into her bosom.
“‘Beware!’ I said, with a laugh, ‘beware of what, my dear Madam
Laffarge?’
“‘Of this!’
“And with a movement as rapid as lightning she drew from her breast a
small silver-mounted pistol, which she aimed straight at my breast.
“I was not in a mood to care much for pistols, Surry. When a man is
engaged in a little affair like that, bullets lose their influence on
the nerves.
“‘That is a pretty toy!’ I said. ‘Where did you procure it madam, the
poisoner?’
“With a face resembling rather a hideous mask than a human countenance,
she rushed upon me; placed the muzzle of the pistol on my very breast;
and drew the trigger.
“The weapon snapped.
“A moment afterward I had taken it from her hand and thrown it into a
corner.
“‘Very well done!’ I said. ‘What a pity that you use such indifferent
caps! Your pistol is as harmless as your tea!’
“She uttered a hoarse cry, but did not recoil in the least, Surry! This
woman was a curiosity. Instead of retreating from me, she clenched her
small white hand, raised it above her head, and exclaimed:--
“‘If _he_ only were here!’
“‘_He_, madam?’ I said. ‘You refer to your respected _brother_--to Mr.
Mortimer?’
“‘Yes! _he_ would make you repent your cowardly outrages and insults.’
“I looked at my watch, it was just eleven.
“‘The hour is earlier than I thought, madam,’ I said, ‘but perhaps he
has already arrived.’
“And advancing to the side of the lady, I took her arm, drew her toward
the window, and said:--
“‘Why not give your friend the signal you have agreed on, madam?’
“At a bound she reached the window, and struck a rapid series of blows
with her fingers upon the pane.
“Five minutes afterward a heavy step was heard ascending the
private staircase. I went to the door and unlocked it; the step
approached--stopped at the door--the door opened, and Mortimer appeared.
“‘Come in, my dear brother-in-law,’ I said, ‘we are waiting for you.’”
XXIII.
THE RESULT OF THE SIGNAL.
“Mortimer recoiled as if a blow had been suddenly struck at him. His
astonishment was so comic that I began to laugh.
“‘Good! you start!’ I said. ‘You thought I was dead by this time?’
“‘Yes,’ he coolly replied.
“As he spoke, his hand stole under the cloak in which he was wrapped,
and I heard the click of a pistol as he cocked it. I drew my own weapon,
cocked it in turn, and placing the muzzle upon Mortimer’s breast,
said:--
“‘Draw your pistol and you are dead!’
“He looked at me with perfect coolness, mingled with a sort of
curiosity. I saw that he was a man of unfaltering courage, and that the
instincts of a gentleman had not entirely left him, soiled as he was
with every crime. His eye was calm and unshrinking. He did not move an
inch when I placed my pistol muzzle upon his breast. At the words which
I uttered he withdrew his hand from his cloak--he had returned the
weapon to its place--and with a penetrating glance, said:--
“‘What do you wish, sir; as you declare you await me?’
“‘Ask madam,’ I said, ‘or rather exert your own ingenuity.’
“‘My ingenuity?’
“‘In guessing.’
“‘Why not tell me?’
“‘So be it. The matter is perfectly simple, sir. I wish to kill you, or
give you an opportunity to kill me--is that plain?’
“‘Quite so,’ replied Mortimer, without moving a muscle.
“‘I can understand, without further words, that all explanations and
discussions are wholly useless.’
“‘Wholly.’
“‘You wish to fight me,’ he said.
“‘Yes.’
“‘To put an end to me, if possible?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Well, I will give you that opportunity, sir, and, even return you my
thanks for not killing me on the spot.’
“He paused a moment, and looked keenly at me.
“‘This whole affair is infamous,’ he said. ‘I knew that when I undertook
it. I was once a gentleman, and have not forgotten every thing I
then learned, whatever my practice may be. You have been tricked and
deceived. You have been made the victim of a disgraceful plot, and I was
the author of the whole affair; though this lady would, herself, have
been equal to that, or even more. You see I talk to you plainly, sir;
I know a gentleman when I see him, and you are one. I was formerly
something of the same sort, but having outlawed myself, went on in the
career that brought me to this. I was poor--am poor now. I originated
the idea of this pseudo-marriage, with a view to profit by it, but with
no further--’
“He suddenly paused and looked at the woman. Their glances in that
moment crossed like lightning.
“‘Speak out!’ she cried, ‘say plainly--’
“‘Hush! I did not mean to--I am no coward, madam!’
“‘Say plainly that it was _I_ who formed the design to get rid of this
person!’
“And she pointed furiously at me.
“‘Let no scruples restrain you--take nothing upon yourself--it was I,
I!--I who planned his death!’
“Mortimer remained for an instant silent. Then he resumed, in the same
measured voice as before:--
“‘You hear,’ he said. ‘I tried to shield her, to take the blame--meant
to give you no inkling of this--but she spoils all. To end this. I have
offered you a mortal insult--soiled an ancient and honorable name--the
last representative of the Mohuns has formed through me a degrading
connection. I acknowledge all that. I am going to try to kill you, to
bury every thing in the grave. I would have shrunk from assassinating
you, though I wish your death. You offer me honorable combat, and you
do me an honor, which I appreciate. Let us finish. The place, time, and
weapons?’
“There was, then, something not altogether base in this man. I listened
with joy. I had expected to encounter a wretch without a single
attribute of the gentleman.
“‘You accept this honorable combat, then?’ I said.
“‘With thanks,’ he replied.
“‘You wish to fight as gentlemen fight?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘You fence well?’
“‘Yes--but you?’
“‘Sufficiently well.’
“‘Are you certain? I warn you I am excellent at the foils.’
“‘They suit me--that is agreed on, then?’
“He bowed, and said:--
“‘Yes. And now, as to the place, the time, and every detail. All that I
leave to you.’
“I bowed in turn.
“‘Then nothing will delay our affair. I have ordered a grave to be dug,
in a private spot, on the river. The foils are ready, with the buttons
broken, the points sharpened. The carriage has been ordered. A ride of
fifteen minutes will bring us to the grave, which is done by this time,
and we can settle our differences there, by moonlight, without witnesses
or interruption.’
“Mortimer looked at me with a sinister smile.
“‘You are provident!’ he said, briefly. ‘I understand. The one who falls
will give no trouble. The grave will await him, and he can enter at once
upon his property!’
“‘Yes.’
“‘And this lady?’
“‘That will come afterward,’ I said.
“‘If I kill you--?’
“‘She is your property.’
“‘And if you kill me--?’
“‘She is mine,’ I said.
“The sinister smile again came to the dark features of Mortimer.
“‘So be it,’ he said, ‘and I am ready to accompany you, sir.’
“I drew my pistol and threw it upon the bed, looking at Mortimer as
I did so. He imitated me, and opening his coat, showed me that he was
wholly unarmed. I did the same, and having locked the private door
leading to the back staircase, led the way out, followed by Mortimer. He
turned and looked at madam as he passed through the door. She was erect,
furious, defiant, full of anticipated triumph. Was it a glance of
gloomy compassion and deep tenderness which Mortimer threw toward her? I
thought I heard him sigh.
“I locked the door, and we descended to the library.”
XXIV.
WHAT TOOK PLACE IN FIFTY MINUTES.
“As we entered the apartment, the clock on the mantel-piece struck
midnight.
“My body servant was within call, and I ordered my carriage, which
Nighthawk had been directed to have ready at a moment’s warning.
“In five minutes it was at the door, and I had just taken the two foils
under my arm, when I heard a step in the passage. A moment afterward,
Nighthawk entered.
“He was so pale that I scarcely recognized him. When his eyes
encountered Mortimer, they flashed lightnings of menace.
“‘Well?’ I said, in brief tones.
“‘It is ready, sir,’ Nighthawk replied, in a voice scarcely audible. I
looked at him imperiously.
“‘And the servants are warned to keep silent?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘Very well. Remain here until I return,’ I said.
“And I pointed to a seat, with a glance at Nighthawk, which said
plainly to him, ‘Do not presume to attempt to turn me from my present
purpose--it will be useless, and offensive to me.’
“He groaned, and sat down in the seat I indicated. His frame was bent
and shrunken like that of an old man, in one evening. Since that moment,
I have loved Nighthawk, my dear Surry; and he deserves it.
“Without delay I led the way to the carriage, which was driven by
my father’s old gray-haired coachman, and entered it with Mortimer,
directing the driver to follow the high-road down the river. He did
so; we rolled on in the moonlight, or the shadow, as it came forth or
disappeared behind the drifting clouds. The air was intensely cold. From
beyond the woods came the hollow roar of the Nottoway, which was swollen
by a freshet.
“Mortimer drew his cloak around him, but said nothing. In ten minutes
I called to the old coachman to stop. He checked his spirited horses--I
had some good ones then--and I descended from the carriage, with the
foils under my arm, followed by Mortimer.
“The old coachman looked on in astonishment. The spot at which I had
stopped the carriage was wild and dreary beyond expression.
“‘Shall I wait, sir?’ he said, respectfully.
“‘No; return home at once, and put away the carriage.’
“He looked at me with a sort of stupor.
“‘Go home, sir?’ he said.
“‘Yes.’
“‘And leave you?’
“‘Obey me!’
“My voice must have shown that remonstrance would be useless. My old
servitor uttered a sigh like the groan which had escaped from the lips
of Nighthawk, and, mounting the box, turned the heads of his horses
toward home.
“I watched the carriage until it turned a bend in the road, and then,
making a sign to Mortimer to follow me, led the way into the woods.
Pursuing a path which the moonlight just enabled me to perceive, I
penetrated the forest; went on for about ten minutes; and finally
emerged upon a plateau, in the swampy undergrowth near which stood the
ruins of an old chimney.
“This chimney had served to indicate the spot to Nighthawk; and, before
us, in the moonlight, was the evidence that he had found it. In the
centre of the plateau was a newly dug grave--and in front of it I
paused.
“‘We have arrived,’ I said.
“Mortimer gazed at the grave with a grim smile.
“‘That is a dreary and desolate object,’ he said.
“‘It will soon be inhabited,’ I returned; ‘and the issue of this combat
is indifferent to me, since in either event I shall be dead.’
“‘Ah!’ he exclaimed, ‘explain that.’
“‘Then you do not understand! You think this duel will end every thing?
You deceive yourself! A family history like mine does not terminate with
a duel. Have you read those tragedies where everybody is killed?--where
not a single one of the _dramatis personae_ escapes? Well, this is going
to be a drama of that exact description. Do you wish to save that woman,
yonder? To do so, you must kill _me_. I tell you that to warn you to do
your best, sir!’
“Mortimer glared at me. It is hard to imagine a glance more sinister.
“‘So you have arranged the whole affair?’ he said; ‘there is to be a
wholesale killing.’
“‘Yes.’
“‘You are going to kill--_her_?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Yourself, too?’
“‘Yes.’
“Mortimer’s smile became more sinister, as he raised his foil.
“‘Take your position, sir,’ he said; ‘I am going to save you the latter
trouble.’
“I grasped my weapon, and placed myself on guard.
“In an instant he had thrown himself upon me with a fury which indicated
the profound passion under his assumed coolness. His eyes blazed; his
lips writhed into something like a deadly grin; I felt that I had to
contend rather with a wild animal than a man. The grave yawned in
the moonlight at our very feet, and Mortimer closed in, with fury,
endeavoring to force me to its brink, and hurl me into it.
“Ten minutes afterward the combat was over; and it was Mortimer who
occupied the grave.
“He had given ground an instant, to breathe; had returned to the attack
more furiously than before; a tremendous blow of his weapon snapped my
own, eighteen inches from the hilt; but this had probably saved my life
instead of destroying it, as Mortimer, from his fierce exclamation as
the blade broke, evidently expected.
“Before he could take advantage of his success, I sprang at his throat,
grasped his sword-arm with my left hand, and, shortening my stump of a
weapon, drove the point through his breast.
“He uttered a cry, staggered, and threw up his hands; I released my
clutch on his arm; and he fell heavily backward into the grave.
“‘Now to end all,’ I said, and I set out rapidly for Fonthill.”
XXV.
GOING TO REJOIN MORTIMER.
“I had not gone a hundred yards, when I heard the sound of wheels
approaching.
“I had said to myself, ‘I am going back to madam; she will hear my
footsteps upon the staircase; will open the door; will rush forward to
embrace me, under the impression that I am her dear Mortimer, returning
triumphant from the field of battle; and then a grand tableau!’ Things
were destined to turn out differently, as you will see in an instant.
“The sound of wheels grew louder; a carriage appeared; and I recognized
my own chariot.
“‘Why have you disobeyed my orders?’ I said to the old gray-haired
driver, arresting the horses as I spoke, by violently grasping the
bridles.
“The old coachman looked frightened. Then he said, in an agitated
voice:--
“‘Madam ordered me to obey her, sir.’
“‘Madam?’
