CXVII. I MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A FAMOUS CHARACTER.
If you will turn, my dear reader, to the famous history which
has immortalized the name of Cervantes, you will find that the
characters of the drama, whenever they fall into difficulties, are
accustomed to bewail, in pathetic paragraphs, their unhappy
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situation, and thus arouse, as far as possible, the interest and
sympathy of the reader.
Had I the genius of the great soldier and historian, I
might here dwell on the most unfortunate chance which had
thus dashed all my hopes, and extinguished, “at one fell swoop,”
all my rosy dreams of soon meeting May Beverley again. But
alas! I am only a humdrum ex-lieutenant-colonel and A. A. G.,
drawing the outline of my life—not a dramatic writer at all.
Thus I am compelled to request the kind reader to place himself,
if possible, in my situation, and to imagine how I felt. I
proceed to relate what ensued.
Farley and myself lay down, but, in spite of the long ride we
had taken, from dawn to dark, felt no disposition to sleep. My
companion at first remained so quiet that I thought he had fallen
asleep; but a few moments afterward I found that this was far
from being the fact. Turning sluggishly over, as a man does
when changing his position during slumber, his lips were placed
close to my ear; and, in a whisper so low that the low singing
of the fire almost drowned it, he said:
“Don't go to sleep—I am going to escape. Don't answer—
listen!”
The guard turned and approached; then, with measured step,
receded. He had evidently heard nothing.
“As soon as every thing is perfectly quiet,” Farley whispered,
in the same low tone, “I will give the signal and spring upon
the sentinel. He will resist, and his carbine will go off in the
struggle—but I will wrench it from him; it is a repeating rifle,
and then let the first man who attempts to stop me look to himself!”
I turned over, as Farley had done, and whispered:
“Give the signal when you are ready.”
He moved his head slightly, and then lay perfectly still, with
his eyes closed; but I could see that he was looking from under
the lids at the sentinel.
One by one all the noises of the camp subsided—the horses
ceased stamping—nothing was heard but the measured tramp of
the sentinel.
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As he turned his back in one of his rounds, Farley rose suddenly
on his elbow and looked about him.
Not a movement among the recumbent figures greeted this
manœuvre, and, as the guard turned, Farley was again apparently
sound asleep.
Once more the sentinel approached; remained a moment
stationary beside the fire, warming his hands; then he turned
his back once more on his round.
No sooner had he done so than Farley exclaimed “Now!” and
rose to his feet. With a single bound he was on the sentinel,
and clutched his weapon, while I caught him by the throat.
What we had anticipated took place. The carbine went off in
the struggle, and in an instant the camp was aroused, and we
were completely surrounded. Farley darted into the shadow
of the trees—I followed—and we commenced running; but
everywhere foes started up in our path, and the moment had
evidently come when we must surrender or die.
At that instant there suddenly resounded in our very ears the
sharp crack of pistols; and, before I could realize the source from
which the sound issued, a wild cheer rang through the wood,
and a party of cavalry-men, in gray coats, rushed into the camp,
trampling over the Federal soldiers, who were seen running to
arms.
What followed did not occupy ten minutes. A scattering and
aimless fire came from the Federal cavalry-men, half of whom
were only partly awake; and then, at the ringing order of a
slender individual, mounted on an iron-gray mare, they threw
down their arms, and offered no further resistance.
The slender personage leaped from horseback, by a camp-fire
burning beneath an oak, and, as he did so, I had a full view of
him. He was a man apparently about thirty years of age, of
middle height—thin, lithe, vigorous, and as active in all his
movements as a wildcat. His face was entirely beardless; his
hair light; his lips thin, and wreathed with a satirical smile,
which showed his brilliant teeth; his eyes gray, sparkling, and
eternally roving from side to side. This personage wore a plain
gray suit, and a brown hat with a golden cord; his only arms
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were two pistols in his loose swaying belt of black leather,
clasped over a red sash.
“Well!” he said, in brief, quick accents, as the prisoners were
ranged in a line by the fire, “how many horses?”
A sergeant touched his hat, and said:
“I think there are about sixty, Major.”
“How many prisoners?”
The sergeant counted rapidly.
“Fifty-five, Major.”
“Where is the commanding officer?”
“Here I am,” growled our friend, the black-bearded; “whom
am I to surrender to?”
“To Mosby,” was the reply of the slender individual, with a
keen glance of his gray eye.
At the name of the formidable partisan, every prisoner turned
quickly and fixed his eyes upon the speaker. Mosby was evidently
their bugbear, and they expected, doubtless, to be shot
without ceremony, so persistent had the Northern journals been
in representing the partisan as a ruthless bandit.
Mosby's thin lips curled satirically. The evidence of interest
betrayed by his prisoners seemed to amuse him.
“See that these men are entirely disarmed,” he said to a
lieutenant, “and then have their horses brought. I am going
back.”
As he spoke, his eye fell upon myself and Farley.
“Who are these?”
Farley advanced, and, with a smile, held out his hand.
“You don't recognize your old friends, Mosby?”
“Farley! Is it possible?”
“Yes, and this is Colonel Surry, of General Jackson's staff.”
I had the honor of being stared at by the prisoners when the
name of Jackson was thus uttered, as Mosby had been.
He saw it, and laughed.
“Glad to recapture you, Colonel,” he said; “as we ride back,
I will get you to tell me your adventures. Captain Mountjoy!”
An officer of erect and military carriage, calm expression, and
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dark eyes, penetrating but sad, advanced at this summons, and
made the military salute.
“Captain, see that the prisoners are mounted and—but you
are as white as a sheet, Mountjoy!”
“Only a little scratch, Major!” was the reply of the officer,
with a smile, but as he spoke his form tottered.
Mosby caught him as he was about to fall, and turned with a
savage glare in his eyes toward the Federal captain, at whom
he shook his clinched hand.
“This man is worth the whole of you!” he growled, “and if he
dies!”—
Mountjoy opened his eyes, and rose erect.
“It was only a little faintness, Major,” he said, smiling. “What
order did you give?”
“Richards will see to it, Mountjoy,” was the reply. “Can
you ride?”
“Without difficulty, Major.”
And he turned toward his horse.
“Hold on a minute,” said Mosby; and, untying the red sash
around his waist, he bound up the bleeding arm of Captain
Mountjoy, and then assisted him to mount.
“That is one of my best and bravest officers,” he said, as he
came back. “But we are losing time. I am going to move back,
gentlemen; take such horses as you like.”
In ten minutes the column of cavalry was moving on, with
the mounted prisoners. Farley and myself rode in front with
Mosby.
He laughed at the narrative of our mishaps, and I found him
a most agreeable companion. Perfectly simple and unassuming
in appearance and address, Mosby was not in the least like the
ferocious bandit which the correspondents of Northern journals
had represented him to be; and it was hard, indeed, to realize
that the laughing personage, with the beardless face and careless
carriage, riding at my side, was the redoubtable chief of partisans—
the terror of the Federal invaders.
“My dear Major,” I said, laughing, as we rode on, “you are
not at all like the bloody wild-boar of the Yankee newspapers.
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I think I could meet you in the woods of `Mosby's Confederacy'
here, without the least fear of having my throat cut or my pocket
picked by you or your gentry—things which our blue-coated
friends yonder evidently expected.”
Mosby laughed.
“That is easily explained,” he replied. “When my men capture
or destroy an army train, the Federal generals are crippled—
they get into trouble at head-quarters—and they defend themselves
by making me out a robber and bushwhacker, instead of
a chief of partisans.”
“That is probably the origin of the whole thing.”
“Undoubtedly. Why am I a `bushwhacker,' Colonel? I am
regularly commissioned by the Confederate States War Department
as major of cavalry; I command regularly enrolled troops;
and I carry on open warfare, under the Confederate flag, and
wearing Confederate gray. Why am I a robber? It is a part
of my duty to capture all the war material of the enemy I can,
including greenbacks, which are used in Loudoun and other border
counties by our Government, and the want of which makes
the unpaid Federal soldiers dissatisfied. I have captured millions,
and I am poorer to-day than when I entered the service.”
“Which certainly pays badly.”
“It pays me well in other ways. No man ever had better
friends than I have in this region and the Valley, both of which
I have tried to defend. I intend to fight for the possession of
the country to the last; and, if the Confederate cause goes under,
I will be the last to lower my flag.”
“Long may it wave over `Mosby's Confederacy,' my dear
Major! and may you always appear upon the scene at a time as
lucky as to-night!”
Thus, in talk about many things, the night passed. At sunrise
I parted with the gallant Mosby, and Farley, who decided
to remain and go upon another scout with him. The horse I
rode was Mosby's parting present to me.
On the same afternoon I came in sight of The Oaks.
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CXVIII. WHICH SOLVES THE WHOLE MYSTERY.
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I Approached the old mansion with mingled sensations—a
hundred conflicting surmises and emotions.
What was the meaning of that summons from May Beverley?
Was her engagement broken off? What could have produced a
consummation so devoutly to be wished? Not Baskerville's
Union opinions. They were fully known to Colonel Beverley,
but had not induced him—fiery as his Southern feeling was—to
refuse compliance with his promise. He had regarded his word
to Baskerville's father as binding, despite these proclivities of
the young man: and thus I was completely at sea for an explanation
of my apparent good fortune.
Such was the puzzled frame of mind in which I approached
The Oaks; and, as a man condemned to death, but hoping for a
pardon, rushes to the prison door to learn his fate, so now the
unfortunate Surry, burning with suspense, put spur to his horse,
and rapidly ascended the grassy hill, upon whose slopes the
fresh spring grass and the first flowers of April were beginning
to peep forth.
The eyes of a girl had seen the rapidly approaching figure
from the window of her chamber, I afterward knew; and as I
entered the wide hall, she stood before me, as bright and beautiful
as a vision of the spring.
Before, the beloved form had glided onward by my side like a
dream of autumn—some dear illusion of the fading days when
the fingers of the wind strip, one by one, the leaves from the
trees, the blooms from the rose, the glory from the landscape of
the mountains. Now she stood before me—with her violet eyes,
her chestnut hair, her form as tall and flexible as the water-flag
upon the margin of the Shenandoah. No longer like a dream—
no more an illusion; but warm and loving, with the deep, fond
blushes, and rosy smiles of a Virginia girl—far better, to my
thinking, than the fairest forms of Dreamland!
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“You sent for me?”
“Yes.”
“Kiss me first, May!”
Did the old portraits look down laughing, with their curious
eyes, at the spectacle of a woman in a man's embrace? I think,
sometimes, that these “old people” see the drama of to-day as
they saw the tragedy or the comedy of the past; that they hear
the sighs or the laughter, see the smiles and tears—are not dead
at all, but ever present with us!
