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Stuart, chief of the Confederate cavalry in Virginia, was one
of the Dii Majores of the recent conflict—his career rather a
page from romance than a chapter of history. Everything
stirring, brilliant, and picturesque, seemed to centre in him.
There was about the man a flavour of chivalry and adventure
which made him more like a knight of the middle age than a
soldier of the prosaic nineteenth century, and it was less the
science than the poetry of war which he summed up and illustrated
in his character and career.

With the majority of those who took part in it, the late revolution
was a hard and bitter struggle, which they entered upon
resolutely, but with unconcealed distaste. To this soldier, however,
it seemed to be a splendid and exciting game, in which his
blood coursed joyously, and his immensely strong physical organization
found an arena for the display of all its faculties.
The affluent life of the man craved those perils and hardships
which flush the pulses and make the heart beat fast. A single
look at him was enough to convince anybody that Stuart loved
danger and adventure, and that the clear blue eyes of the soldier,
“with a frolic welcome took the thunder and the sunshine.”
He swung himself into the saddle, at the sound of the bugle, as

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the hunter springs on horseback; and at such moments his
cheeks glowed, and his huge moustache curled with enjoyment.
The romance and poetry of the hard trade of arms seemed first
to be inaugurated when this joyous cavalier, with his floating
plume and splendid laughter, appeared upon the great arena of
the war in Virginia.

This gay bearing of the man was plainly unaffected, and few
persons could resist its influence. There was about Stuart an
inspiration of joy and youth. The war was evidently like play
to him—and he accepted its most perilous scenes and cruellest
hardships with the careless abandon of a young knight-errant
seeking adventures. Nothing seemed strong enough to break
down his powerful organization of mind and body; and danger
only aroused and brought his full faculties into play. He greeted
it with ardour and defied it with his joyous laughter—leading his
column in desperate charges with a smile upon the lips. Others
might despond, but Stuart kept his good spirits; and while the
air around him was full of hissing balls and bursting shell, he
would hum his gay songs. In Culpeper the infantry were electrified
by the laughter and singing of Stuart as he led them in
the charge; and at Chancellorsville, where he commanded Jackson's
corps after that great man's fall, the infantry veterans as
they swept on, carrying line after line of breastworks at the point
of the bayonet, saw his plume floating in front—“like Henry of
Navarre's,” one of them said—and heard his sonorous voice
singing, “Old Joe Hooker, will you come out of the Wilderness!”

This curious spirit of boyish gaiety did not characterize him on
certain occasions only, but went with him always, surrounding
every movement of the man with a certain atmosphere of frolic
and abandon. Immense animal health and strength danced in
his eyes, gave elasticity to the motions of his person, and rang
in his contagious laughter. It was hard to realize that anything
could hurt this powerful machine, or that death could ever come
to him; and the perilous positions from which he had so often
escaped unharmed, appeared to justify the idea of his invulnerability.
Although he exposed his person recklessly in more

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than a hundred hot engagements, he was never wounded in any.
The resobud in his button-hole, which some child or girl had
given him, or rather say his mother's Bible, which he always
carried, seemed to protect him. Death appeared to shrink before
him and avoid him; and he laughed in the grim face, and
dared it for three years of reckless fighting, in which he seemed
every day to be trying to get himself killed.

His personal appearance coincided with his character. Everything
about the man was youthful, picturesque, and brilliant.
Lee, Jackson, and other eminent soldiers of the South, seemed
desirous of avoiding, in their dress and accoutrements every
species of display, and to aim at making themselves resemble
as closely as possible their brave soldiers, whose uniforms were
sadly deficient in military gewgaws. Stuart's taste was exactly
the opposite. He was as fond of colours as a boy or a girl. His
fighting jacket shone with dazzling buttons and was covered
with gold braid; his hat was looped up with a golden star, and
decorated with a black ostrich plume; his fine buff gauntlets
reached to the elbow; around his waist was tied a splendid yellow
silk sash, and his spurs were of pure gold. The stern Ironsides
of Cromwell would have sneered at this “frivolous boy”
as they sneered at Prince Rupert, with his scarlet cloak, his waving
plume, his white dog, and his twenty-three years—all the
more as Stuart had a white dog for a pet, wore a cape lined with
scarlet, had a plume in his hat, and—to complete the comparison—
is said to have belonged to that royal family of Stuarts
from which Rupert sprang.* Many excellent people did not
hesitate to take the Ironside view. They regarded and spoke
of Stuart as a trifling military fop—a man who had in some
manner obtained a great command for which he was wholly
unfit. They sneered at his splendid costume, his careless laughter,
his “love of ladies;” at his banjo-player, his flower-wreathed
horses, and his gay verses. The enemy were wiser. Buford,
Bayard, Pleasanton, Stoneman, and their associates, did not commit
that blunder. They had felt the heavy arm too often; and
knew too well the weight of that flower-encircled weapon.

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There were three other men who could never be persuaded
that Stuart was no cavalry officer, and who persisted in regarding
this boyish cavalier as their right-hand man—the “eye and
ear” of their armies. These men were Lee, Johnston, and Jackson.

Stuart's great career can be alluded to but briefly here.
Years crammed with incident and adventure cannot be summed
up on a page.

He was twenty-seven when he resigned his first-lieutenancy
in the United States cavalry, and came to offer his sword to Virginia.
He was sprung from an old and honourable family there,
and his love of his native soil was strong. Upon his arrival he
was made lieutenant-colonel, and placed in command of the
cavalry on the Upper Potomac, where he proved himself so vigilant
a soldier that Johnston called him “the indefatigable Stuart,”
and compared him to “a yellow jacket,” which was “no
sooner brushed off than it lit back.” He had command of the
whole front until Johnston left the valley, when he moved with
the column to Manassas, and charged and broke the New York
Zouaves; afterwards held the front toward Alexandria, under
Beauregard; then came the hard falling back, the struggle upon
the Peninsula, the battle of Cold Harbour, and the advance which
followed into Maryland. Stuart was now a general, and laid
the foundation of his fame by the “ride around McClellan”
on the Chickahominy. Thenceforth he was the right hand of
Lee until his death.

The incidents of his career from the spring of 1862 to May,
1864, would fill whole volumes. The ride around McClellan;
the fights on the Rapidan; the night march to Catlett's, where
he captured General Pope's coat and official papers; the advance
to Manassas; the attack on Flint Hill; the hard rear-guard work
at South Mountain; holding the left at Sharpsburg; the circut
of McClellan again in Maryland; the bitter conflicts near Upperville
as Lee fell back; the fighting all along the slopes of the

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Blue Ridge; the “crowding 'em with artillery” on the night at
Fredericksburg; the winter march upon Dumfries; the battle
of Chancellorsville, where he commanded Jackson's corps; the
advance thereafter, and the stubbron conflict at Fleetwood Hill
on the 9th of June; the hard, obstinate fighting once more to
guard the flanks of Lee on his way to Gettysburg; the march
across the Potomac; the advance to within sight of Washington,
and the invasion of Pennsylvania, with the determined fights
at Hanovertown, Carlisle, and Gettysburg, where he met and
drove before him the crack cavalry of the Federal army; the
retreat thereafter before an enraged enemy; the continuous combats
of the mountain passes, and in the vicinity of Boonsboro';
the obstinate stand he made once more on the old ground around
Upperville as Lee again fell back; the heavy petites guerres of
Culpeper; the repulse of Custer when he attacked Charlottesville;
the expedition to the rear of General Meade when he
came over to Mine Run; the bitter struggle in the Wilderness
when General Grant advanced; the fighting all along the Po in
Spotsylvania; the headlong gallop past the South Anna, and
the bloody struggle near the Yellow Tavern, where the cavalier,
who had passed through a hundred battles untouched, came to
his end at last—these are a few of the pictures which rise up
before the mind's eye at those words, “the career of Stuart.” In
the brief space of a sketch like this, it is impossible to attempt
any delineation of these crowding scenes and events. They
belong to history, and will sooner or later be placed upon record—
for a thousand octavos cannot bury them as long as one forefinger
and thumb remains to write of them. All that is here
designed is a rough cartoon of the actual man—not a fancy
figure, the work of a eulogist, but a truthful likeness, however
poorly executed.

I have supposed that the reader would be more interested in
Stuart the man than in Stuart the Major-General commanding.
History will paint the latter—my page deals with the

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former chiefly. It is in dress, habits, the tone of the voice,
the demeanour in private, that men's characters are read; and
I have never seen a man who looked his character more perfectly
than Stuart.

He was the cavalier par excellence; and everything which
he did, or said, was “in character.” We know a clergyman
sometimes by his moderation, mild address, black coat, and
white cravat; a merchant by his quick movements and “business-like”
manner; a senator by his gravity; and a poet by
his dreamy eye. You saw in the same manner, at a single
glance, that Stuart was a cavalry-man—in his dress, voice, walk,
manner, everything. All about him was military; and, fine
as his costume undoubtedly was, it “looked like work.” There
was no little fondness, as I have said, for bright colours and
holiday display in his appearance; and he loved the parade,
the floating banner, the ring of the bugle, “ladies' eyes”—
all the glory, splendour, and brilliant colouring of life; but
the solider of hard fibre and hard work was under the gallant.
Some day a generation will come who will like to know all
about the famous “Jeb Stuart”—let me therefore limn him
as he appeared in the years 1862 and 1863.

His frame was low and athletic—close knit and of very great
strength and endurance, as you could see at a glance. His
countenance was striking and attracted attention—the forehead
broad, lofty, and indicating imagination; the nose prominent,
and inclining to “Roman,” with large and mobile nostrils;
the lips covered with a heavy brown moustache, curled upward
at the ends; the chin by a huge beard of the same colour,
which descended upon the wearer's breast. Such was the rather
brigandish appearance of Stuart—but I have omitted to notice
the eyes. They were clear, penetrating, and of a brilliant blue.
They could be soft or fiery—would fill with laughter or dart
flame. Anything more menacing than that flame, when Stuart
was hard pressed, it would be difficult to conceive; but the
prevailing expression was gay and laughing. He wore a brown
felt hat looped up with a star, and ornamented with an ebon
feather; a double-breasted jacket always open and buttoned

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back; gray waistcoat and pantaloons; and boots to the knee,
decorated with small spurs, which he wore even in dancing. To
proceed with my catalogue of the soldier's accoutrements: on
marches he threw over his shoulders his gray cavalry cape, and
on the pommel of his saddle was strapped an oil-cloth overall,
used as a protection in rain, which, instead of annoying him,
seemed to raise his spirits. In the midst of rain-storms, when
everybody was riding along grum and cowering beneath the
flood pouring down, he would trot on, head up, and singing
gaily. His arms were, a light French sabre, balanced by a pistol
in a black holster; his covering at night, a red blanket, strapped
in an oil-cloth behind the saddle. Such was the “outer man”
of Stuart in camp and field. His fondness for bright colours,
however, sometimes made him don additional decorations.
Among these was a beautiful yellow sash, whose folds he would
carefully wrap around his waist, skilfully tying the ends on the
left side so that the tassels fell full in view. Over this he would
buckle his belt; his heavy boots would be changed for a pair
equally high, but of bright patent leather, decorated with gold
thread; and then the gallant Jeb Stuart was ready to visit somebody.
This love of gay colours was shown in other ways. He
never moved on the field without his splendid red battle-flag; and
more than once this prominent object, flaunting in the wind,
drew the fire of the enemy's artillery on himself and staff.
Among flowers, he preferred the large dazzling “Giant of Battles,”
with its blood-red disk. But he loved all blooms for their
brilliance. Lent was not his favourite season. Life in his eyes
was best when it was all flowers, bright colours, and carnival.

He was a bold and expert rider, and stopped at nothing.
Frequently the headlong speed with which he rode saved him
from death or capture—as at Sharpsburg, where he darted close
along the front of a Federal regiment which rose and fired on
him. The speed of his horse was so great that not a ball struck
him. At Hanovertown, in 1863, and on a hundred occasions,
he was chased, when almost unattended, by Federal cavalry; but,
clearing fence and ravine, escaped. He was a “horse-man” in
his knowledge of horses, but had no “passion” for them;

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preferred animals of medium size, which wheeled, leaped, and
moved rapidly; and, mounted upon his “Skylark,” “Star of the
East,” “Lady Margaret,” or “Lily of the Valley,” he was the
picture of a bold cavalier, prepared to go into a charge, or to
take a gallop by moonlight—ready for a fight or a frolic.

It was out of the saddle, however, that Stuart was most attractive.
There he was busy; in his tent, when his work was once
over, he was as insouciant as a boy. Never was there a human
being of readier laughter. He dearly loved a joke, and would
have one upon everybody. They were not mild either. He
loved a horse-joke, and a horse-laugh. But the edge of his
satire, although keen, was never envenomed. The uproarious
humour of the man took away anything like sarcasm from his
wit, and he liked you to “strike back.” What are called “great
people” sometimes break their jests upon lesser personages, with
a tacit understanding that the great personage shall not be jested
at in return. Such deference to his rank was abhorrent to Stuart.
He jested roughly, but you were welcome to handle him
as roughly in return. If you could turn the laugh upon him,
you were perfectly welcome so to do, and he never liked you
the less for it. In winter-quarters his tent was a large affair,
with a good chimney and fireplace; in the summer, on active
service, a mere breadth of canvas stretched over rails against a
tree, and open at both ends. Or he had no tent, and slept under
a tree. The canvas “fly” only came into requisition when he
rested for a few days from the march. Under this slight shelter,
Stuart was like a king of rangers. On one side was his chair
and desk; on the other, his blankets spread on the ground:
at his feet his two setters, “Nip” and “Tuck,” whom he had
brought out of Culpeper, on the saddle, as he fell back before
the enemy. When tired of writing, he would throw himself
upon his blankets, play with his pets, laugh at the least provocation,
and burst into some gay song.

He had a strong love for music, and sang, himself, in a clear,
sonorous, and correct voice. His favourites were: “The bugle
sang truce, for the night cloud had lowered;” “The dew is on
the blossom;” “Sweet Evelina,” and “Evelyn,” among pathetic

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songs; but comic ones were equal or greater favourites with him:
“If you get there before I do;” “The old gray horse;” “Come
out of the wilderness,” and “If you want to have a good time,
join the cavalry,” came from his lips in grand uproarious merriment,
the very woods ringing with the strains. This habit
of singing had always characterized him. From the days in the
valley when he harassed Paterson so, with his omnipresent cavalry,
he had fought and sung alternately. Riding at the head
of his long column, bent upon some raid, or advancing to attack
the enemy, he would make the forest resound with his sonorous
songs; and a gentleman who met him one day, thus singing in
front of his men, said that the young cavalier was his perfect
ideal of a knight of romance. It might almost, indeed, be said
that music was his passion, as Vive la joie! might have been
regarded as his motto. His banjo-players, Sweeny, was the constant
inmate of his tent, rode behind him on the march, and
went with him to social gatherings. Stuart wrote his most important
dispatches and correspondence with the rattle of the gay
instrument stunning everybody, and would turn round from his
work, burst into a laugh, and join uproariously in Sweeny's
chorus. On the march, the banjo was frequently put in requisition;
and those “grave people” who are shocked by “frivolity”
must have had their breath almost taken away by this extraordinary
spectacle of the famous General Stuart, commanding all
the cavalry of General Lee's army, moving at the head of his
hard-fighting corps with a banjo-player rattling behind him.
But Stuart cared little for the “grave people.” He fought
harder than they did, and chose to amuse himself in his own
way. Lee, Johnston, and Jackson, had listened to that banjo
without regarding it as frivolous; and more than once it had
proved a relaxation after the exhausting cares of command. So
it rattled on still, and Stuart continued to laugh, without caring
much about “the serious family” class. He had on his side
Lee, Jackson, and the young ladies who danced away gaily
to Sweeny's music—what mattered it whether Aminadab Sleek,
Esq., approved or disapproved!

The “young lady” element was an important one with Stuart.

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Never have I seen a purer, more knightly, or more charming
gallantry than his. He was here, as in all his life, the Christian
gentleman, the loyal and consistent professor of religion; but
with this delicacy of the chevalier was mingled the gaiety of
the boy. He was charmed, and charmed in return. Ladies
were his warmest admirers—for they saw that under his laughing
exterior was an earnest nature and a warm heart. Everything
drew them towards him. The romance of his hard career,
the adventurous character of the man, his mirth, wit, gallantry,
enthusiasm, and the unconcealed pleasure which he showed in
their society, made him their prime favourite. They flocked
around him, gave him flowers, and declared that if they could
they would follow his feather and fight with him. With all
this, Stuart was delighted. He gave them positions on his staff,
placed the flowers in his button-hole, kissed the fair hands that
presented them, and if the cheek was near the hand, he would
laugh and kiss that too. The Sleek family cried out at this,
and rolled their eyes in horror—but it is hard to please the
Sleek family. Stuart was married, a great public character, had
fought in defence of these young ladies upon a hundred battle-fields,
and was going to die for them. It does not seem so huge
an enormity as the Sleeks everywhere called it—that while the
blue eyes flashed, the eyes of women should give back their
splendour; while the lips were warm, they should not shrink
from them. Soon the eyes were to grow dim, and the lips
cold.