“‘Yes, sir.’
“‘Where is she?’
“‘In the carriage, sir. As soon as I got back, she came down to the
door--ordered me to drive her to _you_--and I was obliged to do so,
sir.’
“‘Good,’ I said, ‘you have done well.’
And opening the door of the carriage, through the glass of which I
saw the pale face of the woman, I entered it, directing the coachman to
drive to the ‘Hicksford Crossing.’
A hoarse, but defiant voice at my side said:--
“‘Where is Mr. Mortimer?’
“‘Gone over the river,’ I said, laughing, ‘and we are going, too.’
“‘To rejoin him?’
“‘Yes, madam.’
“The carriage had rolled on, and as it passed the grave I heard a groan.
“‘What is that?’ said she.
“‘The river is groaning over yonder, madam.’
“‘You will not attempt to pass it to-night?’
“‘Yes, madam. Are you afraid?’
“She looked at me with fiery eyes.
“‘Afraid? No!’ she said, ‘I am afraid of nothing!’
“I really admired her at that moment. She was truly brave. I said
nothing, however. The carriage rolled on, and ten minutes afterward the
roar of the river, now near at hand, was heard. That sound mingled with
the deep bellowing of the thunder, which succeeded the dazzling flashes
at every instant dividing the darkness.
“All at once my companion said:--
“‘I am tired of this--where is Mr. Mortimer?’
“‘He awaits us,’ I replied.
“‘You are going to him?’
“‘Yes.’
“We had reached the bank of the river, and, stopping the carriage, I
sprung out. Madam followed me, without being invited. A small boat rose
and fell on the swollen current. I detached the chain, seized a paddle,
and pointed to the stern seat.
“‘The river is dangerous to-night,’ said madam, coldly.
“‘Then you are afraid, after all?’
“‘No!’ she said.
“And with a firm step she entered the boat.
“‘Go back with the carriage,’ I said to the driver. He turned the heads
of the horses, and obeyed in silence.
“Madam had taken her seat in the stern of the boat. I pushed from shore
into the current, and paddling rapidly to the middle of the foaming
torrent, filled with drift-wood, threw the paddle overboard, and took my
seat in the stern.
“As I threw away the paddle, my resolution seemed to dawn for the first
time upon my companion. She had become deadly pale, but said nothing.
With folded arms, I looked and listened; we were nearing a narrow and
rock-studded point in the river, where there was no hope.
“The frail boat was going to be overturned there, or dashed to pieces
without mercy. I knew the spot--knew that there was no hope. The torrent
was roaring and driving the boat like a leaf toward the jagged and fatal
rocks.
“‘Then you are going to kill me and yourself at the same time!’ she
said.
“The woman was fearless.
“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it is the only way. I could not live dishonored--you
dishonored me--I die--and die with you!’
“And I rose erect, baring my forehead to the lightning.
“The point was reached. The boat swept on with the speed of a racehorse.
A dazzling flash showed a dark object amid the foam, right ahead of us.
The boat rushed toward it--the jagged teeth seemed grinning at us--the
boat struck--and the next moment I felt the torrent sweep over me,
roaring furious and sombre, like a wild beast that has caught its prey.”
XXVI.
AFTERWARD.
“When I opened my eyes, the sun was shining in my face.
“I was lying on a mass of drift-wood, caught by a ledge of rock, jutting
out into the river. I had apparently been hurled there, by the force of
the current, stunned and bruised; the sunshine had aroused me, bringing
me back to that life which was a burden and a mockery.
“And where was _she_? I shuddered as I asked myself that question. Had
she been thrown from the boat? Had it been overturned? Was she drowned?
I closed my eyes with a shudder which traversed my body, chilling my
blood as with the cold hand of death.
“For a moment I thought of throwing myself into the river, and thus
ending all my woes. But I was too cowardly.
“I turned toward the shore, groaning; dragged my bruised and aching
limbs along the ledge of jagged rocks, through the masses of drift-wood;
and finally reached the shore, where I sank down exhausted, and ready to
die.
“I will not lengthen out the gloomy picture. At last I rose, looked
around, and with bent head and cowering frame, stole away through the
woods toward Fonthill. On my way, I passed within two hundred yards of
_the grave_--but I dared not go thither. He was dead, doubtless--and he
had been slain in fair combat! It was another form that haunted me--the
form of a woman--one who had dishonored me--attempted to poison me--a
terrible being--but still a woman; and I had--murdered her!
“I reached home an hour or two afterward. Nighthawk was sitting in the
library, pale, and haggard, watching for me.
“As I entered, he rose with an exclamation, extending his arms toward
me, with an indescribable expression of joy.
“I shrunk back, refusing his hand.
“‘Do not touch that,’ I groaned, ‘there is blood on it!’
“He seized it, and kneeling down, kissed it.
“‘Bloody or not, it is _your_ hand--the hand of my dear young master!’
“And the honest fellow burst into tears, as he covered my hand with
kisses.
“A month afterward, I was in Europe, amid the whirl and noise of Paris.
I tried to forget that I was a murderer--but the shadow went with me!”
XXVII.
MOHUN TERMINATES HIS NARRATIVE.
Mohun had spoken throughout the earlier portions of his narrative in a
tone of cynical bitterness. His last words were mingled, however,
with weary sighs, and his face wore an expression of the profoundest
melancholy.
The burnt-out cigar had fallen from his fingers to the floor; he leaned
back languidly in his great arm-chair: with eyes fixed upon the dying
fire, he seemed to go back in memory to the terrible scenes just
described, living over again all those harsh and conflicting emotions.
“So it ended, Surry,” he said, after a long pause. “Such was the
frightful gulf into which the devil and my own passions pushed me, in
that month of December, 1856. A hand as irresistible and inexorable as
the Greek Necessity had led me step by step to murder--in intent if not
in fact--and for years the shadow of the crime which I believed I had
committed, made my life wretched. I wandered over Europe, plunged into a
thousand scenes of turmoil and excitement--it was all useless--still the
shadow went with me. Crime is a terrible companion to have ever at your
elbow. The _Atra cura_ of the poet is nothing to it, friend! It is a
fiend which will not be driven away. It grins, and gibbers, and
utters its gibes, day and night. Believe me, Surry,--I speak from
experience--it is better for this world, as well as the next, to be a
boor, a peasant, a clodhopper with a clear conscience, than to hold in
your hand the means of all luxury, and so-called enjoyment, and,
with it, the consciousness that you are blood guilty under almost any
circumstances.
“Some men might have derived comfort from the circumstances of _that_
crime. I could not. They might have said, ‘I was goaded, stung, driven,
outraged, tempted beyond my strength, caught in a net of fire, from
which there was but one method of exit--to burst out, trampling down
every thing.’ Four words silenced all that sophistry--‘She was a woman!’
It was the face of that woman, as I saw it last on that stormy night by
the lightning flashes, which drove me to despair. I, the son of the pure
gentleman whose portrait is yonder--I, the representative of the Mohuns,
a family which had acted in all generations according to the dictates
of the loftiest honor--I, had put to death a woman, and that thought
spurred me to madness!
“Of _his_ death I did not think in the same manner. I had slain him in
fair combat, body to body--and, however the law of God may stigmatize
homicide, there was still that enormous difference. I had played my life
against his, as it were--he had lost, and he paid the forfeit. But
_the other_ was _murdered_! That fact stared me in the face. She had
dishonored me; tricked me; attempted to poison, and then shoot me. _She_
had designed to murder _me_, and had set about her design deliberately,
coolly, without provocation, impelled by the lust of gold only. She
deserved punishment, but--she was a woman! I had not said ‘Go!’ either,
in pointing to the gloomy path to death. I had said ‘Come!’--had meant
to die too. I had not shrunk from the torrent in which I had resolved
she should be borne away. I had gone into the boat with her; accompanied
her on her way; devoted myself, too, to death, at the same moment. But
all was useless. I said to myself a thousand times--‘at least they can
not say that I was a coward, as well as a murderer. The last of the
Mohuns may have blackened his escutcheon with the crime of murder--but
at least he did not spare _himself_; he faced death with his victim.’
Useless, Surry--all useless! The inexorable Voice with which I fenced,
had only one reply--one lunge--‘She was a woman!’ and the words pierced
me like a sword-blade!
“Let me end this, but not before I say that the dreadful Voice was
_right_. As to the combat with Mortimer, I shall express no opinion. You
know the facts, and will judge me. But the other act was a deadly crime.
Gloss it over as you may, you can never justify murder. Use all the
special pleading possible, and the frightful deed is still as black in
the eyes of God and man as before. I saw that soon; saw it always; see
it to-day; and pray God in his infinite mercy to blot out that crime
from his book--to pardon the poor weak creature who was driven to
madness, and attempted to commit that deadly sin.
“Well, to end my long history. I remained in Europe until the news from
America indicated the approach of war--Nighthawk managing my estate, and
remitting me the proceeds at Paris. When I saw that an armed collision
was going to take place, I hastened back, reaching Virginia in the
winter of 1860. But I did not come to Fonthill. I had a horror of the
place. From New York, where I landed, I proceeded to Montgomery, without
stopping upon the route; found there a prominent friend of my father who
was raising a brigade in the Southwest; was invited by him to aid him;
and soon afterward was elected to the command of a company of cavalry by
his recommendation. I need only add, that I rose gradually from
captain to colonel, which rank I held in 1863, when we first met on
the Rappahannock--my regiment having been transferred to a brigade of
General Lee’s cavalry.
“You saw me then, and remember my bitterness and melancholy. But you had
no opportunity to descry the depth and intensity of those sentiments in
me. Suddenly the load was lifted. _That woman_ made her appearance, as
if from the grave, and you must have witnessed my wonder, as my eyes
fell upon her. Then, she was not dead after all! I was not a murderer!
And to complete the wonder, _he_ was also alive. A man passing along
the bank of the river, as I discovered afterward from Nighthawk, who
ferreted out the whole affair--a man named Swartz, a sort of poor farmer
and huckster, passing along the Nottoway, on the morning after the
storm, had found the woman cast ashore, with the boat overturned near
her; and a mile farther, had found Mortimer, not yet dead, in the grave.
Succored by Swartz, they had both recovered--had then disappeared. I was
to meet them again, and know of their existence only when the chance of
war threw us face to face on the field.
“You know the scenes which followed. Mortimer, or Darke, as he now calls
himself, confronted me everywhere, and _she_ seemed to have no object in
life but my destruction. You heard her boast in the house near Buckland
that she had thrice attempted to assassinate me by means of her tool,
the man Swartz. Again, at Warrenton, in the hospital, she came near
poniarding me with her own hand. Nighthawk, who had followed me to the
field, and become a secret agent of General Stuart, warned me of all
this--and one day, gave me information more startling still. And this
brings me, my dear Surry, to the last point in my narrative, I now enter
upon matter with which you have been personally ‘mixed up.’
“On that night when I attacked Darke in his house in Pennsylvania,
Swartz stole a paper from madam--the certificate of her marriage with
Mr. Mortimer-Darke, or Darke-Mortimer. The object of Swartz was, to
sell the paper to me for a large sum, as he had gotten an inkling of the
state of affairs, and my relation with madam. Well, Nighthawk reported
this immediately, made an appointment to meet Swartz in the Wilderness,
and many times afterward attempted to gain possession of the paper,
which Swartz swore was a _bona fide_ certificate of the marriage of
these two persons _before the year_ 1856, when I first met them.
“You, doubtless, understand now, my dear Surry, my great anxiety to gain
possession of that paper. Or, if you do not, I have only to state one
fact--that will explain all. I am engaged to be married to Miss Conway,
and am naturally anxious to have the proof in my possession that I have
not _one wife_ yet living! I know _that woman_ well. She will stop at
nothing. The rumor that I am about to become the happy husband of a
young lady whom I love, has driven madam nearly frantic, and she has
already shown her willingness to stop at nothing, by imprisoning Swartz,
and starving him until he produced the stolen paper. Swartz is dead,
however; the paper is lost; I and madam are both in hot pursuit of the
document. Which will find it, I know not. She, of course, wishes to
suppress it--I wish to possess it. Where is it? If you will tell me,
friend, I will make you a deed for half my estate! You have been with me
to visit that strange woman, Amanda, as a forlorn hope. What will come I
know not; but I trust that an all-merciful Providence will not withdraw
its hand from me, and now dash all my hopes, at the very moment when the
cup is raised to my lips! If so, I will accept all, submissively, as the
just punishment of my great crime--a crime, I pray God to pardon me, as
the result of mad desperation, and not as a wanton and wilful defiance
of His Almighty authority! I have wept tears of blood for that act. I
have turned and tossed on my bed, in the dark hours of night, groaning
and pleading for pardon. I have bitterly expiated throughout long years,
that brief tragedy. I have humbled myself in the dust before the Lord
of all worlds, and, falling at the feet of the all-merciful Saviour,
besought His divine compassion. I am proud--no man was ever prouder--but
I have bowed my forehead to the dust, and if the Almighty now denies me
the supreme consolation of this pure girl’s affection,--if loving her as
I do, and beloved by her, as I may venture to tell you, friend, I am to
see myself thrust back from this future--then, Surry, I will give the
last proof of my submission: I will bow down my head, and say ‘Thy will,
not mine, Lord, be done!’”
