Through a rift in the smoke I caught a glimpse of Mohun's opponent.
He was a man of low stature, but broad, heavy, and
powerful. He came to meet his adversary with the bridle of his
horse resting on the animal's neck, while both hands clutched a
heavy broad-sword, raised over his right shoulder.

I could only see that the two opponents hurled together like
knights tilting; their swords gleamed; they closed in, body to
body; then the smoke wrapped them. It was impossible to see
more.

For the rest, it was hard to make out any thing in that bitter
combat at Upperville. Those who witnessed it will bear me out
in the assertion.

For ten minutes the plain was a grand hurly-burly of ringing
sabres, rearing horses, pistol shots, carbine shots, shell bursting,
men falling, shouts, outcries, smoke, dust, and blood.

When the smoke-cloud drifted, you could see that the enemy
were repulsed. Hampton's charge had checked, and then driven
them back. The great Carolinian had indeed made one of his
most splendid onsets. Meeting the enemy hand to hand, and
leading his men in person, Hampton had borne them back—they
had reeled under the great blow—and the cavalry fell back from
Upperville toward the mountain, unpursued.

What had been the issue of Mohun's combat with the Federal
officer I did not know until the next day, when I ascertained
that Mohun had wounded his adversary, and was unhurt. Thus
he had paid him for the wound in the shoulder on the Rappahannock.

Stuart fell back to the range of mountains a mile below Paris:
crowned the upland with his artillery, and determined to retreat
no further.

But the enemy had paused. The last red rays of sunset
showed them stationary in the fields around the village of
Upperville.

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

Stuart was sitting his horse beside Davenant's guns, which
from the slope grinned defiance at the enemy, when hoof-strokes
were heard from the direction of the village of Paris, in his rear,
and a party of horsemen ascended the mountain.

In front rode a personage of heavy figure, but soldierly bearing.
He was clad in an old gray uniform, almost without decorations;
wore a black round-head hat; his beard was long, matted and
brown, like the full mustache: and the expression of the countenance
was calm, almost phlegmatic.

Such was the appearance of Lieutenant-General Longstreet,
called by Lee “My Old War Horse.”

Longstreet advanced slowly, at the head of a party of officers.
Beside him rode a superb looking old cavalier of about sixty. He
wore the uniform of a brigadier-general of infantry, and sat as
erect as an arrow. The firm lips were covered by a heavy mustache,
gray like his hair: his bearing was full of a courtly
elegancee; this man was evidently one of the old race of Virginians—
a cavalier of the cavaliers.

Let me add a brief outline of one other figure. Behind the
old cavalier came a sort of mouse on horseback; an urchin of
about twelve, blue eyes, auburn hair, long and curling like a girl's,
and an air of warlike pride. The mouse wore a braided jacket,
a little jaunty cap, a floating feather, and beautiful gauntlets
probably worked by his mother, as he seemed much too small
to possess a sweetheart. He rode jauntily among the officers,
exchanging jests with each and all: and it was easy to see that
the youth was a favorite and a privileged character.

Longstreet halted beside Stuart, and grasping his hand, conversed
with him for some moments. I afterward knew that the
heavy firing had been heard over the mountain, and Longstreet,
arresting his march, had occupied Ashby's Gap. From our lofty
position, indeed, we could see the bayonets of his infantry glittering
in the gorge.

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

All at once, Longstreet turning to the gray-headed officer, with
a brief apology for his remissness, introduced him to Stuart as
“General Davenant.”

Stuart saluted, and exchanged a pressure of the hand with the
courtly old officer.

“Your son, Will, has fought like a hero to-day, general,” he said.

The old cavalier bowed.

“Those words are worth another grade of rank, general,” he
replied.

As he spoke, Will Davenant came up and greeted his father
with blushing pleasure. Before he could speak, however, the
urchin in the braided jacket spurred forward, and threw his arms
around the young man's neck.

“How are you, Willie!” he exclaimed, “have you had a good
fight? We were waiting yonder to help you if you were driven
back, old fellow!”

Longstreet smiled. Will Davenant laughed, and said:—

“Glad to hear it, Charley.”

“We don't think much of the cavalry, you know,” said the
urchin, sotto voce, “it takes the infants to do the work—but old
Stuart is a trump!”

And Charley curled an imaginary mustache as his brother
turned to speak to his father.

Half an hour afterward Stuart and Longstreet had finished
their conversation, and exchanging a grasp of the hand, separated—
the latter to return to Ashby's Gap.

Charley Davenant followed last, with evident regret.

“Well, good-bye, Willie,” he said, throwing his arm around
his brother again, “take care of yourself, old fellow, and if you
are hard pressed call upon us. You will find the infants ready!”

“All right, Charley!”

“And I say, Willie”—

“What, Charley?”

“Remember that lieutenancy you promised me. I am a Davenant
you know—and the Davenants are born to command! My
motto is, “Victory or Death,” old fellow!”

With which words the mouse waved his hand, put spur to his
pony, and went at a gallop down the mountain.

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

Sore and restive at the reverse which had come to balance his
victory of Fleetwood, Stuart bivouacked near Paris, that night,
and made every preparation to attack at dawn.

At daylight he was in the saddle, and spurred to the high
ground commanding Upperville.

All at once he checked his horse. The enemy had disappeared.

Stuart's blue eye flashed, and half an hour afterward he was
advancing at the head of his cavalry. Not a foe was visible.
Pressing on through Upperville, and over the trampled fields
beyond, he continued to advance upon Middleburg, and near that
place came up with the rear of the enemy. They showed little
fight, however, and were driven beyond the place. The gray
troopers pursued them with shouts and cheers—with which were
mingled cries of rejoicing from the people of Middleburg.

An hour afterward the lines were re-established in triumph.

Stuart returned to his former head-quarters amid a drenching
rain; and this recalls an incident very honorable to the brave
soldier. As night descended, dark and stormy, Stuart gazed
gloomily at the torrents of rain falling.

`My poor fellows!” he said, with a sigh, “they will have a
hard time to-night.”

Then suddenly turning to his servant, he added:—

“Spread my oil-cloth and blankets under that apple tree
yonder. I will keep them dry enough when I once get into
them.”*

“You are not going to sleep out on such a night, general!”
exclaimed a staff officer.

“Certainly I am,” was his reply, “I don't intend to fare better
than my men!”*

And an hour afterward Stuart was asleep under the apple-tree,
with a torrent pouring on him.

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

That was the act of a good officer and soldier, was it not,
reader?

Before sunrise Stuart was up, and walking uneasily to and fro.
As the day wore on, he exhibited more and more impatience.
All at once, at the appearance of an officer, approaching rapidly
from the front, he uttered an exclamation of pleasure.

“Here is Mosby at last!” he said.

And he went to meet the new-comer. It was the famous chief
of partisans whose name by this time had become a terror to the
enemy. He wore a plain gray uniform, a brace of revolvers in a
swaying belt, rode a spirited gray mare, and I recognized at
once the roving glance, and satirical smile which had struck me
on that night when he rescued Farley and myself in Fauquier.

Stuart rapidly drew him into a private apartment; remained
in consultation with him for half an hour; and then came forth,
with a smile of evident satisfaction.

Mosby's intelligence must have pleased him. It at least dispelled
his gloom.

An hour afterward his head-quarters had disappeared—every
thing was sent toward the mountains. Stuart set out apparently
to follow them—but that was only a ruse to blind busybodies.

A quarter of a mile from head-quarters he leaped a fence, and
doubled back, going in the direction now of Manassas.

At daylight on the next morning he had forced his way
through the Bull Run mountain.

Two hours afterward he had made a sudden attack on the
enemy's infantry. It was the rear of Hancock's corps, which
was the rear of Hooker's army, then retiring toward the Potomac.

Stuart's fight near Haymarket, here alluded to, was a gay
affair; but I pass over it, to a scene still gayer and decidedly
more pleasant.

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

The fighting continued throughout the day, and at dusk a
heavy rain came on. We were all tired and hungry—the general
no less so than his staff—and when an invitation was sent to us
by a gentleman near Bucklands, to come and sup with him, we
accepted it with fervor, and hastened toward the friendly
mansion.

A delightful reception awaited us. The house was full of
young ladies, passionately devoted to “rebels,” and we were
greeted with an enthusiasm which passed all bounds. Delicate
hands pressed our own; bright eyes beamed upon us; rosy lips
smiled; musical voices said “welcome!”—and soon a savory
odor, pervading the mansion, indicated that the wants of the
inner man were not forgotten.

An excellent supper was plainly in preparation for the bold
Stuart and his military family; and that gay and gallant cavalier,
General Fitz Lee having also been invited, the joy of the
occasion was complete! The house rang with clashing heels,
rattling sabres, and clanking spurs. A more charming sound
still, however, was that made by jingling keys and rattling china,
and knives and forks. All was joy and uproar: jests, compliments
and laughter. Young ladies went and came; the odors
grew more inviting. In ten minutes the door of a large apartment
opposite the drawing-room was thrown open, and a magnificent,
an enthralling spectacle was revealed to every eye.

Not to be carried away, however, by enthusiasm, I will simply
say that we saw before us a long mahogany table covered with
the most appetizing viands—broils, roasts, stews, bread of every
variety, and real coffee and tea in real silver! That magical
spectacle still dwells in my memory, reader, though the fact may
lower me in your good opinion. But alas! we are all “weak
creatures.” The most poetical grow hungry. We remember
our heroic performances in the great civil war—but ask old
soldiers if these recollections are not the most vivid!

An incident connected with the repast made it especially memorable.
The servants of the house had deserted to their friends in
blue; and as there was thus a deficiency of attendants, the young
ladies took their places. Behind every chair stood a maiden—
their faces wreathed with smiles. We were shown to our seats,

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

amid joyous laughter. The comedy evidently afforded all engaged
in it immense enjoyment—and the cavaliers humoring
the angelic maid-servants, gravely advanced toward the table.

Stuart threw his plumed hat upon a chair, and drew near the
foot of the table. The light fell full on the ruddy face, the
heavy beard and mustache, and brilliant fighting jacket. He
looked round with a gay smile. “Was any one absent,” asked
the kind lady of the house, as she saw the glance. Stuart made
a low bow, and said:—

“All are here, madam!”

All at once, however, a voice at the door responded:—

“I think you are mistaken, general!”

And he who had uttered these words advanced into the apartment.

He was a young man, about twenty-three, of medium height,
graceful, and with a smile of charming good humor upon the
lips. His hair was light and curling: his eyes blue: his lips
shaded by a slender mustache. His uniform was bran new, and
decorated with the braid of a lieutenant. Yellow gauntlets
reached his elbow, he wore a shiny new satchel, and in his hand
carried a brown felt hat, caught up with a golden star.

Stuart grasped his hand warmly.

“Here you are, old fellow!” he exclaimed.

And turning to the company, he added:—

“My new aid-de-camp, Lieutenant Herbert, ladies. A fop—
but an old soldier. Take that seat by Colonel Surry, Tom.”

And every one sat down, and attacked the supper.

I had shaken hands with Tom Herbert, who was far from being
a stranger to me, as I had met him frequently in the drawingrooms
of Richmond before the war. He was a fop, but the most
charming of fops, when I first knew him. He wore brilliant
waistcoats, variegated scarfs, diamond studs, and straw-colored
kid gloves. In his hand he used to flourish an ivory-headed
whalebone cane, and his boots were of feminine delicacy and
dimensions. Such was Tom at that time, but the war had
“brought him out.” He had rushed into the ranks, shouldered a
musket, and fought bravely. So much I knew—and I was soon
to hear how he had come to be Stuart's aid.

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

The supper was charming. The young girls waited on us with
mock submission and delighted smiles. Tom and I had fallen to
the lot of a little princess with golden ringlets; and Miss Katy
Dare—that was her name—acquitted herself marvellously. We
supped as though we expected to eat nothing for the next week—
and then having finished, we rose, and waited in turn on the
fair waiters.

Behind every chair now stood an officer in uniform.

Bright eyes, rosy cheeks, jewelled hands, glossy curls—there
was the picture, my dear reader, which we beheld as we “waited”
at that magical supper near Buckland.

When we wrapped our capes around us, and fell asleep on the
floor, the little maidens still laughed in our dreams!*

Stuart moved again at dawn. The scene of the preceding
evening had passed away like a dream. We were in the saddle,
and advancing.

Riding beside Lieutenant Tom Herbert, I conversed with that
worthy, and found the tedious march beguiled by his gay and insouciant
talk.

His “record” was simple. He had volunteered in the infantry,
and at the battle of Cold Harbor received a wound in the leg
which disqualified him for a foot-soldier thenceforward. His
friends succeeded in procuring for him the commission of lieutenant,
and he was assigned to duty as drill-master at a camp of
instruction near Richmond.

“Here I was really in clover, old fellow,” said Tom, laughingly
“no more toils, no more hardships, no bullets, or hard tack, or
want of soap. A snowy shirt every day—kid gloves if I wanted
them—and the sound of cannon at a very remote distance to lull
me to repose, my boy. Things had changed, they had indeed!

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

I looked back with scorn on the heavy musket and cartridge-box.
I rode a splendidly groomed horse, wore a new uniform shining
with gold braid, a new cap covered with ditto, boots which you
could see your face in, a magnificent sash, and spurs so long and
martial that they made the pavement resound, and announced my
approach at the distance of a quarter of a mile! I say the pavement;
I was a good deal on the pavement—that of the fashionable
Franklin street being my favorite haunt. And as the Scripture
says, it is not good for man to be alone, I had young ladies
for companions. My life was grand, superb—none of your low
military exposure, like that borne by the miserable privates and
officers in the field! I slept in town, lived at a hotel, mounted
my horse after breakfast, at the Government stables near my
lodgings, and went gallantly at a gallop, to drill intantry for an
hour or two at the camp of instruction. This was a bore, I acknowledge,
but life can not be all flowers. It was soon over,
however—I galloped gallantly back—dined with all the courses
at my hotel, and then lit my cigar and strolled up Franklin. I
wore my uniform and spurs on these promenades—wild horses
tearing me would not have induced me to doff the spurs! They
were so martial! They jingled so! They gave a military and
ferocious set-off to my whole appearance, and were immensely
admired by the fair sex! Regularly on coming back from my
arduous and dangerous duties at camp, I brushed my uniform,
put on my red sash, and with one hand resting with dignity on
my new sword belt, advanced to engage the enemy—on Franklin
street.”

Tom Herbert's laugh was contagious; his whole bearing so
sunny and riante that he was charming.

