Mohun, or, The Last Days of Lee by John Esten Cooke (page 5)

THE PAPER.

Mohun raised his head, and looked Swartz full in the face. His glance had grown, if possible, more penetrating than before, and a grim smile responded to the unctuous expression of the spy.

“Well, my dear Mr. Swartz,” he said coolly, “that is a curious history. Others might doubt its accuracy, but I give you my word that I do not! I did well to let you proceed in your own way, instead of questioning you–but I have not yet done; and this time shall return to the method of interrogation.”

“At your orders, general,” said Swartz, whose quick glance showed that he was on his guard, and foresaw what was coming.

Mohun leaned toward the spy.

“Let us proceed to ‘call names,'” he said. “The man you rescued from the grave was Colonel Darke?”

“Exactly, general.”

“Is that his real name, or a false one?”

Swartz hesitated; then replied:–

“A false one.”

“His real name?”

“Mortimer.”

“And the lady is–?”

“His wife, general.”

“Good,” said Mohun, “you are well informed, I see, my dear Mr. Swartz; and it is a pleasure to converse with a gentleman who knows so much, and knows it so accurately.”

“You flatter my pride, general!”

“I do you justice–but to the point. Your story was cut off in the middle. After the interview in Washington, you continued to see Colonel Darke and his wife?”

“I saw them frequently, general.”

“In the army–and at their home, both?”

“Yes, general.”

“Where did they live?”

“Near Carlisle, Pennsylvania.”

“Where you were on a visit, just before the battle of Gettysburg?”

“Yes, general.”

“Very good!”

And rising quickly, Mohun confronted the spy, who drew back unconsciously.

“Where is the paper that you stole from the woman that night?” he said.

Swartz was unable to sustain the fiery glance directed toward him by Mohun.

“Then Nighthawk has told you all!” he exclaimed.

“Colonel Surry saw you hide the paper.”

Swartz looked suddenly toward me–his smiles had all vanished.

“The paper! give me the paper!” exclaimed Mohun; “you shall have gold for it!”

“I have left it in Culpeper, general.”

“Liar!–give me the paper!”

Swartz started to his feet.

Mohun caught at his throat–the spy recoiled–when suddenly a quick firing was heard coming rapidly from the direction of Germanna Ford.

“The enemy have crossed, Mohun!” I cried.

Mohun started, and turned his head in the direction of the sound.

“They are advancing!” I said, “but look out!–the spy!–“

Mohun wheeled, drawing his pistol.

Swartz had profited by the moment, when our attention was attracted by the firing, to pass through the door, gain his horse at a bound, and throw himself into the saddle, with an agility that was incredible in one so fat.

At the same moment Mohun’s pistol-shot responded, but the bullet whistled harmlessly over the spy’s head. In an instant he had disappeared in the woods.

Mohun rushed to his horse, I followed, and we were soon riding at full speed in the direction of the firing.

As we advanced, however, it receded. We pushed on, and reached the bank of the Rapidan just as Mohun’s men had driven a party of the enemy over.

It was only a small body, who, crossing at a private ford and surprising the sleepy picket, had raided into the thicket, to retire promptly when they were assailed.

The affair was nothing. Unfortunately, however, it had enabled the Federal spy to elude us.

Swartz had disappeared like a bird of the night; and all pursuit of him in such a wilderness was impossible.

An hour afterward, I had rejoined Stuart.

XXX.

GRANT STRIKES HIS FIRST BLOW.

Such were the singular scenes which I witnessed, amid the shadows of the Spottsylvania Wilderness, in the first days of May, 1864.

The narrative has brought the reader now to an hour past midnight on the third of May.

An hour before–that is to say, at midnight precisely–the Federal forces began to move: at six in the morning, they had massed on the north bank of the Rapidan; and as the sun rose above the Wilderness, the blue columns began to cross the river.

General Grant, at the head of his army of 140,000 men, had set forth on his great advance toward Richmond–that advance so often tried, so often defeated, but which now seemed, from the very nature of things, to be destined to succeed.