Mohun’s head sank as he uttered the words. To the proud face came an
expression of deep solemnity and touching sweetness. The firm lips were
relaxed--the piercing eyes had become soft. Mohun was greater in his
weakness than he had ever been in his strength.
When an hour afterward we had mounted our horses, and were riding back
slowly through the night, I said, looking at him by the dim starlight:--
“This is no longer a gay young cavalryman--a mere thoughtless youth--but
a patriot, fit to live or die with Lee!”
BOOK V.
THE DEAD GO FAST.
I.
THE “DOOMED CITY” IN PROFILE--DECEMBER, 1864.
The scenes just described took place in the month of November. In
December I obtained the priceless boon of a few days’ leave of absence,
and paid a visit to Richmond.
There was little there of a cheerful character; all was sombre and
lugubrious. In the “doomed city,” as throughout the whole country,
all things were going to wreck and ruin. During the summer and autumn,
suffering had oppressed the whole community; but now misery clutched the
very heartstrings. Society had been convulsed--now, all the landmarks of
the past seemed about to disappear in the deluge. Richmond presented the
appearance, and lived after the manner, of a besieged city, as General
Grant called it. It no longer bore the least likeness to its former
peaceful and orderly self. The military police had usurped the functions
of the civil, and the change was for the worse. Garroters swarmed the
streets of the city after dark. House-breakers everywhere carried on
their busy occupation. Nothing was safe from these prowlers of the
night; all was fish for their nets. The old clothes in rags and bales;
the broken china and worn spoons; the very food, obtained through
immense exertions by some father to feed his children--all became the
spoil of these night-birds, who were ever on the watch. When you went to
make a visit in the evening, you took your hat and cloak with you into
the drawing-room, to have them under your eye. When you retired at
night, you deposited your watch and purse under your pillow. At the
hotels, you never thought of placing your boots outside the door; and
the landlords, in the morning, carefully looked to see if the towels, or
the blankets of the beds had been stolen. All things were thus unhinged.
Misery had let loose upon the community all the outlaws of civilization;
the scum and dregs of society had come to the top, and floated on the
surface in the sunlight.
The old respectable population of the old respectable city had
disappeared, it seemed. The old respectable habitudes had fallen into
contempt. Gambling-houses swarmed everywhere; and the military police
ignored them. “The very large number of houses,” said a contemporary
journal, “on Main and other streets, which have numbers painted in large
gilt figures over the door, and illuminated at night, are faro banks.
The fact is not known to the public. The very large numbers of flashily
dressed young men, with villainous faces, who hang about the street
corners in the daytime, are not gamblers, garroters, and plugs, but
young men studying for the ministry, and therefore exempt from military
duty. This fact is not known to General Winder.” The quiet and
orderly city had, in a word, become the haunt of burglars, gamblers,
adventurers, blockade-runners. The city, once the resort of the most
elegant society in Virginia, had been changed by war and misery into a
strange chaotic caravanserai, where you looked with astonishment on the
faces going and coming, without knowing in the least “who was who,”
or whether your acquaintance was an honest man or a scoundrel. The
scoundrels dressed in excellent clothes, and smiled and bowed when you
met them; it was nearly the sole means of identifying them, at an epoch,
when virtue almost always went in rags.
The era of “social unrealities,” to use the trenchant phrase of Daniel,
had come. Even braid on sleeves and collars did not tell you much. Who
was the fine-looking Colonel Blank, or the martial General Asterisks?
Was he a gentleman or a barber’s boy--an F.F. somewhere, or an
exdrayman? The general and colonel dressed richly; lived at the
“Spottswood;” scowled on the common people; and talked magnificently. It
was only when some young lady linked her destiny to his, that she found
herself united to quite a surprising helpmate--discovered that the
general or the colonel had issued from the shambles or the gutter.
Better society was not wanting; but it remained largely in the
background. Vice was strutting in cloth of gold; virtue was at home
mending its rags. Every expedient was resorted to, not so much to keep
up appearances as to keep the wolf from the door. Servants were sent
around by high-born ladies to sell, anonymously, baskets of their
clothes. The silk or velvet of old days was now parted with for bread.
On the shelves of the bookstores were valuable private libraries, placed
there for sale. In the shops of the silversmiths were seen breastpins,
watches, bracelets, pearl and diamond necklaces, which their owners
were obliged to part with for bread. “Could we have traced,” says a late
writer, “the history of a set of pearls, we should have been told of a
fair bride, who had received them from a proud and happy bridegroom;
but whose life had been blighted in her youthful happiness by the cruel
blast of war--whose young husband was in the service of his country--to
whom stark poverty had continued to come, until at last the wedding
present from the dear one, went to purchase food and raiment... A
richly bound volume of poems, with here and there a faint pencil-marked
quotation, told perchance of a lover perished on some bloody field; and
the precious token was disposed of, or pawned, when bread was at last
needed for some suffering loved one.”
You can see these poor women--can you not, reader? The bride looking
at her pearl necklace, with flushed cheeks and eyes full of tears,
murmuring:--“_He_ gave me this--placed it around my neck on my wedding
day--and I must _sell_ it!” You can see too, the fair girl, bending
down and dropping tears on the page marked by her dead lover; her bosom
heaving, her heart breaking, her lips whispering:--“_His_ hand touched
this--we read this page together--I hear his voice--see his smile--this
book brings back all to me--and now, I must go and sell it, to buy bread
for my little sister and brother, who are starving!”
That is dolorous, is it not, reader?--and strikes you to the heart. It
is not fancy. December, 1864, saw that, and more, in Virginia.
II.
THE MEN WHO RUINED THE CONFEDERACY.
In the streets of Richmond, crowded with uniforms, in spite of the
patrols, marching to and fro, and examining “papers,” I met a number of
old acquaintances, and saw numerous familiar faces.
The “Spottswood” was the resort of the _militaires_, and the moneyed
people. Here, captains and colonels were elbowed by messieurs the
blockade-runners, and mysterious government employees--employed, as I
said on a former occasion, in heaven knows what. The officer stalked
by in his braid. The “Trochilus” passed, smiling, in shiny broadcloth.
Listen! yonder is the newsboy, shouting, “The _Examiner_!”--that is to
say, the accurate photograph of this shifting chaos, where nothing seems
stationary long enough to have its picture taken.
Among the first to squeeze my hand, with winning smiles and cordial
welcome, was my friend Mr. Blocque. He was clad more richly than before;
smiled more sweetly than ever; seemed more prosperous, better
satisfied, firmer in his conviction than ever that the President and the
administration had never committed a fault--that the world of December,
1864, was the best of all possible worlds.
“My dear colonel!” exclaimed Mr. Pangloss-Trochilus, _alias_ Mr.
Blocque, “delighted to see you, I assure you! You are well? You
will dine with me, to-day? At five precisely? You will find the old
company--jolly companions, every one! We meet and talk of the affairs
of the country. All is going on well, colonel. Our city is quiet and
orderly. The government sees farther than its assailants. It can not
explain now, and set itself right in the eyes of the people--that would
reveal military secrets to the enemy, you know. I tell my friends in
the departments not to mind their assailants. Washington himself was
maligned, but he preserved a dignified silence. All is well, colonel!
I give you my word, we are all right! I know a thing or two--!” and Mr.
Blocque looked mysterious. “I have friends in high quarters, and you
can rely on my statement. Lee is going to whip Grant. The people are
rallying to the flag. The finances are improving. The resources of the
country are untouched. A little patience--only a _very_ little patience!
I tell my friends. Let us only endure trials and hardships with brave
hearts. Let us not murmur at dry bread, colonel--let us cheerfully dress
in rags--let us deny ourselves every thing, sacrifice every thing to the
cause, cast away all superfluities, shoulder our muskets, and fight to
the death! Then there _can_ be no doubt of the result, colonel--good
morning!”
And Mr. Blocque shook my hand cordially, gliding away in his shiny
broadcloth, at the moment when Mr. Croker, catching my eye in passing,
stopped to speak to me.
“You visit Richmond at an inauspicious moment, colonel,” said Mr.
Croker, jingling his watch-seals with dignity. “The country has at
last reached a point from which ruin is apparent in no very distant
perspective, and when the hearts of the most resolute, in view of
the depressing influences of the situation, are well nigh tempted to
surrender every anticipation of ultimate success in the great cause
which absorbs the energies of the entire country--hem!--at large. The
cause of every trouble is so plain, that it would be insulting your
good judgment to dwell upon the explanation. The administration
has persistently disregarded the wishes of the people, and the best
interests of the entire community; and we have at last reached a point
where to stand still is as ruinous as to go on--as we are going--to
certain destruction and annihilation. Look at the finances, entirely
destroyed by the bungling and injudicious course of the honorable Mr.
Memminger, who has proceeded upon fallacies which the youngest tyro
would disdain to refute. Look at the quartermaster’s department,--the
commissary department,--the State department, and the war department,
and you will everywhere find the proofs of utter incompetence, leading
straight, as I have before remarked, to that ruin which is pending at
the present moment over the country. Our society is uprooted, and there
is no hope for the country. Blockade-runners, forestallers, stragglers
from the army--Good morning, Colonel Desperade; I was just speaking to
our friend, Colonel Surry.”
And leaving me in the hands of the tall, smiling, and imposing
Colonel Desperade, who was clad in a magnificent uniform, Mr. Croker,
forestaller and extortioner, continued his way with dignity toward his
counting house.
“This is a very great pleasure, colonel!” exclaimed Colonel Desperade,
squeezing my hand with ardor. “Just from the lines, colonel? Any news?
We are still keeping Grant off! He will find himself checkmated by
our boys in gray! The country was never in better trim for a good hard
fight. The immortal Lee is in fine spirits--the government steadily
at work--and do you know, my dear Colonel, I am in luck to-day? I am
certain to receive my appointment at last, as brigadier-general--”
“Look out, or you’ll be mistaken!” said a sarcastic voice behind us. And
Mr. Torpedo, smoking a short and fiery cigar, stalked up and shook hands
with me.
“Desperade depends on the war department, and is a ninny for doing so!”
said Mr. Torpedo, member of Congress. “The man that depends on Jeff
Davis, or his war secretary, is a double-distilled dolt. Jeff thinks
he’s a soldier, and apes Napoleon. But you can’t depend on him,
Desperade. Look at Johnston! He fooled _him_. Look at Beauregard--he
envies and fears _him_, so he keeps him down. Don’t depend on the
President, Desperade, or you’ll be a fool, my friend!”
And Mr. Torpedo walked on, puffing away at the fiery stump of his cigar,
and muttering curses against President Davis.
An hour afterward, I was conversing in the rotunda of the capítol, with
the high-bred and smiling old cavalier, Judge Conway, and he was saying
to me:--
“The times are dark, colonel, I acknowledge that. But all would be well,
if we could eradicate abuses and bring out our strength. A fatality,
however, seems pursuing us. The blockade-runners drain the country of
the little gold which is left in it; the forestallers run up prices,
and debase the currency beyond hope; the able-bodied and healthy men who
ought to be in the army, swarm in the streets; and the bitter foes of
the President poison the public mind, and infuse into it despair. It is
this, colonel, not our weakness, which is going to ruin us, if we are
ruined!”
III.
MY LAST VISIT TO JOHN M. DANIEL.
On the night before my return to the army, I paid my last visit to John
M. Daniel.
Shall I show you a great career, shipwrecked--paint a mighty ship
run upon the breakers? The current of our narrative drags us toward
passionate and tragic events, but toward few scenes more sombre than
that which I witnessed on this night in December, 1864.
I found John M. Daniel in his house on Broad Street, as before; perched
still in his high chair of black horse-hair, all alone. His face was
thinner; his cheeks more sallow, and now haggard and sunken; his eyes
sparkling with gloomy fire, as he half reclined beneath the cluster of
globe lamps, depending from the ceiling, and filling the whole apartment
with their brilliant light--one of his weaknesses.
He received me with grim cordiality, offered me a cigar, and said:--
“I am glad to see you, colonel, and to offer you one of the last of my
stock of Havanas. Wilmington is going soon--then good-bye to blockade
goods.”
“You believe Wilmington is going to fall, then?”
“As surely as Savannah.”
“Savannah! You think that? We are more hopeful at Petersburg.”
“Hopeful or not, colonel, I am certain of what I say. Remember my
prediction when it is fulfilled. The Yankees are a theatrical people.
They take Vicksburg, and win Gettysburg, on their ‘great national
anniversary;’ and now they are going to present themselves with a
handsome ‘Christmas gift’--that is the city of Savannah.”