“Well, how did you awake from your dolce far niente?”. I
said.

“By an effort of the will, old fellow—for I really could not
stand that. It was glorious, delightful—that war-making in
town; but there was a thorn in it. I was ashamed of myself.
`Tom Herbert you are not a soldier, you are an impostor,' I said;
`you are young, healthy, as good food for powder as anybody
else, and yet here you are, safely laid away in a bomb-proof, while
your friends are fighting. Wake, rouse yourself, my friend! The

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

only way to regain the path of rectitude is to go back to the
army!”'

“I said that, Surry,” Tom continued, “and as I could not go
back into the infantry on account of my leg, I applied for an assignment
to duty in the cavalry. Then the war office had a time
of it. I besieged the nabobs of the red tape day and night, and
they got so tired of me at last that they told me to find a general
who wanted an aid and they would assign me.”

“Well, as I was coming out of the den I met General Jeb.
Stuart going in. I knew him well, and he was tenth cousin to
my grandmother, which you know counts for a great deal in
Virginia.”

“What's the matter, Tom?” he said.

“I want a place in the cavalry, general.”

“What claim have you?”

“Shot in the leg—can't walk—am tired of drilling men in
bomb-proof.”

“Good!” he said. “That's the way to talk. Come in here.”

“And he dragged me along. I found that one of his aids had
just been captured—he wanted another, and he applied for me.
A month afterward his application was approved—short for the
war office. That was five days ago. I got into the saddle,—
pushed for the Rapidan—got to Middleburg—and arrived in time
for supper.”

“That's my history, old fellow, except that I have just fallen
in love—with the young angel who waited on me at supper, Miss
Katy Dare. I opened the campaign in a corner last night—and
I intend to win her, Surry, or perish in the attempt!”

As Tom Herbert uttered these words, a loud shout in front
startled us.

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

Stuart had ridden on ahead of his column, through the immense
deserted camps around Wolf Run Shoals, attended only by two
or three staff officers.

As I now raised my head quickly, I saw him coming back at
headlong speed, directing his horse by means of the halter only,
and hotly pursued by a detachment of Federal cavalry, firing on
him as they pressed, with loud shouts, upon his very heels.

“Halt!” shouted the enemy. And this order was followed by
“bang! bang! bang!”

Stuart did not obey the order.

“Halt! halt!”

And a storm of bullets whistled around our heads. I had
drawn my sword, but before I could go to Stuart's assistance,
Tom shot ahead of me.

He came just in time. Two of the enemy had caught up with
Stuart, and were making furious cuts at him. He parried the
blow of one of the Federal cavalry-men—and the other fell from
the saddle, throwing up his hands as he did so. Tom Herbert
had placed his pistol on his breast, and shot him through the
heart.

But by this time the rest had reached us. A sabre flashed
above Tom's head; fell, cutting him out of the saddle nearly; and
he would have dropped from it, had I not passed my arm around
him.

In another instant, all three would have been killed or captured.
But the firing had given the alarm. A thunder of hoofs
was heard: a squadron of our cavalry dashed over the hill: in
three minutes the enemy were flying, to escape the edge of the
sabre.

Stuart led the charge, and seemed to enjoy it with the zest of
a fox-hunter. He had indeed escaped from a critical danger.
He had pushed on with a few of his staff, as I have said, to Fairfax
Station, had then stopped and slipped his bridle to allow his
horse to eat some “Yankee oats,” and while standing beside the
animal, had been suddenly charged by the party of Federal
cavalry, coming down on a reconnoissance from the direction of
the Court-House. So sudden was their appearance that he was
nearly “gobbled up.” He had leaped on the unbridled horse;

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

seized the halter, and fled at full speed. The enemy had pursued
him; he had declined halting—and the reader has seen the
sequel.*

Stuart pressed the party hotly toward Sanxter's, but they
escaped—nearly capturing on the way, however, a party of
officers at a blacksmith's shop. The general came back in high
good humor. The chase seemed to have delighted him.

“Bully for old Tom Herbert!” he exclaimed. “You ought to
have seen him when they were cutting at him, and spoiling his
fine new satchel!”

Tom Herbert did not seem to participate in the general's mirth.
He was examining the satchel which a sabre stroke had nearly cut
in two.

“What are you looking at?” asked Stuart.

“This hole, general,” replied Tom, uttering a piteous sigh.

“Well, it is a trifle.”

“It is a serious matter, general.”

“You have lost something?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“A joint of my new flute.”

And Tom Herbert's expression was so melancholy that Stuart
burst into laughter.

“You may have lost your flute, Tom,” he said, leaning on his
shoulder, “but you have won your spurs at least, in the cavalry!”

At daylight, on the next morning, Stuart had crossed the Poto
mac into Maryland.

He had advanced from Wolf Run Shoals to Fairfax Court
House, where the men rifled the sutlers' shops of tobacco, figs,
white gloves, straw hats, and every edible and wearable:—then

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

the column pushed on toward Seneca Falls, where the long
wavering line of horsemen might have been seen hour after hour
crossing the moonlit river, each man, to prevent wetting, holding
above his head a shot or shell taken from the caissons. Then the
artillery was dragged through: the panting horses trotted on, and
the first beans of day saw the long column of Stuart ready to
advance on its perilous pathway to the Susquehanna, by the
route between the Federal army and Washington.

The word was given, and with the red flags fluttering, Stuart
moved toward Rockville, unopposed, save by a picket, which
was driven off by the advance guard. Without further incident,
he then pushed on, and entered the town in triumph.

A charming reception awaited him. The place was thoroughly
Southern; and the passage of the cavalry was greeted with
loud cheers. Unbounded was the delight, above all, of a seminary
of young girls. Doors and windows were crowded:
bright eyes shone; red lips laughed; waving handkerchiefs were
seen everywhere; and when Stuart appeared in person, he was
received with wild rejoicing.

He bowed low, removing his plumed hat, but suddenly intelligence
came which forced him to push on. A long train of
“government” wagons had come up from Washington, and on
discovering our presence, returned toward the city at a gallop.
But the ferocious rebels were after them. Stuart led the charging
column—the warlike teamsters were soon halted—the trains
became our spoil—and with countless kicking mules driven onward
in droves before them, the cavalry, escorting the captured
wagons, continued their way toward Pennsylvania.

Moving all that night, Stuart came to Westminster, where Fitz
Lee, the gallant, drove the enemy's cavalry from their camp, and
the town fell into the hands of Stuart.

Here scowls instead of smiles greeted us. Every face was
glum and forbidding, with a few exceptions. So we hastened to
depart from that “loyal” town, and were soon on the soil of
Pennsylvania.

Approaching Hanover we suddenly waked up the hornets.
Chambliss, leading Stuart's advance, pushed ahead and drove
in a picket. Then that brave soldier rushed on, and seemed

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

intent on taking the place, when I was sent by Stuart to order him
“not to go too far.”

I came up with Chambliss as he was charging, but had scarcely
given him the order, when he was charged in turn by a heavy
force and driven back.

The enemy rushed on, firing volleys, and the road was full of
tramping horsemen. To avoid being carried away with them, I
diverged into a field, when all at once Stuart appeared, retreating
at full gallop before a party who were chasing him.

It was a serious matter then, but I laugh now, remembering
that “good run.”

Stuart and myself retreated at a gallop, boot to boot; leaped
ditches and fences; and got off in safety.

A few moments afterward his artillery opened its thunders.
From the lofty hill, that hardy captain of the horse artillery,
Breathed, roared obstinately, driving them back. Hampton's
guns on the right had opened too—and until night, we held the
heights, repulsing every advance of the enemy.

It was truly a fine spectacle, that handsome town of Hanover
as I looked at it, on the afternoon of the fair June day. In front
extended green fields; then the church spires rose above the
roofs of the town; behind, a range of mountains formed a picturesque
background. It is true, the adjuncts of the scene were
far from peaceful. The green fields were full of blue sharp-shooters;
in the suburbs were posted batteries; down the mountain
road behind, wound a long compact column of cavalry.

Breathed fought hard that day. From the waving field of rye
on the upland his guns thundered on—in the face of that fire, the
enemy could not, or would not, advance.

So the night came on, and Stuart's great train moved.

Those wagons were a terrible encumbrance to us on the march.
But Stuart determined not to abandon them, and they were
dragged on—a line stretched to infinity!

Thenceforth, dear reader, the march was a sort of dream to me.
How can I relate my adventures—the numerous spectacles and
events of the time? I know not even now if they were events or
mere dreams, seeing that, all the long way, I was half asleep in the
saddle! It was a veritable Drowsyland that we moved through

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

on horseback! The Dutchmen, the “fraus,” the “spreading,”
the sauer-kraut—the conestogas, the red barns, the guttural
voices, the strange faces—were these actual things, or the mere
fancies of a somnambulist? Was I an officer of real cavalry
making a real march; or a fanciful being, one of a long column
of phantoms?

I seem dimly to remember a pretty face, whose owner smiled
on me—and a faint memory remains of a supper which she gave
me. If I am not mistaken I was left alone in the town of Salem—
hostile faces were around me—and I was falling asleep when
Hampton's cavalry came up.

I think, then, I rode on with him—having been left to direct
him. That we talked about horses, and the superiority of
“blood” in animals; that at dawn, Hampton said, “I am perishing
for sleep!” and that we lay down, side by side, near a haystack.

All that is a sort of phantasmagoria, and others were no better
than myself. Whole columns went to sleep, in the saddle, as they
rode along; and General Stuart told me afterward, that he saw
a man attempt to climb over a fence, half succeed only, and go
to sleep on the top rail!

Some day I promise myself the pleasure of travelling in Pennsylvania.
It possesses all the attractions to me of a world seen in
a dream!

But after that good sleep, side by side with the great Carolinian,
things looked far more real, and pushing on I again caught up
with Stuart.

He advanced steadily on Carlisle, and in the afternoon we
heard artillery from the south.

I looked at my military map, and calculated the distance. The
result was that I said: —

“General, those guns are at a place called Gettysburg on this
map.”

“Impossible!” was his reply. “They can not be fighting there.
You are certainly wrong.”

But I was right.

Those guns were the signal of the “First day's fight at Gettysburg.”

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

It can not be said that we accomplished very enormous results
at Carlisle. The enemy defended it bravely.

Stuart sent in a flag, demanding a surrender: this proposition
was politely declined; and for fear that there might possibly remain
some doubts on the subject, the Federal commander of the
post, opened with artillery upon the gray cavalry.

That was the signal for a brisk fight, and a magnificent spectacle
also.

As soon as the enemy's response to the flag of truce had been
received, Stuart advanced his sharp-shooters, replied with his
artillery to their own, and dispatched a party to destroy the extensive
United States barracks, formerly used as cantonments for
recruits to the army.

In ten minutes the buildings were wrapped in flames; and the
city of Carlisle was illumined magnificently. The crimson light
of the conflagration revealed every house, the long lines of trees,
and made the delicate church spires, rising calmly aloft, resemble
shafts of rose-tinted marble.

I recall but one scene which was equally picturesque—the
“doomed city” of Fredericksburg, on the night of December 11,
1862, when the church spires were illumined by the burning
houses, as those of Carlisle were in June, 1863.

So much for this new “Siege of Carlisle.” Here my descripion
ends. It was nothing—a mere picture. An hour afterward
Stuart ceased firing, the conflagration died down; back into the
black night sank the fair town of Carlisle, seen then for the first
and the last time by this historian.

The guns were silent, the cavalry retired; and Stuart, accompanied
by his staff, galloped back to a great deserted house where
he established his temporary head-quarters.

On the bold face there was an expression of decided ill-humor.
He had just received a dispatch, by courier, from General Lee.

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

That dispatch said, “Come, I need you urgently here,” and
the “here” in question, was Gettysburg, at least twenty miles
distant. Now, with worn-out men and horses, twenty miles was
a serious matter. Stuart's brows were knit, and he mused
gloomily.

Suddenly he turned and addressed me.

“You were right, Surry,” he said, “those guns were at Gettysburg.
This dispatch, sent this morning, reports the enemy
near there.”

I bowed; Stuart reflected for some moments without speaking.
Then he suddenly said:—

“I wish you would go to General Lee, and say I am coming,
Surry. How is your horse?”

“Worn-out, general, but I can get another.”

“Good; tell General Lee that I will move at once to Gettysburg,
with all my force, and as rapidly as possible!”

“I will lose no time, general.”

And saluting, I went out.

From the captured horses I selected the best one I could find,
and burying the spurs in his sides, set out through the black
night.

You know when you set out, the proverb says, but you know
not when you will arrive.

I left Carlisle, breasting the night, on the road to Gettysburg,
little thinking that a curious incident was to occur to me upon
the way—an incident closely connected with the destinies of
some personages who play prominent parts in this history.

I had ridden on for more than an hour, through the darkness,
keeping a good look-out for the enemy, whose scouting parties of
cavalry were known to be prowling around, when all at once,
my horse, who was going at full speed, struck his foot against a
sharp point of rock, cropping out from the surface.

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

The animal stumbled, recovered himself, and went on as rapidly
as before. A hundred yards further his speed relaxed; then he
began to limp painfully; then in spite of every application of the
spur I could not force him out of a slow limping trot.

It was truly unfortunate. I was the bearer of an important
message, and was surrounded by enemies. The only chance was
to pass through them, under shadow of the darkness; with light
they would perceive me, and my capture be certain.

A hundred yards further, and I found I must decide at once
upon the course to pursue. My horse seemed about to fall. At
every stroke of the spur he groaned piteously, and his limp had
become a stagger.

I looked around through the trees, and at the distance of a
quarter of a mile I saw the glimmer of a light. To obtain another
horse was indispensable under the circumstances; and looking to
see that my revolver was loaded and capped, I forced my tottering
animal toward the mansion in which the light glimmered.

My design was simply to proceed thither, “impress” a fresh
horse at the pistol's muzzle; throw my saddle upon him; leave
my own animal, and proceed on my way.

Pushing across the fields, and dismounting to let down the
fences which my limping animal could not leap, I soon approached
the light. It shone through the window of a house of some size,
with ornamental grounds around it, and apparently the abode of
a man of means.

At fifty paces from it I dismounted and tethered my horse in
the shadow of some trees. A brief reconnoissance under the circumstances
was advisable; and approaching the mansion silently,
without allowing my sabre to make any clatter, I gained the long
portico in front, and went to a window reaching down to the
flooring of the verandah.