No one but May Beverley had seen me arrive—all the rest
were busy somewhere—and, in a moment, we were seated upon
the portico, and she was showing me some papers—with a deep
flush in her cheeks.
As I am growing old now, my dear reader, and like to “come
to business,” I proceed to lay before you the contents of these
highly interesting documents, without further delay. You will
see that they solved all those puzzling questions which I had
been asking myself upon the road, in a manner—see the novelists—
“as curious as it was unexpected.”
Here is Document No. 1, in the handwriting of Baskerville—
with all the italics preserved:
“Baskerville Villa,
“April 15th, 1863.
“Miss Beverley:
“For some time now it has been plain to me that our engagement
is distasteful to you, and that you wish to be released from
it. Considering the fact that you gave me ample encouragement,
and never, until you met with a person whom I need not name,
showed any dissatisfaction at the prospect of becoming Mrs.
Baskerville, I might be justified in demanding the fulfilment of
your engagement. But I do not wish to coerce the action of
any young lady, however my feelings may be involved, and I scorn
to take advantage of a compact made in good faith by my late
father and myself. I therefore release you from your engagement.
“Hoping that this will meet your approbation, I request that
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you will return the bracelets—turquoise—the diamond ring, and
a breast-pin. In concluding, Miss Beverley, I am willing to bury
all animosity, and to be your friend—and if I can serve you in
any way, it will give me pleasure. I hear that the Union soldiers
have carried off all your servants, which must be a heavy blow
at this time—and as I know personally the officer commanding
in this district, I may be able to get some of them back for you.
If agreeable to you, I will make the attempt—but not otherwise.
“Please reply by the bearer, who has orders to wait until he
gets an answer.
“I am
“Yours respectfully,
“Frederick Baskerville.”
There is Document No. 1. Here is Document No. 2—of which
the young lady had kept a copy:
“The Oaks,
“April 16th, 1863.
“Mr. Baskerville:
“I received your note. Thank you, sir! If I could have induced
you to write that letter by kneeling before you, I should
have knelt to you.
“I am not angry at the terms in which you address me, or the
accusations you bring against me. But do you think it was
manly, sir, to charge me with bad faith, and with `encouraging'
you? I was almost a child when I formed that engagement—
years ago I repented of it, but you would not consent to have it
terminated. You availed yourself of my father's point of
honor in adhering to his word, and you cruelly refused to release
me from a contract which had become absolutely hateful to me,
until—shall I tell you when, sir? You had determined to force
me into this revolting marriage, and remained so determined
until—my property was gone. You compel me to tell you that,
sir—I know your motive as perfectly as though you had expressed
it in the plainest language.
“Your information in regard to the loss of the servants left
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me by my uncle, is entirely correct—not one is left—no, not one,
sir. I am absolutely penniless; and papa, I believe, owes a great
deal of money—so my portion of The Oaks will be absolutely
nothing. You see, sir, I am poor—very poor.
“Do not give yourself any trouble about the servants, I beg.
I am afraid the institution of slavery is unscriptural, and nothing
could induce me to receive them back. Poor things! they did
not know the trouble they caused me, and, doubtless, cannot
understand my heartfelt joy at seeing them safely under the
protection of your friend, the `officer commanding in this district.'
“I return the bracelets, ring, and breast-pin, with some other
little articles, which are your property.
“You are willing, you say, to bury all animosity, and remain
my friend. Yes, a thousand times, sir! Thank you for your
letter, Mr. Baskerville! I am your friend for life.
“May Beverley.”
There is the “correspondence,” my dear reader. What is
your opinion of it? For my part, I would rather charge three
tiers of breastworks, manned with infantry, and flanked by
cannon, than receive such a letter from a woman like May
Beverley. The serene contempt of the production, and the
entire absence of any thing like anger, would have made me rage,
I think.
After reading Baskerville's letter, I had an ardent desire to go
and cut that gentleman's throat. After reading the young lady's
reply, I experienced a good Samaritan inclination to seek him
and bind up his wounds. Why should I force a quarrel on this
best of friends, who had so completely fulfilled my most cherished
wishes? Why should I find fault with those little hasty expressions
which escaped him in the heat of composition? Under
other circumstances, I might have vented all my spleen upon
the affiancé of Miss Beverley; but Baskerville no longer figured
in that character—another individual occupied that relation to
the young lady—and that individual was too well satisfied to mar
the festive scene with blood.
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I had just finished reading the young lady's letter when a
step behind me suddenly attracted my attention, and Colonel
Beverley, erect and smiling, issued forth and pressed my hand.
“I see May has shown you that very discreditable and insulting
letter, and her reply,” said the old gentleman smiling.
“Yes, Colonel; and I hope it changes every thing?”
“Completely!”
And the old cavalier laughed heartily, as a young lady, with
a face all smiles and blushes, flitted through the door, and disappeared.
CXIX. IN WHICH MAY BEVERLEY PASSES AWAY FROM THIS HISTORY.
Have you never observed the fact, my dear reader, that there
is nothing more stupid, in books or life, than happiness? It is
the trials and sufferings of the characters which interest us in
romances—the dear, delightful misfortunes of our friends which
render real life so cheerful and attractive.
Observe, as a proof of this latter statement, that as long as
Lieutenant-Colonel Surry pined away for love of a young lady
who was affianced to another, his ill fortune excited the sympathy
of his friends; and the young ladies everywhere, who
knew his sad predicament, exclaimed with tender voices, “What
a pity!” But just as soon as every cloud passed away, and he
became engaged to Miss Beverley with the full consent of her
parents, all this sympathy disappeared: no more interest was
taken in him, and his friends gushed out in tender commiseration
of the woes of some other ill-starred lover.
So it would be with those unseen friends who will read their
humble servant's memoirs. They would not be amused by the
picture of tranquil happiness: the blushes and murmured words
would appear insipid—the stream, no longer broken into silver
ripples by the obstacles in its bed, would glide on tamely and
without a particle of “the picturesque.”
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So to horse! and back across the border! Other events await
us. Hooker is about to advance—Stuart is in the saddle—and
perhaps, as we cross the Rappahannock again, we shall know
where Mordaunt has been journeying.
Yet ere you shake your bridle-rein, and bid farewell to the
good old Oaks, gentle reader—see, standing there in the April
sunshine, that slender form, as graceful as a flower of the gay
spring forest: that girl with the waving chestnut hair, which the
sunlight turns to gold; the violet eyes of a blue as deep and
tender as the glad sky overhead; with the lips half parted and
as rosy as carnations; the cheeks full of blushes, the bosom
heaving—look at May Beverley, and tell me whether this little
Virginian flower was not worth the trouble which it cost a friend
of yours to place her in his bosom?
I thought so then, when she was the little blossom of “The
Oaks”—I think so still, when she is the queenly rose of “Eagle's
Nest,” with a young flower-garden blooming all around her.
CXX. DIABOLISM.
I REACHED the banks of the Rappahannock without further
accident, and, crossing near Orleans, came in sight of Mordaunt's
camp again, as the sun was sinking behind the Blue
Ridge.
Near the tent stood Mordaunt's powerful black horse, covered
with the foam of a hard journey, and as I dismounted, Mordaunt
issued forth, his uniform soiled with dust, apparently from the
same cause.
But I did not look at his uniform. The proud face riveted
my regard. Never have I seen upon human countenance a more
resplendent expression. Mordaunt's eyes were fairly radiant,
and his swarthy face glowed with passionate joy. There was
no mistaking that look. Here was a man whom some great
good fortune had made for the moment entirely happy.
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“Good!” I exclaimed with a laugh. “Here you are, with the
air of a general who has just whipped the enemy, and cut him
to pieces, after a desperate struggle.”
“Ah?” was his reply with a dazzling look; “do you think so,
Surry? Am I then so gay?”
“You are positively radiant, my dear Mordaunt! Come, tell
me all about it!”
“About what, my dear, fanciful Surry? Upon my word,
you make me think, as I look at you, that one of my old maxims
is more than ever true.”
“What is that?”
“That when we are happy ourselves, the whole world seems
to be as fortunate, and every face beams with smiles!”
“Pshaw! Mordaunt—stop all that talk. Your eyes are really
dazzling—you laugh at any and every thing. Explain! explain!”
“I really have not time, Surry, even if I had any thing to tell
you.”
“What! are the enemy advancing?”
“No, but I have an engagement. I am waiting for a gentleman
who has an appointment with me in half an hour from this
time.”
“Ah? Can you mean—?”
“Our young friend Harry Saltoun? Certainly: you remember
my promise to him?”
“And this evening he is to meet you here?”
“Precisely—and hold! yonder he comes, before the hour!”
As Mordaunt spoke, the young officer was seen approaching
from the river; and very soon he had reached the spot where
we stood. Dismounting, he approached with a firm tread, and
saluted in turn both Mordaunt and myself. His air was grave,
stern, and resolute—his face gloomy and rigid—his eyes steady
and determined, but without menace. He seemed to feel that he
was near the accomplishment of his object, and was resolved to
go through with the work before him, without passion or any
thing like a scene.
Mordaunt greeted him with grave and stately courtesy, bowing
low in reply to his salute. As they thus stood facing each
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other—the youth with his slender figure, his elegant proportions,
his classic face, and collected look—the elder with his tall
and athletic form, his face of bronze, and his proud and noble
glance—I thought that they were the most magnificent types
of youth and middle age which I had ever met with.
“You are punctual, Lieutenant Saltoun,” said Mordaunt, in the
same grave and courteous tone; “it is the politeness of kings
and of gentlemen.”
Saltoun bowed, but said nothing.
“Will you come into my tent, sir?” continued Mordaunt.
“Before making the arrangements which we have agreed upon,
I wish to say a very few words to you.”
The young man's face exhibited a gloomy surprise at these
words, but he simply inclined his head, and, entering the tent,
sat down.
“Will you do me the favor to be present at this interview,
Colonel Surry?” said Mordaunt, as I made a step toward my
horse; “I particularly desire it, and request Lieutenant Saltoun
to agree to my wishes.”
The young man slightly inclined his head—his eyes had never
relaxed their steady and gloomy expression—and I followed
Mordaunt into the tent.
He unbuckled his belt and laid his arms upon a desk, then
leaning his head upon his hand, he said, after a brief silence, and
in the same grave tone, as he gazed with a strange expression at
the youth:
“Before proceeding to make arrangements for the meeting
which you wish, Lieutenant Saltoun, I beg that you will listen to
a few words which it becomes my duty to pronounce. I am thirtyeight
years old, sir, and thus many years your senior. I have
seen in my time the death of many human beings, here and in
the old world. I do not like blood, and especially shrink from
myself shedding it: hence, I am compelled, sir, by my conscience—
even though I offend against every rule of the code—to
ask that you will give me, as gentleman to gentleman, some
explanation of your motive in thus defying me to mortal combat.”