He spoke with evident difficulty, and his laboring voice, like his
haggard cheeks, showed that he had been ill since I last saw him.
“Savannah captured, or surrendered!” I said, with knit brows. “What will
be the result of that?”
“Ruin,” was the curt response.
“Not the loss of a mere town?”
“No; the place itself is nothing. For Sherman to take it will not
benefit him much; but it will prove to the country, and the President,
that he is irresistible. Then they will _hack_; and you will see the
beginning of the end.”
“That is a gloomy view enough.”
“Yes--every thing is gloomy now. The devil of high-headed obstinacy and
incompetence rules affairs. I do not croak in the _Examiner_ newspaper.
But we are going straight to the devil.”
As he uttered these words, he placed his hand upon his breast, and
closed his eyes, as though he were going to faint.
“What is the matter?” I exclaimed, rising abruptly, and approaching him.
“Nothing!” he replied, in a weak voice; “don’t disturb yourself about
me. These fits of faintness come on, now and then, in consequence of
an attack of pneumonia which I had lately. Sit down, colonel. You must
really pardon me for saying it, but you make me nervous.”
There was nothing in the tone of this singular address to take offence
at,--the voice of the speaker was perfectly courteous,--and I resumed my
seat.
“We were talking about Sherman,” he said. “They call him Gog, Magog,
anti-Christ, I know not what, in the clerical circles of this city!”
His lip curled as he spoke.
“One reverend divine publicly declared the other day, that ‘God had put
a hook in Sherman’s nose, and was leading him to his destruction!’ I
don’t think it looks much like it!”
The speaker was stopped by a fit of coughing, and when it had subsided,
leaned back, faint and exhausted, in his chair.
“The fact is--Sherman--” he said, with difficulty, “seems to have--the
hook in--_our_ nose!”
There was something grim and lugubrious in the smile which accompanied
the painfully uttered words. A long silence followed them, which was
broken by neither of us. At last I raised my head, and said:--
“I find you less hopeful than last summer. At that time you were in good
spirits, and the tone of the _Examiner_ was buoyant.”
“It is hopeful still,” he replied, “but by an effort--from a sentiment
of duty. I often write far more cheerfully than I feel, colonel.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
“Your views have changed, I perceive--but you change with the whole
country.”
“Yes. A whole century has passed since last August, when you visited
me here. One by one, we have lost all that the country could depend
on--hope goes last. For myself, I began to doubt when Jackson fell at
Chancellorsville, and I have been doubting, more or less, ever since. He
was _a dominant man_, colonel, fit, _if any thing happened_, to rise to
the head of affairs.[1] Oh! for an hour of Jackson! Oh! for a day of our
dead Dundee!”[2]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
[Footnote 2: His words.]
The face of the speaker glowed, and I shall never forget the flash of
his dark eye, as he uttered the words, “if any thing happened.” There
was a whole volume of menace to President Davis in those words.
“But this is useless!” he went on; “Jackson is dead, and there is none
to take his place. So, without leaders, with every sort of incompetence,
with obstinacy and stupidity directing the public councils, and shaping
the acts of the administration, we are gliding straight into the gulf of
destruction.”
I could make no reply. The words of this singular man and profound
thinker, affected me dolefully.
“Yes, colonel,” he went on, “the three or four months which have passed
since your last visit, have cleared away all mists from _my_ eyes at
least, and put an end to all my dreams--among others, to that project
which I spoke of--the purchase and restoration of the family estate of
Stafford. It will never be restored by me. Like Randolph, I am the last
of my line.”
And with eyes full of a profound melancholy, the speaker gazed into the
fire.
“I am passing away with the country,” he added. “The cause is going to
fail. I give it three months to end in, and have sent for a prominent
senator, who may be able to do something. I intend to say to him, ‘The
time has come to make the best terms possible with the enemy,’ and I
shall place the columns of the _Examiner_ newspaper at his disposal to
advocate that policy.”[1]
[Footnote 1: This, I learned afterward, from the Hon. Mr. -----, was
duly done by Mr. Daniel. But it was too late.]
“Is it possible!” I said. “Frankly, I do not think things are so
desperate.”
“You are a soldier, and hopeful, colonel. The smoke blinds you.”
“And yet General Lee is said to repudiate negotiations with scorn. He
is said to have lately replied to a gentleman who advised them, ‘For
myself, I intend to die sword in hand!’”
“General Lee is a soldier--and you know what the song says: ‘A soldier’s
business, boys, is to die!’”
I could find no reply to the grim words.
“I tell you the cause is lost, colonel!” with feverish energy, “lost
irremediably, at this moment while we are speaking! It is lost from
causes which are enough to make the devil laugh, but it is lost all the
same! When the day of surrender, and Yankee domination comes--when
the gentlemen of the South are placed under the heel of negroes and
Yankees--I, for one, wish to die. Happy is the man who shall have gotten
into the grave before that day![1] Blessed will be the woman who has
never given suck![2] Yes, the best thing for me is to die--[3] and I
am going to do so. I shall not see that _Dies Irae_! I shall be in my
grave!”
[Footnote 1: His words.]
[Footnote 2: His words.]
[Footnote 3: His words.]
And breathing heavily, the journalist again leaned back in his chair, as
though about to faint.
An hour afterward, I terminated my visit, and went out, oppressed and
gloomy.
This singular man had made a reluctant convert of me to his own dark
views. The cloud which wrapped him, now darkened me--from the black
future I saw the lightnings dart already.
His predictions were destined to have a very remarkable fulfilment.
On the 21st of December, a few days after our interview, Sherman
telegraphed to Lincoln:--
“I beg to present you, as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah, with
one hundred and fifty guns, and plenty of ammunition, and also about
twenty-five thousand bales of cotton.”
In January, Wilmington fell.
Toward the end of the same month, John M. Daniel was a second time
seized with pneumonia, and took to his bed, from which he was never
again to rise. He would see no one but his physician and a few chosen
friends. All other persons were persistently denied admittance to his
chamber. Lingering throughout the remainder of the winter, as spring
approached, life seemed gradually leaving him. Day by day his pulse
grew weaker. You would have said that this man was slowly dying with
the cause for which he had fought; that as the life-blood oozed, drop
by drop, from the bleeding bosom of the Southern Confederacy, the last
pulses of John M. Daniel kept time to the pattering drops.
One morning, at the end of March, his physician came to see him, and
found him lying on the outer edge of his bed. Not wishing to disturb
him, the physician went to the window to mix a stimulant. All at once a
noise attracted his attention, and he turned round. The dying man had,
by a great effort, turned completely over, and lay on his back in the
middle of the bed, with his eyes closed, and his arms folded on his
breast, as though he were praying.
When the physician came to his bedside, he was dead.
It was four days before the fall of Petersburg and Richmond; and he was
buried in Hollywood, just in time to escape the tramp of Federal feet
around his coffin.
His prophecy and wish were thus fulfilled.[1]
[Footnote 1: These details are strictly accurate.]
IV.
GARROTED.
When I left Mr. John M. Daniel it was past ten at night, and designing
to set out early in the morning for Petersburg, I bent my steps toward
home.
The night was not however to pass without adventures of another
character.
I was going along Governor Street, picking my way by the light of the
few gas-lamps set far apart and burning dimly, when all at once I heard
a cry in front, succeeded by the noise of a scuffle, and then by a heavy
fall.
Hastening forward I reached the spot, which was not far from the City
Hall; and a glance told me all.
A wayfarer had been garroted; that is to say, suddenly attacked while
passing along, by one of the night-birds who then infested the streets
after dark; seized from behind; throttled, and thrown violently to the
ground--the object of the assailant being robbery.
When I reached the spot the robber was still struggling with his victim,
who, stretched beneath him on the ground, uttered frightful cries. One
hand of the garroter was on his throat, the other was busily rifling his
pockets.
I came up just in time to prevent a murder, but not to disappoint the
robber. As I appeared he hastily rose, releasing the throat of the
unfortunate citizen. I saw a watch gleam in his hand; he bestowed a
violent kick on his prostrate victim;--then he disappeared running, and
was in an instant lost in the darkness.
I saw that pursuit would be useless; and nobody ever thought, at that
period, of attempting to summon the police. I turned to assist the
victim, who all at once rose from the ground, uttering groans and cries.
The lamp-light shone upon his face. It was the worthy Mr. Blocque--Mr.
Blocque, emitting howls of anguish! Mr. Blocque, shaking his clenched
hands, and maligning all created things! Mr. Blocque, devoting,
with loud curses and imprecations, the assembled wisdom of the “city
fathers,” and the entire police force of the Confederate capital, to the
infernal deities!
“I am robbed--murdered!” screamed the little Jewish-looking personage,
in a shrill falsetto which resembled the shriek of a furious old
woman, “robbed! rifled!--stripped of every thing!--garroted!--my
money taken!--I had ten thousand dollars in gold and greenbacks on my
person!--not a Confederate note in the whole pack--not one! gold and
greenbacks!--two watches!---I am ruined! I will expose the police! I was
going to my house like a quiet citizen! I was harming nobody! and I am
to be set on and robbed of my honest earnings by a highwayman--choked,
strangled, knocked down, my pockets picked, my money taken--and this in
the capital of the Confederacy, under the nose of the police!”
It was a shrill squeak which I heard--something unutterably ludicrous.
I could scarce forbear laughing, as I looked at the little
blockade-runner, with disordered hair, dirty face, torn clothes, and
bleeding nose, uttering curses, and moaning in agony over the loss of
his “honest earnings!”
I consoled him in the best manner I could, and asked him if he had lost
every thing. That question seemed to arouse him. He felt hastily in his
pockets,--and then at the result my eyes opened wide. Thrusting his hand
into a secret pocket, he drew forth an enormous roll of greenbacks, and
I could see the figures “100” on each of the notes as he ran over them.
That bundle alone must have contained several thousands of dollars. But
the worthy Mr. Blocque did not seem in the least consoled.
“He got _the other bundle_!” shrieked the victim, still in his wild
falsetto; “it was ten thousand dollars--I had just received it this
evening--I am robbed!--they are going to murder me!--Where is the
police!--murder!”
I laid my hand upon his arm.
“You have lost a very considerable sum,” I said, “but--you may lose more
still.”
And I pointed to the roll of bank notes in his hand, with a significant
glance. At these words he started.
“You are right, colonel!” he said, hastily; “I may be attacked again! I
may be robbed of all--they may finish me! I will get home as quickly as
I can! Thank you, colonel! you have saved me from robbery and murder!
Come and see me, colonel. Come and dine with me, my dear sir! At five,
precisely!”
And Mr. Blocque commenced running wildly toward a place of safety.
In a moment he had disappeared, and I found myself alone--laughing
heartily.
V.
THE CLOAKED WOMAN.
“Well,” I said, as I walked on, “this is a charming adventure and
conveys a tolerably good idea of the city of Richmond, after dark, in
the year 1864. Our friend Blocque is garroted, and robbed of his
‘honest earnings,’ at one fell swoop by a footpad! The worthy citizen is
waylaid; his pockets rifled; his life desolated. All the proceeds of
a life of virtuous industry have disappeared. Terrible condition of
things!--awful times when a good citizen can not go home to his modest
supper of canvas-backs and champagne, without being robbed by----his
brother robber!”
Indulging in these reflections, not unaccompanied with smiles, I
continued my way, with little fear, myself, of pickpockets or garroters.
Those gentry were intelligent. They were never known to attack people
with gray coats--they knew better! They attacked the black coats, in the
pockets of which they suspected the presence of greenbacks and valuable
papers; never the gray coats, where they would find only a frayed “leave
of absence” for their pains!
I thus banished the whole affair from my mind; but it had aroused and
excited me. I did not feel at all sleepy; and finding, by a glance at my
watch beneath a lamp, that it was only half past ten, I resolved to go
and ask after the health of my friend, Mr. X-----, whose house was only
a square or two off.
This resolution I proceeded at once to carry out. A short walk brought
me to the house, half buried in its shrubbery; but as I approached I saw
a carriage was standing before the house.
Should I make my visit then, or postpone it? Mr. X----- evidently had
company. Or had the carriage brought a visitor to some other member of
the household? Mr. X----- was only a boarder, and I might be mistaken in
supposing that _he_ was engaged at the moment.
As these thoughts passed through my mind, I approached the gate in the
iron railing. The carriage was half hidden by the shadow of the elms,
which grew in a row along the sidewalk. On the box sat a motionless
figure. The vehicle and driver were as still and silent as if carved out
of ebony.
“Decidedly I will discover,” I said, and opening the gate I turned into
the winding path through the shrubbery, which led toward the rear of the
house; that is to say, toward the private entrance to the room of Mr.
X-----.
Suddenly, as I passed through the shadowy shrubs, I felt a hand on my
shoulder. I started back, and unconsciously felt for some weapon.
“Don’t shoot me, colonel!” said a voice in the darkness, “I am a
friend.”