Through the half-closed venetians I could see into a large apartment,
half library, half sitting-room, as the easy chairs, mantel
ornaments, desks, and book-cases showed. On the centre-table
burned a brilliant lamp—and by its light I witnessed a spectacle
which made me draw back in the shadow of the shutter, and rivet
my eyes on the interior.

Before me, in the illuminated apartment, I saw the woman

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

whom Mohun had captured on the Rappahannock; and beside
her the personage with whom she had escaped that morning in
the wagon from Culpeper Court-House. I could not mistake him.
The large, prominent nose, the cunning eyes, the double chin, the
fat person, and the chubby hands covered with pinchbeck rings,
were still fresh in my memory.

The name of this personage had been revealed by Nighthawk.
Swartz, the secret agent, blockade-runner, and “best spy in the
Federal army” was before me.

A glance at the woman revealed no change in her appearance.
Before me was the same lithe and graceful figure, clad as before
in a gray dress. I saw the same snow-white cheeks, red lips, and
large eyes burning with a latent fire.

The two were busily engaged, and it was not difficult to understand
their occupation. The desks, drawers and chests of the
apartment were all open; and the female with rapid hands was
transferring papers from them to Swartz, who methodically
packed them in a leathern valise. These papers were no doubt
important, and the aim to remove them to some place of safety
beyond the reach of the Confederates.

I gazed for some moments, without moving, upon the spectacle
of these two night-birds at their work. The countenance of the
lady was animated; her motions rapid; and from time to time
she stopped to listen. Swartz, on the contrary, was the incarnation
of phlegmatic coolness. His face wore an expression of
entire equanimity; and he seemed to indulge no fears whatever
of intruders.

All at once, however, I saw his eyes glitter as they fell upon a
paper which she handed him to pack away with the rest. It was
carefully folded, but one of the folds flew open as he received it,
and his eyes were suddenly fixed intently upon the sheet.

Then his head turned quickly, and he looked at his companion.
She was bending over a drawer, and did not observe that glance.
Thereupon Swartz folded up the paper, quietly put it in his
pocket, and went on packing the valise with his former coolness;
only a slight color in his face seemed to indicate concealed emotion.

As he pocketed the paper, his companion turned round. It
was plain that she had not perceived the manœuvre.

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

At the same moment I heard the sound of hoofs in rear of the
house, and the clatter of a sabre as a cavalier dismounted. A few
indistinct words, apparently addressed to a servant or orderly,
followed. Then the door of the apartment opposite the front window
was thrown open, and a man entered.

In the new-comer I recognized Mohun's adversary at Upperville—
Colonel Darke, of the United States Cavalry.

Darke entered the apartment abruptly, but his appearance
seemed to occasion no surprise. The spy retained his coolness.
The lady went on with her work. You would have said that they
had expected the officer, and recognized his step.

Their greeting was brief. Darke nodded in apparent approbation
of the task in which the man and woman were engaged, and
folding his arms in front of the marble mantel, looked on in
silence.

I gazed at him with interest, and more carefully than I had
been able to do during the fight at Upperville, when the smoke
soon concealed him. Let me draw his outline. Of all the human
beings whom I encountered in the war, this one's character and
career were perhaps the most remarkable. Were I writing a
romance, I should be tempted to call him the real hero of this
volume.

He was a man approaching middle age; low in stature, but
broad, muscular, and powerful. He was clad in the full-dress
uniform of a colonel of the United States Cavalry, wore boots
reaching to the knee and decorated with large spurs; and his
arms were an immense sabre and a brace of revolvers in black
leather holsters attached to his belt. His face was swarthy,
swollen by excess in drink apparently, and half covered by a
shaggy beard and mustache as black as night. The eyes were
deep-set, and wary: the poise of the head upon the shoulders,

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

haughty; the expression of the entire countenance cold, phlegmatic,
grim.

Such was this man, upon the surface. But there was something
more about him which irresistibly attracted attention, and
aroused speculation. At the first glance, you set him down
as a common-place ruffian, the prey of every brutal passion. At
the second glance, you began to doubt whether he was a mere
vulgar adventurer—you could see, at least, that this man was not
of low birth. There was in his bearing an indefinable something
which indicated that he had “seen better days.” The surface
of the fabric was foul and defiled, but the texture beneath was of
velvet, not “hodden gray.”

“That brute,” I thought, “was once a gentleman, and crime
or drink has destroyed him!”

Darke continued to gaze at Swartz and the gray woman as
they plied their busy work; and once or twice he pointed to
drawers which they had failed to open. These directions were
promptly obeyed, and the work went on. The few words which
the parties uttered came in an indistinct murmur only through
the window at which I was stationed.

Such was the scene within the mansion, upon which I gazed with
strong curiosity: suddenly the neigh of a horse was heard in a
clump of woods beyond the front gate; and Darke quickly raised
his head, and then came out to the portico.

He passed within three feet of me, but did not perceive me, as
I was concealed by one of the open venetians. Then he paused
and listened. The wind sighed in the foliage, and a distant
watch-dog was barking—that was all. No other noise disturbed
the silence of the July night.

Darke remained upon the portico for some moments, listening
attentively. Then turned and re-entered the house. Through
the window, I could see him make his appearance again in the
illuminated apartment. In response to the glances of inquiry
from his companions he made a gesture only, but that said
plainly:—

“Nothing is stirring. You can go on with your work.”

In this, however, he was mistaken. Darke had scarcely
re-entered the apartment, when I discerned the hoof-strokes of

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

horses beyond the front gate—then the animals were heard leaping
the low fence—a moment afterward two figures came on at full
gallop, threw themselves from the saddle, and rapidly approached
the house.

The rattle of a sabre which one of them wore attracted Darke's
attention. He reached the door of the room at a single bound—
but at the same instant the new comers rushed by me, and
burst in.

As they passed I recognized them. One was Mohun, the other
Nighthawk.

What followed was instantaneous.

The adversaries were face to face, and each drew his pistol and
fired at the same moment.

Neither was struck: they drew their swords; and, through the
cloud of smoke filling the apartment, I could see Darke and Mohun
close in, in a hand to hand encounter.

They were both excellent swordsmen, and the struggle was passionate
and terrible. Mohun's movements were those of the tiger
springing upon his prey; but Darke met the attack with a coolness
and phlegm which indicated unshrinking nerve; his expression
seemed, even, to indicate that crossing swords with his
adversary gave the swarthy giant extreme pleasure. His face
glowed, and a flash darted from beneath the shaggy eyebrows.
I could see him smile; but the smile was strange.

From the adversaries my glance passed quickly to the gray
woman. She was leaning against the wall, and exhibited no emotion
whatever; but the lurid blaze in the great dark eyes, as she
looked at Mohun, clearly indicated that a storm was raging in her
bosom. Opposite the woman stood Nighthawk—motionless, but
grasping a pistol. As to Swartz, that worthy had profited by
an open window near, and had glided through it and disappeared.

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

To return to the combatants. The passionate encounter absorbed
all my attention. Mohun and Darke were cutting at each
other furiously. They seemed equally matched, and the result
was doubtful. One thing only seemed certain—that in a few
minutes one of the adversaries would be dead.

Such was the situation of affairs when shots were heard without,
the clash of sabres followed, and the door behind Darke was
burst open violently by his orderly, who rushed in, exclaiming:—

“Look out, colonel! The enemy are on you!”

As he uttered these words, the man drew a revolver and aimed
at Mohun's breast.

Before he could fire, however, an explosion was heard, and I
saw the man suddenly drop his weapon, which went off as it
escaped from his nerveless grasp. Then he threw up his hands,
reeled, took two uncertain steps backward, and fell at full length
on the floor. Nighthawk had shot him through the heart.

All this had taken place in far less time than it has taken to
write it. I had made violent efforts to break through the window;
and finding this impossible, now ran to the door and burst
into the apartment.

The singular scene was to have as singular a denouement.

Darke evidently realized the great danger which he ran, for the
house was now surrounded, nearly, and his capture was imminent.

From the black eyes shot a glare of defiance, and advancing
upon Mohun, he delivered a blow at him which nearly shattered
his opponent's sword. Mohun struck in turn, aiming a furious
cut at Darke; but as he did so, he stumbled over the dead orderly,
and nearly fell. For the moment he was at Darke's mercy.

I rushed forward, sword in hand, to ward off the mortal stroke
which I was certain his adversary would deliver, but my intervention
was useless.

Darke recoiled from his stumbling adversary, instead of striking
at him. I could scarcely believe my own eyes, but the fact was
unmistakable.

Then the Federal colonel looked around, and his eye fell upon
the woman.

“Kill him!” she said, coldly. “Do not mind me!—only kill
him!”

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

“No!” growled Darke. And seizing the woman in his
arms:—

“They shall not take you prisoner!” he said.

And the swarthy Hercules passed through the door in rear,
at a single bound, bearing off the woman like a feather.

A moment afterward the hoof-strokes of a horse were heard.

Darke had disappeared with the gray woman.

I turned to look at Mohun. He was standing perfectly motionless,
and looking after Darke with a strange expression of
gloom and astonishment.

“You are unhurt!” I said.

He turned quickly, and held out his hand.

“Slightly wounded—but I am not thinking of that.”

“Of what, then?”

“I remember only one thing—that this man might have buried
his sword in my heart, and did not.”

An hour afterward the skirmish was over; I had explained
my presence at the house to Mohun, parted with him, promising
to see him soon again; and, mounted upon a fresh animal which
Mohun presented to me from among those captured, was once
more on my way to Gettysburg.

It was hard to realize that the scenes of the night were actual
occurrences. They were more like dreams than realities.

I came in sight of Gettysburg at sunrise.

Gettysburg!—name instinct with so many tears, with so much
mourning, with those sobs which tear their way from the human
heart as the lava makes its way from the womb of the volcano!

There are words in the world's history whose very sound is
like a sigh or a groan; places which are branded “accursed”
by the moaning lips of mothers, wives, sisters, and orphans.
Shadowy figures, gigantic and draped in mourning, seem to hover

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

above these spots: skeleton arms with bony fingers point to the
soil beneath, crowded with graves: from the eyes, dim and hollow,
glare unutterable things: and the grin of the fleshless lips is
the gibbering mirth of the corpse torn from its cerements, and
erect, as though the last trump had sounded, and the dead had
arisen. No fresh flowers bloom in these dreary spots; no merry
birds twitter there; no streamlets lapse sweetly with musical murmurs
beneath the waterflags or the drooping boughs of trees.
See! the blighted and withered plants are like the deadly nightshade—
true flowers of war, blooming, or trying to bloom, on
graves! Hear the voices of the few birds—they are sad and discordant!
See the trees—they are gnarled, spectral, and torn by
cannon-balls. Listen! The stream yonder is not limpid and
mirthful like other streams. You would say that it is sighing as
it steals away, soiled and ashamed. The images it has mirrored
arouse its horror and make it sad. The serene surface has not
given back the bright forms of children, laughing and gathering
the summer flowers on its banks. As it sneaks like a culprit
through the scarred fields of battle, it washes bare the bones of
the dead in crumbling uniforms—bringing, stark and staring, to
the upper air once more, the blanched skeleton and the grinning
skull.

Names of woe, at whose utterance the heart shudders, the
blood curdles! Accursed localities where the traveller draws
back, turning away in horror! All the world is dotted with
them; everywhere they make the sunlight black. Among them,
none is gloomier, or instinct with a more nameless horror, than
the once insignificant village of Gettysburg.

I reached it on the morning of July 2, 1863.

The immense drama was in full progress. The adversaries had
clashed together. Riding across the extensive fields north of the
town, I saw the traces of the combat of the preceding day—and
among the dying I remember still a poor Federal soldier, who
looked at me with his stony and half glazed eye as I passed; he
was an enemy, but he was dying and I pitied him.

A few words will describe the situation of affairs at that moment.

Lee had pressed on northward through the valley of the

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

Cumberland, when news came that General Meade, who had succeeded
Hooker, was advancing to deliver battle to the invaders.

At that intelligence Lee arrested his march. Meade menaced
his communications, and it was necessary to check him. Hill's
corps was, therefore, sent across the South Mountain, toward
Gettysburg; Ewell, who had reached York, was ordered back;
and Lee made his preparations to fight his adversary as soon as
he appeared.

The columns encountered each other in the neighborhood of
Gettysburg—a great centre toward which a number of roads converge,
like the spokes of a wheel toward the hub.

The head of Hill's column struck the head of Reynolds's—then
the thunder began.

The day and scene were lovely. On the waving wheat-fields
and the forests in full foliage, the light of a summer sun fell in
flashing splendor. A slight rain had fallen; the wind was gently
blowing; and the leaves and golden grain were covered with
drops which the sunshine changed to diamonds. Over the
exquisite landscape drooped a beautiful rainbow.

Soon blood had replaced the raindrops, and the bright bow
spanning the sky was hidden by lurid smoke, streaming aloft
from burning buildings, set on fire by shell.

I give but a few words to this first struggle, which I did not
witness.

The Federal forces rushed forward, exclaiming:—

“We have come to stay!”

“And a very large portion of them,” said one of their officers,
General Doubleday, “never left that ground!”

Alas! many thousands in gray, too, “came to stay.”

Hill was hard pressed and sent for assistance. Suddenly it appeared
from the woods on his left, where Ewell's bayonets were
seen, coming back from the Susquehanna.

Rodes, the head of Ewell's corps, formed line and threw himself
into the action.

Early came up on the left; Rodes charged and broke through
the Federal centre. Gordon, commanding a brigade then, closed
in on their right flank, and the battle was decided,

The great blue crescent was shattered, and gave way. The

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

Confederates pressed on, and the Federal army became a rabble.
They retreated pellmell through Gettysburg, toward Cemetery
Hill, leaving their battle-flags and five thousand prisoners in our
hands.

Such was the first day's fight at Gettysburg. Lee's head of
column had struck Meade's; each had rapidly been re-enforced;
the affair became a battle, and the Federal forces were completely
defeated.

That was the turning point of the campaign. If this success
had only been followed up—if we could only have seized upon
and occupied Cemetery Hill!

Then General Meade would have been compelled to retire upon
Westminster and Washington. He would doubtless have fought
somewhere, but it is a terrible thing to have an army flushed with
victory “after” you!

Cemetery Range was not seized that night. When the sun
rose the next morning, the golden moment had passed. General
Meade was ready.

From right to left, as far as the eye could reach, the heights
bristled with blue infantry and artillery. From every point on
the ridge waved the enemy's battle flags. From the muzzles of
his bronze war-dogs, Meade sent his defiant challenge to his adversary
to attack him.

“Come on!” the Federal artillery seemed to mutter fiercely.

