could not they do it again?
So they lay in their camps on the Rapidan, in that cold winter of 1863–a little army of ragged and hungry men, with gaunt faces, wasted forms, shoeless feet; with nothing to encourage them but the cause, past victories, and Lee’s presence. That was much; what was enough, however, was the blood in their veins; the inspiration of the great race of fighting men from whom they derived their origin. Does any one laugh at that? The winner will–but the truth remains.
That ragged and famished army came of a fighting race. It was starving and dying, but it was going to fight to the last.
When the cannon began to roar in May, 1864, these gaunt veterans were in line, with ragged coats, but burnished bayonets. When Lee, the gray cavalier, rode along their lines, the woods thundered with a cheer which said, “Ready!”
XVI.
HAMMER AND RAPIER.
I pass to the great collision of armies in the first days of May.
Why say any thing of that dark episode called “Dahlgren’s raid?” A full account would be too long–a brief sketch too short. And whatever our Northern friends may think, it is not agreeable to us to dwell on that outrage. Was that _war_? Was it civilized warfare to march in the darkness upon a city full of women and children–to plan the assassination of the Southern President and his cabinet; the destruction of the city by the torch; the release of the Federal prisoners at Belle Isle, to be let loose afterward with fire and sword on Richmond?
Alas! all that was planned. The orders were captured, and exist still. Was that war? I repeat. Answer, friends of the North. Or, did you think us mere wild beasts?
I omit all that, passing on to the real fighting.
General Ulysses S. Grant had been appointed commander-in-chief of the armies of the United States, and had taken command in person of the army of the Potomac, confronting Lee on the Rapidan.
Before the curtain rises, and the cannon begin to roar, let us glance at the relative numbers, and the programme of the Federal leader.
Grant’s “available force present for duty, May 1, 1864,” was, according to the report of the Federal Secretary of War, 141,166 men.
Lee’s force, “present for duty,” as his army rolls will show, was 52,626 men. That is to say, rather more than one-third of his adversary’s.
Lee afterward received about 10,000 re-enforcements from Beauregard’s columns. Grant received about 50,000.
With about 62,000 men Lee repulsed the attacks of Grant with about 200,000 men, from the Rapidan to Petersburg–inflicting a loss on his adversary, by the Federal statement of more than 60,000 men.
These numbers may be denied, but the proof is on record.
The programme of General Grant in the approaching campaign was one of very great simplicity. He intended to “hammer continuously” as he wrote to President Lincoln, and crush his adversary at whatever expense of money and blood. From 1861 to 1864, war had been war, such as the world understands it. Pitched battles had been fought–defeats sustained–or victories gained.
Then the adversaries rested before new pitched battles: more defeats or victories. General Grant had determined to change all that. It had been tried, and had failed. He possessed a gigantic weapon, the army of the United States. In his grasp was a huge sledge-hammer–the army of the Potomac. He was going to clutch that tremendous weapon, whirl it aloft like a new Vulcan, and strike straight at Lee’s crest, and try to end him. If one blow did not suffice, he was going to try another. If that failed, in its turn, he would strike another and another. All the year was before him; there were new men to fill the places of those who fell; blood might gush in torrents, but the end was worth the cost. Would it hurl a hundred thousand men into bloody graves? That was unfortunate, but unavoidable. Would the struggle frighten and horrify the world? It was possible. But these things were unimportant. The rebellion must be crushed. The sledge-hammer must strike until Lee’s keen rapier was shattered. Hammer and rapier were matched against each other–the combat was _a l’outrance_–the hammer must beat down the rapier, or fall from the grasp of him who wielded it.
Such was the programme of General Grant. It was not war exactly, in the old acceptation of the term. It was not taught by Jomini, or practised by Napoleon. You would have said, indeed, at the first glance, that it rejected the idea of generalship _in toto_. Let us give General Grant his just dues, however. He was not a great commander, but he _was_ a man of clear brain. He saw that brute force could alone shatter the army of Northern Virginia; that to wear it away by attrition, exhaust its blood drop by drop, was the only thing left–and he had the courage to adopt that programme.
To come back to events on the Rapidan in the month of May, 1864.
Lee is ready for the great collision, now seen to be inevitable. His right, under Ewell, occupies the works on the southern bank of the Rapidan, above Chancellorsville. His centre, under A.P. Hill, lies near Orange Court-House. His left, under Longstreet, is in reserve near Gordonsville.
The army of Northern Virginia is thus posted in echelon of corps, extending from Gordonsville, by Orange, toward the fords of the Rapidan.
When the enemy cross on their great advance, Ewell is ready to face east; Hill will close in on his right; and Longstreet in the same manner on Hill’s right. Then the army will be in line, ready to strike at Grant’s flank as he moves through the Wilderness.
For Lee is going to strike at him. The fifty thousand are going to order the one hundred and forty thousand to halt.
Stuart’s cavalry is watching. It extends from Madison Court-House, along Robertson River, on the left of the army; and on the right, from Ewell’s camps, past Chancellorsville, to Fredericksburg.
Such was the situation on the first of May. The two tigers were watching each other–and one was about to spring.
XVII.
FORT DELAWARE.
To descend now from the heights of generalization to the plains of incident and personal observation.
For this volume is not a history of the war in Virginia, but the memoirs of a staff officer belonging to Stuart’s cavalry.
May, 1864, had come; we were soon to be in the saddle; the thundering hammer of General Grant was about to commence its performances.
One night–it was the night of the first of May–I was sitting in General Stuart’s tent, looking into his blazing log fire, and musing. In this luxury I was not interrupted. It was nearly midnight, and the rest of the staff had retired. Stuart was writing at his desk, by the light of a candle in a captured “camp candlestick,” and from time to time, without turning his head, ejaculated some brief words upon any subject which came into his head.
After writing ten minutes, he now said briefly:–
“Surry.”
“General,” was my as brief response.”
“I think Mohun was a friend of yours?”
“Yes, general, we became intimate on the march to Gettysburg.”
“Well, I have just received his commission–“
“You mean as–“
“Brigadier-general. You know I long ago applied for it.”
“I knew that–pity he has not been exchanged.”
“A great pity,–and you miss a pleasure I promised myself I would give you.”
“What pleasure, general?”
“To take Mohun his commission with your own hands.”
“I am truly sorry I can not. You know he was terribly wounded, and we had to leave him in Warrenton; then the enemy advanced; for a long time we thought him dead. Thus I am sorry I am debarred the pleasure you offer. Some day I hope to accept your offer.”
“Accept it now, colonel,” said a benignant voice at the door. I turned suddenly, as did the general. At the opening of the tent, a head was seen–the head passed through–was followed by a body,–and Mr. Nighthawk, private and confidential emissary, glided in with the stealthy step of a wild-cat.
He was unchanged. His small eyes were as piercing, his smile as benignant, his costume–black coat, white cravat, and “stove-pipe” hat–as clerical as before.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Mr. Nighthawk, smiling sweetly; “I bring news of Colonel Mohun.”
“And fly in like an owl, or your namesake!” laughed Stuart.
“An owl? I am told that is the bird of wisdom, gentlemen!”
“You hit the nail on the head, when you said ‘gentlemen!'”[1] replied Stuart, laughing; “but how about Mohun? Is he exchanged, Nighthawk?”
[Footnote 1: A favorite phrase of Stuart’s.]
And Stuart wheeled round and pointed to a chair.
Nighthawk sat down modestly.
“Not exchanged, exactly, general; but safe!” he said.
“He escaped?”
“Exactly, general.”
“And you helped him?”
“I believe so.”
“Good! You really are a trump, Nighthawk–and you seem to have a peculiar fancy for Mohun.”
“He is the best friend I have in the world, general.”
“Well, that accounts for it. But how did he escape?”
“I will tell you in a few words, general. I rather pride myself on the manner in which I conducted the little affair. You remember, Colonel Mohun was very badly wounded when you defeated Kilpatrick at Buckland. It was in a fight with Colonel Darke, of the Federal cavalry, who was also wounded and left dying, as was erroneously supposed, at a small house on the roadside, when you fell back. Colonel Mohun was left at Warrenton, his wound being so severe that he could not be brought farther in his ambulance, and here he staid until he was convalescent. His recovery was miraculous, as a bullet had passed through his breast; but he is a gentleman of vigorous constitution, and he rallied at last, but, unfortunately, to find himself a prisoner. General Meade had reoccupied the country, and Colonel Mohun was transferred from hospital to Fort Delaware, as a prisoner of war.