I recognized the voice of Nighthawk.
“Good heavens! my dear Nighthawk,” I said, drawing a long breath of
relief, “you are enough to make Alonzo the Brave, himself, tremble?
You turn up everywhere, and especially in the dark! What are you doing
here?”
“I am watching, colonel,” said Nighthawk, with benignant sweetness.
“Watching?”
“And waiting.”
“Waiting for whom?”
“For a lady with whom you have the honor of being acquainted.”
“A lady--?”
“That one you last saw in the lonely house near Monk’s Neck. Hush! here
she comes.”
His voice had sunk to a whisper, and he drew me into the shrubbery, as
a long bar of light, issuing from the door in the rear of the house, ran
out into the night.
“I am going to follow her,” whispered Nighthawk, placing his lips close
to my ear, “she is at her devil’s work here in Richmond, as Swartz
was--.”
Suddenly he was silent; a light step was heard. A form approached us,
passed by. I could see that it was a woman, wrapped from head to foot in
a gray cloak.
She passed so close to us that the skirt of her cloak nearly brushed our
persons, and disappeared toward the gate. The iron latch was heard to
click, the door of the carriage to open and close, and then the vehicle
began to move.
Nighthawk took two quick steps in the direction of the gate.
“I am going to follow the carriage, colonel,” he whispered. “I have
been waiting here to do so. I will tell you more another time. Give my
respects to General Mohun, and tell him I am on his business!”
With which words Nighthawk glided into the darkness--passed through the
gate without sound from the latch--and running noiselessly, disappeared
on the track of the carriage.
I gazed after him for a moment, said to myself, “well this night is to
be full of incident!”--and going straight to the door in the rear of
the house, passed through it, went to the door of Mr. X-----‘s room, and
knocked.
“Come in,” said the voice of that gentleman; and opening the door I
entered.
VI.
THE HEART OF A STATESMAN.
Mr. X----- was seated in front of an excellent coal fire, in his great
armchair, near a table covered with papers, and between his lips was the
eternal cigar.
At sight of me he rose courteously--for he never omitted any form of
politeness--and cordially shook my hand.
“I am glad to see you, colonel,” he said. “Just from the army? Have a
cigar.”
And he extended toward me an elegant cigar-case full of Havanas, which
he took from the table. I declined, informing him that I had been
smoking all the evening in the sanctum of the editor of the _Examiner_.
“Ah! you have been to see Daniel,” said Mr. X-----. “He is a very
remarkable man. I do not approve of the course of his paper, and he
has attacked me very bitterly on more than one occasion. But I bear no
grudge against him. He is honest in his opinions. I admire the pluck of
the man, and the splendid pith of his writings.”
“My views accord with your own,” I replied.
“Everybody thinks with us,” said Mr. X-----, puffing at his cigar. “It
is only ignoramuses who deny this man’s courage and ability. I have
never done injustice to Daniel--and I call that ‘liberal’ in myself,
colonel! He has flayed me alive on three or four occasions, and it is
not his fault that I am enjoying this excellent Havana.”
“I read the attacks,” I said.
“Were they not fearful?” said Mr. X-----, smiling tranquilly. “After
reading them, I regarded myself as a moral and political monster!”
I could not forbear from laughing as the portly statesman uttered the
words. He seemed to derive a species of careless enjoyment from the
recollection of his “flayings.”
“I expect to talk over these little affairs with Daniel hereafter,” he
said. “We shall have a great deal of time on our hands--in Canada.”
And Mr. X----- smiled, and went on smoking. It was the second time he
had uttered that phrase--“in Canada.”
I laughed now, and said:--
“You continue to regard Toronto, or Montreal, or Quebec, as your future
residence?”
“Yes; I think I prefer Quebec. The view from Cape Diamond is superb; and
there is something English and un-American in the whole place, which I
like. The Plains of Abraham bring back the history of the past,--which
is more agreeable to me at least than the history of the present.”
“You adhere more than ever, I see, to your opinion that we are going to
fail?”
“It is not an opinion, my dear colonel, but a certainty.”
My head sank. In the army I had been hopeful. When I came to Richmond,
those high intelligences, John M. Daniel and Mr. X-----, did not even
attempt to conceal their gloomy views.
“I see you think me a croaker,” said Mr. X-----, tranquilly smoking,
“and doubtless say to yourself, colonel, that I am injudicious in thus
discouraging a soldier, who is fighting for this cause. A year ago I
would not have spoken to you thus, for a year ago there was still some
hope. Now, to discourage you--if thinking men, fighting for a principle,
like yourself, _could_ be discouraged--would result in no injury: for
the cause is lost. On the contrary, as the friend of that most excellent
gentleman, your father, I regard it as a sort of duty to speak thus--to
say to you ‘Don’t throw away your life for nothing. Do your duty, but do
no more than your duty, for we are doomed.’”
I could find no reply to these gloomy words.
“The case is past praying for,” said Mr. X----- composedly, “the whole
fabric of the Confederacy at this moment is a mere shell. It is going
to crumble in the spring, and another flag will float over the Virginia
capitol yonder--what you soldiers call ‘The Gridiron.’ The country
is tired. The administration is unpopular, and the departments are
mismanaged. I am candid, you see. The days of the Confederacy are
numbered, and worse than all, nobody knows it. We ought to negotiate
for the best terms, but the man who advises that, will be hissed at and
called a ‘coward.’ It is an invidious thing to do. It is much grander to
shout ‘Death sooner than surrender!’ I shouted that lustily as long as
there was any hope--now, I think it my duty as a statesman, and public
functionary, to say, ‘There are worse things than death--let us try and
avoid them by making terms.’ I say that to you--I do not say so on the
streets--the people would tear me to pieces, and with their sources of
information they would be right in doing so.”
“Is it possible that all is lost? That negotiations are our only hope?”
“Yes; and confidentially speaking--this is a State secret, my dear
colonel--these will soon be made.”
“Indeed!”
“You think that impossible, but it is the impossible which invariably
takes place in this world. We are going to send commissioners to meet
Mr. Lincoln in Hampton Roads--and it will be useless.”
“Why?”
“We are going to demand such terms as he will not agree to. The
commissioners will return. The war will continue to its legitimate
military end, which I fix about the last days of March.”
“Good heaven! so soon!”
“Yes.”
“In three months?”
Mr. X----- nodded.
“General Lee may lengthen the term a little by his skill and courage,
but it is not in _his_ power, even, to resist beyond the month of
April.”
“The army of Northern Virginia, driven by the enemy!”
“Forced to surrender, or annihilated; and in Virginia--it will never
join Johnston. Its numbers are too small to cut a path through the
enemy. Grant will be at the Southside road before the first of April;
Lee will evacuate his lines, which he will be compelled to hold to the
last moment; he will retreat; be intercepted; be hunted down toward
Lynchburg, and either surrender, or be butchered. Cheerful, isn’t it?”
“It is frightful!”
“Yes, Lee’s men are starving now. The country is tired of the war, and
disgusted with the manner in which we manage things. No recruits are
arriving. The troops are not _deserting_, but they are leaving the army
without permission, to succor their starving families. Lee’s last hours
are approaching, and we are playing the comedy here in Richmond with an
immense appearance of reality; dancing, and fiddling, and laughing on
the surface of the volcano. I play my part among the rest. I risk my
head more even, perhaps, than the military leaders. I take a philosophic
view, however, of the present and future. If I am not hung, I will go to
Canada; meanwhile, I smoke my cigar, colonel.”
And Mr. X----- lazily threw away his stump, and lit a fresh Havana. It
is impossible to imagine any thing more careless than his attitude. This
man was either very brave or frightfully apathetic.
Five minutes afterward, I knew that any thing but apathy possessed him.
All at once he rose in his chair, and his eyes were fixed upon me with
a glance so piercing and melancholy, that they dwell still in my memory,
and will always dwell there.
“I said we were playing a comedy here in Richmond, colonel,” he said, in
tones so deep and solemn that they made me start; “I am playing my part
with the rest; I play it in public, and even in private, as before
you to-night. I sit here, indolently smoking and uttering my jests and
platitudes, and, at the moment that I am speaking, my heart is breaking!
I am a Virginian--I love this soil more than all the rest of the
world--not a foot but is dear and sacred, and a vulgar horde are about
to trample it under foot, and enslave its people. Every pulse of my
being throbs with agony at the thought! I can not sleep. I have lost
all taste for food. One thought alone haunts me--that the land of
Washington, Jefferson, Mason, Henry, and Randolph, is to become the
helpless prey of the scum of Europe and the North! My family has lived
here for more than two hundred years. I have been, and am to-day,
proud beyond words, of my birthright! I am a Virginian! a Virginian
of Virginians! I have for forty years had no thought but the honor of
Virginia. I have fought for her, and her only, in the senate and cabinet
of the old government at Washington. I have dedicated all my powers to
her--shrunk from nothing in my path--given my days and nights for years,
and was willing to pour out my blood for Virginia; and now she is about
to be trampled upon, her great statues hurled down, her escutcheon
blotted, her altars overturned! And I, who have had no thought but her
honor and glory, am to be driven, at the end of a long career, to a
foreign land! I am to crouch yonder in Canada, with my bursting brow
in my two hands--and every newspaper is to tell me ‘the negro and the
bayonet rule Virginia!’ Can you wonder, then, that I am gloomy--that
despair lies under all this jesting? _You_ are happy. You go yonder,
where a bullet may end you. Would to God that I had entered the army,
old as I am, and that at least I could hope for a death of honor, in
arms for Virginia!”
VII.
SECRET SERVICE.
The statesman leaned back in his great chair, and was silent. At the
same moment a tap was heard at the door; it opened noiselessly, and
Nighthawk glided into the apartment.
Under his cloak I saw the gray uniform of a Confederate soldier; in his
hand he carried a letter.
Nighthawk saluted Mr. X----- and myself with benignant respect. His
quick eye, however, had caught the gloomy and agitated expression of the
statesman’s countenance, and he was silent.
“Well,” said Mr. X-----, raising his head, with a deep sigh. Then
passing his hand over his face, he seemed to brush away all emotion.
When he again looked up, his face was as calm and unmoved as at the
commencement of our interview.
“You see I begin a new scene in this comedy,” he said to me in a low
tone.
And turning to Nighthawk, he said:--
“Well, you followed that agreeable person?”
“Yes, sir,” said Nighthawk, with great respect.
“She turned out to be the character you supposed? Speak before Colonel
Surry.”
Nighthawk bowed.
“I never had any doubt of her character, sir,” he said. “You will
remember that she called on you a week ago, announcing that she was
a spy, who had lately visited the Federal lines and Washington. You
described her to me, and informed me that you had given her another
appointment for to-night; when I assured you that I knew her; she was an
enemy, who had come as a spy upon _us_; and you directed me to be here
to-night, and follow her, after your interview.”
“Well,” said Mr. X-----, quietly, “you followed her!”
“Yes, sir. On leaving you, after making her pretended report of affairs
in Washington, she got into her carriage, and the driver started
rapidly, going up Capitol and Grace streets. I followed on foot, and had
to run--but I am used to that, sir. The carriage stopped at a house in
the upper part of the city--a Mr. Blocque’s; the lady got out, telling
the driver to wait, and went into the house, where she staid for about
half an hour. She then came out--I was in the shadow of a tree, not ten
yards from the spot, and as she got into the carriage, I could see that
she held in her hand a letter. As the driver closed the door, she said,
‘Take me to the flag-of-truce bureau, on Ninth Street, next door to the
war office.’ The driver mounted his box, and set off--and crossing the
street, I commenced running to get a-head. In this I succeeded, and
reached the bureau five minutes before the carriage.
“Well, sir, I hastened up stairs, and went into the bureau, where
three or four clerks were examining the letters left to be sent by the
flag-of-truce boat to-morrow. They were laughing and jesting as they
read aloud the odd letters from the Libby and other prisons--some of
which, I assure you, were very amusing, sir--when the lady’s footsteps
were heard upon the stairs, and she came in, smiling.
“I had turned my back, having given some excuse for my presence to one
of the clerks, who is an acquaintance. Thus the lady, who knows me,
could not see my face; but I could, by looking out of the corners of
my eyes, see _her_. She came in, in her rich gray cloak, smiling on the
clerks, and handing an open letter to one of them, said:--“‘Will you
oblige me by sending that to my sister in New York, by the flag-of-truce
boat, to-morrow, sir?’
“‘If there is nothing contraband in it, madam,’ said the clerk.
“‘Oh!’ she replied, with a laugh, ‘it is only on family matters. My
sister is a Southerner, and so am I, sir. You can read the letter; it is
not very dangerous!’