And Lee's guns from the ridge opposite thundered grimly in
reply,

“We are coming!”

Alas!—

That is the word which rises to the lips of every Southerner,
above all to every Virginian, who attempts to describe this terrible
battle of Gettysburg.

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

The cheeks flush, the voice falters, and something like a fiery
mist blinds the eyes. What comes back to the memory of the
old soldiers who saw that fight is a great picture of heroic assaults,
ending in frightful carnage only,—of charges such as the
world has rarely seen, made in vain,—of furious onslaughts, the
only result of which was to strew those fatal fields with the dead
bodies of the flower of the Southern race

And we were so near succeeding! Twice the enemy staggered;
and one more blow—only one more! promised the South a complete
victory!

When Longstreet attacked Round Top Hill, driving the enemy
back to their inner line, victory seemed within our very grasp—
but we could not snatch it. The enemy acknowledge that, and it
is one of their own poets who declares that

Pickett stormed Cemetery Heights, and wanted only support.
Five thousand men at his back would have given him victory.

There is a name for the battle of Gettysburg which exactly
suits it—“The Great Graze!”

You must go to the histories, reader, for a detailed account of
this battle. I have not the heart to write it, and aim to give you
a few scenes only. In my hasty memoirs I can touch only upon
the salient points, and make the general picture.

The ground on which the battle was fought, is familiar to
many thousands. A few words will describe it. Cemetery
Ridge, where General Meade had taken up his position, is a range
of hills running northward toward Gettysburg, within a mile of
which place it bends off to the right, terminating in a lofty and
rock-bound crest.

This crest was Meade's right. His line stretched away southward
then, and ended at Round Top Hill, the southern extremity
of the range, about four miles distant.

From one end to the other of the extensive range, bayonets
glistened, and the muzzles of cannon grinned defiance.

Opposite the Cemetery Range was a lower line of hills, called
Seminary Range. Upon this Lee was posted, Ewell holding his
left, A. P. Hill his centre, and Longstreet his right.

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

Between the two armies stretched a valley, waving with grain
and dotted with fruit-trees, through which ran the Emmettsburg
road, on the western side of a small stream. The golden grain
waved gently; the limpid water lapsed away beneath grass and
flowers; the birds were singing; the sun was shining—it was the
strangest of all scenes for a bloody conflict.

I rode along the line of battle, and curiously scanned the features
of the landscape. There is a frightful interest connected
with ground which is soon going to become the arena of a great
combat. A glance told me that the enemy's position was much
the stronger of the two. Would Lee attack it?

From the landscape I turned to look at the army. Never had
I seen them so joyous. It would be impossible to convey any
idea of the afflatus which buoyed them up. Every man's veins
seemed to run with quicksilver, instead of blood. Every cheek
was glowing. Every eye flashed with superb joy and defiance.
You would have supposed, indeed, that the troops were under
the effect of champagne or laughing gas. “I never even imagined
such courage,” said a Federal officer afterward; “your men
seemed to be drunk with victory when they charged us!”

That was scarce an exaggeration. Already on the morning of
battle they presented this appearance. Lying down in line of
battle, they laughed, jested, sang, and resembled children enjoying
a holiday. On the faces of bearded veterans and boy-soldiers
alike was a splendid pride. The victories of Fredericksburg,
and Chancellorsville had electrified the troops. They thought
little of a foe who could be so easily driven; they looked forward
to victory as a foregone conclusion—alas! they did not remember
that they held the heights at Fredericksburg; and that Meade on
Cemetery Hill was an adversary very different from Hooker in
the Spottsylvania Wilderness!

Such was the spectacle which I witnessed, when after delivering
my message to General Lee, I rode along the Southern line.
I think the great commander shared in some measure the sentiment
of his troops. His bearing was collected; in his eye you
could read no trace of excitement; the lips covered by the gray
mustache were firm and composed; and he greeted me with

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

quiet courtesy:—but in the cheeks of the great soldier a ruddy
glow seemed to betray anticipated victory.

I confess I shared the general sentiment. That strange intoxication
was contagious, and I was drunk like the rest with the
thought of triumph. That triumph would open to us the gates
of Washington and bring peace. The North scarcely denied that
then—though they may deny it to-day. The whole country was
completely weary of the war. There seemed to be no hope of
compelling the South to return to the Union. A victory over
Meade, opening the whole North to Lee, promised a treaty of
peace. The day had arrived, apparently when the army of
Northern Virginia, musket in hand, was about to dictate the
terms of that document.

“Lee has only to slip the leash,” I thought, as I gazed at the
army, “and these war-dogs will tear down their prey!”

Alas! they tore it, but were torn too! they did all at Gettysburg
that any troops could do.

What was impossible, was beyond even their strength.

From the morning of the second of July to the evening of the
third, the fields south of Gettysburg were one great scene of smoke,
dust, uproar, blood; of columns advancing and returning; cannon
thundering; men shouting, yelling, cheering, and dying;
blue mingled with gray in savage and unrelenting battle.

In that smoke-cloud, with the ears deafened, you saw or heard
little distinctly. But above the confused struggle rose two great
incidents, which on successive days decided every thing.

The first of them was Longstreet's assault on the enemy's left
wing, in front of Round Top Hill.

Lee had displayed excellent soldiership in determining upon
this movement, and it will be seen that it came within an inch of

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

success. Standing upon Seminary Range, near his centre, he had
reconnoitered General Meade's position through his field-glass,
with great attention; and this examination revealed the fact
that the Federal line was projected forward in a salient in front
of Round Top Hill, a jagged and almost inaccessible peak, near
which rested General Meade's extreme left.

If this weak point could be carried, “it appeared” said Lee,
“that its possession would give facilities for assailing and carrying
the more elevated ground and crest beyond.”

As to the importance of that crest—namely Round Top Hill—
hear General Meade:—

“If they had succeeded in occupying that, it would have prevented
me from holding any of the ground which I subsequently
held to the last.”

Lee determined to attack the salient, making at the same time
a heavy demonstration—or a real assault—upon the Federal right,
opposite Ewell.

All his preparations were not made until the afternoon.
Then suddenly, Longstreet's artillery opened its thunders.

At that moment the spectacle was grand. The heights, the
slopes, the fields, and the rugged crest opposite, were enveloped
in smoke and fire from the bursting shell. The sombre roar ascended
like the bellowing of a thousand bulls, leaped back from
the rocks, and rolled away, in wild echoes through the hills. All
the furies seemed let loose, and yet this was only the preface.

At four in the evening the thunder dropped to silence, and
along the lines of Hood and McLaws, which formed the charging
column, ran a wild cheer, which must have reached the ears of
the enemy opposite.

That cheer told both sides that the moment had come. The
word was given, and Longstreet hurled his column at the blue
line occupying a peach-orchard in his front.

The blow was aimed straight at the salient in the Federal line,
and in spite of a brave resistance it was swept away; McLaws
advancing rapidly toward the high ground in its rear. At one
blow the whole left wing of General Meade's army seemed
thrown into irretrievable confusion, and Hood pressing forward on
McLaws's right, hastened to seize upon the famous Round Top,

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

from which he would be able to hurl his thunder upon the flank
and rear of the Federal line of battle.

The scene, like the conflict which now took place, was wild
and singular. The crest of Round Top Hill was a mass of rock,
which rose abruptly from the rough and jagged slope. It was
unoccupied—for the sudden overthrow of the force in front of it
had not been anticipated—and one headlong rush on the part of
Hood alone seemed necessary to give him possession of the real
key of the whole position.

Hood saw that at a glance, and dashed up the slope at the head
of his men. It was scarcely an order of battle which his troops
presented at this moment. But one thought burned in every
heart. The men swarmed up the hill-side; the woods gave back
the rolling thunder of their cheers; already the Southern battle-flags
carried by the foremost were fluttering on the crest.

The mass rushed toward the red flags; for an instant the gray
figures were seen erect upon the summit—then a sudden crash of
musketry resounded—and a mad struggle began with a Federal
brigade which had hastened to the spot.

This force, it is said, was hurried up by General Warren, who
finding the Federal signal-officers about to retire, ordered them,
to remain and continue waving their flags to the last; and then,
seizing on the first brigade he could find, rushed them up the
slope to the crest.

They arrived just in time. Hood's men were swarming on the
crest. A loud cheer arose, but all at once they found themselves
face to face with a line of bayonets, while beyond were seen confused
and struggling masses, dragging up cannon.

What followed was a savage grapple rather than an ordinary
conflict. Only a small part of Hood's force had reached the summit,
and this was assailed by a whole brigade. The fight was
indescribable. All that the eye could make out for some moments
in the dust and smoke, was a confused mass of men clutching
each other, dealing blows with the butt-ends of muskets, or
fencing with bayonets—men in blue and gray, wrestling, cursing,
falling, and dying, in the midst of the crash of small-arms, and the
thunder of cannon, which clothed the crest in flame.

When the smoke drifted, it was seen that the Confederates had

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

been repulsed, and driven from the hill. Hood was falling back
slowly, like a wounded tiger, who glares at the huntsman and
defies him to the last. The slope was strewed with some of his
bravest. The Federal cannon roaring on Round Top Hill, seemed
to be laughing hoarsely.

McLaws, too, had fallen back after nearly seizing upon the
crest in his front. The enemy had quickly re-enforced their left,
with brigades, divisions, and corps, and the Confederates had
been hotly assailed in their turn. As night descended, the whole
Southern line fell back. The pallid moonlight shone on the upturned
faces of the innumerable dead.

Longstreet sat on a fence, cutting a stick with his penknife,
when an English officer near him exclaimed:—

“I would not have missed this for any thing?”

Longstreet, laughed grimly.

“I would like to have missed it very much!”* he said.

Lee's great blow at the enemy's left had failed. He had thrown
his entire right wing, under Longstreet, against it. The enemy
had been driven; victory seemed achieved;—but suddenly the
blue lines had rallied, they had returned to the struggle, their
huge masses had rolled forward, thrown Longstreet back in
turn, and now the pale moon looked down on the battle-field
where some of the bravest souls of the South had poured out their
blood in vain.

Lee had accomplished nothing, and one of his great corps was
panting and bleeding. It was not shattered or even shaken. The
iron fibre would stand any thing almost. But the sombre result
remained—Longstreet had attacked and had been repulsed.

What course would Lee now pursue? Would he retire?

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

Retire? The army of Northern Virginia lose heart at a mere
rebuff? Lee's veteran army give up the great invasion, after a
mere repulse? Troops and commander alike shrunk from the
very thought. One more trial of arms—something—an attack
somewhere—not a retreat!

That was the spirit of the army on the night of the second of
July.

A flanking movement to draw the enemy out of their works,
or a second attack remained.

Lee determined to attack.

Longstreet and Ewell had accomplished nothing by assailing
the right and left of the enemy. Lee resolved now to throw a
column against its centre—to split the stubborn obstacle, and
pour into the gap with the whole army, when all would be over.

That was hazardous, you will say perhaps to-day, reader. And
you have this immense argument to advance, that it failed. Ah!
these arguments after the event! they are so fatal, and so very
easy.

Right or wrong, Lee resolved to make the attack; and on the
third of July he carried out his resolution.

If the writer of the South shrinks from describing the bloody
repulse of Longstreet, much more gloomy is the task of painting
that last charge at Gettysburg. It is one of those scenes which
Lee's old soldiers approach with repugnance. That thunder of
the guns which comes back to memory seems to issue, hollow and
lugubrious, from a thousand tombs.

Let us pass over that tragedy rapidly. It must be touched on
in these memoirs—but I leave it soon.

It is the third of July, 1863. Lee's line of battle, stretching
along the crest of Seminary Ridge, awaits the signal for a new
conflict with a carelessness as great as on the preceding day. The
infantry are laughing, jesting, cooking their rations, and smoking
their pipes. The ragged cannoneers, with flashing eyes, smiling
lips, and faces blackened with powder, are standing in groups, or
lying down around the pieces of artillery. Near the centre of
the line a gray-headed officer, in plain uniform, and entirely unattended,
has dismounted, and is reconnoitring the Federal
position through a pair of field-glasses.

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

It is Lee, and he is looking toward Cemetery Heights, the
Mount St. Jean of the new Waterloo—on whose slopes the
immense conflict is going to be decided.

Lee gazes for some moments through his glasses at the long
range bristling with bayonets. Not a muscle moves; he resembles
a statue. Then he lowers the glasses, closes them thoughtfully,
and his calm glance passes along the lines of his army. You
would say that this glance penetrates the forest; that he sees his
old soldiers, gay, unshrinking, unmoved by the reverses of Longstreet,
and believing in themselves and in him! The blood of the
soldier responds to that thought. The face of the great commander
suddenly flushes. He summons a staff officer and utters
a few words in calm and measured tones. The order is given.
The grand assault is about to begin.

That assault is going to be one of the most desperate in all history.
Longstreet's has been fierce—this will be mad and full of
headlong fury. At Round Top blood flowed—here the earth is
going to be soaked with it. Gettysburg is to witness a charge
recalling that of the six hundred horsemen at Balaklava. Each
soldier will feel that the fate of the South depends on him, perhaps.
If the wedge splits the tough grain, cracking it from end
to end, the axe will enter after it—the work will be finished—the
red flag of the South will float in triumph over a last and decisive
field.

Pickett's division of Virginia troops has been selected for the
hazardous venture, and they prepare for the ordeal in the midst
of a profound silence. Since the morning scarce a gunshot has
been heard. Now and then only, a single cannon, like a signalgun,
sends its growl through the hills.

Those two tigers, the army of Northern Virginia and the army
of the Potomac, are crouching, and about to spring.

At one o'clock the moment seems to have arrived. Along the
whole front of Hill and Longstreet, the Southern artillery all at
once bursts forth. One hundred and forty-five cannon send their
threatening thunder across the peaceful valley. From Cemetery
Heights eighty pieces reply to them; and for more than an hour
these two hundred and twenty-five cannon tear the air with their
harsh roar, hurled back in crash after crash from the rocky ram

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parts. That thunder is the most terrible yet heard in the war.
It stirs the coolest veterans. General Hancock, the composed
and unexcitable soldier, is going to say of it, “Their artillery fire
was most terrific;... it was the most terrific cannonade I ever
witnessed, and the most prolonged.... It was a most terrific
and appalling cannonade, one possibly hardly ever equalled.”

For nearly two hours Lee continues this “terrific” fire. The
Federal guns reply—shot and shell crossing each other; racing
across the blue sky; battering the rocks; or bursting in showers
of iron fragments.