Stuart was best loved by those who knew him best; and it
may here be recorded that his devotion towards his young wife
and children attracted the attention of every one. His happiest
hours were spent in their society, and he never seemed so well
satisfied as when they were in his tent. To lie upon his campcouch
and play with one of his children, appeared to be the
summit of felicity with him; and when, during the hard falling
back near Upperville, in the fall of 1862, the news came of the
death of his little daughter Flora, he seemed almost overcome.
Many months afterwards, when speaking of her, the tears
gushed to his eyes, and he murmured in a broken voice; “I will

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never get over it—never!” He seemed rough and hard to those
who only saw him now and then; but the persons who lived
with him knew his great kindness of heart. Under that careless,
jesting, and often curt demeanour, was a good, true heart.
The fibre of the man was tough under all strain, and his whole
organization was masculine; but he exhibited, sometimes, a softness
of feeling which might almost be called tenderness. A
marked trait of his character was this: that if he had offended
anybody, or wounded their feelings, he could never rest until he
had in some way made amends. His temper was irascible at
times, and he would utter harsh words; but the flaming eyes
soon softened, the arrogant manner disappeared. In ten minutes
his arm would probably be upon the shoulder or around the
neck of the injured individual, and his voice would become
caressante. This was almost amusing, and showed his good
heart. Like a child, he must “make up” with people he had
unintentionally offended; and he never rested until he succeeded.
Let it not be understood, however, that this placability
of temperament came into play in “official” affairs. There
Stuart was as hard as adamant, and nothing moved him. He
never forgave opposition to his will, or disobedience of his
orders; and though never bearing malice, was a thoroughly
good hater. His prejudices were strong; and when once he had
made up his mind deliberately, nothing would change him. He
was immovable and implacable; and against these offenders he
threw the whole weight of his powerful will and his high position,
determined to crush them. That, however, was in public
and official matters. In all the details of his daily life he was
thoroughly lovable, as many persons still living can testify.
He was the most approachable of major-generals, and jested
with the private soldiers of his command as jovially as though
he had been one of themselves. The men were perfectly unconstrained
in his presence, and treated him more like the chief
huntsman of a hunting party than as a major-general. His
staff were greatly attached to him, for he sympathized in all their
affairs as warmly as a brother, and was constantly doing them
some “good turn.” When with them off duty, he dropped

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every indication of rank, and was as much a boy as the youngest
of them—playing marbles, quoits, or snowball, with perfect
abandon and enjoyment. Most charming of all in the eyes of
those gentlemen was the fact that he would not hesitate to
decline invitations to entertainments, on the plainly stated
ground that “his staff were not included”—after which I need
give myself no further trouble to explain why he was the most
beloved of generals!

I have spoken of his reckless exposure of his person in battle.
It would convey a better idea of his demeanour under fire
to say that he seemed unaware of the presence of danger. This
air of indifference was unmistakable. When brave men were
moving restlessly, or unconsciously “ducking” to avoid the bullets
showering around them, Stuart sat his horse, full front to
the fire, with head up, form unmoved—a statue of unconsciousness.
It would be difficult to conceive of a greater coolness and
indifference than he exhibited. The hiss of balls, striking down
men around him, or cutting off locks of his hair and piercing
his clothes, as at Fredericksburg, did not seem to attract his attention.
With shell bursting right in his face and maddening
his horse, he appeared to be thinking of something else. In
other men what is called “gallantry” is generally seen to be the
effect of a strong will; in Stuart it seemed the result of indifference.
A stouter-hearted cavalier could not be imagined; and if
his indifference gave way, it was generally succeeded by gaiety.
Sometimes, however, all the tiger was aroused in him. His face
flushed; his eyes darted flame; his voice grew hoarse and strident.
This occurred in the hot fight of Fleetwood Hill, in June,
1863, when he was almost surrounded by the heavy masses of
the enemy's cavalry, and very nearly cut off; and again near
Upperville, later in the same year, when he was driven back,
foot by foot, to the Blue Ridge. Stuart's face was stormy at
such moments, and his eyes like “a devouring fire.” His voice
was curt, harsh, imperious, admitting no reply. The veins in
his forehead grew black, and the man looked “dangerous.” If
an officer failed him at such moments, he never forgave him; as
the man who attracted his attention, or who volunteered for a

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forlorn hope, was never forgotten. In his tenacious memory,
Stuart registered everybody; and in his command, his word, bad
or good, largely set up or pulled down.

To dwell still for a few moments upon the private and personal
character of the man—he possessed some accomplishments
unusual in famous soldiers. He was an excellent writer, and his
general orders were frequently very striking for their point and
eloquence. That in which he called on his men after the ride
around McClellan to “avenge Latanè!” and that on the death
of Major Pelham, his chief of artillery, are good examples.
There was something of the Napoleonic fervour in these compositions,
and, though dashed off rapidly, they were pointed, correct,
and without bombast. His letters, when collected, will be
found clear, forcible, and often full of grace, elegance, and wit.
He occasionally wrote verses, especially parodies, for which he
had a decided turn. Some of these were excellent. His letters,
verses, and orders, were the genuine utterances of the man; not
laboured or “stiff,” but spontaneous, flowing, and natural. He
had in conversation some humour, but more wit; and of badinage
it might almost be said that he was a master. His repartee was
excellent, his address ever gay and buoyant, and in whatever
society he was thrown he never seemed to lose that unaffected
mirthfulness which charms us more perhaps than all other qualities
in an associate. I need scarcely add that this uniform gaiety
was never the result of the use of stimulants. Stuart never drank
a single drop of any intoxicating liquid in his whole life, except
when he touched to his lips the cup of sacramental wine at
the communion. He made that promise to his mother in his
childhood, and never broke it. “If ever I am wounded,” he
said to me one day, “don't let them give me any whiskey or
brandy.” His other habits were as exemplary. I never saw him
touch a card, and he never dreamed of uttering an oath under
any provocation—nor would he permit it at his quarters. He
attended church whenever he could, and sometimes, though not
often, had service at his headquarters. One day a thoughtless
officer, who did not “know his man,” sneered at preachers in his
presence, and laughed at some one who had entered the

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ministry. Stuart's face flushed; he exhibited unmistakable displeasure,
and said: “I regard the calling of a clergyman as the
noblest in which any human being can engage.” This was the
frivolous, irreverent, hard-drinking personage of some people's
fancies—the man who was sneered at as little better than a
reprobate by those whom he had punished, and who, therefore,
hated and slandered him!

Such, in brief outline, was this “Flower of Cavaliers,” as he
moved in private, before the eyes of friends, and lived his life
of gentleman. An estimate of the military and intellectual
calibre of the man remains to be made—a rapid delineation of
those traits of brain and nerve combined which made him the
first cavalry officer of his epoch—I had nearly written of any
epoch.

Out of his peculiar sphere he did not display marked
ability. His mind was naturally shrewd, and, except in some
marked instances, he appeared to possess an instinctive knowledge
of men. But the processes of his brain, on ordinary occasions,
exhibited rather activity and force than profoundness of
insight. His mental organization seemed to be sound and practical
rather than deep and comprehensive. He read little when
I knew him, and betrayed no evidences of wide culture. His
education was that of the gentleman rather than the scholar.
“Napoleon's Maxims,” a translation of Jomini's Treatise on
War, and one or two similar works, were all in which he
appeared to take pleasure. His whole genius evidently lay in
the direction of his profession, and even here many persons
doubted the versatility of his faculties. It will remain an interesting
problem whether he would have made a great infantry
commander. He was confident of his own ability; always
resented the dictum that he was a mere “cavalry officer;” and I
believe, at one time, it was the purpose of the Confederate authorities
to place him in command of a corps of infantry. Upon
the question of his capacity, in this sphere, there will probably

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be many opinions. At Chancellorsville, when he succeeded
Jackson, the troops, although quite enthusiastic about him, complained
that he had led them too recklessly against artillery;
and it is hard for those who knew the man to believe that, as an
army commander, he would ever have consented to a strictly
defensive campaign. Fighting was a necessity of his blood, and
the slow movements of infantry did not suit his genius. With
an army under him, it is probable that he would either have
achieved magnificent successes or sustained overwhelming
defeats. I confess I thought him equal to anything in his profession,
but competent judges doubted it. What every one
agreed about, however, was his supreme genius for fighting
cavalry.

He always seemed to me to be intended by nature for this
branch of the service. Some men are born to write great works,
others to paint great pictures, others to rule over nations. Stuart
was born to fight cavalry. It was only necessary to be with him
in important movements or on critical occasions, to realize this.
His instinct was unfailing, his coup d'oeil that of the master. He
was a trained soldier, and had truly graduated at West Point,
but it looked like instinct rather than calculation—that rapid
and unerring glance which took in at once every trait of the
ground upon which he was operating, and anticipated every
movement of his adversary. I never knew him to blunder.
His glance was as quick, and reached its mark as surely as the
lightning. Action followed like the thunder. In moments of
great emergency it was wonderful to see how promptly he swept
the whole field, and how quickly his mind was made up. He
seemed to penetrate, as by a species of intuition, every design
of his opponent, and his dispositions for attack or defence were
those of a master-mind. Sometimes nothing but his unconquerable
resolution, and a sort of desperation, saved him from
destruction; but in almost every critical position which he was
placed in during that long and arduous career, it was his wonderful
acumen, no less than his unshrinking nerve, which
brought him out victorious.

This nerve had in it something splendid and chivalric. It

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

never failed him for a moment on occasions which would have
paralysed ordinary commanders. An instance was given in
October, 1863. Near Auburn his column was surrounded by
the whole of General Meade's army, then retiring before General
Lee. Stuart massed his command, kept cool, listened hour
after hour as the night passed on, to the roll of the Federal
artillery and the heavy tramp of their infantry within a few
hundred yards of him, and at daylight placed his own guns in
position and made a furious attack, under cover of which he
safely withdrew. An earlier instance was his raid in rear of
General McClellan, in June, 1862, when, on reaching the lower
Chickahominy, he found the stream swollen and unfordable,
while at every moment an enraged enemy threatened to fall
upon his rear with an overpowering force of infantry, cavalry,
and artillery. Although the men were much disheartened, and
were gloomy enough at the certain fate which seemed to await
them, Stuart remained cool and unmoved. He intended, he said
afterwards, to “die game” if attacked, but he believed he could
extricate his command. In four hours he had built a bridge,
singing as he worked with the men; and his column, with the
guns, defiled across just as the enemy rushed on them. A third
instance was the second ride around McClellan in Maryland,
October, 1862; when coming to the Monocacy he found General
Pleasanton, with a heavy force of cavalry, infantry, and artillery,
in his path, but unhesitatingly attacked and cut his way through.
Still another at Jack's Shop, where he charged both ways—the
column in front, and that sent to cut him off—and broke
through. Still another at Fleetwood Hill, where he was
attacked in front, flank, and rear, by nearly 17,000 infantry and
cavalry, but charging from the centre outwards, swept them
back, and drove them beyond the Rappahannock.

Upon these occasions and twenty others, nothing but his stout
nerve saved him from destruction. This quality, however,
would not have served him without the quick military instinct
of the born soldier. His great merit as a commander was, that
his conception of “the situation” was as rapid and just as his
nerve was steady. His execution was unfaltering, but the brain

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

had devised clearly what was to be done before the arm was
raised to strike. It was this which distinguished Stuart from
others—the promptness and accuracy of his brain work “under
pressure,” and at moments when delay was destruction. The
faculty would have achieved great results in any department of
arms; but in cavalry, the most “sudden and dangerous” branch
of the service, where everything is decided in a moment as it
were, it made Stuart one of the first soldiers of his epoch.
With equal—or not largely unequal—forces opposed to him, he
was never whipped. More than once he was driven back, and
two or three times “badly hurt;” but it was not the superior
genius of Buford, Stoneman, Pleasanton, or other adversaries,
which achieved those results. It was the presence of an obstacle
which his weapon could not break. Numbers were too much
for brain and acumen, and reckless fighting. The hammer was
shattered by the anvil.

Stuart was forced, by the necessities of the struggle, the nature
of the country, and the all-work he had to perform, to depend
much upon sharp-shooting. But he preferred pure cavalry
fighting. He fought his dismounted skirmishers with obstinacy,
and was ever present with them, riding alone the line, a conspi
cuous target for the enemy's bullets, cheering them on. But it
was in the legitimate sphere of cavalry that he was greatest.
The skirmishing was the “hard work.” He had thus to keep
a dangerous enemy off General Lee's flanks as the infantry
moved through the gaps of the Blue Ridge towards Pennsylvania,
or to defend the line of the Rappahannock, when some Federal
commander with thousands of horsemen, “came down like a
wolf” on General Lee's little “fold.” It was here, I think, that
Stuart vindicated his capacity to fight infantry, for such were
the dismounted cavalry; and he held his ground before swarming
enemies with a nerve and persistence which resembled Jackson's.

It was in the raid, the flank movement, the charge, and the

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

falling back, with cavalry proper, however, that he exhibited the
most conspicuous traits of the soldier. The foundation of his
successes here was a wonderful energy. The man was a war-machine
which never flagged. Day or night he was ready to
mount at the sound of the bugle. Other commanders, like the
bonus Homerus, drowsed at times, and nodded, suffering their
zeal to droop; but Stuart was sleepless, and General Lee could
count on him at any instant. To that inexhaustible physical
strength was united a mentality as untiring. The mind, like the
body, could “go day and night,” and needed no rest. When all
around him were broken down, Stuart still remained fresh and
unwearied; ready for council or for action; to give his views
and suggest important movements, or to march and make an
attack. His organization was of the “hair-trigger” kind, and
the well-tempered spring never lost its elasticity. He would
give orders, and very judicious ones, in his sleep—as on the
night of the second Manassas. When utterly prostrated by
whole days and nights spent in the saddle, he would stop by the
roadside, lie down without pickets or videttes, even in an enemy's
country—as once he did coming from Carlisle, Pennsylvania, in
July, 1863—sleep for an hour, wrapped in his cape and resting
against the trunk of a tree, and then mount again, as fresh
apparently, as if he had slumbered from sunset to dawn.

As his physical energies thus never seemed to droop, or
sprang with a rebound from the weight on them, so he never
desponded. A stouter heart in the darkest hour I have never
seen. No clouds could depress him or disarm his courage. He
met ill fortune with a smile, and drove it before him with his
gallant laughter. Gloom could not live in his presence, and the
whole race of “croakers” were shamed into hopefulness by his
inspiring words and demeanour. Defeat and disaster seemed to
make him stronger and more resolute, and he rose under
pressure. In moments of the most imminent peril to the very
existence of his command, I have seen him drum carelessly with
his fingers on the knee thrown over the pommel of his saddle,
reflect for an instant without any trace of excitement, and then
give the order to cut a path through the enemy, without the

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

change of a muscle. At such moments, it was plain that Stuart
coolly made up his mind to do his best, and leave the rest to the
chances of arms. His manner said as plainly as any word: “I
am going to make my way out or die—the thing is decided upon—
why make a to-do about it?” So perfect was his equanimity
upon such occasions, that persons ignorant of the extent of the
peril could not realize that any existed. It was hard to believe,
in presence of this “heart of oak,” with his cool and indifferent
manner, his composed tones and careless smile, that death or
capture stared the command in the face. And yet these were
just the occasions when Stuart's face of bronze was most unmoved.
Peril brought out his strength. The heaviest clouds
must obscure the landscape before his splendid buoyancy and
“heart of hope” were fully revealed. That stout heart seemed
invincible, and impending ruin could not shake it. I have seen
him strung, aroused, his eye flaming, his voice hoarse with the
mingled joy and passion of battle; but have never seen him
flurried or cast down, much less paralysed by a disaster. When
not rejoicing like the hunter on the traces of the game, he was
cool, resolute, and determined, evidently “to do or die.” The
mens œqua in arduis shone in the piercing blue eye, and his undaunted
bearing betrayed a soul which did not mean to yield—
which might be crushed and shattered, but would not bend.
When pushed hard and hunted down by a swarm of foes, as he
was more than once, Stuart presented a splendid spectacle. He
met the assault like an athlete of the Roman amphitheatre, and
fought with the ferocity of a tiger. He looked “dangerous”
at such moments; and those adversaries who knew him best,
advanced upon their great opponent thus standing at bay, with a
caution which was born of experience.

These observations apply with especial justice to the various
occasions when Stuart held with his cavalry cordon the country
north of the Rappahannock and east of the Blue Ridge, while
General Lee either advanced or retired through the gaps of the
mountains. The work which he did here will remain among his
most important services. He is best known to the world by his
famous “raids,” as they were erroneously called, by his circuits

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

of McClellan's army in Virginia and in Maryland, and other
movements of a similar character. This, however, was not his
great work. He will live in history as the commander of Lee's
cavalry, and for the great part he played in that leader's most
important movements. What Lee designed when he moved
Northward, or fell back from the valley, it was a matter of the
utmost interest to the enemy to know, and persistent efforts were
made by them to strike the Confederate flank and discover.
Stuart was, however, in the way with his cavalry. The road to
the Blue Ridge was obstructed; and somewhere near Middleburg,
Upperville, or Paris, the advancing column would find the
wary cavalier. Then took place an obstinate, often desperate
struggle—on Stuart's part to hold his ground; on the enemy's
part to break through the cordon. Crack troops—infantry,
cavalry, and artillery—were sent upon this important work,
and the most determined officers of the United States Army
commanded them.