“And she smiled so sweetly that the clerk was almost ashamed to read
the letter. He, however, glanced his eye over it, and evidently found
nothing wrong in it. While he was doing so, the lady walked toward the
mail-bags in which the clerks had been placing such letters as they
found unobjectionable, the others being marked, ‘Condemned,’ and thrown
into a basket. As she passed near one of the bags, I saw the lady, whom
I was closely watching, flirt her cloak, as though by accident, across
the mouth of one of the mail-bags, and at the same instant her hand
stole down and dropped a letter into the bag. As she did so, the clerk,
who had finished reading _the other letter_, bowed, and said:---
“‘There is nothing objectionable in this, madam, and it will be sent, of
course.’
“‘I was sure of that, sir,’ replied the lady, with a smile. ‘I am very
much obliged. Good evening, sir!’
“And she sailed out, all the clerks politely rising as she did so.
“No sooner had the door closed than I darted upon the bag in which I had
seen her drop the letter. The clerks wished to stop me, but I informed
them of what I had seen. If they doubted, they could see for themselves
that the letter, which I had easily found, was not sealed with the seal
of the bureau. They looked at it, and at once acknowledged their error.
“‘Arrest her!’ exclaimed one of them, suddenly. The rapid rolling of a
carriage came like an echo to his words.
“‘It is useless, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘I know where to find the lady, and
will look to the whole affair. You know I am in the secret service, and
will be personally responsible for every thing. I will take this letter
to the official who directed me to watch the lady who brought it.’
“To this, no objection was made, as I am known at the office. I came
away; returned as quickly as possible; and here is the letter, sir.”
With which words Nighthawk drew his hand from under his cloak, and
presented the letter to Mr. X-----, who had listened in silence to his
narrative.
VIII.
BY FLAG-OF-TRUCE BOAT.
MR. X----- took the letter, broke the seal, and ran his eye over the
contents.
“Decidedly, that woman is a skilful person,” he said; “she fishes in
troubled waters with the coolness of an experienced hand.”
And presenting the letter to me, the statesman said:--
“Would you like to see a specimen of the sort of documents which go on
file in the departments, colonel?”
I took the letter, and read the following words:--
“RICHMOND, 18 _Dec’r_, 1864.
“Tell, _you know who_, that I have just seen the honorable Mr.-----”
(here the writer gave the real name and official position of Mr.
X-----), “and have had a long conversation with him. He is fully
convinced that I am a good Confederate, and spoke without reserve of
matters the most private. He is in high spirits, and looks on the rebel
cause as certain to succeed. I never saw one more blinded to the real
state of things. Richmond is full of misery, and the people seem in
despair, but this high official, who represents the whole government, is
evidently certain of Lee’s success. I found him in a garrulous mood,
and he did not conceal his views. The government has just received
heavy supplies from the south, by the Danville railroad--others are
coming--the whole country in rear of Sherman is rising--and Lee, he
stated, would soon be re-enforced by between fifty and seventy-five
thousand men. What was more important still, was a dispatch, which
he read me, from England. This startled me. There seems no doubt that
England is about to recognize the Confederacy. When he had finished
reading this dispatch, on the back of which I could see the English
postmark, he said to me--these are his words:--‘You see, things were
never brighter; it is only a question of time; and by holding out a
little longer, we shall compel the enemy to retire and give up the
contest. With the re-enforcements coming, Lee will have about one
hundred thousand men. With that force, he will be able to repulse all
General Grant’s assaults. Things look dark at this moment, but the cause
was never more hopeful.’
“He seemed insane, but I give you his words. It is certain that these
are the views of the government, and that our authorities are much
mistaken in supposing the Confederacy at its last gasp. It is impossible
that the honorable Mr.----- was attempting to deceive me; because I
carried him a letter from -----” (here the writer gave the name of a
prominent official of the Confederate Government, which I suppress)
“who vouched for me, and declared that I was passionately Southern in my
sympathies.
“I shall see the honorable Mr.----- in a day or two again. In the
mean while, I am staying, _incognita_, at the house of our friend,
Mr. Blocque, who has afforded me every facility in return for the
_safeguard_ I brought him, to protect his property when we occupy
Richmond. The city is in a terrible state. Mr. Blocque has just come in,
and informs me that he has been garroted near the capitol, and robbed of
ten thousand dollars in good money. He is in despair.
“As soon as I have finished some important private business, which keeps
me in the Confederate lines, I shall be with ----- again. Tell him to
be in good spirits. This city has still a great deal of money hoarded
in garrets--and we shall soon be here. Then we can retire on a
competence--and when _Fonthill_ is confiscated, we will purchase it, and
live in affluence.
“LUCRETIA.”
I looked at the back of the letter. It was directed to a lady in
Suffolk. From the letter, my glance passed to the face of Mr. X-----. He
was smiling grimly.
“A valuable document,” he said, “which madam will doubtless duplicate
before very long, with additional particulars. I make you a present of
it, colonel, as a memorial of the war.”
I thanked him, and placed the letter in my pocket. To-day I copy it,
word for word.
Mr. X----- reflected a moment; then he said to Nighthawk:--
“Arrest this woman; I am tired of her. I have no time to waste upon such
persons, however charming.”
Nighthawk looked greatly delighted.
“I was going to beg that order of you, sir,” he said, “as the ‘private
business’ alluded to in the letter, concerns a friend of mine, greatly.”
“Ah! well, here is the order.”
And taking a pen, Mr. X----- scrawled two lines, which he handed to
Nighthawk. A glow of satisfaction came to that worthy’s face, and taking
the paper, he carefully placed it in his pocket.
As he did so, the bell in the capitol square struck midnight, and I rose
to take my departure.
“Come and see me soon again, colonel,” said Mr. X-----, going to the
door with me. He had made a sign to Nighthawk, who rose to go out with
me, that he wished him to remain.
“What I have said to you, to-night,” continued the statesman, gravely,
“may have been injudicious, colonel. I am not certain of that--but I am
quite sure that to have it repeated at this time would be inconvenient.
Be discreet, therefore, my dear friend--after the war, tell or write
what you fancy; and I should rather have my present views known then,
than not known. They are those neither of a time-server, a faint heart,
or a fool. I stand like the Roman sentinel at the gate of Herculaneum,
awaiting the lava flood that will bury me. I see it coming--I hear the
roar--I know destruction is rushing on me--but I am a sentinel on post;
I stand where I have been posted; it is God and my conscience that have
placed me on duty here. I will stay, whatever comes, until I am relieved
by the same authority which posted me.” And with the bow of a nobleman,
the gray-haired statesman bade me farewell.
I returned to my lodgings, buried in thought, pondering deeply on the
strange scenes of this night of December.
On the next morning I set out, and rejoined the army at Petersburg.
I, too, was a sentinel on post, like the statesman. And I determined to
remain on duty to the last.
IX.
TO AND FRO IN THE SPRING OF ‘65.
The months of January and February, 1865, dragged on, sombre and dreary.
Two or three expeditions which I made during that woeful period, gave me
a good idea of the condition of the country.
In September, 1864, I had traversed Virginia from Petersburg to
Winchester, and had found the people--especially those of the lower
Shenandoah Valley--still hopeful, brave, resolved to resist to the
death.
In January and February, 1865, my official duties carried me to the
region around Staunton; to the mountains west of Lynchburg; and to the
North Carolina border, south of Petersburg. All had changed. Everywhere
I found the people looking blank, hopeless, and utterly discouraged. The
shadow of the approaching woe seemed to have already fallen upon them.
The army was as “game” as ever--even Early’s little handful, soon to
be struck and dispersed by General Sheridan’s ten thousand cavalry.
Everywhere, the soldiers laughed in the face of death. Each seemed to
feel, as did the old statesman with whom I had conversed on that night
at Richmond, that he was a sentinel on post, and must stand there to
the last. The lava might engulf him, but he was “posted,” and must stand
until relieved, by his commanding officer or death. It was the “poor
private,” in his ragged jacket and old shoes, as well as the officer in
his braided coat, who felt thus. For those private soldiers of the army
of Northern Virginia were gentlemen. _Noblesse oblige_ was their motto;
and they meant to die, musket in hand!
Oh, soldiers of the army, who carried those muskets in a hundred
battles!--who fought with them from Manassas, in 1861, to Appomattox,
in 1865--you are the real heroes of the mighty struggle, and one comrade
salutes you now, as he looked at you with admiration in old days! What
I saw in those journeys was dreary enough; but however black may be the
war-cloud, there is always the gleam of sunlight somewhere! We laughed
now and then, reader, even in the winter of 1864-’5!
I laugh still, as I think of the brave cannoneers of the horse artillery
near Staunton--and of the fearless Breathed, their commander, jesting
and playing with his young bull-dog, whom he had called “Stuart” for his
courage. I hear the good old songs, all about “Ashby,” and the “Palmetto
Tree,” and the “Bonnie Blue Flag”--songs sung with joyous voices in
that dreary winter, as in other days, when the star of hope shone more
brightly, and the future was more promising.
At Lynchburg, where I encountered a number of old friends, songs still
sweeter saluted me--from the lips of my dear companions, Major Gray
and Captain Woodie. How we laughed and sang, on that winter night, at
Lynchburg! Do you chant your sweet “Nora McShane” still, Gray? And you,
Woodie, do you sing in your beautiful and touching tenor to-day,--
“The heart bowed down by deep despair.
To weakest hopes will cling?”
Across the years comes once more that magical strain; again I hear your
voice, filled with the very soul of sadness, tell how
“Memory is the only friend
That grief can call its own!”
That seemed strangely applicable to the situation at the time. The
memory of our great victories was all that was left to us; and I thought
that it was the spirit of grief itself that was singing. Again I hear
the notes--but “Nora McShane” breaks in--“Nora McShane,” the most
exquisite of all Gray’s songs. Then he winds up with uproarious praise
of the “Bully Lager Beer!”--and the long hours of night flit away on the
wings of laughter, as birds dart onward, and are buried in the night.
Are you there still, Gray? Do you sing still, Woodie? Health and
happiness, comrades! All friendly stars smile on you! Across the years
and the long leagues that divide us, I salute you!
Thus, at Staunton and Lynchburg, reader, gay scenes broke the monotony.
In my journey toward North Carolina, I found food also, for laughter.
I had gone to Hicksford, fifty miles south of Petersburg, to inspect
the cavalry; and in riding on, I looked with curiosity on the desolation
which the enemy had wrought along the Weldon railroad, when they had
destroyed it in the month of December. Stations, private houses, barns,
stables, all were black and charred ruins. The railroad was a spectacle.
The enemy had formed line of battle close along the track; then, at the
signal, this line of battle had attacked the road. The iron rails were
torn from the sleepers; the latter were then piled up and fired; the
rails were placed upon the blazing mass, and left there until they
became red-hot in the middle, and both ends bent down--then they had
been seized, broken, twisted; in a wild spirit of sport the men had
borne some of the heated rails to trees near the road; twisted them
three or four times around the trunks; and there, as I passed, were
the unfortunate trees with their iron boa-constrictors around
them--monuments of the playful humor of the blue people, months before.
Hill and Hampton had attacked and driven them back; from the dead
horses, as elsewhere, rose the black vultures on flapping wings: but it
is no part of my purpose, reader, to weary you with these war-pictures,
or describe disagreeable scenes. It is an odd interview which I had on
my return toward Petersburg that my memory recalls. It has naught to do
with my narrative--but then it will not fill more than a page!
I had encountered two wagons, and, riding, ahead of them, saw a courier
of army head-quarters, whose name was Ashe.
I saluted the smiling youth, in return for his own salute, and said:--
“Where have you been, Ashe?”
“To Sussex, colonel, on a foraging expedition.”
“For the general?”
“And some of the staff, colonel.”
Ashe smiled; we rode on together.
“How did you come to be a forager, Ashe?” I said.
“Well this was the way of it, colonel,” he said. “I belonged to the old
Stonewall brigade, but General Lee detailed me at the start of the war
to shoe the head-quarters horses. It was old General Robert that sent me
with these wagons. I was shoeing the general’s gray, and had just pared
the hind-hoof, when he sent for me. A man had started with the wagons,
and had mired in the field right by head-quarters. So old General Robert
says, says he, ‘Ashe, you can get them out.’ I says, ‘General, I think
I can, if you’ll give me a canteen full of your French brandy for the
boys.’ He laughed at that, and I says, ‘General, I have been with you
three years, and if in that time you have ever seen me out of the way,
I hope you will tell me so.’ ‘No, Ashe,’ says he, ‘I have not, and you
shall have the brandy.’ And his black fellow went into the closet and
drew me a canteen full; for you see, colonel, old General Robert always
keeps a demijohn full, and carries it about in his old black spring
wagon, to give to the wounded soldiers--he don’t drink himself. Well,
I got the brandy, and set the boys to work, building a road with pine
saplings, and got the wagons out! From that time to this, I have been
going with them, colonel, and sometimes some very curious things have
happened.”
I assumed that inquiring expression of countenance dear to
story-tellers. Ashe saw it, and smiled.