Suddenly the Federal fire slackens, and then ceases. Their
ammunition has run low,* or they are silenced by the Southern
fire. Lee's guns also cease firing. The hour has come.

The Virginians, under Pickett, form in double line in the edge
of the woods, where Lee's centre is posted. These men are ragged
and travel-worn, but their bayonets and gun-barrels shine like
silver. From the steel hedge, as the men move, dart lightnings.

From the Cemetery Heights the enemy watch that ominous
apparition—the gray line of Virginians drawn up for the charge.

At the word, they move out, shoulder to shoulder, at common
time. Descending the slope, they enter on the valley, and move
steadily toward the heights.

The advance of the column, with its battle-flags floating proudly,
and its ranks closed up and dressed with the precision of
troops on parade, is a magnificent spectacle. Old soldiers, hardened
in the fires of battle, and not given to emotion, lean forward
watching the advance of the Virginians with fiery eyes. You
would say, from the fierce clutch of the gaunt hands on the muskets,
that they wish to follow; and many wish that.

The column is midway the valley, and beginning to move more
rapidly, when suddenly the Federal artillery opens. The ranks
are swept by round shot, shell, and canister. Bloody gaps appear,
but the line closes up, and continues to advance. The fire
of the Federal artillery redoubles. All the demons of the pit
seem howling, roaring, yelling, and screaming. The assaulting
column is torn by a whirlwind of canister, before which men fall
in heaps mangled, streaming with blood, their bosoms torn to

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pieces, their hands clutching the grass, their teeth biting the
earth. The ranks, however, close up as before, and the Virginians
continue to advance.

From common time, they have passed to quick time—now they
march at the double-quick. That is to say, they run. They have
reached the slope; the enemy's breastworks are right before
them; and they dash at them with wild cheers.

They are still three hundred yards from the Federal works,
when the real conflict commences, to which the cannonade was
but child's play. Artillery has thundered, but something more
deadly succeeds it—the sudden crash of musketry. From behind
a stone wall the Federal infantry rise up and pour a galling fire
into the charging column. It has been accompanied to this moment
by a body of other troops, but those troops now disappear,
like dry leaves swept off by the wind. The Virginians still
advance.

Amid a concentrated fire of infantry and artillery, in their front
and on both flanks, they pass over the ground between themselves
and the enemy; ascend the slope; rush headlong at the
breastworks; storm them; strike their bayonets into the enemy,
who recoil before them, and a wild cheer rises, making the
blood leap in the veins of a hundred thousand men.

The Federal works are carried, and the troops are wild with
enthusiasm. With a thunder of cheers they press upon the flying
enemy toward the crest.

Alas! as the smoke drifts, they see what is enough to dishearten
the bravest. They have stormed the first line of works
only! Beyond, is another and a stronger line still. Behind it
swarm the heavy reserves of the enemy, ready for the deathstruggle.
But the column can not pause. It is “do or die.” In
their faces are thrust the muzzles of muskets spouting flame.
Whole ranks go down in the fire. The survivors close up, utter
a fierce cheer, and rush straight at the second tier of works.

Then is seen a spectacle which will long be remembered with
a throb of the heart by many. The thinned ranks of the Virginians
are advancing, unmoved, into the very jaws of death. They
go forward—and are annihilated. At every step death meets
them. The furious fire of the enemy, on both flanks and in their

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

front, hurls them back, mangled and dying. The brave Garnett
is killed while leading on his men. Kemper is lying on the earth
maimed for life. Armistead is mortally wounded at the moment
when he leaps upon the breastworks:—he waves his hat on the
point of his sword, and staggers, and falls. Of fifteen field officers,
fourteen have fallen. Three-fourths of the men are dead,
wounded, or prisoners. The Federal infantry has closed in on
the flanks and rear of the Virginians—whole corps assault the
handful—the little band is enveloped, and cut off from succor—
they turn and face the enemy, bayonet to bayonet, and die.

When the smoke drifts away, all is seen to be over. It is a
panting, staggering, bleeding remnant only of the brave division
that is coming back so slowly yonder. They are swept from the
fatal hill—pursued by yells, cheers, cannon-shot, musket-balls,
and canister. As they doggedly retire before the howling hurricane,
the wounded are seen to stagger and fall. Over the dead
and dying sweeps the canister. Amid volleys of musketry and
the roar of cannon, all but a handful of Pickett's Virginians pass
into eternity.

I was gazing gloomily at the field covered with detachments
limping back amid a great whirlwind of shell, when a mounted
officer rode out of the smoke. In his right hand he carried his
drawn sword—his left arm was thrown around a wounded boy
whom he supported on the pommel of his saddle.

In the cavalier I recognized General Davenant, whom I had
seen near the village of Paris, and who was now personally
known to me. In the boy I recognized the urchin, Charley,
with the braided jacket and jaunty cap.

I spurred toward him.

“Your son—!” I said, and I pointed to the boy.

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

“He is dying I think, colonel!” was the reply in a hoarse
voice. The gray mustache trembled, and the eye of the father
rested, moist but fiery, on the boy.

“Such a child!” I said. “Could he have gone into the
charge?”

“I could not prevent him!” came, in a groan, almost from the
old cavalier. “I forbade him, but he got a musket somewhere,
and went over the breastworks with the rest. I saw him then
for the first time, and heard him laugh and cheer. A moment
afterward he was shot—I caught and raised him up, and I have
ridden back through the fire, trying to shield him—but he is
dying! Look! his wound is mortal, I think—and so young—a
mere child—never was any one braver than my poor child—!”

A groan followed the words: and bending down the old cavalier
kissed the pale cheek of the boy.

I made no reply; something seemed to choke me.

Suddenly a grave voice uttered some words within a few paces
of us, and I turned quickly. It was General Lee—riding calmly
amid the smoke, and re-forming the stragglers. Never have I
seen a human being more composed.

General Davenant wheeled and saluted.

“We are cut to pieces, general!” he said, with something like
a fiery tear in his eye. “We did our best, and we drove them!—
but were not supported. My brigade—by brave old brigade is
gone! This is my boy—I brought him out—but he is dying
too!”

The hoarse tones and fiery tears of the old cavalier made my
heart beat. I could see a quick flush rise to the face of General
Lee. He looked at the pale face of the boy, over which the disordered
curls fell, with a glance of inexpressible sympathy and
sweetness. Then stretching out his hand, he pressed the hand
of General Davenant, and said in his deep grave voice:—

“This has been a sad day for us, general—a sad day, but we
cannot expect always to gain victories. Never mind—all this
has been my fault. It is I who have lost this fight, and you
must help me out of it in the best way you can.”*

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

As he uttered these measured words, General Lee saluted
and disappeared in the smoke.

General Davenant followed, bearing the wounded boy still
upon his saddle.

Ten minutes afterward, I was riding to find General Stuart,
who had sent me with a message just before the charge.

I had gloomy news for him. The battle of Gettysburg was
lost.

The sun was sinking red and baleful, when I reached Stuart,
beyond the left wing of the army.

From the afternoon of the second to this night of the third of
July, the cavalry had met that of the enemy in stubborn conflict.
The columns had hurled together. General Hampton had been
severely wounded in a hand-to-hand encounter with sabres, while
leading his men. Stuart had narrowly escaped death or capture
in the melée; and Fitz Lee had fought hilt to hilt with the Federal
horsemen, repulsing them, and coming back laughing, as was
his wont.

All these scenes I have passed over, however. The greater
drama absorbed me. The gray horsemen were fighting heroically;
but what was that encounter of sabres, when the fate of
Gettysburg was being decided at Cemetery Hill?

So I pass over all that, and hasten on now to the sequel.
Memory finds few scenes to attract it in the days that followed
Gettysburg.

But I beg the reader to observe that I should have no scenes
of a humiliating character to draw. Never was army less
“whipped” than that of Lee after this fight! Do you doubt
that statement, reader? Do you think that the Southerners were
a disordered rabble, flying before the Federal bayonets? a flock
of panic-stricken sheep, hurrying back to the Potomac, with the
bay of the Federal war-dogs in their ears?

[figure description] Illustration page.[end figure description]

[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

That idea—entertained by a number of our Northern friends—
is entirely fanciful.

Lee's army was not even shaken. It was fagged, hungry, out
of ammunition, and it retired,—but not until it had remained for
twenty-four hours in line of battle in front of the enemy, perfectly
careless of, even inviting, attack.

“I should have liked nothing better than to have been attacked,”
said Longstreet, “and have no doubt I should have given
those who tried, as bad a reception as Pickett received.”*

It may be said that this is the boast of the defeated side. But
General Meade, when interrogated before the war committee,
stated the exact facts.

“My opinion is now,” said Meade “that General Lee evacuated
that position, not from the fear that he would be dislodged
from it by any active operations on my part, but that he was
fearful a force would be sent to Harper's Ferry to cut off his
communications..... That was what caused him to retire.”

“Did you discover,” asked one of the committee, “after the
battle of Gettysburg, any symptoms of demoralization in Lee's
army?”

“No, sir,” was General Meade's reply, “I saw nothing of that
kind.Ӡ

That statement was just, and General Meade was too much of
a gentleman and soldier to withhold it. He knew that his great
adversary was still unshaken and dangerous—that the laurels
snatched on Round Top and Cemetery Heights might turn to
cypress, if the wounded lion were assailed in his own position.

After the repulse of Pickett's column on the third of July, Lee
had the choice of two courses—to either attack again or retire.
Meade was evidently determined to remain on the defensive.
To engage him, Lee must once more charge the Cemetery
Heights. But a third failure might be ruinous; the Confederate
ammunition was nearly exhausted; the communications with the
Potomac were threatened,—and Lee determined to retire.

That is the true history of the matter.

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

The force which fell back before Meade was an army of veterans,
with unshaken nerves. It required only a glance to see that
these men were still dangerous. They were ready to fight again,
and many raged at the retreat. Like Lee's “old war horse,”
they were anxious to try another struggle, to have the enemy return
the compliment, and come over to charge them!

Then commenced that singular retreat.

The trains retired in a long line stretching over many miles, by
the Chambersburg road, while the army marched by the shorter
route, between the trains and the enemy, ready to turn and tear
the blue huntsmen if they attempted to pursue.

So the famous army of Northern Virginia—great in defeat as
in victory—took its slow way back toward the soil of Virginia.
Never was spectacle stranger than that retreat from Gettysburg.
The badly wounded had been sent with the army trains; but
many insisted upon keeping their places in the ranks. There
was something grim and terrible in these bandaged arms, and
faces, and forms of Lee's old soldiers—but you did not think of
that as you looked into their pale faces. What struck you in
those eyes and lips was the fire, and the smile of an unconquerable
courage. Never had I witnessed resolution more splendid
and invincible. In the ragged foot soldiers of the old army I
could see plainly the evidences of a nerve which no peril could
shake. Was it race—or the cause—or confidence, through all, in
Lee? I know not, but it was there. These men were utterly
careless whether the enemy followed them or not. They were
retreating unsubdued. The terrible scenes through which they
had passed, the sights of horror, the ghastly wounds, the blood,
agony, death of the last few days had passed away from their
memories; and they went along with supreme indifference, ready
to fight at any moment, and certain that they could whip any
enemy who assailed them.

General Meade did not attempt that. He kept Lee at arm's-length,
and followed so slowly that the civilians were in enormous
wrath, and looked de haut en bas on him—on this timid
soldier who had not cut Lee to pieces.

Between Meade, however, and the bold civilians, there was this
enormous difference. The soldier knew the mettle of the man

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

and the army retiring from Gettysburg. The civilians did not.
Meade retained the fruits of his victory over Lee. The civilians
would have lost them.

At Williamsport, Lee halted and drew up his army in line of
battle. The Potomac, swollen by rains, presented an impassable
obstacle.

Meade, following slowly, was met at every step by Stuart's
cavalry; but finally faced his adversary.

Every thing presaged a great battle, and Lee's cannon from the
hills south of Hagerstown laughed,

“Come on!”

But General Meade did not come. Lee, standing at bay with
the army of Northern Virginia, was a formidable adversary, and
the Federal commander had little desire to charge the Confederates
as they had charged him at Gettysburg—in position.

Day after day the adversaries remained in line of battle facing
each other.

Lee neither invited nor declined battle.

At last the Potomac subsided: Lee put his army in motion,
and crossing on a pontoon at Falling Waters took up his position
on the south bank of the river.

Stuart followed, bringing up the rear with his cavalry column;
and the whole army was once more on the soil of Virginia.

They had come back after a great march and a great
battle.

The march carried their flags to the south bank of the Susquehanna;
the battle resulted in their retreat to the south bank
of the Potomac. Thus nothing had been gained, and nothing
lost. But alas! the South had counted on a great and decisive
victory. When Lee failed to snatch that from the bloody heights
of Gettysburg—when, for want of ammunition, and to guard his
communications, he returned to the Potomac—then the people
began to lose heart, and say that, since the death of Jackson, the
cause was lost.

Gettysburg in fact is the turning point of the struggle. From
that day dated the decadence of the Southern arms.

At Chancellorsville, the ascending steps of victory culminated—
and stopped.

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

At Gettysburg, the steps began to descend into the valley of
defeat, and the shadow of death.

What I shall show the reader in this final series of my memoirs,
is Lee and his paladins—officers and privates of the old
army of Northern Virginia—fighting on to the end, true in
defeat as in victory, in the dark days as in the bright—closing
up the thin ranks, and standing by the colors to the last.

That picture may be gloomy—but it will be sublime, too.

BOOK II. THE FLOWER OF CAVALIERS.

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

Crossing to the south bank of the Potomac, Stuart established
his head-quarters at “The Bower,” an old mansion on the
Opequon.

The family at the ancient hall were Stuart's cherished friends,
and our appearance now, with the red flag floating and the
bugle sounding a gay salute as we ascended the hill, was hailed
with enthusiasm and rejoicing.

All at the “Bower,” loved Stuart; they love him to-day; and
will love him always.

His tents were pitched on a grassy knoll in the extensive
grounds, beneath some ancient oaks resembling those seen in
English parks. It was a charming spot. Through the openings
in the summer foliage you saw the old walls of the hall. At the
foot of the hill, the Opequon stole away, around the base of a firclad
precipice, its right bank lined with immense white-armed
sycamores. Beyond, extended a range of hills: and in the far
west, the North Mountain mingled its azure billows with the
blue of the summer sky.