Then came the tug of war. Stuart must meet whatever force
was brought against him, infantry as well as cavalry, and match
himself with the best brains of the Federal army in command
of them. It was often “diamond cut diamond.” In the fields
around Upperville, and everywhere along the road to Ashby's
Gap, raged a war of giants. The infantry on both sides heard
the distant roar of the artillery crowning every hill, and thought
the cavalry was skirmishing a little. The guns were only the
signal of a hand-to-hand struggle. Desperate charges were
made upon them; sabres clashed, carbines banged; in one
great hurly-burly of rushing horses, ringing sabres, cracking
pistols, and shouts which deafened, the opposing columns clashed
together. If Stuart broke them, he pressed them hotly, and
never rested until he swept them back for miles. If they broke
Stuart, he fell back with the obstinate ferocity of a bull-dog;
fought with his sharpshooters in every field, with his Horse Artillery
upon every knoll; and if they “crowded him” too closely
he took command of his column, and went at them with the
sabre, resolved to repulse them or die. It was upon this great
theatre that he displayed all his splendid faculties of nerve,

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

judgment, dash, and obstinacy—his quickness of conception,
rapidity of decision, and that fire of onset before which few
opponents could stand. The infantry did not know much about
these hot engagements, and cherished the flattering view that they
did all the fighting. General Lee, however, knew accurately
what was done, and what was not done. In Spotsylvania, after
Stuart's fall, he exclaimed: “If Stuart only were here! I can
scarcely think of him without weeping.”

The great cavalier had protected the Southern flanks upon a
hundred movements; guarded the wings upon many battle-fields,
penetrated the enemy's designs, and given General Lee information
in every campaign; and now when the tireless brain was
still, and the piercing eyes were dim, the country began to comprehend
the full extent of the calamity at Yellow Tavern, in
May, 1864, and to realize the irreparable loss sustained by the
cause when this bulwark fell.

I have noticed Stuart's stubbornness, nerve, and coolness. His
dash and impetuosity in the charge have scarcely been alluded
to, and yet it was these characteristics of the man which chiefly
impressed the public mind. On a former page he has been compared
to Rupert, the darling of love and war, who was never so
well satisfied as when dashing against the Roundhead pikes and
riding down his foes. Stuart seems to have inherited that trait
of the family blood—for it seems tolerably well established that
he and Rupert were descended from the same stock, and scions
of that family which has given to the world men of brain and
courage, as well as faineans and libertines. To notice briefly
this not uninteresting point, the “family likeness” in the traits
of Stuart and Prince Rupert is very curious. Both were utterly
devoted to a principle which was their life-blood—in Rupert it
was the love of royalty, in Stuart the love of Virginia. Both
were men of the most impetuous temper, chafing at opposition,
and ready at any instant to match themselves against their adversaries,
and conquer or die. Both were devoted to the “love of

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

ladies,” gallant to the echo; of a proud and splendid loyalty to
their word; of unshrinking courage; kind and compassionate
in temper, gay and smiling in address; fonder of fighting than
of looking to the commissariat; adored by their men, who
approached them without fear of a repulse; cavalry-men in every
drop of their blood; fond of brilliant colours, splendid pageants,
the notes of the bugle, the glitter of arms: Rupert with his
snowy plume, Stuart with his black one;—both throwing over
their shoulders capes of dazzling scarlet, unworn by men who
are not attached to gay colours; both taking a white dog for a
pet; both proud, gay, unswerving, indomitable, disdainful of
low things, passionately devoted to glory; both men in brain
and character at an age when others are mere boys; both famous
before thirty—and for ever—such were the points of resemblance
between these two men. Those familiar with the character of
the greatest cavalry-man of the English struggle, and with the
traits of Stuart, the most renowned of the recent conflict, will
not fail to see the likeness.

But I pass to “Stuart in the charge.” Here the man was
superb. It was in attack, after all, that his strongest faculties
were exhibited. Indeed, the whole genius and temperament of
the Virginian were for advancing, not retreating. He could fall
back stubbornly, as has been shown; and he certainly did so in
a masterly manner, disputing every inch of ground with his
adversary, and giving way to an enemy's advance under bloody
protest. At these times he displayed the obstinate temper of the
old Ironsides of Cromwell, when they retired in serried ranks,
ready to turn as they slowly retreated, and draw blood with their
iron claws. But when advancing upon an adversary—more
than all in the impetuous charge—Stuart was no longer the
Roundhead; he was the Cavalier. Cavalier he was by birth
and breeding and temperament; and he sprang to meet an
enemy, as Rupert drove forward in the hot struggle of the past
in England. You could see, then, that Stuart was in his element.
Once having formed his column for the charge, and given
his ringing order to “Form in fours! draw sabre!” it was neck
or nothing. When he thus “came to the sabre,” there was no

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

such word as fail with him. Once in motion to hurl his column
against his adversary, he seemed to act upon the Scriptural precept
to forget those things which were behind, and press on to
those which were before. That was the enemy in front; and to
ride over, and cut right and left among them, was the work
before him. At such moments there was something grand in
the magnificent fire and rush of the soldier. He seemed strong
enough to ride down a world. Only a glance was needed to
tell you that this man had made up his mind to break through
and trample under foot what opposed him, or “die trying.”
His men knew this; and, when he took personal command of
the column, as he most often did, prepared for tough work. His
occasional roughness of address to both officers and men had made
him bitter enemies, but the admiration which he aroused was
unbounded. The men were often heard to say, in critical places:
“There goes old Jeb to the front, boys; it's all right.” And an
officer whom he had offended, and who hated him bitterly,
declared with an oath that he was the greatest cavalry commander
that had ever lived. The reported words of General
Sedgwiek, of the United States Army, may be added here:
“Stuart is the greatest cavalry officer ever foaled in North
America.”

The impetuosity here noted was undoubtedly one of the most
striking traits of the man. In a charge, Stuart seemed on fire,
and was more the Chief of Squadron than the Corps Commander.
He estimated justly his own value as a fighting man, when he
said one day: “My proper place would be major of artillery;”
and it is certain that in command of a battalion of field-pieces,
he would have fought until the enemy were at the very
muzzles of his guns. But in the cavalry he had even a better
field for his love of close fighting. To come to the sabre best
suited his fiery organization, and he did come to it, personally,
on many occasions. He preferred saying, “Come on” to “Go
on.” The men declared that he was reckless, but no one could
say that he had ever sent his column where he was not ready to
go himself. If he made a headlong and determined attack upon
an overpowering force—a thing common with him—he was in

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

front himself, or fighting among the men. He never seemed to
feel, as far as my observation went, that his life was any more
valuable than that of the humblest private soldier. After one
of these occasions of reckless exposure of himself, I said to him:
“General, you ought not to put yourself in the way of the
bullets so; some day you will be killed.” He sighed and
replied: “Oh, I reckon not; but if I am, they will easily find
somebody to fill my place.” He had evidently determined to
spend and be spent in the Southern struggle, which had aroused
his most passionate sympathies. This love of native land came
to add a magnificent fervour to the natural combativeness of the
man. As a “free lance,” Stuart would have been careless of
his person; but in the Southern struggle he was utterly
reckless.

This indifference to danger was evidently a trait of blood, and
wholly unaffected. Nor, for a long time, did his incessant exposure
of himself bring him so much as a scratch. On all the
great battle-fields of Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania, as
well as in the close and bitter conflicts of his cavalry at Fleetwood,
Auburn, Upperville, Middleburg, South Mountain,
Monocacy, Williamsport, Shepherdstown, Paris, Barbee's, Jeffersonton,
Culpeper Court-House, Brandy, Kelly's Ford, Spotsylvania—
in these, and a hundred other hotly-contested actions,
he was in the very thickest of the fight, cheering on the sharpshooters,
directing his artillery, or leading his column in the
charge, but was never hurt. Horses were shot under him, bullets
struck his equipments, pierced his clothes, or cut off curls of
his hair, as at Fredericksburg, but none ever wounded him. In
the closest melée of clashing sabres the plume of Stuart was
unscathed; no sword's edge ever touched him. He seemed to
possess a charmed life, and to be invulnerable, like Achilles.
Shell, canister, and round-shot tore their way through the ranks
around him, overthrowing men and horses—many a brave fellow
at his side fell, pierced by the hissing bullets of Federal carbines—
but Stuart, like Rupert, never received a wound. The ball
which struck and laid him low at the Yellow Tavern on that
black day of May, 1864, was the first which touched him in the

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

war. In a hundred battles they had passed to the left and right
of him, sparing him.

The foregoing presents as accurate an outline of Stuart as the
present writer, after a close association with him for two or three
years, could draw. No trait is feigned or fanciful, and the picture
is not exaggerated, though it may seem so to some. The
organization of this man was exceptional and very remarkable.
The picture seems a fancy piece, perhaps, but it is the actual
portrait. The gaiety, nerve, courage, dash, and stubborn resolution
of that man were as great as here described. These were
the actual traits which made him fill so great a space in the public
eye; and as what he effected was not “done in a corner,” so
what he was became plain to all.

He was hated bitterly by some who had felt the weight of his
hot displeasure at their shortcomings, and some of these people
tried to traduce and slander him. They said he was idle and
negligent of his duties—he, the hardest worker and most wary
commander I ever saw. They said, in whispers behind his
back—in that tone which has been described as “giggle-gabble”—
that he thought more of dancing, laughing, and trifling with
young ladies than of his military work, when those things were
only the relaxations of the man after toil. They said that ladies
could wheedle and cajole him—when he arrested hundreds,
remained inexorable to their petitions, and meted out to the
“fairest eyes that ever have shone” the strictest military justice.
They said that he had wreaths of flowers around his horse, and
was “frolicking” with his staff at Culpeper Court-House, so
that his headquarters on Fleetwood Hill were surprised and captured
in June, 1863, when he had not been at the Court-House
for days; sent off every trace of his headquarters at dawn, six
hours before the enemy advanced; and was ready for them at
every point, and drove them back with heavy loss beyond the
river. In like manner the Sleeks sneered at his banjo, sneered
at his gay laughter, sneered at his plume, his bright colours, and

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

his merry songs. The same good friends invented stories of
rebukes he had incurred from General Lee, when he uniformly
received from that great friend and commander the highest evidences
of regard and confidence. These winged arrows, shot in
secret by the hand of calumny, which in plain Saxon are called
lies, accompanied Stuart everywhere at one period of his career;
but the Southern people could not be brought to believe them.
They flushed the face of the proud and honest cavalier, sometimes,
and made the blue eyes flash; but what could he do?
The calumnies were nameless; their authors slunk into shadow,
and shrank from him. So he ended by laughing at them, as the
country did, and going on his way unmindful of them. He
answered slander by brave action—calumny by harder work,
more reckless exposure of himself, and by grander achievements.
Those secret enemies might originate the falsehoods aimed at
him from their safe refuge in some newspaper office, or behind
some other “bomb-proof” shelter—he would fight. That was
his reply to them, and the scorn extinguished them. The honest
gentleman and great soldier was slandered, and he lived down
the slander—fighting it with his sword and his irreproachable
life, not with his tongue.

When death came to him in the bloom of manhood, and the
flush of a fame which will remain one of the supremest glories of
Virginia, Stuart ranked with the preux chevalier Bayard, the
knight “without reproach or fear.”

The brief and splendid career in which he won his great
renown, and that name of the “Flower of Cavaliers,” has
scarcely been touched on in this rapid sketch. The arduous
work which made him so illustrious has not been described—I
have been able to give only an outline of the man. That picture
may be rude and hasty, but it is a likeness. This was
Stuart. The reader must have formed some idea of him, hasty
and brief as the delineation has necessarily been. I have tried
to draw him as the determined leader, full of fire and force; the
stubborn fighter; the impetuous cavalier in the charge; the, at
times, hasty and arrogant, but warm-hearted friend; the devoted
Christian, husband, and father; the gayest of companions; full

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

of fun, frolic, laughter, courage, hope, buoyancy, and a certain
youthful joyousness which made his presence like the sunshine.
Upon this last trait I have dwelt much—the youth, and joy,
and hope, which shone in his brilliant eyes and rang in his
sonorous laughter. He passed before you like an incarnate
spring, all mirth and sunshine; but behind was the lightning.
In those eyes as fresh and blue as the May morning, lurked the
storm and the thunderbolt. Beneath the flowers was the hard
steel battle-axe. With that weapon he struck like Cœur de Lion,
and few adversaries stood before it. The joy, romance, and
splendour of the early years of chivalry flamed in his regard, and
his brave blood drove him on to combat. In the lists, at Camelot,
he would have charged “before the eyes of ladies and of
kings,” like Arthur; on the arena of the war in Virginia he followed
his instincts. Bright eyes were ever upon the daring
cavalier there, and his floating plume was like Henry of Navarre's
to many stout horsemen who looked to him as their chosen
leader; but, better still, the eyes of Lee and Jackson were fixed
on him with fullest confidence. Jackson said, when his wound
disabled him at Chancellorsville, and Stuart succeeded him:
“Go back to General Stuart and tell him to act upon his own
judgment, and do what he thinks best—I have implicit confidence
in him.” In Spotsylvania, as we have seen, General Lee
“could scarcely think of him without weeping.” The implicit
confidence of Jackson, and the tears of Lee, are enough to fill
the measure of one man's life and fame.

Such was Stuart—such the figure which moved before the
eyes of the Southern people for those three years of glorious
encounters, and then fell like some “monarch of the woods,”
which makes the whole forest resound as it crashes down.
Other noble forms there were; but that “heart of oak” of the
stern, hard fibre, the stubborn grain, even where it lies is mightiest.
Even dead and crumbled into dust, the form of Stuart
still fills the eye, and the tallest dwindle by his side—he seems
so great.

p521-057

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

At five in the evening, on the 27th of June, 1862, General
Stonewall Jackson made his appearance on the field of Cold
Harbour. Fresh from the hot conflicts of the Valley—an
athlete covered with the dust and smoke of the arena—he came
now with his veteran battalions to enter upon the still more
desperate conflicts of the lowland.

At that time many persons asked, “Who is Jackson?” All
we then knew of the famous leader was this—that he was born a
poor boy beyond the Alleghanies; managed to get to West
Point; embarked in the Mexican war as lieutenant of artillery,
where he fought his guns with such obstinacy that his name
soon became renowned; and then, retiring from active service,
became a Professor at the Lexington Military School. Here
the world knew him only as an eccentric but deeply pious man,
and a somewhat commonplace lecturer. Stiff and rigid in his
pew at church, striding awkwardly from his study to his lectureroom,
ever serious, thoughtful, absent minded in appearance—
such was the figure of the future Lieutenant-General, the estimate
of whose faculties by the gay young students may be
imagined from their nickname for him, “Fool Tom Jackson.”

In April, 1861, Fool Tom Jackson became Colonel of Virginia
volunteers, and went to Harper's Ferry, soon afterwards fighting
General Patterson at Falling Water, thence descending to
Manassas. Here the small force—2,611 muskets—of Brigadier-General
Jackson saved the day. Without them the Federal

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

column would have flanked and routed Beauregard. Bee,
forced back, shattered and overwhelmed, galloped up to Jackson
and groaned out, “General, they are beating us back!” Jackson's
set face did not move. “Sir,” he said, “we will give them
the bayonet.” Without those 2,611 muskets that morning,
good-by to Beauregard! In the next year came the Valley
campaign; the desperate and most remarkable fight at Kernstown;
the defeat and retreat of Banks from Strasburg and Winchester;
the retreat, in turn, of his great opponent, timed with
such mathematical accuracy, that at Strasburg he strikes with
his right hand and his left the columns of Fremont and Shields,
closing in from east and west to destroy him—strikes them and
passes through, continuing his retreat up the Valley. Then
comes the last scene—finis coronat. At Port Republic his
adversaries strike at him in two columns. He throws himself
against Fremont at Cross Keys and checks his advance; then
attacks Shields beyond the river, and after one of the hottest
battles of the war, fought nearly man to man, defeats himTroops
never fought better than the Federals there, but they
were defeated; and Jackson, by forced marches, hastened to fall
upon McClellan's right wing on the Chickahominy.

These events had, in June, 1862, attracted all eyes to Jackson.
People began to associate his name with the idea of unvarying
success, and to regard him as the incarnate genius of victory.
War seemed in his person to have become a splendid pageant of
unceasing triumph; and from the smoke of so many battle-fields
rose before the imaginative public eye, the figure of a
splendid soldier on his prancing steed, with his fluttering banner,
preceded by bugles, and advancing in all the pride, pomp, and
circumstance of glorious war. The actual man was somewhat
different; and in this sketch I shall try to draw his outline
as he really looked. In doing so, an apparent egotism will be
necessary; but this may be pardoned as inseparable from the
subject. What men see is more interesting than what they
think, often; what the writer saw of this great man will here be
recorded.

It was late in the afternoon of this memorable day, and A. P.

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

Hill had just been repulsed with heavy slaughter from General
McClellan's admirable works near New Cold Harbour, when
the writer of this was sent by General Stuart to ascertain if
Jackson's crops had gone in, and what were his dispositions for
battle. A group near a log cabin, twenty paces from Old Cold
Harbour House, was pointed out to me; and going there, I asked
for the General. Some one pointed to a figure seated on a log—
dingy, bending over, and writing on his kness. A faded,
yellow cap of the cadet pattern was drawn over his eyes; his
fingers, holding a pencil, trembled. His voice, in addressing
me, was brief, curt, but not uncourteous; and then, his dispatch
having been sent, he mounted and rode slowly alone across
the field. A more curious figure I never saw. He sat his rawboned
sorrel—not the “old sorrel,” however—like an automaton.
Kness drawn up, body leaning forward; the whole figure
stiff, angular, unbending. His coat was the dingiest of the
dingy; originally gray, it seemed to have brought away some
of the dust and dirt of every region in which he had bivouacked.
His faded cap was pulled down so low upon the forehead that
he was compelled to raise his chin into the air to look from
beneath the rim. Under that rim flashed two keen and piercing
eyes—dark, with a strange brilliancy, and full of “fight.” The
nose was prominent; the moustache heavy upon the firm lip,
close set beneath; the rough, brown beard did not conceal the
heavy fighting jaw. All but the eye was in apparent respose;
there was no longer any tretnor of anxiety. The soldier seemed
to have made all his arrangements, “done his best,” and he
evidently awaited the result with entire coolness. There was
even something absent and abstracted in his manner, as he rode
slowly to and fro, sucking a lemon, and looking keenly at you
when you spoke, answering briefly when necessary.