“I have informed you, general,” continued Mr. Nighthawk, smiling, and turning the rim of his black hat between his fingers, “that Colonel Mohun was one of my best friends. For that reason, I went to see him at Warrenton, and had arranged a very good plan for his escape, when, unfortunately, he was all at once sent away, thereby disappointing all my schemes. I followed, however, saw that he was taken to Fort Delaware, and proceeded thither at once. You have probably not visited this place, general, or you, colonel. It is a fort, and outside is a pen, or stockade as it is called, covering two or three acres. Inside are cabins for the prisoners, in the shape of a semicircle, and grounds to walk in, except in the space marked off by the ‘dead line.’ If any prisoner crosses that he is shot by the sentries, whose beat is on a platform running round upon the top of the stockade.
“Well, I went to the place, and found that Colonel Mohun was confined with other officers in the pen, where they had the usual Federal ration of watery soup, bad meat, and musty crackers. For a gentleman, like himself, accustomed before the war to every luxury that unbounded wealth could supply, this was naturally disagreeable, and I determined to omit no exertion to effect his escape.
“Unfortunately, the rules of Fort Delaware are very strict, however. To cross the ‘dead line’ is death; to attempt to burrow is confinement in irons, and other degrading punishments; and to bribe the sentinels invariably resulted in having the whole affair revealed, after they had received the money. It really seemed as if Colonel Mohun were doomed to the living death of a filthy prison until the end of the war, since exchanges had ceased, and it was only by devising a ruse of very great risk that I accomplished the end in view.”
“What was your plan, Nighthawk?” said Stuart, rising and moving to the fireplace, where he stood basking in the warmth. “Original, I lay my life, and–quiet.”
“Exactly that, general.”
And Nighthawk smiled sweetly.
XVIII.
THE UNIFORM.
“I have always observed, general,” said Mr. Nighthawk, raising his eyes in pious meditation, as it were, “that there is no better rule for a man’s conduct in life than to make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness–people in power.”
“A profound maxim,” laughed Stuart; “friends are useful–that was your principle?”
“Yes, general; and I made one of the quartermaster of the post–a certain major Woodby–who was exceedingly fond of the ‘root of all evil.’ I made that gentleman’s acquaintance, applied for the place of sutler in _the pen_; and this place I acquired by agreeing to pay a heavy bonus in thirty days.
“This was Saturday night. On Monday morning I presented myself before the gate, and demanded admittance as the newly appointed sutler of the pen.
“I was admitted, and taken before the officer of the day, in his quarters.
“‘Who are you?’ he asked, gruffly.
“‘The new sutler, lieutenant.’
“‘Where are your papers?’
“I had them ready, and presented them to him. He read them carefully, looked at me superciliously, and said:–
“‘That is wholly informal.’
“I looked at him. He had a red nose.
“‘I have some excellent French brandy, captain,’ I said, promoting him.
“At sight of the portly flask which I drew half from my pocket and exhibited to him, I saw his face relax.
“‘You are a keen fellow, and know the world, I perceive,’ he said.
“And taking the flask, he poured out nearly a glass full of the brandy, and drank it.
“‘Do you intend to keep that article of brandy?’ he said.
“‘For my friends, captain,’ I replied, with a wink which he evidently understood.
“‘Let me see your papers again.’
“I unfolded them, and he glanced at them.
“‘All right–they are in regular form. There is the key of the sutler’s shop, on that nail. Take possession.’
“And my friend the captain emptied a second glass of the brandy, and made me a sign that I could go.
“I bowed profoundly; took the key; and went and opened the sutler’s shop; after which I strolled out to look at the prisoners in the area. The sentinel had seen me visit the officer of the day, and go to the sutler’s shop.
“Thus he did not interfere with me when I went into the area, as I was obviously a good Union man and an employee of the post.
“Such was the manner in which I secured a private interview with Colonel Mohun: we could talk without the presence of a corporal; and we soon arranged the plan for his escape.
“I had determined to procure a Federal uniform, to be smuggled in to him, and an hour afterward, I left him, promising to see him again as soon as I could visit Wilmington, and return with the intended disguise.
“A strange piece of good fortune aided me, or rather accomplished my purpose at once. I had scarcely returned to the sutler’s shop, and spread some blankets to sleep upon, when the officer of the day came in, and I saw at a glance that he was half intoxicated, in consequence of the large amount of brandy which he had swallowed. In a thick and husky voice he cursed the ‘stuff’ vended at the post, extolled ‘the article’ I carried, and demanded another pull at the flask. I looked at him–saw that a little more would make him dead-drunk–and all at once resolved on my plan.
“This was,” continued Mr. Nighthawk, with modest simplicity, and smiling as he spoke, “to make my friend, the officer of the day, dead-drunk, and then borrow his uniform; and I succeeded. In half an hour he was maudlin. In three-quarters of an hour, drunk. Five minutes afterward he fell out of his chair, and began to snore, where he lay.
“I secured the door tightly, stripped off his uniform, then my own clothing; put on his, and then replaced my own citizen’s dress over all, concealed his cap and boots beneath my overcoat, wrapped the prostrate lieutenant in my blankets for fear he would take cold, and going out, locked the door and proceeded to the quarters of the prisoners. Again the sentinel took no notice of me. I found Colonel Mohun in his ‘bunk.’ Ten minutes afterward he had replaced his gray uniform with that of the Federal lieutenant, and, watching the moment when the back of the sentinel was turned, we walked together toward the gate of the pen.
“That was the moment of real danger. Outside the narrow gate another sentinel was posted, and the man might be personally acquainted with the officer of the day, or have noticed his appearance. Luckily, the guard had been relieved about an hour before–the new sentinel had not seen the officer of the day–and when Colonel Mohun put his head through the little window beside the gate, ordering ‘Open!’ the gate flew open, the sentinel presented arms as he passed, and I followed modestly–the door banging-to behind us.”[1]
[Footnote 1: Fact.]
XIX.
THE NOTE.
“Thus the colonel was out of the pen,” continued Nighthawk, smiling. “The rest was not very dangerous, unless the alarm were given. They might miss the locked-up officer–he might have been seen to go into the sutler’s shop–and I admonished Colonel Mohun, in a low tone, to proceed as rapidly as possible in a direction which I pointed out.
“The path indicated led to a spot on the island where I had concealed a small boat among some willows–and, once across on the mainland, I hoped that the danger would be over.
“In spite of my admonitions, Colonel Mohun took his time. He is a cool one! He even turned and walked toward the fort, which he carefully examined–counting the guns, observing the ditches, and the ground around it.
“‘That place could be taken, Nighthawk!’ he said, with a laugh. And he continued to stroll around the place, receiving at every moment respectful salutes from passing soldiers, which he returned with the utmost coolness, and an air of authority which I never have seen surpassed. I declare to you, general, that it made the sweat burst out on my forehead, and it was fully an hour before we reached the boat. I sprung in and seized the oars, for I saw a dozen soldiers approaching us from the direction of the fort.
“‘For heaven’s sake, sit down, colonel,’ I exclaimed; ‘in five minutes we will be lost!’
“He did not reply. He was feeling in the pockets of the lieutenant’s coat; and drew out a note-book with a pencil attached. Then, as the men came toward us, he began to write. I looked over his shoulder–a bad habit I acknowledge, general–and I read these words:—
“‘Colonel Mohun, C.S.A., presents his compliments to the commanding officer of Fort Delaware, and recommends the 10-inch Columbiad in place of the 30-lb. Parrotts on the bastion near the southern angle of the work.
“‘As Colonel M. is _en route_ for Richmond _via_ Wilmington, and the train will soon pass, he is compelled to refrain from other suggestions which occur to him.
“‘The commandant of the post will pardon the want of ceremony of his departure. This distressing separation is dictated by necessity.'”
Nighthawk smiled as he repeated the words of _Mohun’s note_.
“Did you ever hear of a cooler hand, general? But I must end my long story. The colonel wrote this note while the soldiers were coming toward us. When they had come within ten steps, he beckoned to one of them–the man came up, saluting–and the colonel said, ‘Take this note to the commandant–go at once.’
“My heart had jumped to my throat, general! The next moment I drew a good long breath of real relief. The Federal soldier touched his cap, took the note, and went back toward the fort. Without further delay, I pushed out and rowed across to the mainland, where we soon arrived.