“Last fall, colonel,” he said, “I was down on the Blackwater, foraging
with my wagons, for old General Robert, when a squadron of Yankees
crossed in the ferryboat, and caught me. I did not try to get off,
and the colonel says, says he, ‘Who are _you?_’ I told him I was only
foraging with General Lee’s head-quarters teams, to get something for
the old general to eat, as nothing could be bought in Petersburg; and,
says I, ‘I have long been looking to be captured, and now the time has
come.’ As I was talking, I saw an uncle of mine among the Yankees,
and says he, ‘Ashe, what are you doing here?’ ‘The same you are doing
there,’ I says; and I asked the colonel just to let me off this time,
and I would try and keep out of their way hereafter. He asked me, Would
I come down there any more? And I told him I didn’t know--I would have
to go where I was ordered. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘you can’t beg off.’ But I
says, ‘step here a minute, colonel,’ and I took him to the wagon, and
offered him my canteen of brandy. He took three or four good drinks,
and then he says, says he, ‘That’s all I want! You can go on with your
wagons.’ And I tell you I put out quick, colonel, and never looked
behind me till I got back to Petersburg?”[1]
[Footnote 1: In the words of the narrator.]
I have attempted to recall here, reader, the few gleams of sunshine, the
rare moments of laughter, which I enjoyed in those months of the winter
of 1864-’5.
I shrink from dwelling on the events of that dreary epoch. Every day I
lost some friend. One day it was the brave John Pegram, whom I had known
and loved from his childhood; the next day it was some other, whose
disappearance left a gap in my life which nothing thenceforth could
fill. I pass over all that. Why recall more of the desolate epoch than
is necessary?
For the rest that is only a momentary laugh that I have indulged
in. Events draw near, at the memory of which you sigh--or even groan
perhaps--to-day, when three years have passed.
For this page is written on the morning of April 8, 1868.
This day, three years ago, Lee was staggering on in sight of Appomattox.
X.
AEGRI SOMNIA.--MARCH, 1865.
These letters and figures arouse terrible memories--do they not, reader?
You shudder as you return in thought to that epoch, provided always
that you then wore the gray, and not the blue. If you wore the blue, you
perhaps laugh.
The South had reached, in this month of March, one of those periods when
the most hopeful can see, through the black darkness, no single ray of
light. Throughout the winter, the government had made unceasing efforts
to bring out the resources of the country--efforts honest and untiring,
if not always judicious--but as the days, and weeks, and months wore on,
it became more and more evident that the hours of the Confederacy were
numbered. The project of employing negro troops, which Congress long
opposed, had been adopted at last, but only in time to be too late. The
peace commissioners had held their interview with Lincoln, but effected
nothing. The enemy continually advanced toward the achievement of their
end. Sherman had safely made his famous “march to the sea”--Savannah and
Charleston had fallen--the western army was about to unite with the army
of Grant at Petersburg. There the great game went on, but the end was
near. Lee had attempted, late in February, to evacuate his lines, but
was overruled. His army was reduced to about forty thousand, while
Grant’s numbered about one hundred and fifty thousand. The Confederate
troops were almost naked, and had scarce food enough to sustain life.
They fought still, in the trenches, along the great line of works, but
it was plain, as Lee said, that the line was stretched so far, that a
very little more would snap it.
That line extended from the Williamsburg road, east of Richmond to Five
Forks, west of Petersburg--a distance of nearly fifty miles. Gradually
Grant had pushed westward, until his grasp was now very nearly upon the
Southside road. Lee had extended his own thin line to still confront
him. The White Oak road, beyond the Rowanty, had been defended by heavy
works. The hill above Burgess’s bristled with batteries. The extreme
right of the Confederate line rested in the vicinity of Five Forks.
Beyond that it could not be extended. Already it began to crack. Along
the works stretching from east to west, there was scarce a soldier
every ten yards. Grant was only prevented from bursting through by the
masterly handling of Lee’s troops--the rapid concentration of masses at
the points which he threatened. The cavalry was almost paralyzed. The
destruction of the Weldon road southward to Hicksford, in December, had
been a death-blow nearly, to that arm of the service. The Confederate
cavalry had depended upon it, hauling their forage from Stony Creek
Station. Now they had been compelled to go south to Hicksford, the
nearest point, fifty miles from Petersburg. The consequence was that
Lee’s right was almost undefended by cavalry. Grant’s horsemen could
penetrate, almost unchecked, to the Danville and Southside railroads.
The marvel was, not that this was effected at the end of March, but that
it was not effected a month sooner. But I anticipate.
To glance, for an instant before proceeding, at the condition of the
country. It had reached the last point of depression, and was yielding
to despair. The government was enormously unpopular--mismanagement had
ceased to attract attention. The press roared in vain. The _Enquirer_
menaced the members of Congress from the Gulf States. The _Examiner_
urged that the members of the Virginia Legislature, to be elected in
the spring, should be “clothed with the state sovereignty,” to act for
Virginia! Thus the executive and legislative were both attacked. The
people said, “Make General Lee dictator.” And General ----- wrote and
printed that, in such an event, he “had the dagger of Brutus” for
Lee. Thus all things were in confusion. The currency was nothing but
paper--it was a melancholy farce to call it money. The Confederate note
was popularly regarded as worth little more than the paper upon which
it was printed. Fathers of families went to market and paid hundreds of
dollars for the few pounds of meat which their households required each
day. Officers were forced to pay one thousand dollars for their boots.
Old saddle-bags were cut up, and the hides of dead horses carried off,
to manufacture into shoes. Uniform coats were no longer procurable--the
government had to supply them gratis, even to field officers. Lee
subsisted, like his soldiers, on a little grease and corn bread.
Officers travelling on duty, carried in their saddle-pockets bits of
bacon and stale bread, for the country could not supply them. In the
homes of the land once overflowing with plenty, it was a question each
day where food could be procured. The government had impressed every
particle, except just sufficient to keep the inmates alive. What the
commissaries had left, the “Yankee cavalry” took. A lady of Goochland
said to a Federal officer, “General, I can understand why you destroy
railroads and bridges, but why do you burn mills, and the houses over
women and children?” The officer bowed, and replied, “Madam, your
soldiers are so brave that we can’t beat you; and we are trying to
_starve you_!”
The interior of these homes of the country was a touching spectacle. The
women were making every sacrifice. Delicate hands performed duties which
had always fallen to menials. The servants had gone to the enemy, and
aristocratic young women cooked, washed, swept, and drudged--a charming
spectacle perhaps to the enemy, who hated the “aristocracy,” but
woeful to fathers, and sons, and brothers, when they came home sick,
or wounded. Clothes had long grown shabby, and were turned and mended.
Exquisite beauty was decked in rags. A faded calico was a treasure. The
gray-haired gentleman, who had always worn broadcloth, was content with
patched homespun. It was not of these things that they were thinking,
however. Dress had not made those seigneurs and dames--nor could the
want of it hide their dignity. The father, and care-worn wife, and
daughter, and sister, were thinking of other things. The only son was
fighting beside Lee--dying yonder, in the trenches. He was only a “poor
private,” clad in rags and carrying a musket--but he was the last of
a long line, perhaps, of men who had built up Virginia and the Federal
government which he was fighting--he was “only a private,” but his blood
was illustrious; more than all, he was the treasure of the gray-haired
father and mother; the head of the house in the future; if he fell, the
house would fall with him--and it was nearly certain that he would fall!
So they mourned, and looked fearfully to the coming hours, in town
and country. In the old homesteads--poverty and despair. In the
cities--wasting cares and sinking hearts. More than ever before, all
the vile classes of society rioted and held sway. The forestallers and
engrossers drove a busy trade. They seemed to feel that their “time was
short”--that the night was coming, in which not even rascals could
work! Supplies were hoarded, and doled out at famine prices to the
famine-stricken community; not supplies of luxuries, but of the
commonest necessaries of life. The portly extortioner did not invite
custom, either. Once he had bowed and smirked behind his counter when a
purchaser entered. Now, he turned his back coldly, went on reading his
newspaper, scarce replied to the words addressed to him, and threw his
goods on the counter with the air of one reluctantly conferring a
favor. Foreboding had entered even the hearts of the forestaller and
extortioner. They had sold their souls for gain, and that gain was
turning to dross. As at the wave of a magician’s wand, their crisp new
“Confederate notes” had become rags. The biter was bit. His gains were
to count for nothing. Extortioner and victim were soon to be stripped
equally naked--the cold blast of ruin was to freeze both alike. Thus,
all things hastened toward the inevitable catastrophe. Brave hearts did
not shrink, but they saw ruin striding on. Every thing crumbled--the
Confederacy was staggering and gasping in the death agony. Day by day
the cause was slowly, but certainly, being lost. Children cried aloud
for bread--women moaned, and knelt, and prayed. Their last hope was
leaving them. Lee’s army was starving and dying. Hour by hour, nearer
and nearer came the roar of the gulf of destruction. A sort of stupor
descended. The country--prostrate and writhing--tried to rise, but could
not. The government knew not where to turn, or what course to pursue.
Grant was growing in strength hourly. Lee’s little force was dwindling.
Sherman was streaming through South Carolina. Grant was reaching out
toward Five Forks. All-destroying war grinned hideously--on all sides
stared gaunt Famine. The air jarred with the thunder of cannon. The days
and nights blazed, and were full of wild cries--of shouts, groans, and
reverberations. The ground shook--the grave yawned--the black cloud
slowly drew on; that cloud from which the thunderbolt was about to fall.
How to describe in a volume like this, now near its end, that terrible
state of coma--that approaching cataclysm, in which all things, social,
civil, and military were about to disappear! The whole fabric of society
was going to pieces; every hour flamed with battles; tragic events
jostled each other; blood gushed; a people were wailing; a victorious
enemy were rushing on; the whole continent trembled; Lee was being swept
away, in spite of every effort which he made to steady his feet--and
that torrent was going to engulf a whole nation!
All this I am to describe in the last few pages of this volume! The task
is far beyond my strength. In the future, some writer may delineate
that hideous dream--to do so to-day, in this year 1868, would tear the
stoutest heart.
For myself, I do not attempt it. Were I able to paint the picture, there
would be no space. My memoir is nearly ended. The threads of the woof
are nearly spun out, and the loom is going to stop. Death stands ready
with his shears to cut the ravelled thread, knit up the seam, and put
his red label on the fabric!
XI.
I VISIT GENERAL FITZHUGH LEE.
The end of March, 1865, was approaching when I set out on what was to
prove my last tour of duty amid the pine woods of Dinwiddie.
It was a relief to be back in the army; to see brave faces and smiles
around me, instead of gloomy eyes and careworn cheeks, as in the city.
I passed along the Boydton road almost gayly; crossed the Rowanty at
Burgess’s, and went on by General Lee’s powerful works covering the
White Oak road, beyond. Soon I was approaching Dinwiddie Court-House,
in the vicinity of which was encamped our small force of starved and
broken-down cavalry.
Hampton had gone to meet Sherman, and the cavalry was commanded now by
General Fitzhugh Lee, who had recovered from his severe wound received
at Winchester. I was greeted by this brave soldier and accomplished
gentleman as warmly as I could have desired--for “General Fitz,” as we
always called him at Stuart’s head-quarters, was the soul of good humor
and good fellowship. You have seen him, have you not, reader--whether
you wore gray or blue--fighting beside him, or meeting him in battle?
You recall the open and manly features, the frank and soldierly glance
of the eye, the long beard and heavy mustache, almost always curling
with laughter? You remember the mirthful voice, the quick jest, the
tone of badinage--that joyful and brave air which said, “as long as
life lasts there is hope!” You have not forgotten this gay cavalier,
the brother-in-arms of Stuart; this born cavalryman, with his love of
adventure, his rollicking mirth, his familiar greeting of high and low,
his charming abandon and ever-ready laughter. That was the character
of the _individual_--of “Fitz Lee,” the good companion. The
commander-in-chief has defined for all, the traits of Major-General
Fitzhugh Lee. It was General R.E. Lee who wrote him in 1863, “Your
admirable conduct, devotion to the cause of your country, and devotion
to duty, fill me with pleasure. I hope you will soon see her efforts for
independence crowned with success, and long live to enjoy the affection
and gratitude of your country.”
These few lines were worth fighting hard for--were they not? All things
change; many things fail. Chaos or monarchy may come, but the good
opinion of Lee will survive all!
I talked with General Fitz Lee for an hour nearly, recalling the old
days with Stuart, who had loved and confided in him more than in any
other living man. It was a beautiful friendship, indeed, and each
understood the value of the other as man and soldier. Stuart is dead,
and can not give his testimony; but General Fitz Lee is alive, and
can give his. Here and there a voice still denies Stuart’s genius as a
commander. Ask his friend who survives; and if tears do not choke the
voice, you will learn the real rank of Stuart!
But I can not linger on these scenes. The narrative draws on.
I mounted my horse, after shaking hands with General Fitz Lee and his
brave staff, and, for the first time, remembered to ask, “Where was Tom
Herbert?”