Twice more I saw him that day—first in the evening, in the
midst of a furious shelling, riding slowly with General Stuart
among his guns; his face lit up by the burning brushwood—a
face perfectly calm and unmoved. And again at midnight,
when, as I slept in a fence corner, I felt a hand upon my shoulder,
and a voice said, “Where is the General?” It was

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

Jackson, riding about by himself; and he tied his horse, lay
down beside General Stuart, and began with, “Well, yesterday's
was the most terrific fire of musketry I ever heard!” Words of
unwonted animation coming from Jackson—that most matter-of-fact
of speakers, and expressing much.

From this time, Jackson became the idol of his troops and the
country. Wherever he moved among the camps he was met
by cheers; and so unvarying was this reception of him, that a
distant yell would often draw from his men the exclamation,
“That's Jackson or a rabbit!” the sight of the soldier or the
appearance of a hare being alone adequate to arouse this tremendous
excitement. From the day of Cold Harbour, success continued
to crown him—at Cedar Mountain, the second Manassas,
Harper's Ferry, Sharpsburg, where he met the full weight of
McClellan's right wing under Hooker, and repulsed it, and
Chancellorsville. When he died, struck down by the hands of
his own men, he was the most famous and the most beloved of
Southern commanders.

His popularity was great in degree, but more singular in
character. No general was ever so beloved by the good and
pious of the land. Old ladies received him wherever he went
with a species of enthusiasm, and I think he preferred their
society and that of clergymen to any other. In such society his
kindly nature seemed to expand, and his countenance was
charming. He would talk for hours upon religious subjects,
never weary, it seemed, of such discourse, and at such moments
his smile had the sweetness and simplicity of childhood. The
hard intellect was resting, and the heart of the soldier spoke in
this congenial converse upon themes more dear to him than all
others. I have seen him look serene and perfectly happy, conversing
with a venerable lady upon their relative religious
experiences. Children were also great favourites with him, and
he seldom failed to make them love him. When at his headquarters
below Fredericksburg, in 1863, he received a splendid

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new cap, gorgeous with a broad band of dazzling gold braid,
which was greatly admired by a child one day in his quarters.
Thereupon Jackson drew her between his knees, ripped off the
braid, and binding it around her curls, sent her away delighted.
With maidens of more advanced age, however, the somewhat
shy General was less at his ease. At “Hayfield,” near the
same headquarters, and about the same time, the hospitable
family were one day visited by Generals Lee, Jackson, and
Stuart, when a little damsel of fourteen confided to her friend
General Lee her strong desire to kiss General Jackson. General
Lee, always fond of pleasantry, at once informed Jackson of the
young lady's desire, and the great soldier's face was covered
with blushes and confusion. An amusing picture, too, is drawn
of the General when he fell into the hands of the ladies of
Martinsburg, and they cut off almost every button of his coat
as souvenirs. The beleaguered hero would have preferred
storming a line of intrenchments.

Jackson had little humour. He was not sour or gloomy, nor
did he look grimly upon “fun” as something which a good
Presbyterian should avoid. He was perfectly cheerful, liberal
and rational in this as in everything; but he had no ear for
humour, as some persons have none for music. A joke was a
mysterious affair to him. Only when so very “broad” and
staring, that he who ran might read it, did humour of any sort
strike Jackson. Even his thick coating of matter-of-fact was
occasionally pierced, however. At Port Republic a soldier said
to his companion: “I wish these Yankees were in hell,” whereupon
the other replied: “I don't; for if they were, old Jack
would be within half a mile of them, with the Stonewall Brigade
in front!” When this was told to Jackson, he is said to
have burst out into hearty laughter, most unusual of sounds upon
the lips of the serious soldier. But such enjoyment of fun was
rare with him. I was never more struck with this than one day
at Fredericksburg, at General Stuart's headquarters. There was
an indifferent brochure published in those days, styled “Abram,
a Poem,” in the comic preface to which, Jackson was presented
in a most ludicrous light, seated on a stump at Oxhill and

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

gnawing at a roasting ear, while a whole North Carolina brigade
behind him in line of battle was doing likewise. General Stuart
read it with bursts of laughter to his friend, and Jackson also
laughed with perfect good-humour; but no sooner had the book
been closed than he seemed to forget its existence, and said with
an irresistibly matter-of-fact expression which made this writer
retire to indulge his own laughter: “By the by, in going to Culpeper,
where did you cross the Rapidan?” His manner was
unmistakable. It said: “My dear Stuart, all that is no doubt
very amusing to you, and I laugh because you do; but it don't
interest me.” On one occasion only, to the knowledge of the
present writer, did Jackson betray something like dry humour.
It was at Harper's Ferry, in September, 1862, just after the surrender
of that place, and when General Lee was falling back
upon Sharpsburg. Jackson was standing on the bridge over
the Potomac when a courier, out of breath, and seriously “demoralized,”
galloped up to him, and announced that McClellan
was within an hour's march of the place with an enormous army.
Jackson was conversing with a Federal officer at the moment,
and did not seem to hear the courier, who repeated his message
with every mark of agitation. Thereupon Jackson turned round
and said: “Has he any cattle with him?” The reply was that
there were thousands. “Well,” said Jackson, with his dry smile,
“you can go. My men can whip any army that comes well
provisioned.” Of wit, properly speaking, he had little. But
at times his brief, wise, matter-of-fact sentences became epigrammatic.
Dr. Hunter McGuire, his medical director, once gave
him some whiskey when he was wet and fatigued. Jackson made
a wry face in swallowing it, and Dr. McGuire asked if it was
not good whiskey. “Oh, yes,” replied Jackson, “I like liquor,
the taste and effect—that's why I don't drink it.”

I have endeavoured to draw an outline of Jackson on horseback—
the stiff, gaunt figure, dingy costume, piercing eyes; the
large, firm, iron mouth, and the strong fighting-jaw. A few

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

more words upon these personal peculiarities. The soldier's
face was one of decided character, but not eminently striking.
One circumstance always puzzled me—Jackson's lofty forehead
seemed to indicate unmistakably a strong predominance of the
imagination and fancy, and a very slight tendency or aptitude
for mathematics. It was the forehead of a poet!—the statement
is almost a jest. Jackson the stern, intensely matter-of-fact
mathematician, a man of fancy! Never did forehead so contradict
phrenology before. A man more guiltless of “poetry” in
thought or deed, I suppose never lived. His poetry was the
cannon's flash, the rattle of musketry, and the lurid cloud of battle.
Then, it is true, his language, ordinarily so curt and cold,
grew eloquent, almost tragic and heroic at times, from the deep
feeling of the man. At Malvern Hill, General — received
an order from Jackson to advance and attack the Federal forces
in their fortified position, for which purpose he must move
across an open field swept by their artillery. General — was
always “impracticable,” though thoroughly brave, and galloping
up to Jackson said, almost rudely, “Did you send me an
order to advance over that field?” “I did, sir,” was the cold
reply of Jackson, in whose eyes began to glow the light of a
coming storm. “Impossible, sir!” exclaimed General — in
a tone almost of insubordination, “my men will be annihilated!—
annihilated, I tell you, sir!” Jackson raised his finger, and
in his cold voice there was an accent of menace which cooled
his opponent like a hand of ice.

“General —,” he said, “I always endeavour to take care of
my wounded and to bury my dead. Obey that order, sir!”

The officer who was present at this scene and related it to me,
declares that he never saw a deeper suppression of concentrated
anger than that which shone in Jackson's eye, or heard a human
voice more menacing.

There were other times when Jackson, stung and aroused,
was driven from his propriety, or, at least, out of his coolness.
The winter of 1861-2 was such an occasion. He had made his
expedition to Morgan county, and, in spite of great suffering
among the troops, had forced the Federal garrisons at Bath and

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

Romney to retire, and accomplished all hisends. General Loring
was then left at Romney, and Jackson returned to Winchester.
All that is well known. What follows is not known to many.
General Loring conceived an intense enmity for Jackson, and
made such representations at Richmond, that an order was sent
to Loring direct, not through Jackson, commanding in the Valley,
recalling him. Jackson at once sent in his resignation.
The scene which took place between him and his friend Colonel
Boteler, thereupon, was a stormy one. The Colonel in vain
tried to persuade him that he ought to recall his resignation.
“No, sir,” exclaimed Jackson, striding fiercely up and down,
“I will not hold a command upon terms of that sort. I will
not have those people at Richmond interfering in my plans, and
sending orders to an officer under me, without even informing
me. No soldier can endure it. I care not for myself. If I
know myself I do not act from anger—but if I yield now they
will treat better men in the same way! I am nobody—but the
protest must be made here, or Lee and Johnston will be meddled
with as I am.” It was only after the resignation had been withdrawn
by the Governor of Virginia without his authority, and
explanations, apologies, protestations, came from the head of the
War Office, that the design was given up. Such is a little morceau
of private history, showing how Jackson came near not
commanding in the Valley in 1862.

With the exception of these rare occasions when his great
passions were aroused, Jackson was an apparently commonplace
person, and his bearing neither striking, graceful, nor impressive.
He rode ungracefully, walked with an awkward stride, and
wanted ease of manner. He never lost a certain shyness in
company; and I remember his air of boyish constraint, one
day, when, in leaving an apartment full of friends, he hesitated
whether to shake hands with every one or not. Catching the
eye of the present writer, who designed remaining, he hastily
extended his hand, shook hands, and quickly retired, apparently
relieved. His bearing thus wanted ease; but, personally, he
made a most agreeable impression by his delightfully natural
courtesy. His smile was as sweet as a child's, and evidently

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

sprang from his goodness of heart. A lady said it was “angelic.”
His voice in ordinary conversation was subdued, and
pleasant from its friendly and courteous tone, though injured by
the acquired habit—a West Pointism—of cutting off, so to speak,
each word, and leaving each to take care of itself. This was
always observable in his manner of talking; but briefest of the
brief, curtest of the curt, was General Stonewall Jackson on the
field of battle and “at work.” His words were then let fall as
though under protest; all superfluities were discarded; and the
monosyllables jerked from his lips seemed clipped off, one by
one, and launched to go upon separate ways. The eccentricities
of the individual were undoubtedly a strong element of his popularity;
the dress, habits, bearing of the man, all made his soldiers
adore him. General Lee's air of collected dignity, mingled
with a certain grave and serious pride, aroused rather admiration
than affection—though during the last years of the war, the
troops came to love as much as they admired him: to arrive at
which point they had only to know the great warm heart which
beat under that calm exterior, making its possessor “one altogether
lovely.” Jackson's appearance and manners, on the contrary,
were such as conciliate a familiar, humorous liking. His
dingy old coat, than which scarce a private's in his command
was more faded; his dilapidated and discolored cap; the absence
of decorations and all show in his dress; his odd ways;
his kindly, simple manner; his habit of sitting down and eating
with his men; his indifference whether his bed were in a comfortable
headquarter tent, on a camp couch, or in a fence corner
with no shelter from the rain but his cloak; his abstemiousness,
fairness, honesty, simplicity; his never-failing regard for the
comfort and the feelings of the private soldier; his oddities,
eccentricities, and originalities—all were an unfailing provocative
to liking, and endeared him to his men. Troops are charmed
when there is anything in the personal character of a great
leader to “make fun of”—admiration of his genius then becomes
enthusiasm for his person. Jackson had aroused this
enthusiasm in his men—and it was a weapon with which he
struck hard.

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

One of the most curious peculiarities of Jackson was the
strange fashion he had of raising his right hand aloft and then
letting it fall suddenly to his side. It is impossible, perhaps, to
determine the meaning of this singular gesture. It is said that
he had some physical ailment which he thus relieved; others
believed that at such moments he was praying. Either may be
the fact. Certain it is that he often held his hand, sometimes
both hands, thus aloft in battle, and that his lips were then seen
to move, evidently in prayer. Not once, but many times, has
the singular spectacle been presented of a Lieutenant-General
commanding, sitting on his horse silently as his column moved
before him—his hands raised to heaven, his eyes closed, his lips
moving in prayer. At Chancellorsville, as he recognised the
corpses of any of his old veterans, he would check his horse,
raise his hands to heaven, and utter a prayer over the dead body.

There were those who said that all this indicated a partial
species of insanity—that Jackson's mind was not sound. Other
stories are told of him which aim to show that his eccentricities
amounted to craziness. Upon this point the philosophers and
physiologists must decide. The present writer can only say that
Jackson appeared to him to be an eminently rational, judicious,
and sensible person in conversation; and the world must determine
whether there was any “craze,” any flaw or crack, or error,
in the terribly logical processes of his brain as a fighter of
armies. The old incredulity of Frederick will obtrude itself
upon the mind. If Jackson was crazy, it is a pity he did not
bite somebody, and inoculate them with a small amount of his
insanity as a soldier. Unquestionably the most striking trait of
Jackson as a leader was his unerring judgment and accuracy of
calculation. The present writer believes himself to be familiar
with every detail of his career, and does not recall one blunder.
Kernstown was fought upon information furnished by General
Ashby, a most accomplished and reliable partisan, which turned
out to be inaccurate; but even in defeat Jackson there accomplished
the very important object of retaining a large Federal
force in the Valley, which McClellan needed on the Chickahominy.
For instances of the boldness, fertility, and originality

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

of his conceptions, take the campaigns against General Pope,
the surprise of Harper's Ferry, the great flank attack at Chancellorsville,
and the marvellous success of every step taken in
the campaign of the Valley. This is not the occasion for an
analysis of these campaigns; but it may be safely declared that
they are magnificent illustrations of the mathematics of war;
that the brain which conceived and executed designs so bold and
splendid, must have possessed a sanity for all practical purposes
difficult to dispute.

Jackson's religious opinions are unknown to the present writer.
He has been called a “fatalist.” All sensible men are fatalists
in one sense, in possessing a strong conviction that “what will
be, will be.” But men of deep piety like Jackson, are not Oriental
in their views. Fate was a mere word with Jackson, with
no meaning; his “star” was Providence. Love for and trust
in that Providence dwelt and beat in every vein and pulse of
his nature. His whole soul was absorbed in his religion—as
much as a merchant's is in his business, or a statesman's in public
affairs. He believed that life “meant intensely, and meant
good.” To find its meaning was “his meat and drink.” His
religion was his life, and the real world a mere phantasmagoria.
He seemed to have died rejoicing, preferring death to life.
Strange madness! This religious dreamer was the stern, practical,
mathematical calculator of chances; the obstinate, unyielding
fighter; the most prosaic of realists in all the commonplaces
of the dreadfully commonplace trade of war.

The world knocks down many people with that cry of “eccentric,”
by which is really meant “insane.” Any divergence from
the conventional is an evidence of mental unsoundness. Jackson
was seen, once in Lexington, walking up and down in a
heavy rain before the superintendent's quarters, waiting for the
clock to strike ten before he delivered his report. He wore
woollen clothes throughout the summer. He would never mail
a letter which to reach its destination must travel on Sunday.

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

All these things made him laughed at; and yet the good sense
seems all on his side, the folly on that of the laughers. The Institute
was a military school; military obedience was the great
important lesson to the student—rigid, unquestioning obedience.
Jackson set them the example. He was ordered to hand in his
report at ten, and did not feel himself at liberty to present it before
ten, in consequence of the rain. He was ordered to don a
woollen uniform in the winter, and having received no order
preseribing or permitting another, continued to wear it. He
considered it wrong to travel or carry mails on Sunday, and
would not take part in the commission of wrong. This appears
logical, however eccentric.

In truth, the great soldier was an altogether earnest man, with
little genius for the trivial pursuits of life, or its more trivial
processes of thought and opinion. His temper was matter-of-fact,
his logic straightforward; “nonsense” could not live in
his presence. The lighter graces were denied him, but not the
abiding charm. He had no eye for the “flower of the peas,” no
palate for the bubble on the champagne of life; but he was true,
kind, brave, and simple. Life with him was a hard, earnest
struggle; duty seems to have been his watchword. It is hard
to find in his character any actual blot—he was so true and
honest.

Jackson has probably excited more admiration in Europe
than any other personage in the late revolution. His opponents
even are said to have acknowledged the purity of his motives—
to have recognised the greatness of his character and the splendor
of his achievements. This sentiment springs naturally from
a review of his life. It is no part of my design to present a
critical analysis of his military movements. This must sooner
or later be done; but at present the atmosphere is not clear of
the battle-smoke, and figures are seen indistinctly. The time
will come when the campaigns of Jackson will become the study
of military men in the Old World and the New—the masterly advances
and retreats of the Valley; the descent against McClellan;
the expedition to Pope's rear, which terminated in the
second battle of Manassas; and the great flank movement at

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

Chancellorsville, which has made the tangled brakes of the
Spotsylvania wilderness famous for ever.

Under the grave exterior, the reserved demeanour, the old
faded costume of the famous soldier, the penetrating student of
human nature will discern “one of the immortals.” In the man
who holds aloft his hand in prayer while his veteran battalions
move by steadily to the charge, it will not be difficult to fancy
a reproduction of the stubborn Cromwell, sternest of Ironsides,
going forth to conquer in the name of the Lord. In the man
who led his broken lines back to the conflict, and charged in
front of them on many fields, there was all the dash and impetus
of Rupert. The inscrutable decree of Providence struck
down this great soldier in the prime of life and the bloom of his
faculties. His career extended over but two years, and he lives
only in memory. But history cannot avoid her landmarks; the
great proportions of Stonewall Jackson will sooner or later be
delineated.