“Then we left the boat, struck into the fields, and pushed for the nearest station on the railroad. On the way, I could not refrain from upbraiding the colonel with his imprudence. He only laughed, however, and we went on without stopping. An hour afterward we reached the station, and the northern train soon came. We got in, the cars started, and we were _en route_ for Baltimore. Suddenly the dull sound of a cannon-shot came from the direction of Fort Delaware. A moment afterward came another, and then a third.
“‘A prisoner has escaped from Fort Delaware,’ said one of the passengers near us, raising his eyes from a newspaper. Colonel Mohun laughed, and said carelessly, without sinking his voice in the least, ‘Ten to one they have found your friend, the lieutenant, Nighthawk!’ Such a man, general! It was enough to make your blood run cold! I thought _I_ was cool, but I assure you, I never imagined a man could equal _that_.
“We reached Baltimore, made the connection with the train going west to Wheeling, and disembarked at Martinsburg. There the colonel procured a horse–rode to a friend’s on the Opequon–changed his blue dress for a citizen’s suit, and proceeded to Staunton, thence to Richmond, and yesterday rejoined his regiment, near Chancellorsville.”
XX.
GENERAL GRANT’S PRIVATE ORDER.
Stuart kicked a log, which had fallen on the hearth, back into the fire, and said:–
“Well, Nighthawk, your narrative only proves one thing.”
“What, general?”
“That the writer who hereafter relates the true stories of this war, will be set down as a Baron Munchausen.”
“No doubt of that, general.”
“This escape of Colonel Mohun, for instance, will be discredited.”
“No matter, it took place; but I have not told you what brought me over, general.”
“Over?”
“Yes, across the Rapidan. I did not go from Martinsburg to Richmond with Colonel Mohun. I thought I would come down and see what was going on in Culpeper. Accordingly I crossed the Blue Ridge at Ashby’s Gap, reached Culpeper–and last night crossed the Rapidan opposite Chancellorsville, where I saw Colonel Mohun, before whom I was carried as a spy.”
“You bring news, then?” said Stuart, with sudden earnestness and attention.
“Important news, general. The Federal army is about to move.”
“To cross?”
“Yes.”
“Where–when!–what force!”
“One hundred and forty thousand of all arms. I answer the last question first.”
“And–“
“The army will advance in two columns. The right–of Sedgwick’s and Warren’s corps–will cross at Germanna Ford. The left, consisting of Hancock’s corps, at Ely’s ford below. They have pontoon and bridge trains–and the movement will commence at midnight on the third–two days from now.”
Stuart knit his brows, and buried his hand in his beard. Suddenly he called out to the orderly:–
“Have two horses saddled in five minutes!” And seizing his hat, he said:–
“Get ready to ride to General Lee’s head-quarters with me, Nighthawk!”
The clerical looking emissary put on his respectable black hat.
“You are certain of this intelligence?” Stuart said, turning with a piercing glance to him.
“Quite certain, general,” said Mr. Nighthawk, serenely.
“You were in the camps?”
“In all, I believe, and at army head-quarters.”
“You overheard your intelligence?”
“No, I captured it, general.”
“How?”
“A courier was sent in haste–I saw the commander-in-chief speaking to him. I followed–came up with him in a hollow of the woods–and was compelled to blow his brains out, as he would not surrender. I then searched his body, and found what I wanted. There it is general.”
And Nighthawk drew forth a paper.
“What is it?” exclaimed Stuart.
“Grant’s confidential order to his corps commanders, general, directing the movements of his army.”
Stuart seized it, read it hastily, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. Ten minutes afterward he was going at full speed, accompanied by Nighthawk, toward General Lee’s head-quarters.
XXI.
“VIRGINIA EXPECTS EVERY MAN TO DO HIS DUTY!”
Soon after daylight, on the next morning, Stuart was up, and writing busily at his desk.
He was perfectly cool, as always, and his manner when I went in exhibited no sort of flurry. But the couriers going and coming with dispatches indicated clearly that “something was in the wind.”
I was seated by the fireplace when Stuart finished a dispatch and came toward me. The next moment he threw himself upon a chair, leaned his head upon my shoulder, and began to caress one of his dogs, who leaped into his lap.
“Well, Surry, old fellow, we are going to get into the saddle. Look out for your head!”
“Excellent advice,” I replied. “I recommend you to follow it.”
“You think I expose myself, do you?”
“In the most reckless manner.”
“For instance–come, an instance!” he laughed.
I saw Stuart was talking to rest himself.
“Well, at Mine Run, when you rode up to that fence lined with sharpshooters–and they fired on us at ten paces, nearly.”
“In fact, you might have shot a marble at them–but I am not afraid of any ball _aimed_ at me.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
“Then you believe in _chance_, general?”
“There is no chance, Surry,” he said, gravely. “God rules over all things, and not a sparrow, we are told, can fall without his permission. How can I, or you, then?”
“You are right, general, and I have always been convinced of your religious faith.”
“I believe in God and our Saviour, with all my heart,” said Stuart, solemnly. “I may not show it, but I feel deeply.”
“On the contrary, you show it–to me at least–even in trifles,” I said, moved by his earnestness. “Do you remember the other day, when an officer uttered a sneer at the expense of a friend of his who had turned _preacher_? You replied that the calling of a minister was the noblest in which any human being could engage[1]–and I regretted at that moment, that the people who laugh at you, and charge you with vicious things, could not hear you.”
[Footnote 1: His words.]
Stuart shook his head, smiling with a sadness on his lips which I had never seen before.
“They would not believe me, my dear Surry; not one would give me credit for a good sentiment or a pure principle! Am I not a drunkard, because my face is burned red by the sun and the wind? And yet I never touched spirit in all my life! I do not know the taste of it![1] Am I not given to women? And yet, God knows I am innocent,–that I recoil in disgust from the very thought! Am I not frivolous, trifling,–laughing at all things, reverencing nothing? And yet my laughter is only from high health and animal spirits. I am young and robust; it is natural to me to laugh, as it is to be pleased with bright faces and happy voices, with colors, and music, and approbation. I am not as religious as I ought to be, and wish, with all my heart, I had the deep and devout piety of that good man and great military genius,[2] Stonewall Jackson. I can lay no claim to it, you see, Surry; I am only a rough soldier, at my hard work. I am terribly busy, and my command takes every energy I possess; but I find time to read my Bible and to pray. I pray for pardon and forgiveness, and try to do my duty, and leave the rest to God. If God calls me–and He may call me very soon–I hope I will be ready, and be able to say, ‘Thy will be done.’ I expect to be killed in this war;[3]–Heaven knows, I would have my right hand chopped off at the wrist to stop it![4]–but I do not shrink from the ordeal before me, and I am ready to lay down my life for my country.”[5]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
[Footnote 2: His words.]
[Footnote 3: His words.]
[Footnote 4: His words.]
[Footnote 5: His words.]
Stuart paused, and leaned his arm upon the rude shelf above the fireplace, passing his hand over his forehead, as was habitual with him.
“A hard campaign is coming, Surry,” he said, at length, more cheerfully; “I intend to do my duty in it, and deserve the good opinion of the world, if I do not secure it. I have perilled my life many times, and shall not shrink from it in future. I am a Virginian, and I intend to live or die for Old Virginia! The tug is coming; the enemy are about to come over and ‘try again!’ But we will meet them, and fight them like men, Surry! Our army is small, but with strong hands and brave hearts much can be done. We must be up and doing, and do our duty to the handle.[1] For myself, I am going to fight whatever is before me,–to win victory, with God’s blessing, or die trying! Once more, Surry, remember that we are fighting for our old mother, and that Virginia expects every man to do his duty!”
[Footnote 1: His words.]
His face glowed as he spoke; in his dazzling blue eyes burned the fire of an unconquerable resolution, a courage that nothing seemed able to crush.
Years have passed since then, a thousand scenes have swept before me; but still I see the stalwart cavalier, with his proud forehead raised, and hear his sonorous voice exclaim:–
“Virginia expects every man to do his duty!”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
XXII.
WHAT OCCURRED AT WARRENTON.
This conversation took place at an early hour of the morning. Two hours afterward, I was in the saddle and riding toward Chancellorsville, with the double object of inspecting the pickets and taking Mohun his commission.