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He paused, and for an instant silence reigned. Then, in a
cold and gloomy voice, just touched with a sneer:
“Is it necessary to explain what an insult means, Colonel Mordaunt?”
said the young man. “I choose to offer you a defiance,
and you choose to accept it, as I expected. Therefore, you
fight!”
“I must fight!” exclaimed Mordaunt. “And for a word, a
groundless taunt, I must kill you!”
“Are you about to break your word, sir?” exclaimed the
young man with a fiery glance. “Beware, sir!”
“Do not threaten me, Lieutenant Saltoun,” was the grave reply;
“you ought to know that my nerves are steady, my repugnance
to this meeting not the result of timidity, but of genuine
and conscientious feeling. If you think me unreasonable, let
our friend—the friend of both—Colonel Surry—decide. I will
abide by his decision.”
Mordaunt turned to me as he spoke, and finding myself thus
appealed to, I said:
“There cannot be a moment's doubt of the propriety of
Colonel Mordaunt's request, Lieutenant Saltoun, and I certainly
think that you are bound to afford him this simple satisfaction
before you meet him, for the ease of his conscience. I declare
to you, upon my word as a man of honor, and the friend equally
of both, that I regard your compliance as imperative in foro
conscientiœ”
These words seemed to produce the desired effect upon the
young man. His face flushed—a flash darted from his eyes.
“Be it so,” he said. “I fight because Colonel Mordaunt has
outraged me—yes! has struck me mortally—to the very heart!”
And something almost like a groan tore its way through the
set teeth of the youth.
“I fight because he has made me wretched by his baseness—
has offered me a mortal insult by his action toward those I love!—
because but for him I would not be here with a broken heart,
an aimless life, a future dark and miserable!”
Not a muscle of Mordaunt's face had moved, but his eyes, as he
gazed at the flushed face of the young man, were resplendent.
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“You mean that I have thwarted you in your affection for
Miss Grafton!” he exclaimed.
“I have not the remotest reference to Miss Grafton!” was
the stern reply; “there is something more beneath this black
affair than the love of a girl! There is more than rivalry,
Colonel Mordaunt—there is infamy!”
And with eyes which fairly blazed, the young man drew from
his bosom a paper which his moist hand clutched with savage
earnestness.
“You demand an explanation of my grounds of quarrel!” he
said; “you ask why I hate you, and intend to drive a bullet or
a sword's point through your heart! Well, you shall know, sir!
You shall not die in ignorance. Read! read, sir! There is the
the record of your infamy!”
And, trembling with passion, the young man held out the
paper, which shook in his stern grasp.
Mordaunt took it from his hand, leaned back in his chair, and
with not a trace of anger, but an air of unmistakable astonishment,
perused its contents.
As he did so, I could see a blush come to his cheek, his eyes
flashed—then grew calm again. When he had finished reading
the paper, he turned back, evidently examining the handwriting,
then he handed it to me, murmuring:
“He is not dead, then!”
The paper was in these words, written in a bold and vigorous
hand.
“Virginia,
April 15th, 1863.
“Lieutenant Saltoun:
“An unknown friend, who takes an interest in you, writes
these lines, to put you in possession of facts which it is proper
you should be acquainted with.
“Listen, sir. You think yourself the son of Mr. Henry
Saltoun, of Maryland. You are wrong. Your father and
mother are both dead—the victims of one man's ceaseless hatred
and persecution—following them to the very brink of the grave.
Would you know the facts in connection with them, and with
your life? Listen:—Your father, whose name you shall one
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day know, lived near Frederick City, and was married, when he
reached the age of twenty-one, to a young lady whom he had
met in Virginia. Before he made her acquaintance she had been
pleased with a young Mr. Mordaunt—now Colonel Mordaunt, of
the Confederate cavalry—who loved her, but had never avowed
his love. Under these circumstances, your mother, then a girl
of only seventeen, was justified in accepting the addresses of
your father, and did accept them. They became engaged—were
married—and the happy pair went to live in Maryland.
“Now mark what followed. Your mother had broken no
faith with young Mordaunt—not a word of love had ever passed
between them—but no sooner had her marriage taken place,
than Mordaunt conceived a violent hatred against your mother
and father, charging the former with deception, and the latter,
who was merely a common acquaintance, with treachery. Possibly
you know Colonel Mordaunt personally—if so, you can understand
that, in a man of his violence of passion, hatred was,
soon succeeded by the desire for vengeance. Not only did that
thirst possess him, but his whole life soon became absorbed in plans
to wreak his hatred upon the happy couple. To achieve this
end, it was necessary to use caution and stratagem; and very
soon everybody was speaking of the touching friendship which
existed between Mordaunt and your father. Mordaunt paid long
visits to his successful rival; played with him for large sums;
lent him money whenever he wished it; and was apparently the
best friend of the family.
“In a year or two, the consequence of this fatal intimacy was
seen. Your father was a gentleman of the noblest character,
and the most liberal disposition—indeed generous to a fault, and
utterly careless in money matters. Mordaunt never asked for
the sums which he had won at cards—he took a note for the
amount, without looking at it, apparently. He never demanded
repayment of money lent—but he had your father's bonds. All
went on as smoothly as possible, not a cloud obscured the friendship
of the two intimates—but, one morning about two years
after the marriage, Mordaunt asked for payment of the sums due
him. A frightful mass of debt at once stared your father in the
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face, and he saw that he was utterly ruined if Mordaunt forced
payment—but there could surely be no fear of that! His good
friend Mordaunt loved him too well to thus ruin him—it was
impossible that he could have the heart to press his claims—so
he laughed and asked for time. Mordaunt grew stormy, and in a
moment the smiling friend was a Shylock. `Pay what you owe
me!' was his unchanging reply; and even when the poor, sick
wife—soon to be your mother, sir—went to Mordaunt and besought
him to have mercy, he refused. The person who related
these events declared that she knelt to him, and that he spurned
her; but this is probably exaggerated.
“Mordaunt's vengeance was now about to be sated. He acted
promptly. Your father's estate was sold to satisfy a deed of
trust upon it, which his enemy held—other claims swept away
every vestige of property which the young married pair owned—
and in the freezing winter of 1844, your father and mother
were driven fom their home, and forced to seek refuge in an
almost roofless cabin in the neighborhood. Here they lived
with an old negress who had followed their fortunes, and now
slaved for them—but soon her care was not necessary. Your
mother, broken-hearted, and worn to a shadow by distress or
exposure to the chill blasts of winter, died in giving you birth;
and three weeks afterward your father followed her. Before
his death, however, he had an interview with Mordaunt, who
now occupied the house in which he had formerly been a guest.
Your father went to beg—yes, to beg—a small pittance for his
infant son—yourself; went in rags, and humbly, to his former
friend; and that friend rose from his wine, to go out to the door
where the beggar—your father—stood, and refuse, insult, and
strike him. When your father sprang at him, and caught him
by the throat, it was the negroes, Mordaunt's servants, who
hurled him through the door, and slammed it in his face!
“I have nearly done, sir. The rest may be soon told. Your
father followed your mother, and you were left a helpless infant,
with no friend but the old negress—with no friend, but with an
enemy. More than one threat of Mordaunt against you reached
the old woman's ears, and fearing the power and cunning of
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this implacable man, the old negress one night took you in her
arms, walked many miles to the house of a rich and childless
gentleman, whose excellent wife was known through all the
country for her kindness; and at daylight you were deposited
at the door of Mr. Saltoun, and duly discovered by his wife.
“You know the rest. You were brought up as his son, but
must have suspected more than once, from some careless speech
or reference, that you were not such. When the war broke out,
you entered the Southern army—and a strange fate has thrown
you with the murderer of your father and mother.
“Such is your real history. You may say that this statement
comes from an unknown source, and may be false throughout.
Be it so. The writer of these lines must rest under that imputation,
for to sign his name here would subject him to the
vengeance of the man whom he has exposed. He may even
know my handwriting, and I would beg you not to let it meet
his eye. One proof of the truth of what I utter I can afford
you. Go to Colonel Mordaunt—look him in the eyes—say,
`What has become of Frances Carleton?'—and mark his face as
you speak. Anger brings a flush to the cheek—the consciousness
of infamy, a deep pallor. If he turns pale at that name,
you can form your own opinion.
“Mordaunt is the murderer of your father and your mother—
the name of the former you shall one day know. I reveal this
mystery, because you ought to know it, to guide your action
after the war. At present you cannot fight Colonel Mordaunt—
he is your superior, and would punish you for even proposing
such a thing, unless you offer him such an insult as will arouse
his hot blood.
“Of that you must be the judge. Be cool, be cautious, but
remember your wrongs!
“A Friend.”
There was the letter. I dropped it in a maze of wonder.
What hand could have framed this web of incredible ingenuity—
of diabolical falsehood? The father of lies himself might
have envied the consummate skill of the secret enemy who
-- 436 -- p519-445
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concocted this story—and, after reading the contents of the paper,
I remained in a state of stuyid astonishment until I was aroused
by the voice of Mordaunt.
“You see I did not kill him, after all, Surry,” he said; “and
this letter is his great blow in return for my lunge that night!”
“Fenwick!” I exclaimed; “did Fenwick write that?”
“Yes—it is in his handwriting, and here is the date: not a
fortnight ago. But we will speak of this hereafter. I have
something else to occupy me now.”
And, as he spoke, Mordaunt looked at young Harry Saltoun,
who remained cold, silent, and threatening.
That glance sent a thrill to my very heart, and filled me with
vague and trembling emotion. What did it mean? I knew not,
but I knew that it was as rapid and dazzling as the lightning
itself.
CXXI. WHERE MORDAUNT HAD BEEN, AND THE RESULT OF HIS JOURNEY.
When Mordaunt spoke, his voice was grave and measured;
but his eyes had still that proud and brilliant light in them—not
for an instant did it change.
“Lieutenant Saltoun,” he said, looking steadily into the cold
and haughty face of the young man, “in this whole affair you
are the victim of a plot so deep and infamous, that no one but a
devil, in human shape, could have framed it. Your lip curls
with incredulity, and some scorn, I think—you naturally suspect
that I am going to defend myself, to offer explanations, to
acknowledge some things, palliate others, and endeavor to escape
the wrath of the son by smoothing over my treatment of the
father. Not at all, sir—I have not the least intention of doing
any thing of the sort. That father, you believe in, never had
any existence. I was never, in my life, near Frederick City,
until I went there at the head of my regiment, last year; your
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mother's name was Frances Carleton—and that is the single
grain of truth in this mass of devilish falsehood!”