The writer of these lines can only say how great this man
appeared to him, and wait with patience for the picture which
shall “denote him truly.”

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WADE HAMPTON'S CAVALRY FIGHT AT GETTYSBURG.—Page 57. [figure description] Illustration page, which depicts an intense Civil War battle between the two armies. The picture is a mess of horses, men, and swords -- all fighting, clashing, and falling.[end figure description]

p521-072

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THERE was a gentleman of South Carolina, of high position and
ample estate, who in 1861 came to take part in the war in
Virginia, at the head of a “Legion” of six hundred infantry.
This body of men, it was said, he had equipped from his own
purse; as he had sent to England and purchased the artillery
with which he was going to fight.

The “Legion” was composed of brave stuff, and officered by
hard-fighting gentlemen—the flower indeed of the great South
Carolina race; a good stock. It first took the field in earnest at
the first battle of Manassas—as an independent organization,
belonging neither to Beauregard's “Army of the Potomac” nor
to Johnston's “Army of the Shenandoah.” But there it was, as
though dropped from the clouds, on the morning of that fiery
twenty-first of July, 1861, amid the corn-fields of Manassas.
It made its mark without loss of time—stretching out to Virginia
that firm, brave hand of South Carolina. At ten o'clock
in the morning, on this eventful day, the battle seemed lost to
the Southerners. Evans was cut to pieces; Bee shattered and
driven back in utter defeat to the Henry-House hill; between
the victorious enemy and Beauregard's unprotected flank were
interposed only the six hundred men of the “Legion” already
up, and the two thousand six hundred and eleven muskets of
Jackson not yet in position. The Legion occupied the Warrenton
road near the Stone House, where it met and sustained
with stubborn front the torrent dashed against it. General

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

Keyes, with his division, attacked the six hundred from the
direction of Red-House ford, and his advance line was forced
back by them, and compelled to take refuge beneath the bluffs
near Stone bridge. The column of General Hunter, mean while,
closed in on the left of the little band, enveloped their flank,
and poured a destructive artillery fire along the line. To hold
their ground further was impossible, and they slowly fell back;
but those precious moments had been secured. Jackson was in
position; the Legion retreated, and formed upon his right; the
enemy's advance was checked; and when the Southern line
advanced in its turn, with wild cheers, piercing the Federal centre,
the South Carolinians fought shoulder to shoulder beside
the Stonewall Brigade, and saw the Federal forces break in disorder.
When the sun set on this bloody and victorious field,
the “Legion” had made a record among the most honourable in
history. They had done more than their part in the hard struggle,
and now saw the enemy in full retreat; but their leader did not
witness that spectacle. Wade Hampton had been shot down in
the final charge near the Henry House, and borne from the field,
cheering on his men to the last, with that stubborn hardihood
which he derived from his ancestral blood.

Such was the first appearance upon the great arena of a man
who was destined to act a prominent part in the tragic drama of
the war, and win for himself a distinguished name. At Manassas,
there in the beginning of the struggle, as always afterwards,
he was the cool and fearless soldier. It was easily seen by those
who watched Hampton “at work” that he fought from a sense
of duty, and not from passion, or to win renown. The war was
a gala-day full of attraction and excitement to some; with him
it was hard work—not sought, but accepted. I am certain that
he was not actuated by a thirst for military rank or renown.
From those early days when all was gay and brilliant, to the
latter years when the conflict had become so desperate and
bloody, oppressing every heart, Hampton remained the same
cool, unexcited soldier. He was foremost in every fight, and
everywhere did more than his duty; but evidently martial ambition
did not move him. Driven to take up arms by his

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

principles, he fought for those principles, not for fame. It followed
him—he did not follow it; and to contemplate the character and
career of such a man is wholesome.

His long and ardous career cannot here be narrated. A bare
reference to some prominent points is all that can be given.
Colonel Hampton, of the “Hampton Legion,” soon became
Brigadier-General Hampton, of the cavalry. The horsemen of
the Gulf States serving in Virginia were placed under him, and
the brigade became a portion of Stuart's command. It soon
made its mark. Here are some of the landmarks in the stirring
record.

The hard and stubborn stand made at the Catoctin Mountain,
when General Lee first invaded Maryland, and where Hampton
charged and captured the Federal artillery posted in the suburbs
of Frederick City; the rear-guard work as the Southern column
hastened on, pursued by McClellan, to Sharpsburg: the stout
fighting on the Confederate left there; the raid around McClellan's
army in October; the obstinate fighting in front of the
gaps of the Blue Ridge as Lee fell back in November to the line
of the Rappahannock; the expedition in dead of winter to the
Occoquan; the critical and desperate combat on the ninth of
June, 1863, at Fleetwood Hill, near Brandy, where Hampton
held the right, and Young, of Georgia, the brave of braves, went
at the flanking column of the enemy with the sabre, never firing
a shot, and swept them from the field; the speedy advance,
thereafter, from the Rapidan; the close and bitter struggle when
the enemy, with an overpowering force of infantry, cavalry, and
artillery, about the twentieth of June, attacked the Southern
cavalry near Middleburg, and forced them back step by step
beyond Upperville, where in the last wild charge, when the
Confederates were nearly broken, Hampton went in with the
sabre at the head of his men and saved the command from
destruction by his “do or die” fighting; the advance immediately
into Pennsylvania, when the long, hard march, like the
verses of Ariosto, was strewed all over with battles; the stubborn
attack at Hanovertown, where Hampton stood like a rock upon
the hills above the place, and the never-ceasing or receding roar

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

of his artillery told us that on the right flank all was well; the
march thereafter to Carlisle, and back to Gettysburg; the grand
charge there, sabre to sabre, where Hampton was shot through
the body, and nearly cut out of the saddle by a sabre blow upon
the head, which almost proved fatal; the hard conflicts of the
Wilderness, when General Grant came over in May, 1864; the
fighting on the north bank of the Po, and on the left of the
army at Spotsylvania Court-House; the various campaigns
against Sheridan, Kautz, Wilson, and the later cavalry leaders
on the Federal side, when, Stuart having fallen, Hampton commanded
the whole Virginia cavalry; the hot fights at Trevillian's,
at Reanis, at Bellfield, in a hundred places, when, in
those expiring hours of the great conflict, a species of fury
seemed to possess both combatants, and Dinwiddie was the arena
of a struggle, bitter, bloody, desperate beyond all expression;
then the fighting in the Carolinas on the old grounds of the
Edisto, the high hills of the Santee and Congaree, which in 1864
and 1865 sent bulletins of battle as before; then the last act of
the tragedy, when Sherman came and Hampton's sabre gleamed
in the glare of his own house at Columbia, and then was
sheathed—such were some of the scenes amid which the tall
form of this soldier moved, and his sword flashed. That stalwart
form had everywhere towered in the van. On the Rappahannock,
the Rapidan, the Susquehanna, the Shenandoah, the
Po, the North Anna, the James, the Rowanty, and Hatcher's
Run—in Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania—Hampton had
fought with the stubborn courage inherited from his Revolution-ary
sires. Fighting lastly upon the soil of his native State, he
felt no doubt as Marion and Sumter did, when Rawdon and
Tarleton came and were met sabre to sabre. In the hot conflicts
of 1865, Hampton met the new enemy as those preux chevaliers
with their great Virginia comrade, “Light-House Harry” Lee,
had met the old in 1781.

But the record of those stubborn fights must be left to another
time and to abler hands. I pass to a few traits of the individual.

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

Of this eminent soldier, I will say that, seeing him often in
many of those perilous straits which reveal hard fibre or its
absence, I always regarded him as a noble type of courage and
manhood—a gentleman and soldier “to the finger nails.” But
that is not enough; generalization and eulogy are unprofitable—
truth and minute characterization are better. One personal
anecdote of Cæsar would be far more valuable than a hundred
commonplaces—and that is true of others. It is not a “general
idea” I am to give; I would paint the portrait, if I can, of the
actual man. The individuality of the great South Carolinian
was very marked. You saw at a glance the race from which he
sprang, and the traits of heart and brain which he brought to
the hard contest. He was “whole in himself and due to none.”
Neither in physical nor mental conformation did he resemble
Stuart, the ideal cavalier—Forrest, the rough-rider—or the rest.
To compare him for an instant to the famous Stuart—the latter
laughed, sang, and revelled in youth and enjoyment. Hampton
smiled oftener than he laughed, never sang at all that I ever
heard, and had the composed demeanour of a man of middle age.
Stuart loved brilliant colours, gay scenes, and the sparkle of
bright eyes. Hampton gave little thought to these things; and
his plain gray coat, worn, dingy, and faded, beside the great
cavalier's gay “fighting jacket,” shining with gold braid, defined
the whole difference. I do not say that the dingy coat covered
a stouter heart than the brilliant jacket—there never lived a
more heroic soul than Stuart—but that in this was shown the
individuality of each. The one—Stuart—was young, gay, a
West Pointer, and splendid in his merriment, élan, and abandon.
The other, Hampton, a civilian approaching middle age, a
planter, not a soldier by profession—a man who embarked in
the arduous struggle with the coolness of the statesman, rather
than the ardor of the soldier. It was the planter, sword in hand,
not the United States officer, that one saw in Hampton—the
country gentleman who took up arms because his native soil was

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invaded, as the race of which he came had done in the past.
That the plain planter, without military education, became the
eminent soldier, is an evidence that “the strain will show.”

Here is an outline of the South Carolinian as he appeared in
July, 1862, when the cavalry were resting after the battles of the
Chickahominy, and he often came to the old shady yard of
Hanover Court-House, to talk with General Stuart under the
trees there. What the eye saw in those days was a personage of
tall stature and “distinguished” appearance. The face was
browned by sun and wind, and half covered by dark side-whiskers
joining a long moustache of the same hue; the chin bold,
prominent, and bare. The eyes were brown, inclining to black,
and very mild and friendly; the voice low, sonorous, and with a
certain accent of dignity and composure. The frame of the soldier—
straight, vigorous, and stalwart, but not too broad for grace—
was encased in a plain gray sack coat of civilian cut, with the
collar turned down; cavalry boots, large and serviceable, with
brass spurs; a brown felt hat, without star or feather; the rest of
the dress plain gray. Imagine this stalwart figure with a heavy
sabre buckled around the waist, and mounted upon a large and
powerful animal of excellent blood and action, but wholly “unshowy,”
and a correct idea will be obtained of General Wade
Hampton. Passing from the clothes to the man—what impressed
all who saw him was the attractive union of dignity and simplicity
in his bearing—a certain grave and simple courtesy which
indicated the highest breeding. He was evidently an honest
gentleman who disdained all pretence or artifice. It was plain
that he thought nothing of personal decorations or military show,
and never dreamed of “producing an impression” upon any one.
This was revealed by that bearing full of a proud modesty; neither
stiff nor insinuating—simple.

After being in his presence for ten minutes, you saw that he
was a man for hard work, and not for display. That plain and
unassuming manner, without pretension, affectation, or “official”
coolness, was an index to the character of the individual. It is
easy to tell a gentleman; something betrays that character, as
something betrays the pretender. Refinement, good-breeding,

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

and fealty through all, to honour, were here embodied. The
General was as courteous to the humblest private soldier as to
the Commander-in-Chief, and you could discover in him no trace
whatever of that air of “condescension” and “patronage”
which small persons, aiming to be great, sometimes adopt. It
was the unforced courtesy of the gentleman, not the hollow
politeness of the pretender to that title, which all saw in
Hampton. He did not act at all, but lived his character.
In his voice, in his bearing, in all that he said and did, the
South Carolinian betrayed the man who is too proud not to be
simple, natural, and unassuming.

Upon this trait of manner, merely, I may seem to dwell too
long. But it is not a trifle. I am trying to delineate a man of
whom we Southerners are proud—and this rare grace was his.
It reflected clearly the character of the individual—the noble
pride, the true courtesy, and the high-bred honour of one who,
amid all the jarring strife of an excited epoch, would not suffer
his serene equanimity of gentleman to be disturbed; who aimed
to do his duty to his country, not rise above his associates; who
was no politer to the high than to the low, to the powerful than
to the weak; and who respected more the truth and courage
beneath the tattered jacket than the starts and wreath on the
braided coat. The result of this kindly feeling towards “men of
low estate” was marked. An officer long associated with him
said to me one day: “I do not believe there ever was a General
more beloved by his whole command; and he more than returns
it. General Hampton has a real tenderness, I do believe, for every
solider who has ever served under him.” He was always doing
the poorer members of his command some kindness. His hand
was open like his heart. Many a brave fellow's family was kept
from want by him; and a hundred instances of this liberality are
doubtless recorded in the grateful memories of the women and
children whom he fought for, and fed too, in those dark days.
This munificence was nowhere else recorded. The left hand
knew not what the right hand did.

A few words more upon his personal bearing. His composure
upon trying occasions, as in every-day life, indicated a self-poised

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and independent character. He rarely yielded to hearty mirth,
but his smile was very friendly and attractive. You could see
that he was a person of earnest feelings, and had a good heart.
In camp he was a pleasant companion, and those who saw him
daily became most attached to him. His staff were devoted to
him. I remember the regret experienced by these brave gentlemen
when Hampton's assignment to the command of all the cavalry
separated them from him. The feeling which they then exhibited
left no doubt of the entente cordiale between the members of the
military family. General Hampton liked to laugh and talk with
them around the camp fire; to do them every kindness he could—
but that was his weakness towards everybody—and to play
chess, draughts, or other games, in the intervals of fighting or
work. One of his passions was hunting. This amusement he
pursued upon every occasion—over the fields of Spotsylvania,
amid the woods of Dinwiddle, and on the rivers of South Carolina.
His success was great. Ducks, partridges, squirrels, turkey, and
deer, fell before his double-barrel in whatever country he pitched
his tents. He knew all the old huntsmen of the regions in which
he tarried, delighted to talk with such upon the noble science of
venery, and was considered by these dangerous critics a thorough
sportsman. They regarded him, it is said, as a comrade not
undistinguished; and sent him, in friendly recognition of his
merit, presents of venison and other game, which was plentiful
along the shores of the Rowanty, or in the backwoods of
Dinwiddie. Hampton was holding the right of General Lee's
line there, in supreme command of all the Virginia cavalry; but
it was not as a hunter of “bluebirds”—so we used to call our
Northern friends—that they respected him most. It was as a
deer hunter; and I have heard that the hard-fighting cavalier
relished very highly their good opinion of him in that character.
It is singular that a love for hunting should so often characterize
men of elegant scholarship and literary taste. The soldier and
huntsman was also a poet, and General Stuart spoke in high
praise of his writings. His prose style was forcible and excellent—
in letters, reports, and all that he wrote. The admirably
written address to the people of South Carolina, which was

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

recently published, will display the justice of this statement.
That paper, like all that came from him, was compact, vigorous,
lucid, “written in English,” and everywhere betrayed the scholar
no less than the patriot. It will live when a thousand octavos
have disappeared.

Such was Wade Hampton the man—a gentleman in every
fibre of his being. It was impossible to imagine anything coarse
or profane in the action or utterance of the man. An oath never
soiled his lips. “Do bring up that artillery!” or some equivalent
exclamation, was his nearest approach to irritation even.
Such was the supreme control which this man of character, full
of fire, force, and resolution, had over his passions. For, under
that simplicity and kindly courtesy, was the largely-moulded
nature of one ready to go to the death when honour called. In
a single word, it was a powerful organization under complete
control which the present writer seemed to recognise in Wade
Hampton. Under that sweetness and dignity which made him
conspicuous among the first gentlemen of his epoch, was the
stubborn spirit of the born soldier.