I have described in my former _Memoirs_ that melancholy country of the Wilderness; its unending thickets; its roads, narrow and deserted, which seem to wind on forever; the desolate fields, here and there covered with stunted bushes; the owls flapping their dusky wings; the whip-poor-will, crying in the jungle; and the moccasin gliding stealthily amid the ooze, covered with its green scum.
Strange and sombre country! lugubrious shades where death lurked! Already two great armies had clutched there in May, 1863. Now, in May, ’64, the tangled thicket was again to thunder; men were going to grapple here in a mad wrestle even more desperate than the former!
Two roads stretch from Orange Court-House to Chancellorsville–the old turnpike, and the plank road–running through Verdiersville.
I took the latter, followed the interminable wooden pathway through the thicket, and toward evening came to the point where the Ely’s Ford road comes in near Chancellorsville. Here, surrounded by the rotting weapons, bones and skulls of the great battle already fought, I found Mohun ready for the battle that was coming.
He commanded the regiment on picket opposite Ely’s Ford; and was pointed out to me at three hundred yards from an old torn down house which still remains there, I fancy.
Mohun had dismounted, and, leaning against the trunk of a tree, was smoking a cigar. He was much thinner and paler than when I had last seen him; but his eye was brilliant and piercing, his carriage erect and proud. In his fine new uniform, replacing that left at Fort Delaware, and his brown hat, decorated with a black feather, he was the model of a cavalier, ready at a moment’s warning to meet the enemy.
We exchanged a close grasp of the hand. Something in this man had attracted me, and from acquaintances we had become friends, though Mohun had never given me his confidence.
I informed him of Nighthawk’s visit and narrative, congratulated him on his escape, and then presented him with his appointment to the grade of brigadier-general.
“Hurrah for Stuart! He is a man to count on!” exclaimed Mohun, “and here inclosed is the order for me to take command of four regiments!”
“I congratulate you, Mohun.”
“I hope to do good work with them, my dear Surry–and I think they are just in time.”
With which words Mohun put the paper in his pocket.
“You know the latest intelligence?” he said.
“Yes; but do not let us talk of it. Tell me something about yourself–but first listen to a little narrative from me.”
And I described the visit which I had made with Tom Herbert to the house near Buckland; the scene between Darke and his companion; and, to keep back nothing, repeated the substance of their conversation.
Mohun knit his brows; then burst into a laugh.
“Well!” he said, “so those two amiable characters are still bent on making mince-meat of me, are they? Did you ever hear any thing like it? They are perfect tigers, thirsting for blood!”
“Nothing more nor less,” I said; “the whole thing is like a romance.”
“Is it not?”
“A perfect labyrinth.”
“The very word!”
“And I have not a trace of a key.”
Mohun looked at me for some moments in silence. He was evidently hesitating; and letting his eyes fall, played with the hilt of his sword.
Then he suddenly looked up.
“I have a confidence to make you, Surry,” he said, “and would like to make it this very day. But I cannot. You have no doubt divined that Colonel Darke is my bitter enemy–that his companion is no less, even more, bitter–and some day I will tell you what all that means. My life has been a strange one. As was said of Randolph of Roanoke’s, ‘the fictions of romance cannot surpass it.’ These two persons alluded to it–I understand more than you possibly can–but I do _not_ understand the allusions made to General Davenant. I am _not_ the suitor of his daughter–or of any one. I am not in love–I do not intend to be–to be frank with you, friend, I have little confidence in women–and you no doubt comprehend that this strange one whom you have thrice met, on the Rappahannock, in Pennsylvania, and near Buckland, is the cause.”
“She seems to be a perfect viper.”
“Is she not? You would say so, more than ever, if I told you what took place at Warrenton.”
And again Mohun’s brows were knit together. Then his bitter expression changed to laughter.
“What took place at Warrenton!” I said, looking at him intently.
“Exactly, my dear friend–it was a real comedy. Only a poignard played a prominent part in the affair, and you know poignards belong exclusively to tragedy.”
Mohun uttered these words with his old reckless satire. A sort of grim and biting humor was plain in his accents.
“A poniard–a tragedy–tell me about it, Mohun,” I said.
He hesitated a moment. “Well, I will do so,” he said, at length. “It will amuse you, my guest, while dinner is getting ready.”
“I am listening.”
“Well, to go back. You remember my fight with Colonel Darke near Buckland?”
“Certainly; and I was sure that you had killed each other.”
“You were mistaken. He is not dead, and you see I am not. He was wounded in the throat, but my sabre missed the artery, and he was taken to a house near at hand, and thence to hospital, where he recovered. My own wound was a bullet through the chest; and this gave me so much agony that I could not be carried in my ambulance farther than Warrenton, where I was left with some friends who took good care of me. Meanwhile, General Meade had again advanced and occupied the place–I was discovered, and removed as soon as possible to the Federal hospital, where they could have me under guard. Faith! they are smart people–our friends the Yankees! They are convinced that ‘every little helps,’ and they had no idea of allowing that tremendous Southern paladin, Colonel Mohun, to escape! So I was sent to hospital. The removal caused a return of fever–I was within an inch of the grave–and this brings me to the circumstance that I wish to relate for your amusement.
“For some days after my removal to the Federal hospital, I was delirious, but am now convinced that much which I then took for the wanderings of a fevered brain, was real.
“I used to lie awake a great deal, and one gloomy night I saw, or dreamed I saw, as I then supposed, _that woman_ enter my ward, in company with the surgeon. She bent over me, glared upon me with those dark eyes, which you no doubt remember, and then drawing back said to the surgeon:–
“‘Will he live?’
“‘Impossible to say, madam,’ was the reply. ‘The ball passed through his breast, and although these wounds are almost always mortal, men do now and then recover from them.’
“‘Will this one?’
“‘I cannot tell you, madam, his constitution seems powerful.’
“I saw her turn as he spoke, and fix those glaring eyes on me again. They were enough to burn a hole in you, Surry, and made me feel for some weapon. But there was none–and the scene here terminated–both retired. The next night, however, it was renewed. This time the surgeon felt my pulse, touched my forehead, placed his ear to my breast to listen to the action of the heart, and rising up said, in reply to madam’s earnest glance of inquiry:–
“‘Yes, I am sure he will live. You can give yourself no further anxiety about your cousin, madam.’
“_Her cousin_! That was not bad, you see. She had gained access, as I ascertained from some words of their conversation, by representing herself as my cousin. I was a member of her family who had ‘gone astray’ and embraced the cause of the rebellion, but was still dear to her! Womanly heart! clinging affection! not even the sin of the prodigal cousin could sever the tender chord of her love! I had wandered from the right path–fed on husks with the Confederate swine; but I was wounded–had come back; should the fatted calf remain unbutchered, and the loving welcome be withheld?
“‘_You can give yourself no further uneasiness about your cousin, madam_!’
“Such was the assurance of the surgeon, and he turned away to other patients, of whom there were, however, very few in the hospital, and none near me. As he turned his back, madam looked at me. Her face was really diabolical, and I thought at the moment that she was a nightmare–that I _dreamed her_! Closing my eyes to shut out the vision, I kept them thus shut for some moments. When I reopened them she was gone.
“Well, the surgeon’s predictions did not seem likely to be verified. My fever returned. Throughout the succeeding day I turned and tossed on my couch; as night came, I had some hideous dreams. A storm was raging without, and the rain falling in torrents. The building trembled, the windows rattled–it was a night of nights for some devil’s work; and I remember laughing in my fever, and muttering, ‘Now is the time for delirium, bad dreams, and ugly shapes, to flock around me!’
“I fell into a doze at last, and had, as I thought, a decidedly bad dream–for I felt certain that I was dreaming, and that what I witnessed was the sport of my fancy. What I saw, or seemed to see, was this: the door opened slowly–a head was thrust in, and remained motionless for an instant; then the head moved, a body followed; madam, the lady of the dark eyes, glided stealthily toward my cot. It was enough to make one shudder, Surry, to have seen the stealthy movement of that phantom. I gazed at it through my half-closed eyelids–saw the midnight eyes burning in the white face half covered by a shawl thrown over the head–and, under that covering, the right hand of the phantom grasped something which I could not make out.
“In three quick steps _it_ was beside me. I say _it_, for the figure resembled that of a ghost, or some horrible _thing_. From the eyes two flames seemed to dart, the lips opened, and I heard, in a low mutter:–
“‘Ah! he is going to recover, then!’