Mordaunt's voice sounded deep, sonorous, and rejoiceful, even
when he uttered the name of the woman he had loved. There
was not a trace in it now of the gloom and reluctance which
he had once shown in pronouncing it. Some greater emotion
seemed to have swallowed up every other.
“Give me your attention, Lieutenant Saltoun, and you, my
friend,” he added, turning to me. “I design nothing less than
to narrate my whole life—to conceal absolutely nothing. Then,
when I have done, you shall sit in judgment upon me and my
career—decide in what light I deserve to be regarded—and
then, if I am to fight in this quarrel, why, pardieu! I will fight!
Yes, to the death!”
What was it that made Mordaunt's face, his voice, the very
carriage of his person, as he spoke, so animated, proud, almost
resplendent? I looked and listened with a sort of wonder.
“Of every word I utter, you shall have the proofs!” he continued.
“Oh! be not afraid! You shall have a legal affidavit,
if that is necessary, for every incident! Listen, then, and do
not interrupt me, until I have finished my relation!”
Then, without appearing to observe the astounded looks of
Saltoun, or my fixed regard, Mordaunt deliberately—with
scarcely a change in his voice—related what I had heard from
the lips of Fenwick, on that night in the Wilderness. From the
journal of the poor, betrayed wife, he had learned almost every
thing—he had guessed the rest.
For more than two hours the deep voice resounded—the narrator
continued speaking without interruption. During this time,
Harry Saltoun's face turned red, then pale, at times—he had
leaned forward unconsciously with a fixed light in his eyes—
some vague conception seemed rising slowly like a midnight
moon upon the darkness of his mind.
Mordaunt continued his narrative to the very end, described
the burial of his wife on that night at the Stone House near
Manassas, and then spoke of his bitter years of exile, spent in
looking for his enemy, and then in fighting among the Arabs, to
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drown his wretchedness. Then a few words were given to his
life in Virginia, his career in the army, and his meetings with
Fenwick, whose authorship of the letter was distinctly shown.
Lastly, he returned, all at once, to the subject of his wife's abduction,
and said, in a low voice, which trembled slightly, in
spite of every effort which he made to control it:
“The son, born thus, during my absence, did not die—he is
alive, and well, at this moment!”
“Alive!” I exclaimed; “and have you discovered him?”
“Wait, Surry! Let me proceed, step by step. It is a train
of events I am narrating—hear me without interruption. This
time I am going to give you written vouchers for my statements—
here they are.”
And Mordaunt drew from his breast a leather case, from which
he took and placed before him, on his desk, two or three
papers.
“The first I shall show you,” he continued, “is a note from
Miss Grafton, received a few days since. Read it aloud, Surry.”
I took the paper—it was the same which Mordaunt had drawn
from his breast as we conversed beside the camp-fire, four days
before—and read the following words:
“Elm Cottage,
“April 19th.
“Colonel Mordaunt:
“I have just had a visit from Mrs. Parkins, and she has made
some astonishing disclosures, of the deepest importance to you.
She declares that you have a son now living, and, before she left
me, I succeeded in discovering that you will be able to learn all
about him by visiting a Mrs. Bates, near Frederick City, Maryland,
who is in some way connected with this mysterious affair.
I think that Mrs. Parkins went to Maryland to inquire into this,
with the design of obtaining a reward from you—but she has
now left Elm Cottage, and I do not know where you will find
her.
“You ought to know this without delay—your heart has been
very heavily tried, sir.
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“This is sent by one of your men, who staid last night.
“Your friend,
“Violet Grafton.”
“When that paper reached me,” said Mordaunt, speaking with
an effort, “I procured four days' leave of absence, and went to
Maryland.”
“You found the woman!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, and here is the result.”
He handed me, as he spoke, another paper, which I grasped
with eagerness, and read rapidly.
It was an affidavit from Mary Bates, of Frederick County,
Maryland, that, some time in the winter of 1844, a gentleman
named Fenwick had stopped at her house, with a lady whose
name the affiant did not discover—that the lady had, on the
night of her arrival, given birth to a son—been attacked by
puerperal fever—lost her reason—and was removed, the affiant
always understood and believed, to a private asylum, by her
companion, Fenwick. The son was taken by Fenwick, a week
after his birth, as affiant afterward discovered, to the house of
a gentleman some miles off, and left at his door, with nothing to
identify the child's parentage, unless there was some private
mark upon a watch which had belonged to the lady, and was
placed around his neck by her, in a lucid interval, when she
recognized her child. This watch had been left upon the person
of the infant, affiant knew, and was still in his possession,
unless Fenwick removed it after taking the child away.
The gentleman at whose door the infant was thus left, affiant
stated, was named Saltoun——
I dropped the paper, and looked at Harry Saltoun. He was as
pale as death, and trembled in every limb. By a mechanical
movement, he drew from his breast the watch which I had
brought from Maryland. Mordaunt seized it, and touched a
spring in the handle—the case flew open, and in a private compartment
I saw an exquisite miniature of Mordaunt—younger
and fresher-looking, but a wonderful likeness still—under which
was cut in the golden surface, the words: “For my own
Frances.”
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Mordaunt pointed to it—his cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkling—
and said, in a voice of inexpressible tenderness:
“That is the likeness of your father, Harry—this watch his
wedding present to your mother!”
As he spoke, Mordaunt opened his arms, and the young man
fell sobbing on his breast.
CXXII. BOOTS AND SADDLES
By noon on the ensuing day I was again at “Camp Pelham.”
I hope that the reader approves of the summary style of
narrative—the convenient elision of all those scenes which are
either too dull or too full of emotion to admit of description.
What writer is equal to the task of painting the meeting
between a father and the son who has been lost to him for nearly
twenty years—who dare intrude upon that sacred mystery of
parental love, melting the soul of iron, convulsing the face of
bronze, and bringing tears to those fiery eyes that scarcely ever
wept before?
Nor have we time to pause at every scene—for we are living
over again an epoch crowded with vicissitudes, adventures,
emotions, treading on each other's heels. In the days of peace,
dear youthful reader, you hang around Inamorita, and lay siege
to her in form. But in war you press hands, smile—kiss, it may
be—then to horse, and she is gone! In peace, you follow your
friend's body to the church and the cemetery, where you stand
uncovered during the solemn service—in war, you see him fall,
amid the smoke of the conflict, you groan out “Poor fellow!”
but you are carrying an order, and you never see him more. A
sigh, a tear, a last look at his face—he has dropped out of life,
and the drama roars over him—you forget him. War hardens!
Listen! there is the laughter of Stuart as he welcomes us.
We are again at “Camp Pelham,” and the red battle-flag flaunts
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in the April sunshine as before, couriers come and go with jingling
spurs, officers with clanking sabres—that gay cavalry sound—
and there is the bugle sounding the “stable call” from the
camp near by! As its loud triumphant music rings in the
wind, it seems like a summons to the field of battle—where soon
it will sound now, for the days of conflict hasten.
Stuart greeted me most cordially, asked with deep interest
“how I had left sweet Evelina, dear Evelina?” and then introdued
me to a tall and very courteous officer, wearing the uniform
of a brigadier-general, who was attentively examining a
map of the surrounding region. General William H. F. Lee—
for the officer was that gentleman, a son of the commanding
general—saluted me with cordial courtesy, and the conversation
turned upon a variety of subjects. I don't intend to record it,
my dear reader: if I set down every thing that was said in my
hearing, during the late war, what a huge volume my memoirs
would fill!
There are ten words of General William H. F. Lee, however,
which shall here be recorded. I had spoken of the passion
some generals seemed to have for fighting upon any and every
occasion—with or without object—and General Lee replied:
“Colonel, I would not have the little finger of one of my
brave fellows hurt unnecessarily, for all the fame and glory that
you could offer me.”*
That would make a good epitaph on an officer's tomb—would
it not, my dear reader? But I trust that a long time will elapse
before the brave and kindly heart which prompted the utterance
will need a tomb or an epitaph!
“Well, Surry,” said Stuart, “the ball is about to begin.
Hooker is going to advance.”
“Ah!”
“Yes, look out for your head!”
“He is going toward Chancellorsville this time, is he not, and
General Lee will fight there?”
Stuart made no reply.
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“I merely ask for information,” I said, laughing, “as Chancellorsville
seems to be the strategic point; is it not, General?”
“You can't prove it by me!” was the gay reply of Stuart, in
a phrase which all who knew him will remember his fondness
for.
“Well, I see you intend to seal your lips, General. At least
you can tell me whether, in case I remain a day longer, I shall
have your cavalry as an escort to the Rapidan.”
“Ah! you are preparing the public mind for falling back, are
you? Wait and see!”
“Well, I accept your invitation, General. Oh! I forgot. Miss
Evelina sent her warmest regards to you—provided I did not
tell you her name!”
“Out with it! Who is she?”
“Her name is Incognita, and she lives in Dreamland. She
sent you this bunch of flowers, with the message that she wishes
she was a man, that she might follow your feather!”
Which were exactly the words of Miss May Beverley at our
parting.
Stuart laughed, put the flowers in his button-hole, and said:
“A man! I'm much mistaken if you are not very well satisfied
with her as she is. Well, give my love to her when you see
her, Surry, and tell her I mean to be present at her wedding!”
The promise was carried out; and, although she blushed
then, May boasts to-day that she kissed the “flower of cavaliers.”
But I anticipate. Stuart had hardly uttered the words above
recorded, when a courier came in in haste, and handed him a
dispatch. He read it, and, turning to General W. H. F. Lee,
said:
“General, get your men in the saddle. Hooker is moving!”
eaf519n101* His words.
-- 443 -- p519-452
CXXIII. IN WHICH BOGY, MOONSHINE, AND SNAKEBUG ALL “GO UNDER. ”
[figure description] Page 443.[end figure description]
Stuart was in the saddle before daylight, and his head-quarters
disappeared as if a wind had blown them away. “Camp
Pelham” was no more.
As we passed through the Court-House, en route for the Rappahannock,
Farley was seen rapidly approaching, and very soon
he was in eager, confidential conversation with Stuart. I afterward
ascertained that he had penetrated the Federal camps,
procured important intelligence, dogged the enemy as they
moved, and, crossing the river in the midst of their cavalry column,
which he was enabled to do safely by wrapping his oil-cloth
closely around him, reached General Stuart in time to put
him in possession of most valuable information.