Little space is left to speak of him in his military character.
I preferred to dwell upon Hampton the man, as he appeared to
me; for Hampton the General will find many historians. Some
traits of the soldier, however, must not be omitted; this character
is too eminent to be drawn only in profile. On the field
Hampton was noted for his coolness. This never left him. It
might almost be called repose, so perfect was it. He was never
an excitable man; and as doubt and danger pressed heavier, his
equanimity seemed to increase. You could see that this was
truly a stubborn spirit. I do not think that anybody who knew
him could even imagine Wade Hampton “flurried.” His nerve
was made of invincible stuff, and his entire absence of all
excitability on the field was spoken of by his enemies as a fault.
It was said that his coolness amounted to a defect in a cavalry
leader; that he wanted the dash, rush, and impetus which this

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

branch of the service demands. If there was any general truth
in this criticism, there was none in particular instances. Hampton
was sufficiently headlong when I saw him—was one of the most
thoroughly successful commanders imaginable, and certainly
seemed to have a natural turn for going in front of his column
with a drawn sabre. What the French call élan is not, however,
the greatest merit in a soldier. Behind the strong arm was the
wary brain. Cool and collected resolution, a comprehensive
survey of the whole field, and the most excellent dispositions for
attack or defence—such were the merits of this soldier. I could
never divest myself of the idea that as a corps commander of
infantry he would have figured among the most eminent names
of history. With an unclouded brain; a coup d'œil as clear as a
ray of the sun; invincible before danger; never flurried, anxious,
or despondent; content to wait; too wary ever to be surprised;
looking to great trials of strength, and to general results—the
man possessing these traits of character was better fitted, I
always thought, for the command of troops of all arms—infantry,
cavalry, and artillery—than for one arm alone. But with that
arm which he commanded—cavalry—what splendid results did
he achieve. In how many perilous straits was his tall figure seen
in front of the Southern horsemen, bidding them “come on,”
not “go on.” He was not only the commander, but the sabreur
too. Thousands will remember how his gallant figure led the
charging column at Frederick City, at Upperville, at Gettysburg,
at Trevillian's, and in a hundred other fights. Nothing more
superb could be imagined than Hampton at such moments.
There was no flurry in the man—but determined resolution.
No doubt of the result apparently—no looking for an avenue of
retreat. “Sabre to sabre!” might have been taken as the motto
of his banner. In the “heady fight” he was everywhere seen,
amid the clouds of smoke, the crashing shell, and the whistling
balls, fighting like a private soldier, his long sword doing hard
work in the mélée, and carving its way as did the trenchant
weapons of the ancient knights. This spirit of the thorough
cavalier in Hampton is worth dwelling on. Under the braid of
the Major-General was the brave soul of the fearless soldier, the

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

“fighting man.” It was not a merit in him or in others that
they gave up wealth, business, elegance, all the comforts, conveniences,
and serene enjoyments of life, to live hard and fight
hard; to endure heat, cold, hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and pain,
without a murmur; but it was a merit in this brave soldier and
gentleman that he did more than his duty, met breast to breast
in single combat the best swordsmen of the Federal army,
counted his life as no more than a private soldier's, and seemed
to ask nothing better than to pour out his heart's blood for the
cause in which he fought. This personal heroism—and Hampton
had it to a grand extent—attracts the admiration of troops. But
there is something better—the power of brain and force of
character which wins the confidence of the Commander-in-Chief.
When that Commander-in-Chief is called Robert E. Lee, it is
something to have secured his high regard and confidence.
Hampton had won the respect of Lee, and by that “noblest
Roman of them all” his great character and eminent services
were fully recognised. These men seemed to understand each
other, and to be inspired by the same sentiment—a love of their
native land which never failed, and a willingness to spend and
be spent to the last drop of their blood in the cause which they
had espoused. During General Stuart's life, Hampton was
second in command of the Virginia Cavalry; but when that
great cavalier fell, he took charge of the whole as ranking-officer.
His first blow was that resolute night-attack on Sheridan's force at
Mechanicsville, when the enemy were driven in the darkness
from their camps, and sprang to horse only in time to avoid the
sweeping sabres of the Southerners—giving up from that moment
all further attempt to enter Richmond. Then came the long,
hard, desperate fighting of the whole year 1864, and the spring of
1865. At Trevillian's, Sheridan was driven back and Charlottesville
saved; on the Weldon railroad the Federal cavalry, under
Kautz and Wilson, was nearly cut to pieces, and broke in disorder,
leaving on the roads their wagons, cannons, ambulances, their
dead men and horses; near Bellfield the Federal column sent to
destroy the railroad was encountered, stubbornly opposed, and
driven back before they could burn the bridge at Hicksford; at

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

Burgess' Mill, near Petersburg, where General Grant made his
first great blow with two corps of infantry, at the Southside
railroad, Hampton met them in front and flank, fought them all
an October day nearly, lost his brave son Preston, dead from a
bullet on the field, but in conjunction with Mahone, that hardy
fighter, sent the enemy in haste back to their works; thus saving
for the time the great war artery of the Southern army. Thenceforward,
until he was sent to South Carolina, Hampton held the
right of Lee in the woods of Dinwiddie, guarding with his cavalry
cordon the line of the Rowanty, and defying all comers. Stout,
hardy, composed, smiling, ready to meet any attack—in those
last days of the strange year 1864, he seemed to my eyes the
beau ideal of a soldier. The man appeared to be as firm as a
rock, as immovably rooted as one of the gigantic live-oaks of his
native country. When I asked him one day if he expected to
be attacked soon, he laughed and said: “No; the enemy's cavalry
are afraid to show their noses beyond their infantry.” Nor did
the Federal cavalry ever achieve any results in that region until
the ten or fifteen thousand crack cavalry of General Sheridan
came to ride over the two thousand men, on starved and broken-down
horses, of General Fitz Lee, in April, 1865.

From Virginia, in the dark winter of 1864, Hampton was
sent to oppose with his cavalry the advance of General Sherman,
and the world knows how desperately he fought there on his
natale solum. More than ever before it was sabre to sabre, and
Hampton was still in front. When the enemy pressed on to
Columbia he fell back, fighting from street to street, and so continued
fighting until the thunderbolt fell in South Carolina, as it
had fallen in Virginia at Appomattox, and the struggle ended.
The sword that Hampton sheathed that day was one which no
soil of bad faith, cruelty, or dishonour had ever tainted. It was
the blade of a brave and irreproachable chevalier, of a man who
throughout the most desperate and embittered conflict of all history
had kept his ancestral name from every blot, and had
proved himself upon a hundred battle-fields the worthy son of
the “mighty men of old.”

Such, in rough outline, was this brave and kindly soldier and

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

gentleman, as he passed before our eyes in Virginia, “working
his work.” Seeing him often, in camp, on the field, in bright
days, and when the sky was darkest, the present writer looked
upon him as a noble spirit, the truthful representative of a great
and vigorous race. Brave, just, kindly, courteous, with the tenderness
of a woman under that grave exterior; devoted to his
principles, for which he fought and would have died; loving his
native land with a love “passing the love of woman;” proud,
but never haughty; not so much condescending to men of low
estate, as giving them—if they were soldiers—the warm right
hand of fellowship; merciful, simple-minded; foremost in the
fight, but nowhere to be seen in the antechamber of living man;
with a hand shut tight upon the sword-hilt, but open as day to
“melting charity;” counting his life as nothing at the call of
honour; contending with stubborn resolution for the faith that
was in him; never cast down, never wavering, never giving
back until the torrent bore him away, but fighting to the last
with that heroic courage, born in his blood, for the independence
of his country. Such was Wade Hampton, of South Carolina.
There are those, perhaps, who will malign him in these dark
days, when no sun shines. But the light is yonder, behind the
cloud and storm; some day it will shine out, and a million rushlights
will not be able to extinguish it. There are others who
will call him traitor, and look, perhaps, with pity and contempt
upon this page which claims for him a noble place among the
illustrious figures shining all along the coasts of history like
beacon lights above the storm. Traitor let it be; one hundred
years ago there were many in the South, and they fought over
the same ground. Had the old Revolution failed, those men
would have lived for ever, as Hampton and his associates in the
recent conflict will. “Surrender,” written at the end of this
great history, cannot mar its glory; failure cannot blot its splendour.
The name and fame of Hampton will endure as long as
loyalty and courage are respected by the human race.

p521-085

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In the Valley of Virginia, the glory of two men outshines
that of all others; two figures were tallest, best beloved, and to-day
are most bitterly mourned. One was Jackson, the other
Ashby. The world knows all about Jackson, but has little
knowledge of Ashby. I was reading a stupid book the
other day in which he was represented as a guerilla—almost as
a robber and highwayman. Ashby a guerilla!—that great,
powerful, trained, and consummate fighter of infantry, cavalry,
and artillery, in the hardest fought battles of the Valley campaign!
Ashby a robber and highwayman!—that soul and perfect
mirror of chivalry! It is to drive away these mists of stupid or
malignant scribblers that the present writer designs recording
here the actual truth of Ashby's character and career. Apart
from what he performed, he was a personage to whom attached
and still attaches a never-dying interest. His career was all
romance—it was as brief, splendid, and evanescent as a dream—
but, after all, it was the man Turner Ashby who was the real
attraction. It was the man whom the people of the Shenandoah
Valley admire, rather than his glorious record. There was something
grander than the achievements of this soldier, and that was
the soldier himself.

Ashby first attracted attention in the spring of 1862, when
Jackson made his great campaign in the Valley, crushing one
after another Banks, Milroy, Shields, Fremont, and their associates.
Among the brilliant figures, the hard fighters grouped

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

around the man of Kernstown and Port Republic at that time,
Ashby was perhaps the most notable and famous. As the great
majority of my readers never saw the man, a personal outline
of him here in the beginning may interest. Even on this
soil there are many thousands who never met that model chevalier
and perfect type of manhood. He lives in all memories and
hearts, but not in all eyes.

What the men of Jackson saw at the head of the Valley
cavalry in the spring of 1862, was a man rather below the middle
height, with an active and vigorous frame, clad in plain Confederate
gray. His brown felt hat was decorated with a black
feather; his uniform was almost without decorations: his cavalry
boots, dusty or splashed with mud, came to the knee; and around
his waist he wore a sash and plain leather belt, holding pistol
and sabre. The face of this man of thirty or a little more, was
noticeable. His complexion was as dark as that of an Arab;
his eyes of a deep rich brown, sparkled under well formed
brows; and two thirds of his face was covered by a huge black
beard and moustache; the latter curling at the ends, the former
reaching to his breast. There was thus in the face of the
cavalier something Moorish and brigandish; but all idea of a
melodramatic personage disappeared as you pressed his hand,
looked into his eyes, and spoke to him. The brown eyes, which
would flash superbly in battle, were the softest and most friendly
imaginable; the voice, which could thrill his men as it rang like
a clarion in the charge, was the perfection of mild courtesy. He
was as simple and “friendly” as a child in all his words, movements,
and the carriage of his person. You could see from his
dress, his firm tread, his open and frank glance, that he was a
thorough soldier—indeed he always “looked like work”—but
under the soldier, as plainly was the gentleman. Such in his
plain costume, with his simple manner and retiring modesty,
was Ashby, whose name and fame, a brave comrade has truly
said, will endure as long as the mountains and valleys which he
defended.

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The achievements of Ashby can be barely touched on here—
history will set them in its purest gold. The pages of the splendid
record can only be glanced at now; months of fighting
must here be summed up and dismissed in a few sentences.

To look back to his origin—that always counts for something—
he was the son of a gentleman of Fauquier, and up to 1861
was only known as a hard rider, a gay companion, and the
kindest-hearted of friends. There was absolutely nothing in the
youth's character, apparently, which could detach him from the
great mass of mediocrities; but under that laughing face, that
simple, unassuming manner, was a soul of fire—the unbending
spirit of the hero, and no less the genius of the born master of
the art of war. When the revolution broke out Ashby got in
the saddle, and spent most of his time therein until he fell. It
was at this time—on the threshold of the war—that I saw him
first. I have described his person—his bearing was full of a
charming courtesy. The low, sweet voice made you his friend
before you knew it; and so modest and unassuming was his
demeanour that a child would instinctively have sought his side
and confided in him. The wonder of wonders to me, a few
months afterwards, was that this unknown youth, with the simple
smile, and the retiring, almost shy demeanour, had become
the right hand of Jackson, the terror of the enemy, and had
fallen near the bloody ground of Port Republic, mourned by
the whole nation of Virginia.

Virginia was his first and last love. When he went to Harper's
Ferry in April, 1861, with his brother Richard's cavalry
company, some one said: “Well, Ashby, what flag are we going
to fight under—the Palmetto, or what?” Ashby took off his
hat, and exhibited a small square of silk upon which was
painted the Virginia shield—the Virgin trampling on the tyrant. “That is the flag I intend to fight under,” was his reply; and
he accorded it his paramount fealty to the last. Soon after this
incident active service commenced on the Upper Potomac; and

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

an event occurred which changed Ashby's whole character.
His brother Richard, while on a scout near Romney, with a
small detachment, was attacked by a strong party of the enemy,
his command dispersed, and as he attempted to leap a “cattlestop”
in the railroad, his horse fell with him. The enemy
rushed upon him, struck him cruelly with their sabres, and
killed him before he could rise. Ashby came up at the moment,
and with eight men charged them, killing many of them with
his own hand. But his brother was dead—the man whom he
had loved more than his own life; and thereafter he seemed like
another man. Richard Ashby was buried on the banks of the
Potomac—his brother nearly fainted at the grave; then he went
back to his work. “Ashby is now a devoted man,” said one
who knew him; and his career seemed to justify the words.
He took command of his company, was soon promoted to the
rank of a field officer, and from that moment he was on the track
of the enemy day and night. Did private vengeance actuate
the man, once so kind and sweet-tempered? I know not; but
something from this time forward seemed to spur him on to
unflagging exertion and ceaseless activity. Day and night he
was in the saddle. Mounted upon his fleet white horse, he would
often ride, in twenty-four hours, along seventy miles of front,
inspecting his pickets, instructing his detachments, and watching
the enemy's movements at every point. Here to-day, to-morrow
he would be seen nearly a hundred miles distant. The lithe
figure on the white horse “came and went like a dream,” said
one who knew him at that time. And when he appeared it was
almost always the signal for an attack, a raid, or a “scout,” in
which blood would flow.

In the spring of 1862, when Jackson fell back from Winchester,
Ashby, then promoted to the rank of Colonel, commanded
all his cavalry. He was already famous for his wonderful
activity, his heroic courage, and that utter contempt for danger
which was born in his blood. On the Potomac, near Shepherdstown,
he had ridden to the top of a crest, swept by the hot fire
of the enemy's sharpshooters near at hand; and pacing slowly
up and down on his milk-white horse, looked calmly over his

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shoulder at his foes, who directed upon him a storm of bullets.
He was now to give a proof more striking still of his fearless
nerve. Jackson slowly retired from Winchester, the cavalry
under Ashby bringing up the rear, with the enemy closely pressing
them. The long column defiled through the town, and
Ashby remained the last, sitting his horse in the middle of Loudoun
street as the Federal forces poured in. The solitary horseman,
gazing at them with so much nonchalance, was plainly seen
by the Federal officers, and two mounted men were detached to
make a circuit by the back streets, and cut off his retreat.
Ashby either did not see this manœuvre, or paid no attention to
it. He waited until the Federal column was nearly upon him,
and had opened a hot fire—then he turned his horse, waved his
hat around his head, and uttering a cheer of defiance, galloped
off. All at once, as he galloped down the street, he saw before
him the two cavalrymen sent to cut off and capture him. To a
man like Ashby, inwardly chafing at being compelled to retreat,
no sight could be more agreeable. Here was an opportunity to
vent his spleen; and charging the two mounted men, he was soon
upon them. One fell with a bullet through his breast; and,
coming opposite the other, Ashby seized him by the throat,
dragged him from his saddle, and putting spur to his horse, bore
him off. This scene, which some readers may set down for
romance, was witnessed by hundreds both of the Confederate and
the Federal army.

During Jackson's retreat Ashby remained in command of the
rear, fighting at every step with his eavalry and horse artillery,
under Captain Chew. It was dangerous to press such a man.
His sharp claws drew blood. As the little column retired sullenly
up the valley, fighting off the heavy columns of General
Banks, Ashby was in the saddle day and night, and his guns
were never silent. The infantry sank to sleep with that thunder
in their ears, and the same sound was their reveille at dawn.
Weary at last of a proceeding so unproductive, General Banks
ceased the pursuit and fell back to Winchester, when Ashby
pursued in his turn, and quickly sent intelligence to Jackson,
which brought him back to Kernstown. The battle there fol

ADVENTURE OF ASHBY AT WINCHESTER.—Page 74.
Ashby seized him by the throat, dragged him from his saddle, and putting spur to his horse, bore him off. [figure description] Illustration page, which depicts General Ashby seizing a Union officer off of his horse by the neck. There is a soldier in front of Ashby, who is trying not to fall off of his horse as Ashby runs into him with his steed. The other soldier is so shocked at being jerked by the throat that he is simply falling forward towards Ashby. In the background a group of Union soldiers is arriving.[end figure description]

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

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

lowed, and Ashby held the turnpike, pressing forward with
invincible ardour, flanking the Federal forces, and nearly getting
in their rear. When Jackson was forced to retire, he again held
the rear; and continued in front of the enemy, eternally skirmishing
with them, until Jackson again advanced to attack
General Banks at Strasburg and Winchester. It was on a bright
May morning that Ashby, moving in front, struck the Federal
column of cavalry in transitu north of Strasburg, and scattered
them like a hurricane. Separated from his command, but bursting
with an ardour which defied control, he charged, by himself,
about five hundred Federal horsemen retreating in disorder,
snatched a guidon from the hands of its bearer, and firing right
and left into the column, summoned the men to surrender.
Many did so, and the rest galloped on, followed by Ashby, to
Winchester, where he threw the guidon, with a laugh, to a
friend, who afterwards had it hung up in the Library of the
Capitol at Richmond.

The work of Ashby then began in earnest. The affair with
General Banks was only a skirmish—the wars of the giants followed.