“As the words left the phantom’s lips, it reached my cot at a bound; something gleamed aloft, and I started back only in time to avoid the sharp point of a poniard, which grazed my head and nearly buried itself in the pillow on which I lay.
“Well, I started up and endeavored to seize my assailant; but she suddenly broke away from me, still clutching her weapon. Her clothing was torn from her person–she recoiled toward the door–and I leaped from my couch to rush after and arrest her. I had not the strength to do so, however. I had scarcely taken three steps when I began to stagger.
“‘Murderess!’ I exclaimed, extending my arms to arrest her flight.
“It was useless. A few feet further I reeled–my head seemed turning round–and again shouting ‘Murderess!’ I fell at full length on the floor, at the moment when the woman disappeared.
“That was curious, was it not? It would have been a tragical dream–it was more tragical in being no dream at all, but a reality. What had taken place was simple, and easy to understand. That woman had come thither, on this stormy night, to murder me; and she had very nearly succeeded. Had she found me asleep, I should never have waked. Fortunately, I was awake. Some noise frightened her, and she disappeared. A moment afterward one of the nurses came, and finally the surgeon.
“When I told him what had taken place, he laughed.
“‘Well, colonel, go back to bed,’ he said, ‘such dreams retard your recovery more than every thing else.’
“I obeyed, without taking the trouble to contradict him. My breast was bleeding again, and I did not get over the excitement for some days. The phantom did not return. I slowly recovered, and was taken in due time to Fort Delaware–the rest you know.
“I forgot to tell you one thing. The surgeon almost persuaded me that I had been the victim of nightmare. Unfortunately, however, for the theory of the worthy, I found a deep hole in my pillow, where the poniard had entered.
“So you see it was madam, and not her ghost, who had done me the honor of a visit, Surry.”
XXIII.
THE GRAVE OF ACHMED.
An hour afterward I had dined with Mohun at his head-quarters, in the woods; mounted our horses; and were making our way toward the Rapidan to inspect the pickets.
This consumed two hours. We found nothing stirring. As sunset approached, we retraced our steps toward Chancellorsville. I had accepted Mohun’s invitation to spend the night with him.
As I rode on, the country seemed strangely familiar. All at once I recognized here a tree, there a stump–we were passing over the road which I had followed first in April, 1861, and again in August, 1862, when I came so unexpectedly upon Fenwick, and heard his singular revelation.
We had been speaking of Mordaunt, to whose brigade Mohun’s regiment belonged, and the young officer had grown enthusiastic, extolling Mordaunt as ‘one of the greatest soldiers of the army, under whom it was an honor to serve.’
“Well,” I said, “there is a spot near here which he knows well, and where a strange scene passed on a night of May, 1863.”
“Ah! you know the country, then?” said Mohun.
“Perfectly well.”
“What are you looking at?”
“That hill yonder, shut in by a thicket. There is a house there.”
And I spurred on, followed by Mohun. In five minutes we reached the brush-fence; our horses easily cleared it, and we rode up the hill toward the desolate-looking mansion.
I surveyed it intently. It was unchanged, save that the porch seemed rotting away, and the window-shutters about to fall–that on the window to the right hung by a single hinge. It was the one through which I had looked in August, 1862. There was the same door through which I had burst in upon Fenwick and his companion.
I dismounted, threw my bridle over a stunted shrub, and approached the house. Suddenly I stopped.
At ten paces from me, in a little group of cedars, a man was kneeling on a grave, covered with tangled grass. At the rattle of my sabre he rose, turned round–it was Mordaunt.
In a moment we had exchanged a pressure of the hand; and then turning to the grave:–
“That is the last resting-place of poor Achmed,” he said; adding, in his deep, grave voice:–
“You know how he loved me, Surry.”
“And how you loved _him_, Mordaunt. I can understand your presence at his grave, my dear friend.”
Mordaunt sighed, then saluted Mohun, who approached.
“This spot,” he said, “is well known to Colonel Surry and myself, Mohun.”
Then turning to me, he added:–
“I found a melancholy spectacle awaiting me here.”
“Other than Achmed’s grave?”
“Yes; come, and I will show you.”
And he led the way into the house. As I entered the squalid and miserable mansion, the sight which greeted me made me recoil.
On a wretched bed lay the corpse of a woman; and at a glance, I recognized the woman Parkins, who had played so tragic a part in the history of Mordaunt. The face was hideously attenuated; the eyes were open and staring; the lower jaw had fallen. In the rigid and bony hand was a dry and musty crust of bread.
“She must have starved to death here,” said Mordaunt, gazing at the corpse. And, approaching it, he took the crust from the fingers. As he did so, the teeth seemed grinning at him.
“Poor creature!” he said; “this crust was probably all that remained to her of the price of her many crimes! I pardon her, and will have her buried!”
As Mordaunt turned away, I saw him look at the floor.
“There is Achmed’s blood,” he said, pointing to a stain on the plank; “and the other is the blood of Fenwick, who was buried near his victim.”
“I remember,” I murmured. And letting my chin fall upon my breast, I returned in thought to the strange scene which the spot recalled so vividly.
“There is but one other actor in that drama of whom I know nothing, Mordaunt!”
“You mean–“
“Violet Grafton.”
Mordaunt raised his head quickly. His eyes glowed with a serene sweetness.
“She is my wife,” he said; “the joy and sunlight of my life! I no longer read _Les Miserables_, and sneer at my species–I no longer scowl, Surry, and try to rush against the bullet that is to end me. God has rescued a lost life in sending me one of his angels; and it was she who made me promise to come hither and pray on the grave of our dear Achmed!”
Mordaunt turned toward the door as he spoke, and inviting me to ride with him, left the mansion. As I had agreed to stay with Mohun, I was obliged to decline.
Five minutes afterward he had mounted, and with a salute, the tall form disappeared in the forest.
We set out in turn, and were soon at Mohun’s bivouac.
XXIV.
A NIGHT BIRD.
I shared Mohun’s blankets, and was waked by the sun shining in my face.
My companion had disappeared, but I had scarcely risen when he was seen approaching at full gallop.
Throwing himself from his horse, he grasped my hand, his face beaming.
“All right, Surry!” he exclaimed; “I have seen Mordaunt; my command is all arranged; I have four superb regiments; and they are already in the saddle.”
“I congratulate you, my dear general! Make good use of them–and I think you are going to have the opportunity at once.”
“You are right–the enemy’s cavalry are drawn up on the north bank of the river.”
“Any firing in front?”
“They are feeling at all the fords.”
“Are you going there?”
“At once.”
“I will go with you.”
And I mounted my horse which stood saddled near by.
Swallowing some mouthfuls of bread and beef as we rode on, we soon reached Mohun’s command. It consisted of four regiments, drawn up in column, ready to move–and at sight of the young _sabreur_, the men raised a shout.
Mohun saluted with drawn sabre, and galloped to the front.
A moment afterward the bugle sounded, and the column advanced toward the Rapidan, within a mile of which it halted–Mohun and myself riding forward to reconnoitre at Germanna Ford, directly in our front.
The pickets were engaged, firing at each other across the river. On the northern bank were seen long columns of Federal cavalry, drawn up as though about to cross.
I rode with Mohun to the summit of the lofty hill near the ford, and here, seated on his horse beneath a tree, we found Mordaunt. It was hard to realize that, on the evening before, I had seen this stern and martial figure, kneeling in prayer upon a grave–had heard the brief deep voice grow musical when he spoke of his wife. But habit is every thing. On the field, Mordaunt was the soldier, and nothing but the soldier.
“You see,” he said, “the game is about to open,” pointing to the Federal cavalry. “You remember this spot, and that hill yonder, I think.”
“Yes,” I replied, “and your charge there when we captured their artillery in August, ’62.”
As he spoke, a dull firing, which we had heard for some moments from the direction of Ely’s Ford, grew more rapid. Five minutes afterward, an officer was seen approaching from the side of the firing, at full speed.
When he was within a hundred yards, I recognized Harry Mordaunt. He was unchanged; his eyes still sparkled, his plume floated, his lips were smiling.
He greeted me warmly, and then turned to General Mordaunt, and reported the enemy attempting to cross at Ely’s.
“I will go, then; will you ride with me, Surry? Keep a good look out here, Mohun.”