As we approached Stevensburg, a little village to the right of
Brandy Station, the long, dark columns of Stuart's main body of
cavalry were seen drawn up in line of battle in the fields.
General W. H. F. Lee came to meet us, and his report no
longer left any doubt of the situation.
Hooker was moving with the Fifth, Eleventh, and Twelfth
Corps of his army, by way of Kelly's Ford, and had already
crossed; General Sedgwick,* as prisoners reported, was ordered
to cross simultaneously at Fredericksburg with the First, Third,
and Sixth Corps, to hold Lee in check there; and General
Couch, with the Second Corps, was opposite Banks's Ford, below
Chancellorsville, ready to cross and unite with Hooker, as soon
as he had passed the Rapidan. As we subsequently ascertained,
General Sedgwick had orders, as soon as the main column crossed
above, to return to the northern bank of the river at
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Fredericksburg, march up the stream, cross over at United States Ford
opposite Chancellorsville, and unite, like Couch, with Hooker.
Then the whole Federal army would be safely across the Rappahannock
directly upon General Lee's flank; and that commander
must retreat upon Richmond, or fight upon ground
selected by his adversary.
At the moment when I went, in company with Stuart, toward
the Rappahannock, this design was not developed: but the
work before the cavalry was plain enough. Hooker's infantry
column was supported by a heavy force of cavalry, under General
Stoneman—destined, as we soon found, to strike at the Virginia
Central Railroad, near Gordonsville; and to check, if possible,
this dangerous movement, was a main part of Stuart's task.
The remainder was to hang upon the front and flanks of the
infantry, harass their march, and impede, in every manner, their
advance, until General Lee was ready to meet them upon his
own ground.
Such is a brief and rapid résumé of the situation. From
the generalization of the historian, I now descend to that description
of scenes and incidents which is the province of the
memoir writer.
Stuart took command of his column and advanced toward
Kelly's Ford, where Hooker had already crossed.
As the sun rose, we could see from a hill the dense masses of
Federal infantry crowding the banks of the river—their heavy
parks of artillery ready to move—and their glittering cavalry
drawn up in line of battle. It seemed a veritable invasion of
Attila. The task of breaking to pieces that mighty war-machine,
bristling with cannon, bayonets, and sabres, appeared almost
hopeless. Soon it began to move, to the resounding music of
the magnificent bands; and, above the hum of the multitude and
the roll of the drums, rose the clear and ringing blasts of the
cavalry bugles.
Did you ever see three army corps in motion, my dear reader?
It is a splendid spectacle, and you take a peculiar interest in it
when you know that they must be met and driven back at the
point of the bayonet!
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Again I recognized that day in Stuart, as I had often recognized
before, the splendid faculties which indicate the born
master of the art of war. An eye that took in at a glance every
trait of the ground; a coolness in making his dispositions, so
perfect that it resembled apathy; but a recklessness, when once
engaged, which many would call rashness—there is what I saw
in Stuart. He handled his command as the perfect swordsman
grasps his trusty weapon, ready to parry or strike; and as he
rode on to the front, the exclamation of the men, “There goes
old Stuart, boys! it's all right!” indicated that confidence in his
generalship, which many an arduous and trying scene had impressed
them with. They saw before them the guiding mind,
and saluted it, as I did. In the stout young cavalier, so gay and
boyish upon ordinary occasions, these fiery spirits recognized
their master; and the cheers which greeted him as he went on to
the front, said plainly: “We are ready to live or die with you!”
In fifteen minutes after Stuart's arrival, his advance had
struck the enemy; and in front of the dismounted sharpshooters
I saw the tall form of Mordaunt, as, riding slowly up and down,
amid a storm of bullets, he cheered on the men.
“Look at Mordaunt yonder—always at the front!” said
Stuart.
And, humming a song,* he rode down to the line of sharpshooters,
which had now become hotly engaged.
“Well, Mordaunt,” he said, “how are things going? Can
you hold your ground?”
“For half an hour, General—not longer. They are bringing
up a heavy force to attack me, and I suppose I shall have to fall
back.”
“Don't retire until you are forced to. Who commands the
sharpshooters yonder on your right?”
“Lieutenant Saltoun.'
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“He's made of the right stuff. Look! he is advancing!”
In fact, Harry Saltoun, by which name I shall continue to call
him, was seen pressing forward in front of his line, amid a hail-storm
of balls, waving his sabre, and cheering.
Stuart galloped toward him, and was soon at his side.
“How goes it, Saltoun!”
“Glorious, General!” exclaimed the youth; “we are driving'
em!”
As he spoke, a bullet passed through his hat, and he burst into
a laugh.
“Look, General!” he exclaimed, “the rascals have spoiled
my best hat!—but we've spoiled some of their blue coats!”
A loud hurrah from the sharpshooters resounded as he spoke,
and, as the enemy fell back, a column of cavalry, sent by Stuart,
swept down, at full gallop, upon their right flank, and threw
them into wild disorder.
We galloped to the point, and found the column in possession
of a long train of wagons, which had moved by a parallel road
toward the front; and the men were now seen striking their
teams with their sabres, to force them into a gallop, and so
secure the prize. Others, however, had yielded to the passion
for plunder, and, as I came opposite a fine wagon, evidently belonging
to some general's head-quarters, I saw our old friend,
Captain Bogy, dart toward it like a hawk swooping at a fat
chicken. At the same moment, Moonshine and Snakebug, couriers at head-quarters, who had scented the plunder, also appeared
upon the scene—and, leaping from their horses, plunged,
head foremost, into the wagon. Bogy followed, or rather led
them, intent on booty; and then, what I saw was this—three
bodies, half concealed under the canvas covering, and six legs,
kicking in the air, as the bold raiders rapidly rifled the rich contents
of the wagon.
Saw plainly—but saw for an instant only! Fast approached
the relentless and implacable fate!
Even as Bogy's fat legs kicked the unresisting air; even as
Moonshine's hands were seen transferring valuable articles to his
capacious pockets, and Snakebug's form was disappearing wholly
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in the wagon, at this interesting crisis came the hand of
Destiny!
A line of Federal infantry swept forward at a double-quick;
a tremendous volley resounded; and, as I fell back with the
cavalry, I saw rough hands grasp the fat legs of Bogy—sharp
bayonets prick the astonished backs of his co-laborers—with one
fell rush the blue stream roared over them—and Bogy, Moonshine,
Snakebug yielded and “went under,” never more to reappear
in this history.
They were “game to the last”—those brave, heroic spirits!
They stuck to their great principle even in that hour of peril—
their principle that “Yankee wagons” were made to be plun-dered,
and that every good Southerner ought to “go through”
the same, wherever found, or perish in the attempt!
eaf519n102* When I came to this name, in reading the MS. of these memoirs, Colonel Surry
said: “I remember a bon-mot of General Sedgwick about Stuart, which I have on
good authority. One day, when he was speaking of the Southern generals, he said:
`Stuart is the very best cavalry officer that ever was foaled in North America!' ”
eaf519n103* Colonel Surry expressed to me his fear that these descriptions of General Stuart's
personal habits would be regarded by many, who did not know their accuracy, as the
product of the writer's fancy. I can myself testify, however, to their fidelity, having
had the honor of seeing the great cavalier in many battles, and of witnessing his
peculiarities.
CXXIV. THE LAST OF FARLEY.
The hard work had now begun, and, in every portion of the
field, Stuart was obstinately opposing the advance of the enemy—
spending dispatch after dispatch, as the morning wore on, to
General Lee.
The enemy continued to press him back, as their heavy masses
surged forward, but he fell back fighting over every foot of
ground, and inflicting very serious loss upon them.
During the movement, Stuart was everywhere, cheering the
men, holding his line steady, and animating all by his splendid
gayety and courage. In the dazzling blue eyes you could see the
stubborn will that would not bend—the steady flame, which
showed how dangerous this man was when aroused. In front
of his sharpshooters or charging at the head of his column, as
he met, sabre to sabre, the on-coming enemy, Stuart resembled,
to my eyes, the incarnate genius of battle.
But I hasten on in my narrative. I cannot describe the
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master-movements of the great commander of the Virginia
cavalry—vindicating here, as on many another hard-fought field,
the supreme genius for war which lay beneath that laughing
eye, that boyish manner. I do not even think of Stuart
now, when I go back to those days—my memory dwells with a
lingering and sorrowful glance upon the form of one who
there, in that unknown skirmish, gave his young life to his
country.
By the side of Stuart, in the thickest of the fight, was Farley;
and never have I seen, upon human face, an expression of enjoyment
more supreme than on the young South Carolinian's as he
rode amid the bullets. The soft, dark eyes, habitually so mild
and gentle, flashed superbly at that moment; the mobile lips
were smiling—the whole face glowing and resplendent with the
fire of battle. As he galloped to and fro, pointing out to Stuart
every movement of the enemy—the position of their batteries,
which now had opened with a heavy fire of shell, and the direction
taken by the cavalry, moving on the flank—his eyes flamed,
his cheek burned hot. Never have I seen a more perfect model
of a soldier.
“There they come, General!” he exclaimed, as a dark line
was seen advancing on the left, in order of battle. “Oh! if
Pelham were only here!”
Suddenly, the fierce rush of a shell filled the air with its unearthly
scream—a crash, accompanied by a low cry, succeeded—
and Farley's horse was hurled to the ground, a crushed and
bleeding mass, which writhed to and fro in a manner frightful to
see.
Beside him lay the young man—already dying.
The shell had struck him upon the side of the knee—torn off
his leg—and, as we hurried to him, he was gasping in the agonies
of death.
“Farley!” exclaimed Stuart, leaping to the ground beside
him, “look at me, Farley!”
The eyes, over which the mists of death were creeping, slowly
opened—a flash of the old fire shone in them—and, half extending
his arms, the dying officer murmured:
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“Send me home to my mother!”*
Then his head fell back. He was dead.
Stuart gazed at him for an instant, with a flush upon his face—
muttered something in a low, deep voice—and then, making a
motion to some cavalry-men to take up the body, slowly got into
the saddle again.
As he did so, I heard him murmur:
“Serving on my staff seems fatal!”
More than ever was the truth of this shown afterward:
Price, killed at Chancellorsville; Fontaine, at Petersburg;
Hardeman Stuart, Pelham, Turner, and others gone before
them! And now, Farley had passed away, in the very opening
of the fight!
The leg of the young man, which had been torn off by the
shell—boot and all—was placed beside his body in the ambulance;
† and, that evening, I bent over him, and looked into the
cold, pale face, with thoughts too deep for tears.
Pelham—Farley—who would die next?
“Farewell!” I could only say, as I got into the saddle to
avoid capture by the advancing enemy, “farewell, brave Farley!