Jackson, nearly hemmed in by bitter and determined foes,
fell back to escape destruction, and on his track rushed the
heavy columns of Shields and Fremont, which, closing in at
Strasburg and Front Royal, were now hunting down the lion.
It was then and there that Ashby won his fame as a cavalry
officer, and attached to every foot of ground over which he
fought some deathless tradition. The reader must look elsewhere
for a record of those achievements. Space would fail me
were I to touch with the pen's point the hundredth part of that
splendid career. On every hill, in every valley, at every bridge,
Ashby thundered and lightened with his cavalry and artillery.
Bitterest of the bitter was the cavalier in those moments; a man
sworn to hold his ground or die. He played with death, and
dared it everywhere. From every hill came the roar of his guns

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

and the sharp crack of his sharpshooters, but the music, much
as he loved it—and he did love it with all his soul—was less
sweet to him than the clash of sabres. It was in hand-to-hand
fighting that he seemed to take the greatest pleasure. In front
of his column, sweeping forward to the charge, Ashby was
“happy.” Coming to the Shenandoah near Newmarket, he
remained behind with a few men to destroy the bridge, and here
took place an event which may seem too trifling to be recorded,
but which produced a notable effect upon the army. While
retreating alone before a squadron of the enemy's cavalry in
hot pursuit of him, his celebrated white horse was mortally
wounded. Furious at this, Ashby cut the foremost of his assailants
out of the saddle with his sabre, and safely reached his
command; but the noble charger was staggering under him, and
bleeding to death. He dismounted, caressed for an instant, without
speaking, the proud neck, and then turned away. The historic
steed was led off to his death, his eyes glaring with rage it
seemed at the enemy still; and Ashby returned to his work,
hastening to meet the fatal bullet which in turn was to strike
him. The death of the white horse who had passed unscathed
through so many battles, preceded only by a few days that of
his rider, whom no ball had ever yet touched. It was on the
4th or 5th of June, just before the battle of Cross Keys, that
he ambuscaded and captured Sir Perey Wyndham, commander
of Fremont's cavalry advance. Sir Percy had publicly announced
his intention to “bag Ashby;” but unwarily advancing
upon a small decoy in the road, he found himself suddenly
attacked in flank and rear by Ashby in person; and he and his
squadron of sixty or seventy men were taken prisoners. That
was the last cavalry fight in which the great leader took part.
His days were numbered—death had marked him. But to the
last he was what he had always been, unresting, fiery, ever on
the enemy's track; and he died in harness. It was on the very
same evening, I believe, that while commanding the rear-guard
of Jackson, he formed the design of flanking and attacking
the enemy's infantry, and sent to Jackson for troops. A brave
associate, Colonel Bradley Johnson, described him at that

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

moment, when the bolt was about to fall: “He was riding at the
head of the column with General Ewell, his black face in a blaze
of enthusiasm. Every feature beamed with the joy of the soldier.
He was gesticulating and pointing out the country and
position to General Ewell. I could imagine what he was saying
by the motions of his right arm. I pointed him out to my
adjutant—`Look at Ashby! see how he is enjoying himself!' ”
The moment had come. With the infantry, two regiments sent
him by Jackson, he made a rapid detour to the right, passed
through a field of waving wheat, and approached a belt of woods
upon which the golden sunshine of the calm June evening slept
in mellow splendour. In the edge of this wood Colonel Kane,
of the Pennsylvania “Bucktails,” was drawn up, and soon the
crash of musketry resounded from the bushes along a fence on
the edge of the forest, where the enemy were posted. Ashby
rushed to the assault with the fiery enthusiasm of his blood.
Advancing at the head of the Fifty-eighth Virginia in front,
while Colonel Johnson with the Marylanders attacked the enemy
in flank, he had his horse shot under him, but sprang up,
waving his sword, and shouting, “Virginians, charge!” These
words were his last. From the enemy's line, now within fifty
yards, came a storm of bullets; one pierced his breast, and he
fell at the very moment when the Bucktails broke, and were
pursued by the victorious Southerners. Amid that triumphant
shout the great soul of Ashby passed away. Almost before his
men could raise him he was dead. He had fallen as he wished
to fall—leading a charge, in full war harness, fighting to the last.
Placed on a horse in front of a cavalryman, his body was borne
out of the wood, just as the last rays of sunset tipped with fire
the foliage of the trees; and as the form of the dead chieftain
was borne along the lines of infantry drawn up in column,
exclamations broke forth, and the bosoms of men who had
advanced without a tremor into the bloodiest gulfs of battle,
were shaken by uncontrollable sobs. The dead man had become
their beau-ideal of a soldier; his courage, fire, dash, and unshrinking
nerve had won the hearts of these rough men; and now
when they read upon that pale face the stamp of the hand of

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

death, a black pall seemed slowly to descend—the light of the
June evening was a mockery. That sunset was the glory which
fell on the soldier's brow as he passed away. Never did day
light to his death a nobler spirit.

Mere animal courage is a common trait. It was not the chief
glory of this remarkable man that he cared nothing for peril,
daring it with an utter recklessness. Many private soldiers of
whom the world never heard did as much. The supremely beautiful
trait of Ashby was his modesty, his truth, his pure and
knightly honour. His was a nature full of heroism, chivalry, and
simplicity; he was not only a great soldier, but a chevalier,
inspired by the prisca fides of the past. “I was with him,” said
a brave associate, “when the first blow was struck for the cause
which we both had so much at heart, and was with him in his
last fight, always knowing him to be beyond all modern men in
chivalry, as he was equal to any one in courage. He combined
the virtues of Sir Philip Sidney with the dash of Murat. His
fame will live in the valley of Virginia, outside of books, as
long as its hills and mountains shall endure.”

Never was truer comparison than that of Ashby to Murat and
Sidney mingled; but the splendid truth and modesty of the
great English chevalier predominated in him. The Virginian
had the dash and fire of Murat in the charge, nor did the glittering
Marshal at the head of the French cuirassiers perform
greater deeds of daring. But the pure and spotless soul of
Philip Sidney, that “mirror of chivalry,” was the true antetype
of Ashby's. Faith, honour, truth, modesty, a courtesy which
never failed, a loyalty which nothing could affect—these were
the great traits which made the young Virginian so beloved and
honoured, giving him the noble place he held among the men of
his epoch. No man lives who can remember a rude action of
his; his spirit seemed to have been moulded to the perfect shape
of antique courtesy; and nothing could change the pure gold
of his nature. His fault as a soldier was a want of discipline;

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

and it has been said with truth that he resembled rather the
chief huntsman of a hunting party than a general—mingling
with his men in bivouac or around the camp fire, on a perfect
equality. But what he wanted in discipline and military rigour
he supplied by the enthusiasm which he aroused in the troops.
They adored him, and rated him before all other leaders. His
wish was their guide in all things; and upon the field they
looked to him as their war-king. The flash of his sabre as it
left the scabbard drove every hand to the hilt; the sight of his
milk-white horse in front was their signal for “attention,” and
the low clear tones of Ashby's order, “Follow me!” as he
moved to the charge, had more effect upon his men than a hundred
bugles.

I pray my Northern reader who does me the honour to peruse
this sketch, not to regard these sentences as the mere rhapsody
of enthusiasm. They contain the truth of Ashby, and those
who served with him will testify to the literal accuracy of the
sketch. He was one of those men who appear only at long intervals—
a veritable realization of the “hero” of popular fancy.
The old days of knighthood seemed to live again as he moved
before the eye; the pure faith of the earlier years was reproduced
and illustrated in his character and career. The anecdotes
which remain of his kindness, his courtesy, and warmth of
heart, are trifles to those who knew him, and required no such
proofs of his sweetness of temper and character. It is nothing
to such that when the Northern ladies about to leave Winchester,
came and said, “General Ashby, we have nothing contraband
about us—you can search our trunks and our persons;” he
replied, “The gentlemen of Virginia do not search ladies' trunks
or their persons, madam.” He made that reply because he was
Ashby. For this man to have been rude, coarse, domineering,
and insulting to unprotected ladies—as more than one Federal
general at Winchester was—that was simply impossible. He
might have said, in the words of the old Ulysses, “They live
their lives, I mine.”

Such was the private character, simple, beautiful, and “

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

altogether lovely,” of this man of fibre so hard and unshrinking;
of dash, nerve, obstinacy, and daring never excelled. Behind
that sweet and friendly smile was the stubborn and reckless soul
of the born fighter. Under those brown eyes, as mild and gentle
as a girl's, was a brain of fire—a resolution of invincible
strength which dared to combat every adversary, with whatever
odds. His intellect, outside of his profession, was rather mediocre
than otherwise, and he wrote so badly that few of his productions
are worth preserving. But in the field he was a master
mind. His eye for position was that of the born soldier; and
he was obliged to depend upon that native faculty, for he had
never been to West Point or any other military school. They
might have improved him—they could not have made him.
God had given him the capacity to fight troops; and if the dictum
of an humble writer, loving and admiring him alive, and
now mourning him, be regarded as unreliable, take the words of
Jackson. That cool, taciturn, and unexcitable soldier never
gave praise which was undeserved. Jackson knew Ashby as
well as one human being ever knew another; and after the fall
of the cavalier he wrote of him, “As a partisan officer, I never
knew his superior. His daring was proverbial, his powers of
endurance almost incredible, his tone of character heroic, and
his sagacity almost intuitive in divining the purposes and movements
of the enemy.” The man who wrote these words—himself
daring, enduring, and heroic—had himself some sagacity in
“divining the purposes and movements of the enemy,” and
could recognise that trait in others.

The writer of this page had the honour to know the dead chief
of the Valley cavalry—to hear the sweet accents of his friendly
voice, and meet the friendly glance of the loyal eyes. It seems
to him now, as he remembers Ashby, that the hand he touched
was that of a veritable child of chivalry. Never did taint of
arrogance or vanity, of rudeness or discourtesy, touch that pure
and beautiful spirit. This man of daring so proverbial, of powers
of endurance so incredible, of character so heroic, and of a
sagacity so unfailing that it drew forth the praise of Jackson,

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

was as simple as a child, and never seemed to dream that he had
accomplished anything to make him famous. But famous he
was, and is, and will be for ever. The bitter struggle in which
he bore so noble a part has ended; the great flag under which
he fought is furled, and none are now so poor as to do it reverence.
But in failure, defeat, and ruin, this great name survives;
the cloud is not so black that the pure star of Ashby's fame
does not shine out in the darkness. In the memories and hearts
of the people of the Valley his glory is as fresh to-day as when
he fell. He rises up in memory, as once before the actual eye—
the cavalier on his milk-white steed, leading the wild charge, or
slowly pacing up and down defiantly, with proud face turned
over the shoulder, amid the bullets. Others may forget him—
we of the Valley cannot. For us his noble smile still shines as
it shone amid those glorious encounters of the days of Jackson,
when from every hill-top he hurled defiance upon Banks and
Fremont, and in every valley met the heavy columns of the
Federal cavalry, sabre to sabre. He is dead, but still lives.
That career—brief, fiery, crammed with glorious shocks, with
desperate encounters—is a thing of the past, and Ashby has
“passed like a dream away.” But it is only the bodies of such
men that die. All that is noble in them survives. What comes
to the mind now when we pronounce the name of Ashby, is
that pure devotion to truth and honour which shone in every
act of his life; that kind, good heart of his which made all love
him; that resolution which he early made, to spend the last
drop of his blood for the cause in which he fought; and the
daring beyond all words, which drove him on to combat whatever
force was in his front. We are proud—leave us that at
least—that this good knight came of the honest old Virginia
blood. He tried to do his duty; and counted toil, and danger,
and hunger, and thirst, and exhaustion, as nothing. He died as
he had lived, in harness, and fighting to the last. In an unknown
skirmish, of which not even the name is preserved, the
fatal bullet came; the wave of death rolled over him, and the
august figure disappeared. But that form is not lost in the

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

great gulf of forgotten things. Oblivion cannot hide it, nor
time dim the splendour of the good knight's shield. The figure
of Ashby, on his milk-white steed, his face in “a blaze of enthusiasm,”
his drawn sword in his hand—that figure will truly
live in the memory and heart of the Virginian as long as the
battlements of the Blue Ridge stand, and the Shenandoah flows.

p521-100

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

The most uniformly fortunate General of the late war was
Beauregard. So marked was this circumstance, and so regularly
did victory perch upon his standard, that Daniel, the trenchant
and hardy critic of the Examiner, called him Beauregard Felix.
Among the Romans that term signified happy, fortunate, favoured
of the gods; and what is called “good luck” seemed to follow
the Confederate leader to whom it was applied. Often he
appeared to be outgeneralled, checkmated, and driven to the
“last ditch,” but ever some fortunate circumstance intervened to
change the whole situation. More than once the fortune of war
seemed to go against him, but he always retrieved the day by
some surprising movement. In the very beginning of his career,
at the first great battle of Manassas, when his left was about to
be driven to hopeless rout, his good genius sent thither Evans
and Jackson, those stubborn obstacles, and the battle which was
nearly lost terminated in a victory.

Of this famous soldier I propose to record some traits rather
of a personal than a military character. As elsewhere in this
series of sketches, the writer's aim will be to draw the outline of
the man rather than the official. History will busy itself with
that “official” phase; here it is rather the human being, as he
lived and moved, and looked when “off duty,” that I aim to
present. The first great dramatic scene of the war, the attack
on Sumter, the stubborn and victorious combat of Shiloh, the
defence of Charleston against Gilmore, the assault upon Butler

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

near Bermuda Hundred, and the mighty struggles at Petersburg,
will not enter into this sketch at all. I beg to conduct the
reader back to the summer of the year 1861, and to the plains
of Manassas, where I first saw Beauregard. My object is to
describe the personal traits and peculiarities of the great Creole
as he then appeared to the Virginians, among whom he came for
the first time.

He superseded Bonham in command of the forces at Manassas
about the first of June, 1861, and the South Carolinians said
one day, “Old Bory's come!” Soon the Virginia troops had an
opportunity of seeing this “Old Bory,” who seemed so popular
with the Palmettese. He did not appear with any of the
“pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war.” No flag was
unfurled before him; no glittering staff officers were seen galloping
to and fro; for some days the very presence of the man
of Sumter was merely rumour. Then the troops began to take
notice of a quiet-looking individual in an old blue uniform coat
of the United States Army, almost undecorated, who, mounted
on an unimposing animal not at all resembling a “war horse,”
moved about quite unattended, to inspect the works in process
of construction, or select new sites for others. Often this solitary
horseman of the reserved demeanour and unobtrusive air was
seen motionless in the middle of the plains, gazing around him;
or in clear relief against the sky, or looking toward Bull Run,
he peopled the landscape doubtless with imaginary squadrons in
hot conflict. Then another step was taken by the men in
making acquaintance with the new commander. The silent
horseman would pause as he passed by the camps, and speak to
the sentinels—briefly but not stiffly. When they returned to
their quarters they told how General Beauregard had thus
stopped upon his way, spoken with them familiarly as comrade
to comrade, and returned their salute at parting, with his finger
to the rim of his cap. Finally, the troops had “a good look at
him.” He reviewed a fine regiment from Tennessee, and all
eyes were fixed upon his soldierly figure with admiration—
upon the lithe and sinewy form, the brunette face and sparkling
black eyes, the erect head, the firm seat in the saddle, and the

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

air of command. When this nervous figure passed at a rapid
gallop along the line, the keen eyes peering from beneath the
Zouave cap, the raw volunteers felt the presence of a soldier.

The hard battle of Manassas followed, and as noon approached
on that famous twenty-first of July, the Southern army seemed
completely flanked—Beauregard outgeneralled. McDowell had
turned the Confederate left, and, driving Evans, Bee, and Bartow
before him, seized on the Henry-House hill, the key of the
whole position. Beauregard was four miles off, awaiting an
advance of his right wing and centre on the Federal rear at
Centreville, ordered hours before. The order miscarried, and
the advance was not made; at near two o'clock the troops were
still within the lines of Bull Run, and on the extreme left
nothing but the two thousand six hundred and eleven muskets of
Jackson, with a few companies of Bee, was interposed between
the Southern troops and destruction. About thirty thousand
men under General Hunter were advancing upon about three
thousand—and to this critical point Beauregard now went at a
swift gallop, with General Johnston. The scene which followed
was a splendid exhibition of personal magnetism. Bee's men
were routed; his ranks broken to pieces; the battalions which
had breasted the torrent had been shattered by the weight of the
huge wave, and were now scarcely more than a crowd of fugitives.
Johnston, with the fiery dash which lay perdu under
his grave exterior, caught the colours of an Alabama regiment,
calling on the men to follow him; and Beauregard passed along
the lines at full gallop, rallying the men amid the terrific fire.
If he is ever painted, it should be as he appeared that day;
eyes flaming, the sallow face in a blaze of enthusiasm, the drawn
sword pointing to the enemy, as with a sonorous voice which
rang above the firing, he summonded the men to stand for their
firesides, and all they held dear upon earth. Beauregard was
the superb leader at that moment, and the cheeks of the gray-haired
soldier of to-day must flush sometimes as he recalls
that death grapple in which the flash of his sword led the
charge.

When not thus filled with hot blood, the face of the great

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

Creole, even amid the heat of battle, was composed, firm, set, and
did not exhibit, save in a slight deepening of the dusky tint of
the complexion, any unwonted feeling. The man was quiet,
silent, and seemed to be waiting calmly. I never saw a smile
upon his face until some months after the battle, when President
Davis came to review the troops at Fairfax Court-House. That
smile was caused by a little incident which may entertain some
readers. The present writer was sent one day as aide-de-camp
in waiting, to escort the wife and little son of General Stuart
from the Court-House to the nearest station on the Orange railroad;
when, just as the ambulance reached a point midway
between the two points, a company of cavalry made its appearance
in front, and the officer commanding requested that the
vehicle should draw out of the road to “make way for the
President.” This was done at once, and soon his Excellency,
President Davis, appeared, riding between Stuart and Beauregard—
the latter wearing his dress uniform with a Zouave cap,
the crown of which was an intensely dazzling circle of scarlet,
burning in the sunshine. As soon as young J. E. B. Stuart, a
little gentleman who used to call himself General Stuart, Jr.,
saw his father, he stretched out his arms and exclaimed, “Papa,
papa!” in a tone so enthusiastic that it attracted attention, and
General Stuart said, “This is my family, Mr. President.”
Whereupon Mr. Davis stopped, saluted the young lady, patted
the boy upon the head, and endeavoured to attract his attention,
in which he failed however, as the boy's mind was absorbed in
the effort to climb before his father. The scene made everybody
laugh, from the grave President to the men of the escort, and
among the rest General Beauregard. His laugh was peculiar;
the eyes sparkled, the firm muscles slowly moved, and the
white teeth came out with a quite startling effect under the
heavy black moustache. When the cavalcade passed on he was
still smiling.