I accepted Mordaunt’s invitation, and in a moment we were galloping, accompanied by Harry, toward Ely’s.
“Glad to see you again, colonel!” exclaimed the young man, in his gay voice, “you remind me of old times, and a young lady was speaking of you lately.”
“A certain Miss Fitzhugh, I will wager!”
“There’s no such person, colonel.”
“Ah! you are married!”
“Last spring; but I might as well be single! That’s the worst of this foolishness,–I wish they would stop it! I don’t mind hard tack, or fighting, or sleeping in the rain; what I do mind is never being able to go home! I wish old Grant would go home and see _his_ wife, and let me go and see _mine_! We could then come back, and blaze away at each other with some satisfaction!”
Harry was chattering all the way, and I encouraged him to talk; his gay voice was delightful. We talked of a thousand things, but they interested me more than they would interest the reader, and I pass on to matters more important.
Pushing rapidly toward Ely’s, we soon arrived, and found the enemy making a heavy demonstration there. It lasted throughout the day, and I remained to witness the result. At sunset, however, the firing stopped, and, declining Mordaunt’s invitation to share the blankets of his bivouac, I set out on my way back to Orange.
Night came almost before I was aware of it, and found me following the Brock road to get on the Orange plank road.
Do you know the Brock road, reader? and have you ever ridden over it on a lowering night? If so, you have experienced a peculiar sensation. It is impossible to imagine any thing more lugubrious than these strange thickets. In their depths the owl hoots, and the whippoorwill cries; the stunted trees, with their gnarled branches, are like fiends reaching out spectral arms to seize the wayfarer by the hair. Desolation reigns there, and you unconsciously place your hand on your pistol as you ride along, to be ready for some mysterious and unseen enemy.
At least, I did so on that night. I had now penetrated some distance, and had come near the lonely house where so many singular events had occurred.
I turned my head and glanced over my shoulder, when, to my surprise, I saw a light glimmering through the window. What was its origin? The house was certainly uninhabited, even by the dead–for Mordaunt had informed me that a detail had, that morning, buried the corpse.
There was but one means of solving the mystery, and I leaped the fence, riding straight toward the house; soon reaching it, I dismounted and threw open the door.
What should greet my eyes, but the respectable figure of Mr. Nighthawk, seated before a cheerful blaze, and calmly smoking his pipe!
XXV.
THE APPOINTMENT.
As I entered, Mr. Nighthawk rose politely, without exhibiting the least mark of astonishment.
“Good evening, colonel,” he said, smiling, “I am glad to see you.”
“And I, never more surprised to see any one than you, here, Nighthawk!”
“Why so, colonel?”
I could not help laughing at his air of mild inquiry.
“Did I not leave you at our head-quarters?”
“That was two days ago, colonel.”
“And this is your residence, perhaps?”
“I have no residence, colonel; but am here, temporarily, on a little matter of business.”
“Ah! a matter of business!”
“I think it might be called so, colonel.”
“Which it would be indiscreet to reveal to me, however. That is a pity, for I am terribly curious, my dear Nighthawk!”
Nighthawk looked at me benignly, with a philanthropic smile.
“I have not the least objection to informing you, colonel. You are a gentleman of discretion, and have another claim on my respect.”
“What is that?”
“You are a friend of Colonel Mohun’s.”
“A very warm one.”
“Then you can command me; and I will tell you at once that I am awaiting the advance of General Grant.”
“Ah! Now I begin to understand.”
“I was sure you would at the first word I uttered, colonel. General Grant will cross the Rapidan to-night–by to-morrow evening his whole force will probably be over–and I expect to procure some important information before I return to General Stuart. To you I am Mr. Nighthawk, an humble friend of the cause, employed in secret business,–to General Grant I shall be an honest farmer, of Union opinions, who has suffered from the depredations of his troops, and goes to head-quarters for redress. You see they have already stripped me of every thing,” continued Mr. Nighthawk, waving his arm and smiling; “not a cow, a hog, a mule, or a mouthful of food has been left me. They have destroyed the very furniture of my modest dwelling, and I am cast, a mere pauper, on the cold charities of the world!”
Mr. Nighthawk had ceased smiling, and looked grave; while it was I who burst into laughter. His eyes were raised toward heaven, with an expression of meek resignation; he spread out both hands with the eloquence of Mr. Pecksniff; and presented the appearance of a virtuous citizen accepting meekly the most trying misfortunes.
When I had ceased laughing, I said:–
“I congratulate you on your histrionic abilities, Nighthawk. They deserve to be crowned with success. But how did you discover this house?”
“I was acquainted with its former owner, Mrs. Parkins. She was a sister of a friend of mine, whom I think you have seen, colonel.”
“What friend?”
“His name is Swartz, colonel.”
“Not the Federal spy?”
“The same, colonel.”
“Whom we saw last in the house between Carlisle and Gettysburg?”
“I saw him the other day,” returned Mr. Nighthawk, smiling sweetly.
“Is it possible!”
“Near Culpeper Court-House, colonel. And, to let you into a little secret, I expect to see him to-night.”
I looked at the speaker with bewilderment.
“That man will be here!”
“If he keeps his appointment, colonel.”
“You have an appointment?”
“Yes, colonel.”
“In this house?”
“To-night.”
“With what object, in heaven’s name!”
Nighthawk hesitated for some moments before replying.
“The fact is, colonel,” he said, “that I inadvertently mentioned my appointment with Swartz without reflecting how singular it must appear to you, unless I gave you some explanation. But I am quite at my ease with you–you are a friend of Colonel Mohun’s–and I will explain, as much of my business as propriety will permit. To be brief, I am anxious to procure a certain document in Swartz’s possession.”
“A certain document?” I said, looking intently at the speaker.
“Exactly, colonel.”
“Which Swartz has?”
“Precisely, colonel.”
“And which he stole from the papers of Colonel Darke on the night of Mohun’s combat with Darke, in the house near Carlisle?”
Mr. Nighthawk looked keenly at me, in turn.
“Ah! you know that!” he said, quickly.
“I saw him steal it, through the window, while the woman’s back was turned.”
“I am deeply indebted to you, colonel,” said Mr. Nighthawk, gravely, “for informing me of this fact, which, I assure you, is important. Swartz swore to me that he had the paper, and had procured it in that manner, but I doubted seriously whether he was not deceiving me. He is a _very_ consummate rascal, knows the value of that document, and my appointment with him to-night is with an eye to its purchase from him.”
“Do you think he will come?”
“I think so. He would sell his soul for gold.”
“And that woman? he seems to be her friend.”
“He would sell _her_ for _silver_!”
After uttering which _bon mot_, Mr. Nighthawk smiled.
This man puzzled me beyond expression. His stealthy movements were strange enough–it was singular to meet him in this lonely house–but more singular still was the business which had brought him. What was that paper? Why did Nighthawk wish to secure it? I gave up the inquiry in despair.
“Well,” I said, “I will not remain longer; I might scare off your friend, and to eaves-drop is out of the question, even if you were willing that I should be present.”
“In fact, colonel, I shall probably discuss some very private matters with my friend Swartz, so that–“
“You prefer I should go.”
Mr. Nighthawk smiled; he was too polite to say “yes.”
“You are not afraid to meet your friend in this lonely place?” I said, rising.
“Not at all, colonel.”
“You are armed?”
Mr. Nighthawk opened his coat, and showed me a brace of revolvers.
“I have these; but they are unnecessary, colonel.”
“Unnecessary?”
“I have an understanding with Swartz, and he with me.”
“What is that?”
“That we shall not employ the carnal weapon; only destroy each other by superior generalship.”
“You speak in enigmas, Nighthawk!”
“And yet, my meaning is very simple. If I can have Swartz arrested and hung, or he me, it is all fair. But we have agreed not to fight.”
“So, if you caught him to-night, you could have him hung as a spy?”
“Yes, colonel; but nothing would induce me to betray him.”
“Ah!”
“I have given him my parol, that he shall have safe conduct!”
I laughed, bade Nighthawk good-bye, and left him smiling as I had found him. In ten minutes I was again on the Brock road, riding on through the darkness, between the impenetrable thickets.
XXVI.
STUART SINGS.
My reflections were by no means gay. The scenes at the lonely house had not been cheerful and mirth-inspiring.
That grinning corpse, with the crust of bread in the bony fingers; that stain of blood on the floor; the grave of Achmed; lastly, the appointment of the mysterious Nighthawk with the Federal spy; all were fantastic and lugubrious.