Somewhere yonder, past the sunset and the night, I hope to
meet you, and see your smile again!”
eaf519n104* His words.
eaf519n105† Fact.
CXXV. THE ABDUCTION.
A shower of balls hissed around me, as I rode on with the
rear-guard, falling back toward the Rapidan.
I was at the side of Mordaunt, who commanded the rear, and
he slowly retired, in obedience to orders, showing his teeth, as
the enemy pressed him, at every step. Near by was Harry
Saltoun, covered with dust, but “gay and happy” as before.
“A tough business, keeping these fellows back, Surry,” said
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Mordaunt, coolly. “I don't like this part of a soldier's work—
falling back in face of an enemy—nor do the men like it.”
“You are right.”
“The genius of the South is for attack. We do wrong in not
invading.”
“And Jackson agrees with you.”
“That is a great compliment to my understanding, for your
general is `the foremost man of all this world!' ”
The sun was disappearing now, and the enemy proceeded more
cautiously. Mordaunt had much less trouble in keeping them
back—his command retired slowly in column of fours, ready to
meet any assault with the sabre—and we talked.
“I have one or two things to tell you, Surry,” Mordaunt now
said, as he rode on; “and first, do you know that we made a
curious blunder in imagining that there was any love-affair between
Harry and Miss Grafton?”
“Ah?—and yet I remember what he said one day to me—how
he looked.”
“After that fight above Barbee's, was it not?—last November?”
“Yes; when I uttered the name of Miss Grafton he colored to
the eyes.”
“Are you certain?”
“Perfectly.”
“See how treacherous is the memory, Surry! You did
not pronounce that name at all, my friend—you spoke of his
“nurse,” under the impression, doubtless, that, in compliance
with my request made in that note when Harry was wounded,
Miss Grafton had nursed him.”
“Did she not?”
“No—he has told me all, not only what took place at Elm
Cottage, but even his conversation with you.”
“What took place?”
“He was nursed during his illness by another young friend of
ours.”
“You mean—?”
“Miss Henrietta Fitzhugh.”
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“Is it possible! Now I see it all. How very stupid I was to
thus jump at my conclusions!”
“Not at all. Your supposition was the most natural in the
world, and it was mine also.”
“Well! well! So the youngster has gone and fallen in love
with that little witch, has he?” I said. “I might have known
that he would—she just suits him—and you see, after all, Mordaunt,
I was right in declaring in our talk together at your
house, that there was very little probability of any love-affair
existing between him and Miss Violet.”
“I confess that you were right and I was wrong,” replied
Mordaunt.
“So Harry is a victim to Miss Henrietta's bright eyes; and
she—does she love him?”
“At least they are engaged to be married,” said Mordaunt.
“Good!” I laughed. “Everybody seems about to be married
these times! And so that is what you had to tell me, Mordaunt?”
“Only a part.”
And the face of the speaker became overshadowed. For
some moments he preserved a gloomy silence, then he said:
“What I have now to inform you of, friend, is far less agreeable.
Violet Grafton has disappeared from Elm Cottage.”
“Disappeared! What do you mean, Mordaunt?” I exclaimed.
“I mean exactly what I have said, Surry. The young lady is
gone, and no one can tell whither, except that her route led in
the direction of Maryland. There is even something worse.
Her companion was the woman Parkins!”
And Mordaunt's face grew cold and threatening as he spoke.
“Listen,” he said; “a few words will explain every thing.
An hour after you left me on your return from beyond the
river, one of my men who had been scouting toward Manassas,
and stopped at Elm Cottage on his return, brought a note to me
from Mrs. Fitzhugh, inquiring whether I knew any thing which
could take Miss Grafton to Maryland, and asking the character
of this woman Parkins. The note informed me that the young
lady had set out several days before, in the direction of
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Maryland, traveling in a small vehicle driven by that woman; and, in
spite of all Mrs. Fitzugh could do, she had not been able to extract
from Miss Grafton the object of her journey. She maintained
complete silence upon every thing connected with it—only declaring that she was compelled by a sense of duty to
go.”
“Good heavens, Mordaunt!” I said, after listening to this
statement; “as sure as fate, that devil Fenwick is at the bottom
of this scheme.”
“You are right,” muttered Mordaunt, and I could see his face
grow pale, his eyes flash. “There is no manner of doubt about
it. And to think that I was yonder—perhaps within a few miles
of her—perhaps passing in front of some den in which she was
a prisoner! Surry!” he exclaimed, hoarse with passion, “when
I next encounter that man, I swear by all that is sacred, that I
will never leave him until I see his black heart's blood gushing
out before my eyes, and his face cold in death!”
There was something ferocious in the tone and look of Mordaunt,
as he spoke—he breathed heavily—his brow was covered
with icy sweat.
“You understand, now,” he said more coolly. “The young
girl is his power at last—the victim of some devilish plot—
and I am here, chained at my work—I cannot go to her succor.
But, if God spares my life, I will be by her side before many
days. Then I'll settle my account with that human devil, once
for all!”
“And you could do nothing when that news reached you!
You could only rage and submit!” I exclaimed.
“No—something is done,” was his reply. “I have sent Achmed
to Elm Cottage, to strike the trail and follow wherever it
leads.”
“Achmed! Did you make a good selection?”
“Yes. I see you do not know the boy. He is like a sleuthhound
in pursuit of his adversary; and, if any thing can be discovered,
he will discover it. Besides, he has an additional
motive besides his love for me—you know what I mean?”
“Yes, his love for the girl.”
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“That will spur him on, night and day; and, if any trace of
her route is left, he will discover it. He set out in an hour after
I received the note from Mrs. Fitzhugh, and by this time he is
following like a bloodbound on the trail.”
Mordaunt's information plunged me into deep and gloomy
thought. Once more that cunning and unscrupulous foe had
thus risen to the surface, from that ooze of darkness in which he
had been concealed so long—again, Fenwick was actively pursuing
his love and vengeance, in spite of that sword-thrust, which
would have put an end to any other human being—pursuing his
aims, too, with a cunning and success which he had never before
equalled? Truly, the sleepless enmity of this secret foe was
something supernatural almost—partaking of the implacable ire
of the mythologic deities! What would be the result? Would
the lion yield to the serpent—the eagle be pierced to the heart
by the vulture? Would Mordaun's life be made dark at the
moment when the discovery of his son had changed his whole
nature, and come like a burst of sunshine to light up his gloomy
life?
“It is impossible!” I murmured; “the Almighty would not
permit such an enormity!”
An hour afterward I had left Mordaunt to join General Stuart
again, having first received a promise from him that, if any intelligence
reached him in relation to Miss Grafton, he would send
me word. When I pressed his strong hand, the nerves were as
firm and collected as ever—but upon his swarthy face I saw the
ineradicable traces of love, and approaching vengeance.
Rejoining Stuart on the road to Raccoon Ford, I found him
giving orders to General W. H. F. Lee to fall back with his
column in the direction of Gordonsville, to protect the Central
Railroad from Stoneman's great cavalry raid. How vigorously
and successfully this work was accomplished is known to all. With
a small and half-armed body of cavalry, mounted upon broken-down
horses, Lee met, repulsed, and drove back to the Rapidan
the great force of Stoneman. With any thing like an equal
body of cavalry, he would have cut off and captured the whole
command.
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Before midnight I had crossed at Raccoon Ford with Stuart,
and we were galloping toward Chancellorsville.
Hooker had passed the Rapidan at Germanna Ford, and was
hastening on in the same direction.
CXXVI. HOOKER IN HIS DEN.
The events which I have just narrated took place on Wednesday,
the 28th of April, and on Thursday morning the advance
corps of the Federal column from Kelly's Ford was in line of
battle near Chancellorsville.
Sedgwick had also crossed at Fredericksburg, to hold Lee in
check there; and Jackson had drawn up his corps to meet him.
On Thursday evening, however, it became apparent that
General Sedgwick's movement was merely a demonstration to
cover Hooker's main advance above, and Jackson was ordered to
leave one division at Fredericksburg, and with the rest move
rapidly toward Chancellorsville.
The order of General Lee directed him to “attack and repulse
the enemy.” To carry out this order, he had about ten or
fifteen thousand men. General Hooker had about one hundred
and twenty thousand.
Jackson moved at midnight, on Thursday, toward Chancellorsville,
and at daylight reached the Tabernacle Church, within a
few miles of the place, where he was joined by a division and
two brigades under Anderson, which had fallen back before the
enemy from the Rappahannock.
As soon as he received this re-enforcement, and all was ready,
Jackson formed line of battle across the plank-road leading
through the Wilderness, and steadily advanced to assail the
enemy.
Hooker's position was almost impregnable. He had rapidly
thrown up heavy works fronting west, south, and east, with the
Chancellorsville house behind the centre—and in front of these
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defences the thickets of this strange country had been cut down,
so as to form a bristling abatis, and prevent all approach.
Beyond this abatis was the dense, tangled, impassable undergrowth,
penetrated only by a few narrow roads—and these
avenues were commanded by the grim muzzles of artillery.
Hooker was a veritable tiger in his lair—Lee would attack at
his peril—and Jackson soon found that he could not drive his adversary
from this formidable stronghold. His advance came
speedily in contact with the enemy's works, and a hurricane of
shell tore through the ranks, inflicting considerable loss. To
advance and charge the works was absolutely impossible—the
thickets were impenetrable—and, after carrying on a desultory
warfare for some hours, Jackson gave up the attempt to assail
Hooker from that quarter, and waited for the arrival of General
Lee.
The commanding general arrived at nightfall, having left only a
small force to hold the heights of Fredericksburg; and Jackson
and himself were speedily in consultation. The condition of
affairs was critical. Longstreet's corps was at Suffolk, below
Richmond, and Lee had less than thirty-five thousand troops
with which to attack an enemy numbering one hundred and fifty
thousand, behind impregnable earthworks. And yet that attack
must be made—Hooker must be driven from Chancellorsville, or
Lee must retreat.
It was under these circumstances that Jackson suggested an
attempt to turn, by a swift and secret march, the right flank of
the enemy west of Chancellorsville, while another column
attacked in front. Colonel Pendleton, the chief of staff, informed
me that this suggestion was Jackson's—and it was
adopted by General Lee.
On the same night, every preparation was made for the movement.
Amid the weird shades of the Wilderness, the two formidable
adversaries were now about to close in a breast-to-breast conflict.
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CXXVII. THE WING OF THE DEATH-ANGEL.