At that question, a beaming smile came to every countenance.
“Done for!” said one.
“Captured!” laughed another.
“Demoralized, subjugated, and negotiating with the enemy!” said a third.
“Well, where is the place of meeting--where are the terms being
arranged?” I said.
“At a place called Disaways, on the lower Rowanty!”
“Good! I know the road there,” I said.
And with a laugh, which the general and his gay cavaliers echoed, I
touched my gray with the spur, and set out toward the south.
XII.
BY A FIRE IN THE WOODS.
I pushed on, having resolved, after finishing my duties, to visit
Disaways.
Soon Dinwiddie Court-House came in sight. I entered the small village,
and looked attentively--as I had done on more than one occasion
before--at the locality which General Davenant’s narrative had
surrounded with so strange an interest. There was the old tavern, with
its long portico, where Darke had held his orgies, and from which he
had set forth on his errand of robbery and murder. There was the county
jail, in which General Davenant had insisted upon being confined, and
where so many friends had visited him. There was the old court-house, in
which he had been tried for the murder of George Conway; and I fancied I
could distinguish upon one of the shutters, the broken bolt which Darke
had forced, more than ten years before, in order to purloin the knife
with which the crime had been committed.
For some miles, that tragic story absorbed me, banishing all other
reflections. That was surely the strangest of histories!--and the drama
had by no means reached its denouement. Between the first and last acts
“an interval of ten years is supposed to pass.” There was the stage
direction! Darke was still alive, active, dangerous, bent on mischief.
He had an able coadjutress in his female ally. That singular woman, with
whom his life was so closely connected, was in prison, it was true, but
the Confederate authorities might release her; she might, at any moment,
recommence her _diablerie_. Had she found that paper--or had Mohun
found it? In any event, she was dangerous--more so, even, than her male
companion--that worthy whom I might meet at every turn in the road--that
prince of surprises and tragic “appearances!”
“Decidedly, these are curiosities, this man and this woman!” I said;
“they are two bottomless pits of daring and depravity. Mohun has escaped
them heretofore, but now, when the enemy seem driving us, and sweeping
every thing before them, will not Darke and madam attain their
vengeance, and come out winners in the struggle?”
With that reflection, I dismissed the subject, and pushed on, over the
narrow and winding roads, to make my inspections.
The day was cold and brilliant; the winds cut the face; and I rode on
steadily, thinking of many things. Then the desire to smoke seized upon
me. General Fitzhugh Lee had given me some excellent cigars, captured
from the enemy, and I looked around to find some house where I could
light my cigar. None appeared; but at two hundred yards from the
road, in a hidden hollow, I thought I perceived the glimmer of a
fire--probably made by some straggler. I rode toward it, descended into
the hollow, approached the fire, beside which crouched a figure, wrapped
in an overcoat. The figure raised its head--and I recognized Nighthawk.
He rose and smiled benignantly, as he shook hands with me.
“An unexpected meeting, Nighthawk,” I said, laughing. “What on earth
makes you come out and camp in the woods?”
“A little fancy, colonel; you know I am eccentric. I like this way of
living, from having scouted so much--but I came here with an object!”
“What?”
“To be private. I thought my fire could not be seen from the road.”
“Why should it not be?”
“Well, perhaps I exaggerate danger. But I am on an important scouting
expedition--wanted to reflect, and not be seen--I am going, to-night,
through the lines on a little affair of which you know something.”
“Ah, what do you refer to?”
“That paper,” said Nighthawk, succinctly. “It is in the hands of
Alibi--there is a Yankee picket at his house--but I am going to see him,
and force him to surrender it.”
“Is it possible he has it! Do you know that?”
“Strangely enough, colonel. Do you remember that woman, Amanda?”
“Perfectly. I visited her with Mohun.”
“He told me of your visit. Well, you no doubt remember also, colonel,
that he offered her a large sum to discover the paper--that she offered
to try and find it, or give him a clue to its whereabouts--he was to
return in ten days, and hear her report.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, he returned, colonel, but Amanda could tell him nothing--which
you no doubt have heard.”
“Yes, from him.”
“I have been more successful, at last, in dealing with this strange
woman. I do not know if she is a witch or an epileptic, or what--but she
has convinced me that Alibi has the paper we want.”
And Nighthawk proceeded to explain. It was an exceedingly curious
explanation. Amanda had first demanded of him a statement of all the
facts. He had thereupon informed her of the appointment which he had
made with Swartz in Richmond, to meet him three days afterward at the
house of Alibi--of his detention by the pickets, so that he had been
unable to keep the appointment--Alibi’s statement when he saw him, that
Swartz had not been to his house--and Swartz’s confinement in the lonely
house, ending in his murder by Darke. That was all he knew, he said--the
paper was gone--where was it?
“At Mr. Alibi’s,” Amanda had replied; “I only asked you this, Mr.
Nighthawk, to satisfy myself that my visions were true. I _saw_ poor
Mr. Swartz go to Mr. Alibi’s, and ask for you, on the day you appointed.
When he was told that you had not come, he seemed very low-spirited, and
told Mr. Alibi that he _must_ see you, to give you a paper. His life was
threatened, he said, on account of that paper. An officer and a lady had
discovered that he had that paper--it was as much as his life was worth
to keep it on his person--if Mr. Alibi would take it, and for old times’
sake, put it away until _he_ came back, he would pay him as much gold
as he could hold in both hands. Then he gave the paper to Mr. Alibi, and
went away, telling him to say nothing of it.”
“I then asked her,” continued Nighthawk, “where the paper could be
found. She replied that Alibi always carried it on his person. That was
a few days ago. I am going to-night to see him, and recover the paper.”
I had listened to this narrative with strange interest. This singular
woman was a curious problem. Were her _visions_ really such as she
described them? Or did she only “put this and that together,” as the
phrase is, and by her marvellous acumen, sharpened possibly by disease,
arrive at results which defied the most penetrating glance of the sane?
I knew not--but reflecting often upon this subject since, have finally
come to the latter conclusion, as the more philosophic of the two.
Epilepsy is insanity of mind and body; and one of the most infallible
characteristics of insanity is cunning--which is only another word
for diseased and abnormal activity of brain. Amanda arrived at strange
results, but I think she attained them by disease. Her acumen in this
affair could be thus explained, almost wholly. As to the truth of the
explanation, I felt a singular presentiment that it was correct.
“Well, that is curious enough,” I said, “and I wish you success,
Nighthawk. What of our other female friend--the fair lady you arrested
in Richmond?”
“She is safe enough, colonel, and I don’t think she will trouble us
soon.”
“I am glad of it. I think her the more dangerous of _the two_.”
“And I agree with you.”
“When did you see Darke, last?”
“I have not met him for three months.”
“He can not be dead?”
“He may be wounded.”
“And Mohun--is he at his head-quarters?”
Nighthawk smiled.
“He is at Five Forks, to-day, colonel.”
“And Willie Davenant?”
“In Richmond, on business at the war department.”
“Humph! So I shall see neither--but another time.”
And mounting my horse, I added:--
“Good luck, Nighthawk.”
“Thank you, colonel--the same to you.”
And leaving Nighthawk crouching down beside his fire, I rode on.
XIII.
DRINKING TEA UNDER DIFFICULTIES.
Pushing on, I reached the cavalry and horse artillery, which I was
soon done with--you see I dismiss “official” matters with commendable
rapidity, reader--then I went on across Roney’s bridge and along the
“Flat Foot road” toward Disaways.
Following, amid a great wind and falling boughs, this winding road,
stretching onward between its lofty walls of pines--a wild and deserted
track, outside of the pickets, and completely untravelled. I recrossed
Stony Creek, rode on over a bridle-path, and came just at sunset in
sight of the hill upon which Disaways raised its ancient gables, near
the Rowanty.
My horse neighed as he cantered up, and passed under the great oaks. He
seemed to feel that this was something like home to him now, and that
his day’s march was over. In fact, all the months of winter I had
regularly stopped at Disaways on my way to the cavalry at Hicksford. My
friends had pathetically remonstrated--“there was not a single picket
on the Rowanty in front of me, there, and I would certainly be captured
some day,”--but I had persisted in stopping there still, on every tour
which I made. How to resist the temptation! Disaways was just thirty
miles from Petersburg. I always reached its vicinity as night fell, on
the dark winter days. I was always cold, hungry, weary, depressed by
the dull gray skies; and I knew what awaited me there--a blazing fire, a
good supper, and Katy’s smiles brighter than sunshine! She always ran to
greet me, with both hands extended. Her blue eyes danced with joy, her
rosy cheeks glowed, her lips laughed, and were like carnations, her
golden ringlets fell in a shower over her white and delicate temples, or
were blown back in ripples by the wintry wind.
Could you have resisted that, my dear reader? Would you have shrunk from
Yankee scouting parties? For my part I thought I would risk it. I might
be surprised and captured at any moment--the territory was open to the
enemy--but I would have had a charming evening, would have been cheered
by Katy’s sunshine--while I was alive and free, I would have lived, and
in a manner the most delightful!
Hitherto some angel had watched over me, and Disaways had been unvisited
by the enemy’s scouting parties, without so much as a vedette at
the Halifax bridge, within half a mile. I had sat by the fire, eaten
countless suppers, laughed and conversed with my good friends, slept
soundly in a _real bed_, and gone on my way in the morning rejoicing.
I had thus always escaped surprise. No enemy ever annoyed me. It was the
old adage, however, of the pitcher that went to the well so often!--but
let me go on with my narrative.
As my horse uttered his shrill neigh now, ringing through the March
evening, the door opened and Katy ran out to greet me. She had never
looked more beautiful, and I recall still, as though I had seen it
yesterday, the charming smile on her red lips. The wind blew back
her ringlets till they resembled golden ripples--the rosy cheeks were
flushed--there madam! (I say this to some one who is leaning over my
shoulder, and laughing) don’t begrudge me these smiling memories! Katy
was only my little niece as it were--she is married and far away now.
Nay, Surry ought to love and be grateful to the little lady who took
such good care, in those grim days, of--your husband, madam!
Behind Katy appeared the faces of the excellent family, who cordially
greeted me. Behind all appeared the blushing but dandified Tom Herbert.
“Ah! there is a straggler!” I said. “Why don’t you send him back to his
command, ladies? Every man should be at his post in this trying moment!”
“Oh, bother, my dear Surry! what a tongue you have!” exclaimed Tom.
“I see General Fitz was right, or his staff rather, in what they told
me, Tom.”
“What did they tell you, my dear boy?”
“That you were demoralized and captured!”
Sweet smile on the faces of the family at these words!
“That you had acknowledged your weakness, seen that further resistance
was hopeless, and were already negotiating a surrender to the enemy.
Well, Tom, what are the terms? Are they arranged?”
Suddenly I felt my hair pulled by an enemy from behind; and looking
round I saw Miss Katy passing by, with an immense appearance of
innocence. Her face was blushing; her lips emitted a low laugh; and
seeing that no one was looking at her, she raised her finger in silent
menace at me.
This caused a diversion, and Tom was enabled to rally his forces.
“My dear Surry,” he said, smiling, with his delightfully foppish
air, “it always charms me to meet you, for you are always sparkling,
brilliant, full of wit; which reminds me of the good old days
with Stuart! You have only one fault, my boy, you think yourself a
philosopher. Don’t do that, I beg, Surry!--But what’s the news from
Petersburg?”
I acquiesced in the change of topic, and gave Tom the news; but I was
looking at Katy.
More than ever before I admired that little “bird of beauty,” flitting
about with charming grace, and an irresistible business air, to get me
my supper, for the rest had just finished. This privilege she always
claimed when I came to Disaways; fighting furiously, if the excellent
lady of the manor attempted to supplant her. Looking at her, as she
ran about now, engaged in her most admirable occupation, I thought her
lovelier than ever before--certainly than when talking in the woods with
Tom! You see she was getting my supper, reader!--and it seemed to be
a labor of love. The little fairy ran on her tiptoes from sideboard to
table; spread a snowy napkin, and placed a gilt china plate upon it;
made tea; covered the table with edibles; and placed beside my plate
a great goblet of yellow cream, of the consistency of syrup. Then she
poured out my tea, set my chair to the table, and came with courtesy and
laughing ceremony, to offer me her arm, and lead me to my seat.
Men are weak, worthy reader, and the most “romantic and poetical” of us
all, have much of the animal in us. That is a mortifying confession. I
was terribly hungry, and at that moment I think my attention was more
closely riveted on the table, than even upon Miss Katy with her roses
and ringlets.
I therefore unbuckled my sabre, placed the little hand on my arm, and
was about to proceed toward the table, when a shot, accompanied by a
shout, was heard from the direction of the Rowanty.
I went and buckled on my sword again. Then seeing Tom rise quickly--to
get his horse ready, he said--I requested him to have my own resaddled,
and returned to the table.