I pray the reader to pardon this long description of a smile.
The strangest of all phenomena is the manner in which trifles
cling to the memory.

One more personal recollection of Beauregard as I saw him—

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

not on review, neither at Manassas, Fairfax, or elsewhere; a
stiff official figure in front of the lines, but in private, and this
time on the outpost. It was at “Camp Qui-Vive,” the headquarters
of Stuart, beyond Centreville, and in December, 1861.
He came to dine and ride out on the lines to inspect the cavalry
pickets; and it is not difficult to recall what manner of man he
was—so striking was his appearance. He wore the uniform coat
of an officer of the United States Army, dark blue with gilt
buttons and a stiff collar. The closely buttoned garment displayed
his vigorous chest; from the upper edge protruded a
sharp, white, standing collar, and he wore the inseparable Zouave
cap, with its straight rim projecting over the eyes.

The face of the soldier speedily drew attention, however, from
his dress. The countenance, with its broad brow, firm mouth,
covered with a heavy black moustache, and protruding chin, full
of courage and resolution, was that of a French Marshal of the
Empire to the very life. The iron nerve of the man was indelibly
stamped upon his features. It was impossible to doubt the
fighting instincts of the individual with that muscular contour
of face which seemed to defy opposition. The rest of the physiognomy
was gaunt, hard, somewhat melancholy. In the complexion
was observable the Southern creole descent of the soldier;
it was brunette, sallow, and the sun and wind had made
it resemble bronze. It had the dusky pallor, too, of care and
watching—that bloodless hue which the pressure of heavy
responsibilities produces in the human face. The position of an
army leader is not a bed of roses, and the bloom of youth and
health soon fades from the cheeks which are hollowed by the
anxieties of command. Such was the appearance of the “Man
of Sumter,” but I have omitted the most striking feature of his
face—the eyes. Large, dark, melancholy, with the lids drooping
and somewhat inflamed by long vigils—of a peculiar dreamy
expression—those eyes impressed the beholder very strangely.
It was the eye of the bloodhound with his fighting instincts
asleep, but ready at any moment to be strung for action. It was
impossible not to be impressed by this resemblance. Not that
there was any ferocity or thirst for blood in that slumbrous

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

glance; but if ever “fight” was plain in any look—obstinate,
pertinacious, hard “fight”—it was plain in Beauregard's.

The outline here drawn of the General's appearance may produce
the impression that he was stiff, stern, and unsocial. Such
was very far from the fact. On the contrary, the manner of the
individual was eminently modest, courteous, and pleasing. This
may seem to clash with the bloodhound illustration—but both
were true. It would be difficult to imagine a finer air of grave
politeness, or a more courtly simplicity than General Beauregard's.
Of this the writer took especial note, for at that period
a great many very foolish things were written and published in
relation to the eminent soldier. It was said that he was frigid,
moody, unsocial, rude, repulsing all advances to friendly converse
with a military coolness amounting to discourtesy. Stray
correspondents of the journals had drawn a curious figure and
labelled it “Beauregard”—the figure of a sombre, mysterious,
and melodramatic personage, prone to attitudinizing and playing
the “distinguished warrior;” fond of wrapping his cloak
around him, folding his arms, and turning his back when any
one addressed him, as though absorbed in some gigantic scheme
upon which his mighty brain was working, in a region far above
the dull, cold, every-day earth! Such was the Beauregard of
many “intelligent correspondents”—play-actor turned soldier;
a sort of Manfred in gray uniform; and lo! here before me was
the real man. Instead of a mock hero of tragedy stalking about
and muttering, the General appeared to me to be a gentleman
of great courtesy and simplicity, who asked nothing better than
for some kind friend to amuse him and make him laugh.

For the General laughed; and when he did so, he, strangely
enough, seemed to enjoy himself. Standing on the portico of
the old house in which Stuart had established his quarters, or
partaking of his dinner with mundane satisfaction, he appeared
entirely oblivious that he was “Beauregard the Great Tragedian,”
and joined in the conversation simply and naturally,

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

losing no opportunity to relax by laughter the weary facial
muscles which had settled into something like grimness and melancholy
from care and meditation. The conversation turned
during the day upon the first battle of Manassas; and when some
one mentioned the report in many Northern journals that he,
Beauregard, had continued to ride a horse after the animal's head
was carried off by a cannon-ball, the General's moustache curled
and he chuckled in the most untragic manner. “My horse was
killed,” he said, “but his head was not carried away. He was
struck by a shell, which exploded at the moment when it passed
under him. A splinter struck my boot, and another cut one
of the arteries in the animal's body. The blood gushed out, and
after going fifty yards he fell dead. I then mounted a prisoner's
horse—there was a map of the country in the saddle pocket—
and I remember it was a small dingy horse with a white face.”
Laughter followed the remembrance of the small dingy horse with
the white face; and when one of the company observed that
“General Beauregard had done himself considerable credit in
Missouri,” meaning to have said “General Price,” the General
burst into a laugh which indicated decided enjoyment of the
mistake.

The incidents here recorded are not to be found in any of the
regular histories; and I doubt if any description will be found
of the manner in which General Beauregard essayed to assist a
young lady bearing a very famous name, to mount her horse.
The lady in question was a very charming person, an intimate
friend of General Stuart; and as she was then upon a visit to
the neighbourhood of Centreville, she was invited by the gay
cavalier to dine with Beauregard, and afterwards ride out upon
the lines under escort. A young aide was sent for Miss—;
she duly arrived, and dined at the outpost headquarters, and
then the moment came to set out for the lines. Before she had
taken two steps toward her horse, General Beauregard was at
her side, completely distancing the young Prince Polignac, that
brave and smiling youth, afterwards Brigadier-General, but at
this time serving upon Beauregard's staff. To see the grave
commander assist the fair young lady to mount her horse was a

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pleasing sight, and communicated much innocent enjoyment to
the spectators. He brought to the undertaking all the chivalric
gallantry and politeness of the French De Beauregards; stooping
down with an air of the deepest respect; hollowing his hand
to receive her slipper; and looking up to ascertain why she did
not take advantage of his offer. Whether it was that the young
lady thought it indecorous to make such use of that distinguished
hand, or did not need his aid, I know not; she laughed,
gracefully vaulted into her saddle, and mounting his own steed,
the General gallantly took his place at her side.

These things are recorded in place of the “important events”
of Beauregard's career. A narrative of his military operations
may be found in the “regular histories,” and an estimate of his
merits as a commander. Upon this latter point a diversity of
opinion exists, owing to the tragic termination of the recent conflict.
The secret archives of the Confederate government were
destroyed, or remain unpublished. Many questions thus remain
unanswered. Was Beauregard fully aware of the enemy's movement
against his left at Manassas, and did he disregard it, depending
on his great assault at Centreville? Did he, or did he not,
counsel an advance upon Washington after the battle—an
advance which events now known show to have been perfectly
practicable? Were his movements on Corinth, in the West,
judicious? Were his operations at Petersburg in accordance
with the views of the government? All these questions remain
unanswered; for the dispatches containing the solution of the
whole were destroyed or are inaccessible to the world. One fact
is unfortunately very well known—that there was “no love
lost” between the celebrated soldier and the Confederate Executive;
and by a portion of the Southern press little praise was
accorded him. But he did not need it. The victor of Manassas
and Shiloh, the man who clung to Sumter until it was a mass
of blackened ruins, will be remembered when partisan rancour
and injustice are forgotten. Fame knows her children, and her
bugle sounds across the years.

A notable trait in the personal character of Beauregard was
his kindly bonhomie to the private soldier. In this he resembled

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the officers of Napoleon, not those of the English Army. He
had the French habit of mingling with the men when not upon
duty, sharing their pursuits, conversing with them, and lighting
his cigar at their camp fires. From this sprang much of his personal
popularity, and he thus excited largely that sympathy
which rendered him so acceptable to his troops. To a General,
nothing is more important than this sympathy. It is a weapon
with which the master soldier strikes his hardest blows, and
often springs from apparent trifles. Napoleon became the idol
of his troops as much by his personal bearing toward them as
from his victories. He was the grand Napoleon—but he stopped
to talk with the men by their fires: he called them “mes enfans:”
he fixed his dark eyes with magnetic sympathy upon the dying
soldier who summoned his last remains of strength to half rise
from the earth, extend his arms, and cry, “Vive l'Empereur!”
He took this personal interest in them—the interest of a comrade—
and no one else could rival him in their favour.

Beauregard had certainly secured this personal popularity.
He invariably exhibited the utmost kindness, compatible with
discipline, toward his men, and they remained true to him—as
the Federal troops did to McClellan—through all his reverses,
giving him in return for his sympathy and familiarity an immense
amount of good feeling and regard. A trifling incident
will illustrate this. A private soldier of the “Powhatan troop”—
a company of cavalry which served as the General's body-guard—
one day entered Beauregard's apartment, and wishing
to write a letter, seated himself, as he supposed, at the desk of
one of the clerks for that purpose. Taking a sheet of paper and
a pen which lay near, he commenced his letter, and was soon
absorbed in it. While thus engaged, he heard a step behind
him, turned his head, and saw General Beauregard enter, whereupon
he suddenly rose in confusion—for all at once the truth
flashed upon him that he was writing at the General's desk, on the
General's paper, and with the General's pen! Fearing a harsh
rebuke for this act of military lesè-majesté, the trooper stammered
out an apology; but no storm came from the General. “Sit
down and finish your letter my friend,” he said, with a

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good-humoured smile; “you are very welcome, and can always come
in here when you wish to write.” It was trifles like this which
made the announcement of his removal from the command of the
Army of the Potomac run like an electric shock through the
camps, which caused a great concourse of soldiers to follow him
through Centreville and far upon his road, shouting “Good-by,
General!”—“God bless you, General!”

To suppose that this brother-feeling of the soldier for his troops
ever led him to relax in discipline, would be a great mistake.
In official matters, and wherever “duty” was concerned, he was
rigid and immovable, exacted from every man under him the
strictest obedience, and was wholly inaccessible to any prayer
which came in conflict with the good of the public service.
When at Centreville, in the fall of 1861, he expected daily an
advance of McClellan. One morning a cannoneer from one of
the batteries came in person to ask for a leave of absence of ten
days to see his dying mother. “I cannot grant any leave,” was
the reply. “Only for ten days, General,” pleaded the soldier.
“Not for ten hours!” replied Beauregard; and the interview
terminated. Had the moment not been critical he would have
given this private soldier the desired leave with the utmost
readiness—as he would have commended and promoted him, for
the display of skill or gallantry.

That all-important point of rewarding merit in the private
soldier was never neglected by Beauregard. An instance was
the promotion of a young man in the Loudoun cavalry, whose
conspicuous courage and efficiency in reconnoitring and carrying
orders at Manassas attracted his attention. At the close
of the day the obscure private was summoned to headquarters
and informed by Beauregard that he would henceforth rank as
a captain of his staff. This gentleman was afterwards Colonel
Henry E. Peyton, Inspector-General of the Army of Northern
Virginia, one of the bravest and most accomplished officers in
the service.

A last incident relating to “Beauregard the Great Tragedian,”
who was supposed to be playing “Lara,” “Manfred,” or
some other sombre and mysterious character at Manassas, in

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those far away times. It may add an additional touch to the
outline I have aimed to draw. It was in the summer of 1861
that some young ladies of Prince William prepared a handsome
nosegay for presentation to the General; and as he had
amongst his clerks a gentleman of high culture, the nosegay
was entrusted to him for delivery. He consented with reluctance.
To present a bunch of flowers to the silent and abstracted
commander, whose faculties were burdened by great cares
and responsibilities, seemed an incongruity which strangely
impressed the ambassador; but there was the nosegay, there
were the young ladies, there was his promise, and he nerved
himself for the task. Waiting until all intruders had left the
General's presence, he timidly knocked at the door of his
sanctum, was bidden in a grave voice to enter, and advancing
into the apartment, found opposite to him the imposing
eye and “brow severe” of General Beauregard, who had never
looked more stern. The spectacle very nearly disarmed the
ambassador of his presence of mind; but he determined to
accomplish his errand in the best manner possible, and accordingly
proceeded to address the solemn General in what the
newspapers call a “neat little speech.” Having finished, he
presented the flowers, drew back respectfully, and nerved himself
for the result. That result surprisingly differed from his
expectations. Beauregard cleared his throat, looked extremely
confused, and stammering “Thank you! I am very much
obliged!” received the bouquet, blushing as he did so like a
girl. Such was the tragedy-hero of those journalists of 1861.

I have tried to draw an outline of the actual man, not to make
a figure of the fancy; to present an accurate likeness of General
Beauregard as he appeared to us of Virginia in those first
months of the war, not to drape the individual in historic robes,
making him an actor or a myth.

He was neither; he was simply a great soldier, and a finished
gentleman. Once in his presence, you would not be apt to deny

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his claim to both of these characters. The nervous figure; the
gaunt, French, fighting, brunette countenance, deeply bronzed
by sun and wind—these were the marks of the soldier. The
grave, high-bred politeness; the ready, courteous smile; the
kindly and simple bearing, wholly free from affectation and assumption—
these were the characteristics of the gentilhomme by
birth and habit; by nature as by breeding.

Ten minutes' conversation with the man convinced you that
you stood in the presence of one of those men who mould
events. The very flash of the dark eyes “dared you to forget.”

Nor will the South forget this brave and trusty soldier. His
name is cut upon the marble of history in letters too deep to be
effaced by the hand of Time, that terrible disintegrator. As
long as the words “Manassas” and “Shiloh” strike a chord in
the bosoms of men, the name “Beauregard” will also stir the
pulses. Those mighty confliets meet us in the early epoch of
the war, grim, bloody, and possessing a tragedy of their own.
The soldier who fought those battles confronts us, too, with an
individuality of mind and body which cannot be mistaken.
Lee is the Virginian, Hood the Texan; Beauregard is the marshal
of Napoleon—or at least he looked thus in those early days
when the soldiers of Virginia, gathering at Manassas, closely
scanned the form and features of their new commander.

From Virginia the great captain went to the West, where, as
the world knows, he won new laurels; and to the end he continued
to justify his title of “The Fortunate.” That is only,
however, another name for The Able, The Skilful, The Master
of events—not by “luck,” but by brains. Good-fortune is an
angel who files from the weak and fearful, but yields herself
captive to the resolute soul who clutches her. If any doubted
that Beauregard owed his great success to the deepest thought,
the most exhausting brain-work, and those sleepless vigils which
wear out the life, they had only to look upon him in his latter
years to discover the truth. Care, meditation, watching—all
the huge responsibility of an army leader—had stamped on the
brow of the great Creole their unmistakable impress. The heavy
moustache, which had once been as black as the raven's wing,

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was now grizzled like the beard. In the hair, which before was
dark, now shone those silver threads which toil and anxiety
weave mercilessly in the locks of their victims. The mouth
smiled still, but the muscles had assumed a grimmer tension.
The eyes were still brilliant, but more deeply sunken and more
slumbrous. In the broad brow, once so smooth, the iron hand
of care had ploughed the inexorable furrows.

Beauregard the youthful, daring, and impetuous soldier, had
become Beauregard the cautious, thoughtful, self-sacrificing
patriot—one of the great props of the mighty edifice then tottering
beneath the heavy blows it was receiving in Virginia and
the West.

“The self-sacrificing patriot.” If any one doubts his claim to
that title, it will not be doubted when events now buried in
obscurity are known. Beauregard was superb when, in the midst
of the dense smoke of Manassas, he shouted in his inspiring
voice, “I salute the Eighth Georgia with my hat off! History
shall never forget you!” But he was greater still—more noble
and more glorious—when after the battle of Corinth he said
nothing.

He was silent, and is silent still; but history speaks for him,
and will ever speak. He lives in the memories and the hearts
of his old soldiers, as in the pages of our annals; and those who
followed his flag, who listened to his voice, need no page like
this to bring his figure back, as it blazed before their eyes in the
far away year '61. They remember him always, and salute him
from their hearts—as does the writer of these lines.

Wherever you may be, General—whether in Rome or New
Orleans, in the Old World or the New—whether in sickness or
in health, in joy or in sorrow—your old soldiers of the Army
of Virginia remember you, and wish you long life, health, and
happiness, from their heart of hearts.

p521-113

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In the Virginia Convention of 1860-61, when the great struggle
for separation took place, and the hot war of tongues preceded
the desperate war of the bayonet, there was a gentleman
of resolute courage and military experience who made himself
prominent among the opponents of secession. Belonging to the
old Whig party, and thinking apparently that the right moment
had not yet come, this resolute soldier-politician fought the advocates
of the ordinance with unyielding persistence, aiming by his
hard-hitting argument, his kindling eloquence, and his parliamentary
skill, to give to the action of the Convention that
direction which his judgment approved. Many called him a
“submissionist,” because he opposed secession then; but when
the gauntlet was thrown down, this “Whig submissionist” put
on a gray coat, took the field, and fought from the beginning to
the very end of the war with a courage and persistence surpassed
by no Southerner who took part in the conflict. When he was
sent to invade Maryland, and afterwards was left by General
Lee in command of that “forlorn hope,” the little Valley army,
if it could be called such, in the winter of 1864-5, he was
selected for the work, because it required the brain and courage
of the soldier of hard and stubborn fibre. Only since the termination
of the war has the world discovered the truth of that
great campaign; the desperate character of the situation which
Early occupied, and the enormous odds against which he
fought.

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