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Every incident of that period is now engraved upon my
memory in characters which no lapse of time can efface. I had
reached the most tragic moment of a bloody epoch—the great
figure I had followed so long was about to disappear amid the
lurid smoke of battle—and, going back in memory to those hours,
I recall every event, every word, every glance, to be treasured
up forever in the depths of the heart.
It was the night preceding the great flank-march which was
to overthrow and break in pieces the strength of Hooker.
Jackson, weary with his hard day's fighting, and his long and
anxious consultation with General Lee, stretched himself flat
upon his breast, by a camp-fire, beneath a tree, and seemed about
to fall asleep.
Looking at him, I observed that he was lying upon the bare
ground, and I called his attention to the fact, telling him that
he would certainly take cold.
“I reckon not, Colonel!” was his reply. “I am used to it. I
am really tired out, and have left behind my oil-cloth and
blankets.”
“Then take my cloth and cape, General. I insist that you
shall use them.”
“No, I really cannot think of such a thing!” was his courteous
reply; but I insisted, declaring that my English saddle-cloth
was quite sufficient to protect me from the damp of the
ground—and at last the General yielded.
He lay down on my “Yankee oil-cloth,” and I threw over him
my gray cape. Then, spreading my felt saddle-cloth near the
fire, a few feet off, I lay down in my turn, and began to reflect—
chiefly, I think, upon May Beverley, though at times upon the
fate of poor Farley.
During this time, I thought that General Jackson was asleep,
and, in moving the logs on the fire to make the blaze brighter,
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did so carefully, in order not to awake him. As I was thus
engaged, I heard him say in a tone of unusual softness:
“I am not asleep, Colonel—you do not disturb me.”
“I thought you were asleep, General.”
“No, I have been thinking—as you seem to have been—and
cannot close my eyes. Something tells me that we will have a
hard struggle to-morrow; and many of my brave fellows are
now sleeping their last sleep, I fear.”
He sighed, and gazed thoughtfully into the fire.
“This is a cruel war!” he said, in a low voice. “Why was
it ever forced upon us?—as it assuredly was.”
“Our Northern friends differ with you on that point, General.”
“Well, we won't discuss it—but I never should have taken
part in it, if I had not regarded it as just and holy in its aims.
God tries the heart, Colonel—I pray that He will try mine, and
yours, and the hearts of all, and, if there be any sin of ignorance
or evil intent, may He pardon us!”
“Amen, General.”
“We are very poor and weak,” continued the speaker; “very
hard and sinful. May he make pure our hearts within us, and
guide us in all life's journey! Without his favor, Colonel, we
are miserable indeed! What is fame, or riches, or glory, without
his favor? You have heard me called eccentric, I doubt not,
Colonel; and do you know, at Lexington the young men called
me `Fool Tom Jackson.' Yes, `Fool Tom Jackson,' ” he
added, in a soft, musing tone, “and all because I made prayer
and religious exercises my main occupation. I thought I was
right, and acting rationally. It was better, I believed, to secure
the favor of my Maker than to receive the plaudits of
men. So I prayed, Colonel, instead of laughing—thinking that
time was short and eternity long. I thought of heavenly things,
and the favor of my God, more than of what I wore, what
I ate, how I walked, or the opinion men had of me—and for this
I was called a fool!”
Again, the low voice paused—the speaker seemed to be reflecting.
“I went into this war,” he continued, “because God permits
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us to defend our native land and protect it from outrage. He
had given me animal courage, and so directed my steps that I
had learned the art of war at West Point—thus my duty, I
thought, was plain. I have done what I could for my dear old
native State—if I was wrong, may He forgive me! But I do
not believe I erred. It was duty no less than pleasure to
fight for the land I loved. And how I have loved it! There is
not a foot of Virginia soil that is not dear to me—not a river,
a stream, or mountain that is not sacred—and more than all, I
have loved the town of Lexington, and the beautiful valley of
the Shenandoah! I had reason for that. Never had a man
better friends than I have there in the Valley of Virginia—
from Winchester, the centre of that warm-hearted, brave and
patriotic people, to Lexington, where I hope to rest when I die.
The love of these good people is my greatest consolation in life—
and I love them much in return. I have fought for the
women and children of the Shenandoah Valley, Colonel, and
I am ready to die for them!”
“You know how they regard you, General—but I hope you
will not soon be called upon to give them so great a proof of
your affection as by dying for them.”
“Who knows, Colonel? War is uncertain—battle dangerous.
You or I may fall without an instant's warning.”
“That is true, General—all things may happen—even the
Confederacy be overthrown. We are now at the year 1863.
Who knows but that in 1864, or 1865, the Federal Government
will be able to bring such overwhelming numbers into the field,
that we shall be obliged to succumb to those numbers, in spite
of all our efforts.”
“God only knows the future,” was his reply; “and He
will direct.”
“I trust in his goodness, General, with all my heart, and believe,
as you do, that all He does is for the best. But it would
be hard to understand His almighty purpose, if our overthrow
is permitted. Think what the result will be—the loss of
all that precious blood—absolute poverty—perhaps military
domination! And worse—far worse than all!—we shall have
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fought, and bled, and fallen, all for nothing! We shall have inaugurated
a Revolution—struggled for years—and all to hear, as
we return to our desolate homes, the bitter taunt, “You were
fools to have defied the enemy—you have gained nothing and
lost all”—
—“But honor!” exclaimed Jackson. “No, Colonel! you are
wrong—a thousand times wrong! Suppose we are conquered—
suppose the South does fail—I declare to you that, should I live,
I will not regret for one instant this struggle; not the blood,
the treasure, the failure—nothing! There may be persons who
fight for fame or success—I fight for my principles! I appeal to
God for the purity of my motives—and whether I live or die—
whether the South falls or conquers—I shall be able to say, `I
did my duty!' ”
The earnest words died away, and silence followed.
“Well, I keep you awake, Colonel,” said Jackson, after a long
pause; “and I expect we shall need all our energies for the
scenes of to-morrow. This country is terrible, and the enemy
are in a magnificent position—but we must fight them!”
“The disproportion of force is frightful.”
“Yes, truly discouraging; but God has blessed us, Colonel,
upon many similar occasions, and in Him I trust.”
“Take care of yourself in the battle, General. You expose
yourself terribly.”
“Not unnecessarily, I hope, Colonel; and, if I fall, there are
many brave souls to take my place. Let us not fear the enemy,
my friend; he can do us no harm. It is God we should love and
fear—if He is with us, man can do nothing to hurt us. I may
fall to-morrow—it is hidden from me—God knoweth—but, if I
raise my heart to Him, what are bullets and wounds? Beyond
this world of struggle, uproar, and passion, there is a `land of
calm delight,' where sorrow never comes, and the King of Kings
and Lord of Lords reigns in His majesty. Oh! to see His face!
to hear from His lips, `Well done!' May those words be heard
by both of us, my friend! Then, as we look back upon this
troubled life, wars and rumors of wars will appear like a dream,
from which we have awakened in heaven!”
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The speaker ceased, and said no more. In half an hour I
heard his long, regular breathing. He was asleep.
For some time I lay awake, gazing at the recumbent figure of
this celebrated man, whose august words had just resounded in
my ears. It was hard to realize that the plainly-clad form before
me was that of a born hero and master of men. As I took in at
a glance the dusty cavalry boots, the dingy coat, the old battered
sabre which lay by his side, and the faded cap which had halffallen
back from his broad brow, edged with its short dark hair,
it was only as a weary, hard-worked soldier that Jackson appeared
to me.
Now I know that I looked upon the one man raised up by God
in many centuries—upon one of the immortals!
CXXVIII. UNDER THE SHADES OF THE WILDERNESS.
I was aroused about midnight by the voice of the General, and
found him sitting by the fire, reading a note which a courier had
just brought him from General Lee.
As he did so, he coughed slightly, and I soon discovered that
he had risen during the night, and, fearing that I would suffer
for want of my riding-cape, thrown it over me, thus leaving himself
exposed.*
“I thought you would be cold,” he said, smiling gently, as he
saw me looking at the cape; “and I am glad you have had a good
nap, Colonel, as I shall have to get you to ride for me.”
“Ready, General.”
And I buckled on my arms. My horse was already saddled
and standing near.
The General then gave me a message to Stuart, who
was making a reconnoissance over the route which Jackson
would advance by, on the next morning; and, having received
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the litter—some bearers were procured—and, amid bursting
shell, which filled the moonlit sky above with their dazzling corruscations,
we slowly bore the wounded General on, through
the tangled thicket, toward the rear.
So dense was the undergrowth that we penetrated it with
difficulty, and the vines which obstructed the way more than
once made the litter-bearers stumble. From this proceeded a
most distressing accident. One of the men, at last, caught his
foot in a grape-vine, and fell—and, in his fall, he dropped the
handle of the litter. It descended heavily, and then, as the
General's shattered arm struck the ground, and the blood gushed
forth, he uttered, for the first time, a low, piteous groan.
We raised him quickly, and at that moment, a ray of moonlight,
glimmering through the deep foliage overhead, fell upon
his pale face and his bleeding form. His eyes were closed, his
bosom heaved—I thought that he was about to die.
What a death for the man of Manassas and Port Republic
What an end to a career so wonderful! Here, lost in the tangled
and lugubrious depths of this weird Wilderness, with the wan
moon gliding like a ghost through the clouds—the sad notes of
the whippoorwill echoing from the thickets—the shell bursting
in the air, like showers of falling stars—here, alone, without
other witnesses than a few weeping officers, who held him in
their arms, the hero of a hundred battles, the idol of the Southern
people, seemed about to utter his last sigh! Never will the recollection
of that scene be obliterated. Again my pulses throb,
and my heart is oppressed with its bitter load of anguish, as I
go back in memory to that night in the Wilderness.
I could only mutter a few words, asking the General if his
fall had hurt him—and, at these words, his eyes slowly opened.
A faint smile came to the pale face, and in a low murmur he
said:
“No, my friend; do not trouble yourself about me!”
And again the eyes closed, his head fell back. With his grand
courage and patience, he had suppressed all evidences of suffering;
and, once more taking up the litter, we continued to bear
him toward the rear.
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As we approached Melzi Chancellor's, a staff-officer of General
Hill recognized Jackson, and announced that Hill had been
wounded by the artillery fire which had swept down the turnpike.
Jackson rose on his bleeding right arm, and exclaimed:
“Where is Stuart!”
As though in answer to that question, we heard the quick
clatter of hoofs, and all at once the martial figure of the great
cavalier was seen rapidly approaching.
“Where is General Jackson?” exclaimed Stuart, in a voice
which I scarcely recognized.
And suddenly he checked his horse right in front of the group.
His drawn sabre was in his hand—his horse foaming. In the
moonlight I could see that his face was pale. and his eyes full
of gloomy emotion.