Such was the beautiful landscape which greeted our eyes:
such the spot to which the winds of war had wafted us. Good
old “Bower,” and good days there! How well I remember you!
After the long, hard march, and the incessant fighting, it was
charming to settle down for a brief space in this paradise—to
listen idly to the murmur of the Opequon, or the voice of the
summer winds amid the foliage of the century oaks!

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The great tree on the grassy knoll, under which Stuart erected
his own tent, is called “Stuart's Oak” to this day. No axe will
ever harm it, I hope; gold could not purchase it; for tender
hearts cherish the gnarled trunk and huge boughs, as a souvenir
of the great soldier whom it sheltered in that summer of 1863.

So we were anchored for a little space, and enjoyed keenly the
repose of this summer nook on the Opequon. Soon the bugle
would sound again, and new storms would buffet us; meanwhile,
we laughed and sang, snatching the bloom of the peaceful hours,
inhaling the odors, listening to the birds, and idly dreaming.

For myself, I had more dreams than the rest of the gray people
there! The Bower was not a strange place to me. My brethren
of the staff used to laugh, and say that, wherever we went, in Virginia,
I found kins-people. I found near and dear ones at the old
house on the Opequon; and a hundred spots which recalled my
lost youth. Every object carried me back to the days that are
dead. The blue hills, the stream, the great oaks, and the hall
smiled on me. How familiar the portraits, and wide fireplaces,
and deers' antlers. The pictures of hawking scenes, with ladies
and gentlemen in the queerest costumes; the engravings of
famous race-horses, hanging between guns, bird-bags and fishing-rods
in the wide hall—these were not mere dead objects, but old
and long-loved acquaintances. I had known them in my childhood;
looked with delight upon them in my boyhood; now they
seemed to salute me, murmuring—“Welcome! you remember
us!”

Thus the hall, the grounds, the pictures, the most trifling object
brought back to me, in that summer of 1863, a hundred
memories of the years that had flown. Years of childhood and
youth, of mirth and joy, such as we felt before war had come to
harass us; when I swam in the Opequon, or roamed the hills,
looking into bright eyes, where life was so fresh and so young.
The “dew was on the blossom” then, the flower in the bud.
Now the bloom had passed away, and the dew dried up in the
hot war-atmosphere. It was a worn and weary soldier who
came back to the scenes of his youth.

Suddenly, as I mused thus, dreaming idly under the great oak
which sheltered me, I heard a voice from Stuart's tent, sending

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its sonorous music on the air. It was the great cavalier singing
lustily—

“The dew is on the blossom!”

At all hours of the day you could hear that gay voice. Stuart's
head-quarters were full of the most mirthful sounds and sights.
The knoll was alive with picturesque forms. The horses, tethered
to the boughs, champed their bits and pawed impatiently. The
bright saddle-blankets shone under the saddles covered with gay
decorations. Young officers with clanking sabres and rattling
spurs moved to and fro. In front of the head-quarters tent the
red battle-flag caught the sunshine in its dazzling folds.

Suddenly, a new charm is added to the picturesque scene.
Maiden figures advance over the grassy lawn; bright eyes glimmer;
glossy ringlets are lifted by the fingers of the wind; tinkling
laughter is heard;—and over all rings the wild sonorous music of
the bugle!

The days pass rapidly thus. The nights bring merriment, not
sleep. The general goes with his staff to the hospitable mansion,
and soon the great drawing-room is full of music and laughter.
The song, the dance, the rattling banjo follow. The long hours
flit by like a flock of summer birds, and Sweeney, our old friend
Sweeney, is the king of the revel.

For Sweeney rattles as before on his banjo; and the “Old Gray
Horse” flourishes still in imporishable youth! It is the same old
Sweeney, with his mild and deferential courtesy, his obliging
smile, his unapproachable skill in “picking on the string.” Listen!
his voice rings again as in the days of '61 and '62. He is
singing still “Oh Johnny Booker, help this nigger!” “Stephen,
come back, come back, Stephen!” “Out of the window I did sail!”
“Sweet Evelina,” and the grand, magnificent epic which advises
you to “Jine the Cavalry!”

Hagan listens to him yonder with a twinkle of the eye—Hagan
the black-bearded giant, the brave whose voice resembles thunder,
the devotee and factotum of Stuart, whom he loves. And
Sweeney rattles on. You laugh loud as you listen. The banjo
laughs louder than all, and the great apartment is full of uproar,
and mirth, and dance.

Then the couples sink back exhausted; a deep silence follows;

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

Sweeney has made you laugh, and is now going to make you
sigh. Listen! You can scarcely believe that the singer is the
same person who has just been rattling through the “Old Gray
Horse.” Sweeney is no longer mirthful; his voice sighs instead
of laughing. He is singing his tender and exquisite “Faded
Flowers.” He is telling you in tones as soft as the sigh of the
wind in the great oaks, how

Alas! the cold, chilly winds of the coming winter will blow
over the grave of the prince of musicians! Sweeney, the pride
and charm of the cavalry head-quarters, is going to pass away,
and leave his comrades and his banjo forever!

You would say that the future throws its shadow on the
present. Sweeney's tones are so sweet and sorrowful, that many
eyes grow moist—like Rubini, he “has tears in his voice.” The
melting strains ascend and sigh through the old hall. When they
die away like a wind in the distance, the company remain silent,
plunged in sad and dreamy revery.

Suddenly Stuart starts up and exclaims:—

“Stop that, Sweeney! you will make everybody die of the
blues. Sing the `Old Gray Horse' again, or `Jine the Cavalry!”'

Sweeney smiles and obeys. Then, the gay song ended, he commences
a reel. The banjo laughs; his flying fingers race over
the strings; youths and maidens whirl from end to end of the
great room—on the walls the “old people” in ruffles and shortwaisted
dresses, look down smiling on their little descendants!

O gay summer nights on the banks of the Opequon! you have
flown, but linger still in memory!

In the autumn of 1867, I revisited the old hall where those
summer days of 1863 had passed in mirth and enjoyment; and
then I wandered away to the grassy knoll where “Stuart's oak”
still stands. The sight of the great tree brought back a whole
world of memories. Seated on one of its huge roots, beneath
the dome of foliage just touched by the finger of autumn, I

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seemed to see all the past rise up again and move before me, with
its gallant figures, its bright scenes, and brighter eyes. Alas!
those days were dust, and Stuart sang and laughed no more. The
grass was green again, and the birds were singing; but no martial
forms moved there, no battle-flag rippled, no voice was heard.
Stuart was dead;—his sword rusting under the dry leaves of
Hollywood, and his battle-flag was furled forever.

That hour under the old oak, in the autumn of 1867, was one
of the saddest that I have ever spent.

The hall was there as before; the clouds floated, the stream
murmured, the wind sighed in the great tree, as when Stuart's
tent shone under it. But the splendor had vanished, the laughter
was hushed—it was a company of ghosts that gathered around
me, and their faint voices sounded from another world!

But this is a book of incident, worthy reader. We have little
time for musing recollections. The halts are brief; the bugle is
sounding to horse; events drag us, and we are again in the
saddle.

Those gay hours on the Opequan were too agreeable to last.
The old hall was a sort of oasis in the desert of war only. We
paused for an instant; rested under the green trees; heard the
murmur of the waters—then the caravan moved, breasting the
arid wastes once more, and the coming simoom.

Stuart's head-quarters disappeared—we bade our kind friends
good-bye—and, mounting, set out for the Lowland, whither Lee's
column was then marching.

The short lull had been succeeded by new activity. Meade
was advancing along the east slope of the Blue Ridge to cut Lee
off from Richmond. But the adventure succeeded no better now
than in 1862. Meade failed, as McClellan had failed before him.

The army passed the Blue Ridge; drove back the force sent to

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

assail them in flank as they moved; and descended to Culpeper,
from which they withdrew behind the Rapidan. Here Lee took
up his position, crowned the south bank with his artillery, and,
facing General Meade, occupying the north bank, rested.

Such had been the result of the great campaign, in its merely
military aspect.

Lee had invaded the North, delivered battle on the territory
of the enemy, suffered a repulse, retired, and was again occupying
nearly the same ground which he had occupied before the
advance. Moving backward and forward on the great chessboard
of war, the two adversaries seemed to have gained or lost nothing.
The one was not flushed with victory; the other was not
prostrated by defeat. Each went into camp, ceased active operations,
and prepared for the new conflict which was to take
place before the end of the year.

I shall record some incidents of that rapid and shifting campaign,
beginning and ending in the month of October; then I
pass on to the more important and exciting pages of my memoirs:
the mighty struggle between Lee and Grant.

To return for a moment to the cavalry. It held the front
along the Rapidan and Robertson rivers, from Madison Court-House
on the left, to Chancellorsville on the right. Stuart kept
his lynx-eye on all the fords of the two rivers, having his head-quarters
in the forks of the streams not far from their junction.

I should like to speak of the charming hours spent at the hospitable
mansion near which head-quarters had been established
The sun shone bright, at the house on the grassy hill, but not so
bright as the eyes which gave us friendly welcome. Years have
passed since that time—all things have changed—but neither time
or the new scenes will banish from some hearts the memory of
that beautiful face, and the music of that voice! We salute to-day
as we saluted in the past—health and happiness attend the fair
face and the kindly heart!

I saw much of Mohun in those days, and became in course of
time almost his intimate friend. He exhibited still a marked reserve
on the subject of his past life: but I thought I could see
that the ice was melting. Day by day he grew gayer—gradually
his cynicism seemed leaving him. Who was this singular man,

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

and what was his past history? I often asked myself these
questions—he persisted in giving me no clue to the secret—but I
felt a presentiment that some day I should “pluck out the heart
of his mystery.”

So much, in passing, for my relations with Mohun. We had
begun to be friends, and the chance of war was going to throw
us together often. I had caught one or two glimpses of a past
full of “strange matters”—in the hours that were coming I was
to have every mystery revealed.

Meanwhile Lee was resting, but preparing for another blow.
His army was in the highest spirits. The camps buzzed, and
laughed, and were full of mirth. Gettysburg was forgotten, or
if remembered, it only served to inflame the troops, and inspire
them with a passionate desire to “try again.” In the blaze of a
new victory, the old defeat would disappear.

Such was the condition of things in the army of Northern
Virginia in the first days of October, 1863.

It soon became obvious that Lee had resolved to strike a blow
at his adversary.

How to do so with advantage seemed a hard problem. Between
the opponents lay the Rapidan, which would be an ugly
obstacle in the path of an army retreating after defeat—and the
same considerations which deterred General Meade from attacking
Lee, operated to prevent a like movement on the part of his
adversary.

Thus an advance of the Southern army on the enemy's front
was far too hazardous to be thought of—and the only course
left was to assail their flank. This could either be done by crossing
lower down, and cutting the enemy off from the Rappahannock,
or crossing higher up, and cutting him off from Manassas.

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

Lee determined on the latter—and in a bright morning early in
October the great movement began.

Leaving Fitz Lee's cavalry and a small force of infantry in the
works on the Rapidan fronting the enemy, General Lee put his
columns in motion for the upper fords.

The men hailed the movement with cheers of delight. As
they wound along, with glittering bayonets, through the hills
and across the river, you could easily see that the old army of
Northern Virginia was still in full feather—that Gettysburg had
not shaken it—and that Lee could count on it for new campaigns
and harder combats than any in the past.

The head of the column was directed toward Madison Court-House,
which would enable Lee either to advance directly upon
the enemy's flank by the Sperryville road, or continue his flank
movement, pass the Rappahannock, and cut off his opponent from
Washington.

The advance was an inspiring spectacle. The weather was
magnificent, and the crimson foliage of the wood rivalled the
tints of the red battle-flags, fluttering above the long glittering
hedge of bayonets.

Stuart's cavalry had moved out on the right flank to protect
the column from the observation of the enemy. The campaign of
October, 1863, had opened.

It was to be one of the briefest, but most adventurous movements
of the war. Deciding little, it was yet rich in incident
and dramatic scenes. A brilliant comedy, as it were—just tinged
with tragedy—was that rapid and shifting raid of Lee's whole
army, on Meade. Blood, jests, laughter, mourning—these were
strangely mingled, in the cavalry movements at least: and to
these I proceed.

From the heights, whence you see only the “great events,”
the movements of armies, and the decisive battles, let us now
descend into the lowland, good reader. I will lay before you
some incidents, not to be found in the “official reports;” and I
promise to carry you on rapidly!

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

It was a magnificent morning of October.

Stuart leaped to saddle, and, preceded by his red flag rippling
gayly in the wind, set out from his head-quarters in the direction
of the mountains.

He was entering on his last great cavalry campaign—and it
was to be one of his most successful and splendid.

The great soldier, as he advanced that morning, was the beau
ideal of a cavalier. His black plume floated proudly; his sabre
rattled; his eyes danced with joy; his huge mustache curled
with laughter; his voice was gay, sonorous, full of enjoyment of
life, health, the grand autumn, and the adventurous and splendid
scenes which his imagination painted. On his brow he seemed
already to feel the breath of victory.

It was rather an immense war-machine, than a man which I
looked at on that morning of October, 1863. Grand physical
health, a perfectly fearless soul, the keenest thirst for action, a
stubborn dash which nothing could break down—all this could
be seen in the face and form of Stuart, as he advanced to take
command of his column that day.

On the next morning at daylight he had-struck the enemy.

Their outposts of cavalry, supported by infantry, were at
Thoroughfare Mountain, a small range above the little village of
James City. Here Stuart came suddenly upon them, and drove
in their pickets:—a moment afterward he was galloping forward
with the gayety of a huntsman after a fox.

A courier came to meet him from the advance guard, riding at
full gallop.

“Well!” said Stuart.

“A regiment of infantry, general.”

“Where?”

“Yonder in the gap.”

And he pointed to a gorge in the little mountain before us.

Stuart wheeled and beckoned to Gordon, the brave North

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

Carolinian, who had made the stubborn charge at Barbee's, in
1862, when Pelham was attacked, front and rear, by the Federal
cavalry.

“We have flushed a regiment of infantry, Gordon. Can you
break them?”

“I think I can, general.”

The handsome face of the soldier glowed—his bright eyes
flashed.

“All right. Get ready, then, to attack in front. I will take
Young, and strike them at the same moment on the right flank!”

With which words Stuart went at a gallop and joined Young.

That gay and gallant Georgian was at the head of his column;
in his sparkling eyes, and the smile which showed the white
teeth under the black mustache, I saw the same expression of
reckless courage which I had noticed on the day of Fleetwood,
when the young Georgian broke the column on the hill.

Stuart explained his design in three words:—

“Are you ready?”

“All ready, general!”

