in your wretchedness, more

splendid in your rags, than the Old Guard of Napoleon, or the three

hundred of Thermopylae! Neither famine, nor nakedness, nor suffering,

could break your spirit. You were tattered and half-starved; your forms,

were warworn; but you still had faith in Lee, and the great cause which

you bore aloft on the points of your bayonets. You did not shrink in

the last hour the hour of supreme trial. You meant to follow Lee to the

last. If you ever doubted the result, you had resolved, at least, on one

thing--to clutch the musket, to the end, and die in harness!

Is that extravagance--and is this picture of the great army of Northern

Virginia overdrawn? Did they or did they not fight to the end? Answer!

Wilderness, Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor, Charles City, every spot around

Petersburg where they closed in death-grapple with the swarming enemy!

Answer! winter of ‘64,--bleak spring of ‘65,--terrible days of the

great retreat when hunted down and driven to bay like wild animals, they

fought from Five Forks to Appomattox Court-House--fought staggering, and

starving, and falling--but defiant to the last!

Bearded men were seen crying on the ninth of April, 1865. But it was

_surrender_ which wrung their hearts, and brought tears to the grim

faces.

Grant’s cannon had only made “Lee’s Miserables” cheer and laugh.

Mohun; Or, the Last Days of Lee and His Paladins. Final Memoirs of a Staff Officer Serving in Virginia. from the Mss. of Colonel Surry, of Eagle's Nest. · 第 8 / 11 章

“Five Forks” was an old mansion not far from the place of the same name,