For an instant no one moved or spoke—and again I return in
memory to that scene. Stuart, clad in his “fighting jacket,”
with the dark plume floating from his looped-up hat, reining in
his foaming horse, while the moonlight poured on his martial
features; and before him, on the litter, the bleeding form of
Jackson, the face pale, the eyes half-closed, the bosom rising
and falling as the life of the great soldier ebbed away.
In an instant Stuart had recognized his friend, and had thrown
himself from his horse.
“You are dangerously wounded!”
“Yes,” came in a murmur from the pale lips of Jackson, as
he faintly tried to hold out his hand. Then his cheeks suddenly
filled with blood, his eyes flashed, and, half rising from the litter,
he exclaimed:
“Oh! for two hours of daylight! I would then cut off the
enemy from United States Ford, and they would be entirely
surrounded!”
Stuart bent over him, and their eyes met.
“Take command of my corps!” murmured Jackson, falling
back; “follow your own judgment—I have implicit confidence
in you!”
Stuart's face flushed hot at this supreme recognition of his
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courage and capacity—and I saw a flash dart from the fiery blue
eyes.
“But you will be near, General! You will still send me
orders!” he exclaimed.
“You will not need them,” murmured Jackson; “to-night or
early to-morrow you will be in possession of Chancellorsville!
Tell my men that I am watching them—that I am with them in
spirit!”
“The watchword in the charge shall be, `Remember Jackson!' ”
And, with these fiery words, Stuart grasped the bleeding
hand; uttered a few words of farewell, and leaped upon his
horse. For a moment his sword gleamed, and his black plume
floated in the moonlight; then he disappeared, at full speed, toward
Chancellorsville.
At ten o'clock next morning he had stormed the intrenchments
around Chancellorsville; swept the enemy, with the
bayonet, back toward the Rappahannock; and as the troops,
mad with victory, rushed through the blazing forest, a thousand
voices were heard shouting:
“Remember Jackson!”
eaf519n106* Historical.
CXXXII. IN A DREAM.
Here I terminate my memoirs for the present, if not forever.
The great form of Jackson has disappeared from the stage.
What remains but a cold and gloomy theatre, from which the
spectators have vanished, where the lights are extinguished, and
darkness has settled down upon the pageant?
Other souls of fire, and valor, and unshrinking nerve were
left, and their career was glorious; but the finger of Fate seemed
to mark out, with its bloody point, the name of “Chancellorsville,”
and the iron lips to unclose and mutter: “Thus far, no
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further!” With the career of this man of destiny had waned
the strength of the South—when he fell, the end was in sight.
Thenceforward as good fighting as the world ever saw seemed
useless, and to attain no result. Even the soldiership of Lee—
such soldiership as renders famous forever a race and an epoch—
could achieve nothing. From the day of Chancellorsville, the
battle-flag, torn in so many glorious encounters, seemed to shine
no more in the light of victory. It drooped upon its staff, however
defiantly at times it rose—slowly it descended. It fluttered
for a moment amid the fiery storm of Gettysburg, in the woods
of Spottsylvania, and on the banks of the Appomattox; but
never again did its dazzling folds flaunt proudly in the wind, and
burn like a beacon light on victorious fields. It was natural that
the army should connect the declining fortunes of the great flag
which they had fought under with the death of him who had
rendered it so illustrious. The form of Jackson had vanished
from the scene: that king of battle had dropped his sword, and
descended into the tomb: from that moment the star of hope,
like the light of victory, seemed to sink beneath ebon clouds.
The hero had gone down in the bloody gulf of battle, and the
torrent bore us away!
In the scenes of this volume, the great soldier has appeared as
I saw him. Those of his last hours I did not witness, but many
narratives upon the subject have been printed. Those last
moments were as serene as his life had been stormy—and there,
as everywhere, he was victorious. On the field it was his enemies
he conquered: here it was pain and suffering. That faith
which overcomes all things was in his heart, and among his last
words were: “It is all right!”
In that delirium which immediately precedes death, he gave
his orders as on the battle-field, and was distinctly heard directing
A. P. Hill to “prepare for action!” But these clouds soon
passed—his eye grew calm again—and, murmuring “Let us
cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the trees!” he
fell back and expired.
Such was the death of this strange man. To me he seems so
great that all words fail in speaking of him. Not in this poor
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page do I attempt a characterization of this king of battle: I
speak no further of him—but I loved and shall ever love him.
A body laid in state in the Capitol at Richmond, the coffin
wrapped in the pure white folds of the newly-adopted Confederate
flag; a great procession, moving to the strains of the Dead
March, behind the hearse, and the war-horse of the dead soldier;
then the thunder of the guns at Lexington; the coffin borne
upon a caisson of his own old battery, to the quiet grave—that
was the last of Jackson. Dead, he was immortal!
As I write that page here in my quiet library at Eagle's-Nest,
in October, 1865, I lay down my pen, lean back in my chair, and
murmur:
“Have I seen all that—or was it only a dream?”
The Rappahannock flows serenely yonder, through the hills,
as in other years; the autumn forests burn away, in blue and
gold and orange, as they did in the days of my youth; the
winds whisper; the sunshine laughs—it is only we who laugh
no more!
“Was that a real series of events?” I say; “or only a drama
of the imagination? Did I really hear the voice of Jackson, and
the laughter of Stuart, in those glorious charges, on those bloody
fields? Did Ashby pass before me on his milk-white steed, and
greet me by the camp-fire as his friend? Did I fight by his side
in those hot encounters, watch the flash of his sabre, and hold
his bleeding form upon my breast? Was it a real figure, that
stately form of Lee, amid the swamps of the Chickahominy, the
fire of Malvern Hill, the appalling din and smoke and blood
of Manassas, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville—of Gettysburg,
Spottsylvania, and Petersburg? Jackson, that greater than the
leader of the Ironsides—Stuart, more fiery than Rupert of the
Bloody Sword—Ashby, the pearl of chivalry and honor—Lee,
the old Roman, fighting, with a nerve so splendid, to the bitter
end—these were surely the heroes of some dream, the forms of
an excited imagination! Did Pelham press my hand, and hold
the pale face of Jean upon his heart, and fall in that stubborn
fight with Averill? Did Farley smile, and fight, and die near
the very same spot—and was it really the eyes of Stuart that
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dropped bitter tears upon the pallid faces of these youths, dead
on the field of honor? Were those spring flowers of Incognita,
which lay but now before me, real clusters from the sunny
slopes of Georgia, or the flowers of a dream? Was that proud,
bronzed face of Mordaunt real? And the blue eyes, peering
from the golden curls of Violet Grafton—were they actual
eyes?”
It is like a dream to me that I looked upon these faces—that I
touched the honest hand of Hood; gave back the courteous
smile of Ambrose Hill; spoke with the hardy Longstreet, the
stubborn Ewell, Hampton the fearless, and the dashing and
chivalric Lees. Souls of fire and flame—with a light how steady
burned these stately names! how they fought, these hearts of
oak! But did they live their lives, these men and their comrades,
as I seem to remember? At Manassas, Sharpsburg, and
Chancellorsville, was it two, three, and four to one that they
defeated?—and at Appomattox, in that black April of 1865, was
it really a force of only eight thousand muskets, which Lee long
refused to surrender to one hundred and forty thousand? Did
these events take place in a real world, on an actual arena—or
did all those figures move, all those voices sound, in some realm
of the imagination? It was surely a dream—was it not?—that
the South fought so stubbornly for those four long years, and
bore the blood-red battle-flag aloft in so many glorious encounters,
amid foes so swarming and so powerful—that she
would not yield, although so many brave hearts poured their
blood out on the weird plains of Manassas, the fair fields of the
valley, by the sluggish waters of the Chickahominy, or amid the
sombre thickets of the Spottsylvania Wilderness!
But the dream was glorious—not even the immedicabile vulnus
of surrender can efface its splendor. Still it moves me, and
possesses me; and I live forever in that past. Fond violet eyes,
that shone once at The Oaks, and now shine at Eagle's-Nest!—
be not clouded with displeasure. It is only a few comrades of
the old time I am thinking of—a few things I have seen in the
long-gone centuries when we used to wear gray, and marched
under the red flag of the South! It is of these I dream—as
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memory goes back to them I live once more in the days that are
dead. All things recall the scenes and personages of those years;
and bring back from the tomb the phantom figures. They speak
to me, as in the former time, with their kindly voices—the pale,
dim faces flush, the eyes flash.
At all times—everywhere—the Past comes into the Present,
and possesses it. As I awake at morning, the murmur of the
river breeze is the low roll of drums from the forest yonder,
where the camps of infantry are aroused by the reveille. In the
moonlight nights, when all is still, a sound comes, borne upon
the breeze, from some dim land—I seem to hear the bugles. In
the thunder of some storm, I hear the roar of artillery.
Even now, as the glory of the sunlight falls on the great landscape
of field and forest and river, a tempest gathers on the
shores of the Rappahannock. The sunlight disappears, sucked
in by the black and threatening clouds which sweep from the far
horizon; a gigantic pall seems slowly to descend upon the landscape,
but a moment since so beautiful and smiling; the lurid
lightnings flicker like quick tongues of flame, and, as these fiery
serpents play amid the ebon mass, a mighty wind arises, swells,
and roars on through the splendid foliage of the forest, where
the year is dying on its couch of blood.
That is only a storm, you may say, perhaps—to me it is more.
Look! those variegated colors of the autumn leaves are the
flaunting banners of an army drawn up there in line of battle,
and about to charge. Listen! that murmur of the Rappahannock
is the shuffling sound of a great column on its march!—hush!
there is the bugle!—and that rushing wind in the trees of the
forest is the charge of Stuart and his horsemen! How the hoof-strokes
tear along! how the phantom horsemen shout as they
charge!—how the ghost of Stuart rides!
See the banners yonder, where the line of battle is drawn up
against the autumn woods—how their splendid colors burn, how
they flaunt and wave and ripple in the wind—proud and defiant!
Is that distant figure on a horse the man of Port Republic and
Chancellorsville, with his old yellow cap, his dingy coat, his
piercing eyes—and is that humming sound the cheering of the
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“Foot Cavalry,” as they greet him? Look how the leafy banners—
red as though dyed in blood—point forward, rippling as
they come! See that vivid, dazzling flash!—is it lightning, or
the glare of cannon? Hear that burst of thunder, like the
opening roar of battle—Jackson is advancing!
A quick throb of the heart—a hand half reaching out to
clutch the hilt of the battered old sword on the wall—then I
sink back in my chair.
It was only a dream!
FINIS.