Who was Nighthawk, and what was his connection with Mohun? Who was Mohun, and what had been his previous history? Who was this youth of unbounded wealth, as Nighthawk had intimated, in whose life personages supposed to be dead, but still alive, had figured?
“Decidedly, Mohun and Nighthawk are two enigmas!” I muttered, “and I give the affair up.”
With which words I spurred on, and soon debouched on the Orange plank road, leading toward Mine Run.
As I entered it, I heard hoof-strokes on the resounding boards, and a company of horsemen cantered toward me through the darkness. As they came, I heard a gay voice singing the lines:–
“I wake up in the morning,
I wake up in the morning,
I wake up in the morning,
Before the break o’ day!”
There was no mistaking that gay sound. It was Stuart, riding at the head of his staff and couriers.
In a moment he had come up, and promptly halted me.
“Ah! that’s you, Surry!” he exclaimed with a laugh, “wandering about here in the Wilderness! What news?”
I reported the state of things in front, and Stuart exclaimed:–
“All right; we are ready for them! Coon Hollow is evacuated–head-quarters are in the saddle! Hear that whippoorwill! It is a good omen. Whip ’em well! Whip ’em well!–and we’ll do it too!”[1] Stuart laughed, and began to sing–
“Never mind the weather
But get over double trouble!
We are bound for the Happy land of Lincoln!”
[Footnote 1: His words.]
As the martial voice rang through the shadowy thickets, I thought, “How fortunate it is that the grave people are not here to witness this singular ‘want of dignity’ in the great commander of Lee’s cavalry!”
Those “grave people” would certainly have rolled their eyes, and groaned, “Oh! how undignified!” Was not the occasion solemn? Was it not sinful to laugh and sing? No, messieurs! It was right; and much better than rolling the eyes, and staying at home and groaning! Stuart was going to fight hard–meanwhile he sang gayly. Heaven had given him animal spirits, and he laughed in the face of danger. He laughed and sang on this night when he was going to clash against Grant, as he had laughed and sung when he had clashed against Hooker–when his proud plume floated in front of Jackson’s veterans, and he led them over the breastworks at Chancellorsville, singing, “Old Joe Hooker, will you come out of the Wilderness!”
Stuart cantered on: we turned into the Brock road, and I found myself retracing my steps toward the Rapidan.
As I passed near the lonely house, I cast a glance toward the glimmering light. Had Nighthawk’s friend arrived?
We soon reached Ely’s Ford, and I conducted Stuart to Mordaunt’s bivouac, which I had left at dusk. He had just wrapped his cloak around him, and laid down under a tree, ready to mount at a moment’s warning.
“What news, Mordaunt?” said Stuart, grasping his hand.
“Some fighting this evening, but it ceased about nightfall, general.”
Stuart looked toward the river, and listened attentively.
“I hear nothing stirring.”
And passing his hand through his beard he muttered half to himself:–
“I wonder if Grant can have made any change in his programme?”
“The order at least was explicit–that brought by Nighthawk,” I said.
Stuart turned toward me suddenly.
“I wonder where he could be found? If I knew, I would send him over the river to-night, to bring me a reliable report of every thing.”
I drew the general aside.
“I can tell you where to find Nighthawk.”
“Where.”
“Shall I bring him?”
“Like lightning, Surry! I wish to dispatch him at once!”
Without reply I wheeled my horse, and went back rapidly toward the house in the Wilderness. I soon reached the spot, rode to the window, and called to Nighthawk, who came out promptly at my call.
“Your friend has not arrived?” I said.
“He will not come till midnight, colonel.”
“When, I am afraid, he will not see you, Nighthawk–you are wanted.”
And I explained my errand. Nighthawk sighed–it was easy to see that he was much disappointed.
“Well, colonel,” he said, in a resigned tone, “I must give up my private business–duty calls. I will be ready in a moment.”
And disappearing, he put out the light–issued forth in rear of the house–mounted a horse concealed in the bushes–and rejoined me in front.
“Swartz will not know what to think,” he said, as we rode rapidly toward the river; “he knows I am the soul of punctuality, and this failure to keep my appointment will much distress him.”
“Distress him, Nighthawk?”
“He will think some harm has happened to me.”
And Mr. Nighthawk smiled so sadly, that I could not refrain from laughter.
We soon reached the spot where Stuart awaited us. At sight of Nighthawk he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction, and explained in brief words his wishes.
“That will be easy, general,” said Nighthawk.
“Can you procure a Federal uniform?”
“I always travel with one, general.”
And Mr. Nighthawk unstrapped the bundle behind his saddle, drawing forth a blue coat and trousers, which in five minutes had replaced his black clothes. Before us stood one of the “blue birds.” Nighthawk was an unmistakable “Yankee.”
Stuart gave him a few additional instructions, and having listened with the air of a man who is engraving the words he hears upon his memory, Nighthawk disappeared in the darkness, toward the private crossing, where he intended to pass the river.
Half an hour afterward, Stuart was riding toward Germanna Ford. As we approached, Mohun met us, and reported all quiet.
Stuart then turned back in the direction of Chancellorsville, where Nighthawk was to report to him, before daylight, if possible.
XXVII.
MOHUN RIDES.
I lingered behind a moment to exchange a few words with Mohun. Something told me that he was intimately connected with the business which had occasioned the appointment between Nighthawk and Swartz–and at the first words which I uttered, I saw that I was not mistaken.
Mohun raised his head quickly, listened with the closest attention, and when I had informed him of every thing, said abruptly:–
“Well, I’ll keep Nighthawk’s appointment for him!”
“You!” I said.
“Yes, my dear Surry–this is a matter of more importance than you think. The business will not take long–the enemy will not be moving before daylight–and you said, I think, that the appointment was for midnight?”
“Yes.”
Mohun drew out his watch; scratched a match which he drew from a small metal case.
“Just eleven,” he said; “there is time to arrive before midnight, if we ride well–will you show me the way?”
I saw that he was bent on his scheme, and said no more. In a few moments we were in the saddle, and riding at full speed toward the house where the meeting was to take place.
Mohun rode like the wild huntsman, and mile after mile disappeared behind us–flitting away beneath the rapid hoofs of our horses. During the whole ride he scarcely opened his lips. He seemed to be reflecting deeply, and to scarcely realize my presence.
At last we turned into the Brock road, and were soon near the lonely house.
“We have arrived,” I said, leaping the brushwood fence. And we galloped up the knoll toward the house, which was as dark and silent as the grave.
Dismounting and concealing our horses in the bushes, we opened the door. Mohun again had recourse to his match-case, and lit the candle left by Nighthawk on an old pine table, and glanced at his watch.
“Midnight exactly!” he said; “we have made a good ride of it, Surry.”
“Yes; and now that I have piloted you safely, Mohun, I will discreetly retire.”
“Why not remain, if you think it will amuse you, my dear friend?”
“But you are going to discuss your private affairs, are you not?”
“They are not private from you, since I have promised to relate my whole life to you.”
“Then I remain; but do you think our friend will keep his appointment?”
“There he is,” said Mohun, as hoof-strokes were heard without. “He is punctual.”
XXVIII.
THE SPY.
A moment afterward we heard the new-comer dismount. Then his steps were heard on the small porch. All at once his figure appeared in the doorway.
It was Swartz. The fat person, the small eyes, the immense double chin, and the chubby fingers covered with pinchbeck rings, were unmistakable.
He was clad in citizens’ clothes, and covered with dust as from a long ride.
Mohun rose.
“Come in, my dear Mr. Swartz,” he said coolly; “you see we await you.”
The spy recoiled. It was plain that he was astonished beyond measure at seeing us. He threw a glance behind him in the direction of his horse, and seemed about to fly.
Mohun quietly drew his revolver, and cocked it.
“Fear nothing, my dear sir,” he said, “and, above all, do not attempt to escape.”
Swartz hesitated, and cast an uneasy glance upon the weapon.
“Does the sight of this little instrument annoy you?” said Mohun, laughing. “It shall not be guilty of that impoliteness, Mr. Swartz.”
And he uncocked the weapon, and replaced it in its holster.
“Now,” he continued, “sit down, and let us talk.”