And Young's sabre flashed from the scabbard.

At the same instant the crash of carbines in front, indicated
Gordon's charge.

Young darted to the head of his column.

“Charge!” he shouted.

And leading the column, he descended like a thunderbolt on
the enemy's flank.

As he did so, Gordon's men rushed with wild cheers into the
gorge. Shouts, carbine-shots, musket-shots, yells resounded. In
five minutes the Federal infantry, some three hundred in number,
were scattered in headlong flight, leaving the ground strewed
with new muskets, whose barrels shone like burnished silver.

“Good!” Stuart exclaimed, as long lines of prisoners appeared,
going to the rear, “a fair beginning, at least!”

And he rode on rapidly.

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

The cavalry pressed forward without halting and reached the
hills above James City—a magniloquent name, but the “city”
was a small affair—a mere village nestling down amid an amphi-theatre
of hills.

On the opposite range we saw the enemy's cavalry drawn up;
and, as we afterward learned, commanded by General Kilpatrick.

They presented a handsome spectacle in the gay autumn sunshine;
but we did not attack them. Stuart's orders were to protect
the march of Ewell from observation; and this he accomplished
by simply holding the Federal cavalry at arm's-length.
So a demonstration only was made. Skirmishers advanced, and
engaged the enemy. The whole day thus passed in apparent
failure to drive the Federals.

A single incident marked the day. Stuart had taken his position,
with his staff and couriers, on a hill. Here, with his battle-flag
floating, he watched the skirmishers,—and then gradually,
the whole party, stretched on the grass, began to doze.

They were to have a rude waking. I was lying, holding my
bridle, half asleep, when an earthquake seemed to open beneath
me. A crash like thunder accompanied it. I rose quickly, covered
with dust. A glance explained the whole. The enemy had
directed a gun upon the tempting group over which the flag
rose, and the percussion-shell had fallen and burst in our midst.

Strangest of all, no one was hurt.

Stuart laughed, and mounted his horse.

“A good shot!” he said, “look at Surry's hat!” which, on
examination, I found covered half an inch deep with earth.

In fact, the shell had burst within three feet of my head—was
a “line shot,” and with a little more elevation, would have just
reached me. Then, exit Surry! in a most unmilitary manner, by
the bursting of a percussion-shell.

At nightfall the enemy was still in position, and Stuart had
not advanced.

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

We spent the night at a farm-house, and were in the saddle
again at dawn.

The hills opposite were deserted. The enemy had retreated.
Stuart pushed on their track down the Sperryville road, passed
the village of Griffinsburg, and near Stonehouse Mountain came
on, and pushed them rapidly back on Culpeper Court-House.

All at once quick firing was heard on our right.

“What is that?” Stuart asked.

“An infantry regiment, general!” said Weller, one of our
couriers, galloping quickly up.

The words acted upon Stuart like the blow of a sword. A wild
excitement seemed to seize him.

“Bring up a squadron!” he shouted—for we were riding ahead
without support; “bring up the cavalry! I am going to charge!
Bring me a squadron!”

And drawing his sword, Stuart rushed at full gallop, alone and
unattended, toward the Federal infantry, whose gun-barrels were
seen glittering in the woods.

Never had I seen him more excited. He was plainly on fire
with the idea of capturing the whole party.

The staff scattered to summon the cavalry, and soon a company
came on at full gallop. It was the “Jefferson Company,”
under that brave officer, Captain George Baylor.

“Charge, and cut them down!” shouted Stuart, his drawn
sword flashing as he forced his horse over fallen trees and the
debris of the great deserted camp.

A fine spectacle followed. As the Federal infantry double-quicked
up a slope, Baylor charged.

As his men darted upon them, they suddenly halted, came to a
front-face, and the long line of gun-barrels fell, as though they
were parts of some glittering war-machine.

The muzzles spouted flame, and the cavalry received the fire at
thirty yards.

It seemed to check them, but it did not. They had come to an
impassable ditch. In another moment, the infantry broke, every
man for himself, and making a detour, the cavalry pursued, and
captured large numbers.

For the second time Stuart had charged infantry and broken

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

them. Pushing on now through the great deserted camps of
Stonehouse Mountain, he descended upon Culpeper.

The enemy's cavalry retreated, made a stand on the hills
beyond, with their artillery; and seemed to have resolved to
retreat no farther.

Suddenly the thunder of artillery came up from the Rapidan.
I was sitting my horse near Stuart and Gordon. They were both
laughing—indeed, Stuart seemed laughing throughout the campaign.

“That is Fitz Lee!” he said; “he has crossed and driven
them.”

And turning round,—

“I wish you would go to General Lee, Surry—you will find
him toward Griffinsburg—and tell him we are driving the enemy,
and Fitz Lee seems to be coming up.”

I saluted, and left the two generals laughing as before.

In half an hour I had found General Lee. He was in camp on
the Sperryville road, and was talking to Ewell.

It was a singular contrast. Lee, robust, ruddy, erect, with his
large frank eye—Ewell, slight, emaciated, pale, with small piercing
eyes, and limping on his crutch.

“Thank you, colonel,” General Lee said, with his grave but
charming courtesy; “tell General Stuart to continue to press
them back toward the river.”

And turning to Ewell:—

“You had better move on with your command, general,” he
said, in his measured voice.

Ewell bowed and turned to obey—I returned to Stuart.

He was pushing the Federal cavalry “from pillar to post.”
Driven back from the hill, where they had planted their artillery,
they had retreated on Brandy; Stuart had followed like a
fate; Gordon, sent round to the left, struck their right flank
with his old sabreurs; Fitz Lee, coming up on the right, thundered
down on their left—and in the woods around Brandy took
place one of those cavalry combats which, as my friends, the
novelists say, “must be seen to be appreciated!” If the reader
will imagine, in the dusk of evening, a grand hurly-burly made
up of smoke, dust, blood, yells, clashing swords, banging

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

carbines, thundering cannon, and wild cheers, he will have a faint
idea of that “little affair” at Brandy.

A queer circumstance made this fight irresistibly comic.

Fitz Lee had repulsed Buford on the Rapidan; followed him
on his retreat, harassing him at every step—when, just as Buford
reached Brandy, with Fitz Lee at his heels, Kilpatrick descended
on Fitz Lee's rear by the Sperryville road, and Stuart
thundered down on his!

Thus Fitz Lee was pursuing Buford; Kilpatrick, Fitz Lee; and
Stuart, Kilpatrick! It was a grand and comic jumble—except
that it came very near being any thing but comic to that joyous
cavalier, “General Fitz,” as we called him—caught as he was
between Generals Buford and Kilpatrick!

General Fitz was the man for a “tight place,” however—and
“his people,” as he called his cavalry, soon cut through to Stuart.

It was a tough and heavy fight.

“Old Jeb cut off more than he could chaw, that time!” said a
veteran afterward, in describing the fight. And at one time it
seemed that the enemy were going to hold their ground.

Fleetwood, beyond, was lined with bayonets, and every knoll
was crowned with cannon: when night fell, however, the whole
force had retreated and crossed the Rappahannock, leaving the
ground strewed with their dead and wounded.

In the dusky woods near Brandy, Stuart sat his horse, looking
toward the Rappahannock, and laughing still. He was talking with
brave Fitz Lee, whose stout figure, flowing beard, and eyes twinkling
with humor, were plain in the starlight. I shall show you
that gallant figure more than once in this volume, reader. You
had but to look at him to see that he was the bravest of soldiers,
and the best of comrades.

So night fell on a victory. Stuart had driven the enemy at
every step. He had charged their infantry, cavalry, and artillery,
routing all,—and he was once more in sight of Fleetwood Hill,
where he had defeated them in the preceding June.

Singular current of war! It used to bear us onward; but be
taken with a sudden fancy to flow back to the old spots! See
Manassas, Fredericksburg, Cold Harbor, Chancellorsville!

Fleetwood takes its place with them—twice bloody and

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

memorable. In sight of it took place two of Stuart's hardest combats—
and both were victories.

By sunrise Stuart was pushing rapidly up the bank of the Rappahannock
toward Warrenton Springs.

Meade had retreated from Culpeper, and was falling back
rapidly. Lee was pressing on to cut him off in the vicinity of
Auburn.

A hot fight took place at Jeffersonton, a little village beyond
Hazel River; and here the enemy fought from house to house, but
finally retreated.

Stuart followed, and came up with their rear retreating over
the bridge at Warrenton Springs.

On the northern bank the Federal sharp-shooters were posted
in double line.

Stuart turned, and saw, not far from him, the Jefferson Company
who had charged so gallantly at Stonehouse Mountain. A
movement of his hand, and they were charging over the bridge.

Suddenly they recoiled. The head files had stopped, — the
horses rearing. The flooring in the centre of the bridge had
been torn up—it was impossible to cross.

The men wheeled and came back under a hot fire of sharp-shooters.
Stuart's face was fiery.

“To the ford!” he shouted.

And placing himself in front of the men, sword in hand, he led
them through the ford, in face of a heavy fire, charged up the
opposite slope, and the Federal skirmishers scattered in wild
flight.

The Twelfth Virginia Cavalry followed them, and they were
cut down or captured.

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

As the column moved on, Stuart galloped along the line toward
the front.

He had just faced death with these men, and at sight of him
they raised a cheer.

“Hurrah for old Jeb!” rose in a shout from the column.

Stuart turned: his face glowed: rising in his stirrups, he took
off his hat and exclaimed:—

“Bully for the old Twelfth!”

The words were unclassic, it may be, reader, but they raised a
storm.

“I felt like I could die for old Jeb after that,” one of the men
said to me.

Stuart disappeared, followed by tumultuous cheers, and his column
continued to advance upon Warrenton ahead of the army.

He had ridden on for a quarter of an hour, when he turned to
me, and said:—

“I am getting uneasy about things at Culpeper. I wish you
would ride back to Rosser, who is there with two hundred men,
and tell him to call on Young, if he is pushed.”

I turned my horse.

“You know where Young is?”

“On the Sperryville road.”

“Exactly—Rosser can count on him. I am going on toward
Warrenton.”

And the general and myself parted, riding in opposite directions.

I returned toward Hazel River; passed that stream, and the
long rows of army wagons; and as the sun was sinking, drew
near Culpeper.

As I pressed on, I heard the long thunder of cannon coming up
from the direction of Brandy.

What could that sound mean? Had the enemy again advanced
and assailed the small force of cavalry there?

Going on now at full speed, I heard the cannon steadily approaching
Culpeper Court-House. All at once, as I drew near
the village, I heard a tremendous clatter in the streets; a column
of cavalry was advancing to the front—soon the crack of carbines
was heard beyond the town.

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

A short ride brought me to the field, and all was explained.
Colonel Rosser had been attacked by a whole corps of Federal
infantry, and two divisions of cavalry—while his own force was
about two hundred men, and a single gun.

He had offered an obstinate resistance, however, fallen back
slowly, and when about to be driven into the town, Young had
come to his aid.

Then followed one of the gayest comedies of the war. Young
was the author of it. You laugh sometimes still, do you not,
old comrade, at the trick you played our friends on that October
evening?

Young threw himself into the fight with the true cavalry élan.
Dismounting his whole brigade, he opened a rapid fire on the
advancing enemy; and this obstinate resistance evidently produced
a marked effect upon their imaginations. They had been
advancing—they now paused. They had been full of audacity,
and now seemed fearful of some trap. It was evident that they
suspected the presence of a heavy force of infantry—and night
having descended, they halted.

This was the signal for the fifth act of the comedy. Young
kindled camp-fires along two miles of front; brought up his brass
band and played “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” and “Dixie.” It was
obvious to the enemy that at least a corps of Lee's infantry was
there in their front, ready to renew the action at dawn!

The finale was comic—I shared the blankets of the gallant
Georgian that night—when we rose the enemy's whole force had
disappeared.

Such had been the result of the ruse, and I always regarded
the affair as one of the gayest incidents of the war.

When I left the brave Young, he was laughing in triumph.

If your eye meets this page, old comrade, it may give you another
laugh—and laughter is something in this dull epoch, is it
not?

But whether you laugh or sigh, and wherever you may be,
health and happiness attend you!

In the afternoon, I was at Warrenton.

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

I found the general moving toward Auburn, on a reconnoissance.

Meade had been delayed much by uncertainty as to his adversary's
designs—had scarcely advanced beyond the Rappahannock—
and the object of Stuart was to discover his position and
intentions.

That was the work always assigned to the “Eyes and Ears”
of the army—Stuart's cavalry; and the stout cavalier, now at the
head of his column, was on for the railroad, along which the enemy
must retreat.

Another comedy was to follow—which came near being a
tragedy.

Stuart steadily advanced, and about sunset had passed Auburn,
when, as he was riding at the head of his column, a messenger
rode up hastily from Gordon, holding the rear.

“Well!” said Stuart.

“The enemy are in your rear, general!”

“Impossible!”

“General Gordon sent me to say so.”

Stuart turned and galloped back. Gordon came to meet him.

“The Yankee army are in our rear, general,” said Gordon.
“Come, and I will show you.”

And riding to an eminence he pointed out across the fields, in
the gathering gloom, long lines of infantry and artillery moving
toward Manassas.

Stuart gazed at them keenly. As he sat looking toward them,
a staff officer from the front came up rapidly.

“Well, captain!”

“The enemy are in front, general.”

“Infantry?”

“Yes, with artillery.”

Stuart looked at Gordon.

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

“A real trap,” he said coolly, knitting his brows.

“Have they seen you, Gordon?” he asked.

“I think not, general.”

“Well, so far all is well. There is nothing to do but to lay low,
and take the chances of getting out.”

Stuart's voice was never cooler. He looked quietly at the huge
column cutting off his retreat.

“A splendid chance to attack them!” he all at once exclaimed.

And tearing a leaf out of his dispatch-book, he wrote a hasty
note to General Lee. I afterward knew what it contained.
Stuart described his situation, and proposed that Rodes, then near
Warrenton, should attack at dawn—when he would open with his
artillery, charge with his horsemen, and cut his way out.

“A good man in blue uniform now, Gordon.”

Gordon sent off an aid, and the man soon appeared. From
top to toe he was of irreproachable blue; and he listened keenly
to his instructions.

Five minutes afterward he had dismounted, given his horse to
a comrade, and was stealing on foot through the thicket toward
the Federal column. A moment afterward he had mingled with
their column and disappeared.

Other messengers, also in Federal uniform, were dispatched:
the whole force of cavalry was massed, and concealed in the
woods: then darkness descended; and the long night of anxiety
began.