Swartz obeyed. Before Mohun’s penetrating glance, his own sank. He took his seat in a broken-backed chair; drew forth a huge red bandanna handkerchief; wiped his forehead; and said quietly:–
“I expected to meet a friend here to-night, gentlemen, instead of–“
“Enemies?” interrupted Mohun. “We are such, it is true, my dear sir, but you are quite safe. Your friend Nighthawk is called away; he is even ignorant of our presence here.”
“But meeting him would have been different, gentlemen. I had his safe conduct!”
“You shall have it from me.”
“May I ask from whom?” said Swartz.
“From General Mohun, of the Confederate army.”
Swartz smiled this time; then making a grotesque bow, he replied:–
“I knew you very well, general–that is why I am so much at my ease. I am pleased to hear that you are promoted. When I last saw you, you were only a colonel, but I was certain that you would soon be promoted or killed.”
There was a queer accent of politeness in the voice of the speaker. He did not seem to have uttered these words in order to flatter his listener, but to express his real sentiment. He was evidently a character.
“Good!” said Mohun, with his habitual accent of satire. “These little compliments are charming. But I am in haste to-night–let us come to business, my dear sir. I came hither to ask you some questions, and to these I expect plain replies.”
Swartz looked at the speaker intently, but without suspicion. His glance, on the contrary, had in it something strangely open and unreserved.
“I will reply to all your questions, general,” he said, “and reply truthfully. I have long expected this interview, and will even say that I wished it. You look on me as a Yankee spy, and will have but little confidence in what I say. Nevertheless, I am going to tell you the whole truth about every thing. Ask your questions, general, I will answer them.”
Mohun was leaning one elbow on the broken table. His glance, calm and yet fiery, seemed bent on penetrating to the most secret recess of the spy’s heart.
“Well,” he said, “now that we begin to understand each other, let us come to the point at once. Where were you on the morning of the thirteenth of December, 1856?”
Swartz replied without hesitation:–
“On the bank of Nottoway River, in Dinwiddie, Virginia, and bound for Petersburg.”
“The object of your journey?”
“To sell dried fruits and winter vegetables.”
“Then you travelled in a cart, or a wagon?”
“In a cart, general.”
“You reached Petersburg without meeting with any incident on the way?”
“I met with two very curious ones, general. I see you know something about the affair, and are anxious to know every thing. I will tell you the whole truth; but it will be best to let me do it in my own way.”
“Do so, then,” said Mohun, fixing his eyes more intently upon the spy.
Swartz was silent again for more than a minute, gazing on the floor. Then he raised his head, passed his red handkerchief over his brow, and said:–
“To begin at the beginning, general. At the time you speak of, December, 1856, I was a small landholder in Dinwiddie, and made my living by carting vegetables and garden-truck to Petersburg. Well, one morning in winter–you remind me that it was the thirteenth of December,–I set out, as usual, in my cart drawn by an old mule, with a good load on board, to go by way of Monk’s Neck. I had not gone two miles, however, when passing through a lonely piece of woods on the bank of the river, I heard a strange cry in the brush. It was the most startling you can think of, and made my heart stop beating. I jumped down from my cart, left it standing in the narrow road, and went to the spot. It was a strange sight I saw. On the bank of the river, I saw a woman lying drenched with water, and half-dead. She was richly dressed, and of very great beauty–but I never saw any human face so pale, or clothes more torn and draggled.”
The spy paused. Mohun shaded his eyes from the light, with his hands, and said coolly:–
“Go on.”
“Well, general–that was enough to astonish anybody–and what is more astonishing still, I have never to this day discovered the meaning of the woman’s being there–for it was plain that she was a lady. She was half-dead with cold, and had cried out in what seemed to be a sort of delirium. When I raised her up, and wrung the wet out of her clothes, she looked at me so strangely that I was frightened. I asked her how she had come there, but she made no reply. Where should I take her? She made no reply to that either. She seemed dumb–out of her wits–and, to make a long story short, I half led and half carried her to the cart in which I put her, making a sort of bed for her of some old bags.
“I set out on my way again, without having the least notion what I should do with her–for she seemed a lady–and only with a sort of idea that her friends might probably pay me for my trouble, some day.
“Well, I went on for a mile or two farther, when a new adventure happened to me. That was stranger still–it was like a story-book; and you will hardly believe me–but as I was going through a piece of woods, following a by-road by which I cut off a mile or more, I heard groans near the road, and once more stopped my cart. Then I listened. I was scared, and began to believe in witchcraft. The groans came from the woods on my left, and there was no doubt about the sound–so, having listened for some time, I mustered courage to go in the direction of the sound. Can you think what I found, general?”
“What?” said Mohun, in the same cool voice; “tell me.”
“A man lying in a grave;–a real grave, general–broad and deep–a man with a hole through his breast, and streaming with blood.”
“Is it possible?”
And Mohun uttered a laugh.
“Just as I tell you, general–it is the simple, naked truth. When I got to the place, he was struggling to get out of the grave, and his breast was bleeding terribly. I never saw a human being look paler. ‘Help!’ he cried out, in a suffocated voice like, when he saw me–and as he spoke, he made such a strong effort to rise, that his wound gushed with blood, and he fainted.”
“He fainted, did he? And what did you do?” said Mohun.
“I took him up in my arms, general, as I had taken the woman, carried him to my cart, when I bound up his breast in the best way I could, and laid him by the side of the half-drowned lady.”
“To get a reward from _his_ friends, too, no doubt?”
“Well, general, we must live, you know. And did I not deserve something for being so scared–and for the use of my mule?”
“Certainly you did. Is not the laborer worthy of his hire? But go on, sir–your tale is interesting.”
“Tale, general? It is the truth–on the word of Swartz!”
“I no longer doubt now, if I did before,” said Mohun; “but tell me the end of your adventure.”
“I can do that in a few words, general. I whipped up my old mule, and went on through the woods, thinking what I had best do with the man and the woman I had saved, I could take them to Petersburg, and tell my story to the mayor or some good citizen, who would see that they were taken care of. But as soon as I said ‘mayor’ to myself, I thought ‘he is the chief of police.’ _Police_!–that is one of the ugliest words in the language, general! Some people shiver, and their flesh crawls, when you cut a cork, or scratch on a window pane–well, it is strange, but I have always felt in that way when I heard, or thought of, the word, _police_! And here I was going to have dealings with the said _police_! I was going to say ‘I found these people on the Nottoway–one half- drowned, and the other in a newly dug grave!’ No, I thank you! We never know what our characters will stand, and I was by no means certain that mine would stand that! Then the reward–I wished to have my lady and gentleman under my eye. So, after thinking over the matter for some miles, I determined to leave them with a crony of mine near Monk’s Neck, named Alibi, who would take care of them and say nothing. Well, I did so, and went on to Petersburg, where I sold my truck. When I got back they were in bed, and on my next visit they were at the point of death. About that time I was taken sick, and was laid up for more than three months. When I went to see my birds at Monk’s Neck, they had flown!”
“Without leaving you their adieux?”
“No, they were at least polite. They left me a roll of bank notes–more than I thought they had about them.”
“You had searched them, of course, when they were lying in your cart,” said Mohun.
Swartz smiled.
“I acknowledge it, general–I forgot to mention the fact. I had found only a small amount in the gentleman’s pocket-book–nothing on the lady–and I never could understand where he or she had concealed about their persons such a considerable amount of money–though I suppose, in a secret pocket.”
Mohun nodded.
“That is often done–well, that was the last of them?”
Swartz smiled, and glanced at Mohun.
“What is the use of any concealment, my dear Mr. Swartz?” said the latter. “You may as well tell the whole story, as you have gone this far.”
“You are right, general, and I will finish. The war broke out, and I sold my truck patch, and invested in a better business–that is, running the blockade across the Potomac, and smuggling in goods for the Richmond market. On one of these trips, I met, plump, in the streets of Washington, no less a person than the lady whom I had rescued. She was richly dressed, and far more beautiful, but there was no mistaking her. I spoke to her; she recognized me, took me to her house, and here I found _the gentleman_, dressed in a fine new uniform. He was changed too–his wound had long healed, he was stout and strong, but I knew him, too, at a glance. Well, I spent the evening, and when I left the house had accepted an offer made me to combine a new business with that of blockade runner.”
“That of spy, you mean?” said Mohun.
Swartz smiled.
“You speak plainly, general. We call ourselves ‘secret agents’–but either word expresses the idea!”
XXIX.