The situation was not agreeable. Stuart was caught in a veritable
trap. On both sides—in his rear and his front—were passing
heavy corps of Federal infantry; their numerous artillery;
and their long-drawn columns of cavalry. Discovery was destruction;
the only hope was that the enemy would not suspect our
proximity. If we were once known to be lurking there, good-bye
to Stuart and his men!

So the long night commenced. The hours passed on, and still
we were not discovered. It seemed miraculous that some noise
did not betray Stuart's hiding-place; but an Unseen Eye seemed
to watch over him, and an Unseen Hand to guard him.

More than once the neigh of a horse rang out on the air of
night; and two or three times the discordant bray of a mule

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

attached to the artillery startled the silence of the woods. But these
sounds were unheeded. They evidently attracted no attention
from the enemy.

Leaning down in their saddles, the men, half overcome by sleep,
but afraid of a rough waking, passed sleepless hours, looking for
the dawn.

Stuart was never cooler. On his horse, at the head of his men,
he betrayed no emotion. You would not have known, except for
his subdued tones when speaking to some one, that he and his
command were in a veritable “tight place.” Cool and resolute,
he was equal to any event. Certain capture or destruction of his
whole force was imminent.

Thus the night glided away. We had not been discovered.
Over the trees was seen the yellow streak of dawn.

I looked round. The men's faces were haggard from want of
sleep. But they evidently felt perfect confidence in Stuart.

He hastened to justify it.

No sooner had light come than he placed his artillery in position.
As it grew and broadened, the enemy were seen just on a
hill in front of us, busily cooking their breakfasts.

Suddenly a single cannon sent its long thunder, dull and reverberating,
through the woods, from the direction of Warrenton.

Stuart rose erect in his saddle, and looked in the direction of
the sound, his eyes glowing.

Another followed; then another; then a long, continuous bellow
of artillery, making the hills echo.

There was no longer any doubt about the fate of the messengers.
Lee had received the dispatches; Rodes had opened on
the Federal columns, attacking as that good soldier knew how to
attack.

Stuart darted to his guns. On his countenance was a grim
smile.

“Attention!” he exclaimed.

The cannoneers ran to their posts, a cheer rose, the next instant
the guns spouted flame; shell after shell in rapid succession
screamed through the woods—and bursting in the midst of the
blue groups, threw them into the wildest disorder.

Stuart did not allow the panic to subside. His sharp-shooters

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opened at the same instant a determined fire; the great cavalier
went at full speed to the head of his column:—then rushing like
an avalanche, troopers and artillery, charged the column in front,
burst through, trampling it as he went, and at a gallop the gray
horsemen, with guns following, broke out; and were again
free.

Stuart was out of the trap. From one of the “tightest places”
that a commander was ever in he had extricated his whole command.

Once in safety, he turned like a wild boar on his enemies. In
ten minutes his artillery had taken a new position—its thunders
had opened—its roar told the army, that his feather still floated,
his star was still in the ascendant.

Such was that queer affair of Auburn. Few more curious incidents
occurred in the war.

A brave officer of the infantry had accompanied us as an
amateur.

“I've got enough of the cavalry,” he said, laughing; “I am
going back to the infantry. It is safer!”

Stuart came back laughing from his adventure.

The army hailed his reappearance with joy and cheers.

They had already split the air with shouts in honor of the
cavalry, on that evening at Warrenton Springs, when Stuart
charged through the ford.

“Hurrah for Stuart!” was now the exclamation everywhere.
And let me add that the stout cavalier keenly enjoyed his popularity.
He was brave and fond of glory—approbation delighted
him. In his ears, praise, sympathy, admiration, sounded sweet.

General Lee continued to press forward, but the golden moment
for intercepting Meade had fled.

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He had not been cut off in Culpeper; he had not been cut off
at Warrenton; he was not going to be cut off at Bristoe, near
Manassas.

Hill had been sent in that direction to intercept the enemy's
retreat, but on the afternoon succeeding the adventure of Stuart,
an ugly blow was dealt him on the banks of Deep Run.

He came up with the enemy's rear guard under their brave
General Warren; assailed it in front of an embankment furiously,
and suffered a heavy repulse.

General Cooke was shot down at the head of his men; the
brigade was nearly cut to pieces; and Warren retreated across
Deep Run, in grim triumph, carrying off several pieces of Hill's
artillery.

It was a grievous blow, and affected the brave Hill deeply.
General Lee was no less melancholy; it is said that he was both
gloomy and restive. It was reported, I know not upon what
authority, that when he and General Hill were riding over the
field, and Hill essayed to explain the unfortunate affair, the commander-in-chief
shook his head, and said in grave tones:—

“Say no more, general—have these poor dead soldiers buried.”

From the hill above Bristoe, General Lee, accompanied by
Stuart, looked out in the direction of Manassas. Not a blue coat
was to be seen. Meade had made good his retreat. Everywhere
he had eluded the blows of his great adversary—and in
parting from him, finally, at Bristoe, had left blood in his footsteps—
the blood of some of Lee's best soldiers.

It is said that General Meade made this retreat under protest—
and that he was everywhere looking for a position to fight.
A Northern correspondent described how, sitting with him by
the camp-fire, General Meade had said:—

“It was like pulling out my-eye teeth not to have had a fight!”

Did he say that? Then he was out-generalled.

But he had succeeded in retreating safely. He was behind the
works of Centreville: Lee had stopped the pursuit.

There was nothing more, indeed, to be done. Lee must retire,
or attack the enemy behind their earth-works. That was not
very promising, and he fell back toward his old camps, on the
Rapidan.

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Nothing prevented the cavalry, however, from “feeling” the
enemy in their new position; and Stuart rapidly advanced to Bull
Run, across which Fitz Lee drove the Federal horsemen.

A raid toward their rear, by Stuart, followed. He moved toward
Groveton; deflected to the left, and crossed the Catharpin
in a violent storm; advanced next day toward Frying-Pan; then
striking the Second Corps of Meade, and throwing it into confusion,
by producing the impression that his force was Lee's whole
army, he quietly retired by the way he had come.

His disappearance revealed all. The enemy perceived that the
attack was only a “cavalry raid,” and were seized with immense
indignation. A picked division was sent out in pursuit of the
daring raiders—and this force of horsemen, about three thousand
in number, hurried across Bull Run to punish Stuart.

They were commanded by the ardent General Kilpatrick:—
what followed is known as the “Buckland Races.”

Such is a rapid summary of the cavalry operations succeeding
the action of Bristoe.

Those readers who cry out for “movement! movement!” are
respectfully requested to observe that I have passed over much
ground, and many events in a few paragraphs:—and yet I might
have dwelt on more than one scene which, possibly, might have
interested the worthy reader.

There was the gallant figure of General Fitz Lee, at the head
of his horsemen, advancing to charge what he supposed to be the
enemy's artillery near Bristoe, and singing as he went, in the
gayest voice:—

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There was the charge over the barricade near Yates's Ford,
where a strange figure mingled just at dusk with the staff, and
when arrested as he was edging away in the dark, coolly announced
that he belonged to the “First Maine Cavalry.”

There was the march toward Chantilly, amid the drenching
storm, when Stuart rode along laughing and shouting his camp
songs, with the rain descending in torrents from his heavy brown
beard.

There was the splendid advance on the day succeeding,
through the rich autumn forest, of all the colors of the rainbow.

Then the fight at Frying-Pan; arousing the hornets' nest
there, and the feat performed by Colonel Surry, in carrying off
through the fire of the sharp-shooters, on the pommel of his saddle,
a beautiful girl who declared that she was “not at all
afraid!”

These and many other scenes come back to memory as I sit
here at Eagle's Nest. But were I to describe all I witnessed
during the war, I should never cease writing. All these must
be passed over—my canvas is limited, and I have so many
figures to draw, so many pictures to paint, that every square
inch is valuable.

That is the vice of “memoirs,” reader. The memory is an
immense receptacle—it holds every thing, and often trifles take
the prominent place, instead of great events. You are interested
in those trifles, when they are part of your own experience; but
perhaps, they bore your listener and make him yawn—a terrible
catastrophe!

So I pass to some real and bona fide “events.” Sabres are
going to clash now, and some figures whom the reader I hope
has not forgotten are going to ride for the prize in the famous
Buckland Races!

Stuart had fallen back, and had reached the vicinity of Buckland.

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There was a bright light in his blue eyes, a meaning smile on
his mustached lip, which in due time I was going to understand.

Kilpatrick was following him. From the rear guard came the
crack of skirmishers. It seemed hard to understand, but the
fact was perfectly evident, that Stuart was retreating.

I had fallen out of the column, and was riding with Tom Herbert.
Have you forgotten that worthy, my dear reader? Has
the roar of Gettysburg driven him quite from your memory? I
hope not. I have not mentioned him for a long time, so many
things have diverted me—but we had ridden together, slept
together, fought together, and starved together! Tom had come
to be one of my best friends, in fact, and his charming good
humor beguiled many a weary march. To hear him laugh was
real enjoyment; and when he would suddenly burst forth with,


“Oh look at the riggings
On Billy Barlo—o—o—ow!”
the sternest faces relaxed, the sourest personages could not but
laugh.

Brave and honest fop! Where are you to-day, mon garçon! I
wish I could see you and hear you sing again!

But I am prosing. Riding beside Tom, I was looking down
and thinking of a certain young lady, when an exclamation from
my companion made me raise my head.

“By George! there's the house, old fellow!”

“The house?”

“Of the famous supper.”

“So it is!”

“And my inamorata, Surry! I wonder if she is still there?”

“Inamorata? What is her other name?”

Tom laughed, and began to sing in his gayest voice,

“That is answer enough,” I said, laughing.

“Suppose we go and see if they are still alive,” Tom said, blushing;
“ten minutes will take us to the house.”

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In fact, I saw across the fields, embowered in foliage, the hospitable
mansion in which we had eaten the famous supper, on
the route to Pennsylvania.

“It is risky,” I said, hesitating.

“But pleasing,” retorted Tom, with a laugh.

And I saw, from his flushed face, that he had set his heart on
the visit.

That conquered me. I never could refuse Tom Herbert any
thing; and we were soon cantering toward the house.

Leaving our horses in a little grove, near the mansion, in order
that they might not attract the attention of any of the enemy's
vedettes, we hastened up the steps.

As we reached the door, it opened, and Miss Katy Dare, the
heroine of Tom's dreams, very nearly precipitated herself into
our arms.

“Oh, I am so glad to see you!” she exclaimed, with her auburn
ringlets dancing, her eyes sparkling,—and taking care to look
at me as she uttered the words.

Then a whole bevy of young ladies hastened out to welcome
us.

Where had we been? Why were we going back? Could General
Stuart intend to leave them in the Yankee lines again? Oh,
no! he could not! He could not have the heart to! Was he
coming to see them? Oh, the sight of gray uniforms was
HEAVENLY!!!

And the young damsels positively overwnelmed me with exclamations
and interrogatories. Eyes danced, lips smiled, cheeks
glowed—they hung around me, and seemed wild with enthusiasm
and delight.

Around me, I say—for Tom and Miss Katy had accidentally
strolled into a conservatory near at hand. A glass door gave
access to it, and they had “gone to examine the flowers,” the
young ladies said, with rapturous smiles and little nods.

Meanwhile, “the wants of the soldiers” were by no means
forgotten. Busy hands brought in china, silver, and snowy napkins.
On the table the waiter was soon deposited, containing a
splendid, miraculous array of edibles, and these were flanked by
decanters containing excellent home-made wine.

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This consumed half an hour—but at last the repast was ready,
and one of the young ladies hastened toward the conservatory,
uttering a discreet little “ahem!” which made her companions
laugh.

In an instant Tom made his appearance with a decided color
in his cheeks; and Miss Katy—well, Miss Katy's face was the
color of a peony, or a carnation.

Shall I reveal to you, gentle reader, what Tom told me long
afterward? He had advanced and been repulsed—had attacked
and been “scattered.” Pardon the slang of the army, and
admire the expeditious operations of the gentlemen of the
cavalry!

Tom was blushing, but laughing too. He was game, if he was
unfortunate. He did not even decline the material enjoyment of
lunch, and having led in the young Miss Katy, with a charmingly
foppish air, took his seat at the table, which promised so much
pleasure of another description.

The fates frowned on us. Tom was unlucky that day, and I
was drawn into the vortex of bad fortune.

Suddenly a clatter of hoofs came from the grass plat in front
of the house; the rattle of sabres from a company of cavalry followed;
and the young ladies had just time to thrust us into the
conservatory, when the door opened, and an officer in blue uniform,
accompanied by a lady, entered the apartment.

I recognized the new-comers at a glance. They were Darke,
and the gray woman.

There was no mistaking that powerful figure, of low stature,
but herculean proportions; that gloomy and phlegmatic face,
half-covered with the black beard; and the eye glancing warily,
but with a reckless fire in them, from beneath the heavy eyebrows.

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The woman wore an elegant gray riding habit—gray seemed a
favorite with her. Her cheeks were as white as ever, and her lips
as red. Her bearing was perfectly composed, and she advanced,
with the long riding skirt thrown over her arm, walking with
exquisite grace.

All this I could easily see. The glass door of the conservatory
had been left ajar in the hurry of our retreat, and from behind
the lemon-trees and flower-bushes, we could see into the apartment
without difficulty.

There was evidently little danger of our discovery. The new-comers
had plainly entered the house with no design to search it.
Darke advanced into the apartment; made the ladies a bow,
which more than ever convinced me that he had been familiar
with good society; and requested food for the lady. She had
tasted none for many hours, and was faint. He would not ask it
for himself, inasmuch as he was an enemy.

He bowed again as he spoke, and was silent.

The young ladies had listened coldly. As he finished, they
pointed to the waiter, and without speaking, they left the apartment.

Darke was left alone with the woman in gray. She seemed to
have regarded ceremony as unnecessary. Going to the table, she
had already helped herself, and for some moments devoured,
rather than ate, the food before her.

Then she rose, and went and took her seat in a rocking-chair
near the fire. Darke remained erect, gazing at her, in silence.

The lady rocked to and fro, pushed back her dark hair with
the snowy hand, and looking at her companion, began to laugh.

“You are not hungry?” she said.

“No,” was his reply.

“And to think that a romantic young creature like myself
should be!”

“It was natural. I hoped that you would have given up this
fancy of accompanying me. You can not stand the fatigue.”

“I can stand it easily,” she said. “When we have a cherished
object, weariness does not count.”

“A cherished object! What is yours?”

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