Any other hypothesis seemed absurd. What could 50,000 do against nearly thrice their number? What could arrest the immense machine rolling forward to crush the Confederacy? A glance at Grant’s splendid array was enough to make the stoutest heart sink. On this 4th day of May, 1864, he was crossing the Rapidan with what resembled a countless host. Heavy masses of blue infantry, with glittering bayonets–huge parks of rifled artillery, with their swarming cannoneers–long columns of horsemen, armed with sabre and repeating carbines, made the earth shake, and the woods echo with their heavy and continuous tramp, mingled with the roll of wheels.

In front of them, a little army of gaunt and ragged men, looked on and waited, without resisting their advance. What did that waiting mean? Did they intend to dispute the passage of that multitude toward Richmond? It seemed incredible, but that was exactly the intention of Lee.

It is now known that General Grant and his officers felicitated themselves greatly on the safe passage of the Rapidan, and were convinced that Lee would hasten to retreat toward the South Anna.

Instead of retreating, Lee advanced and delivered battle.

The first collision took place on the 5th of May, when the Federal army was rapidly massing in the Wilderness.

Ewell had promptly advanced, and about noon was forming line of battle across the old turnpike, when he was vigorously attacked by Warren, and his advance driven back. But the real obstacle was behind. Ewell’s rear closed up–he advanced in his turn; assailed Warren with fury; swept him back into the thicket; seized two pieces of his artillery, with about 1,000 prisoners; and for the time completely paralyzed the Federal force in his front.

Such was the first blow struck. It had failed, and General Grant turned his attention to A.P. Hill, who had hastened up, and formed line of battle across the Orange plank road, on Ewell’s right.

Hancock directed the assault here, and we have General Lee’s testimony to the fact, that the Federal attempts to drive back Hill were “repeated and desperate.” All failed. Hill stubbornly held his ground. At night the enemy retired, and gave up all further attempts on that day to make any headway.

Grant had expected to find a mere rear-guard, while Lee’s main body was retreating upon Richmond.

He found two full corps in his front; and there was no doubt that a third–that of Longstreet–was approaching.

Lee was evidently going to fight–his aim was, plainly, to shut up Grant in the Wilderness, and drive him back beyond the Rapidan, or destroy him.

XXXI.

THE REPORT.

It was twilight and the fighting was over.

The two tigers had drawn back, and, crouching down, panted heavily,–resting and gathering new strength for the fiercer conflict of the next day.

From the thickets rose the stifled hum of the two hosts. Only a few shots were heard, now and then, from the skirmishers, and these resembled the last drops of a storm which had spent its fury.

I had been sent by General Stuart with an order to General Hampton, who commanded the cavalry on Hill’s right.

Hampton was sitting his horse in a field extending, at this point, between us and the enemy; and, if it were necessary, I would draw his outline. It is not necessary, however; every one is familiar with the figure of this great and faithful soldier, in his old gray coat, plain arms and equipments, on his large and powerful war-horse,–man and horse ready for battle. In the war I saw many great figures,–Hampton’s was one of the noblest.

Having delivered my message to General Hampton, who received it with his air of grave, yet cordial courtesy, I turned to shake hands with Captain Church–a thorough-bred young officer, as brave as steel, and one of my best friends–when an exclamation from the staff attracted my attention, and looking round, I saw the cause.

At the opposite extremity of the extensive field, a solitary horseman was seen darting out of the woods occupied by the Federal infantry, and this man was obviously a deserter, making his way into our lines.

At a sign from General Hampton, Captain Church went to meet him, and as my horse was fresh, I accompanied my friend in his ride.

The deserter came on at full speed to meet us, and for a moment, his horse skimmed the dusky expanse like a black-winged bird.[1] Then, all at once, his speed moderated; he approached at a jog-trot, and through the gathering gloom I recognised, above the blue uniform, the sweetly smiling countenance of Nighthawk!

[Footnote 1: This scene is real.]

“Good evening, colonel,” said Nighthawk; “I am glad to see you again, and hope you are well.”

“So you have turned deserter, Nighthawk?” I said, laughing heartily.

“Precisely, colonel. I could not get off before. Will you inform me where I can find General Stuart?”

“I will take you to him.”

And riding back with Captain Church and Nighthawk, I soon found myself again in presence of General Hampton.

A word from me explained the real character of the pseudo-deserter. General Hampton asked a number of questions, Nighthawk replied to them, and then the latter begged me to conduct him to General Stuart. I did so without delay, and we soon reached Stuart’s bivouac, where he was talking with his staff by a camp-fire.

At sight of the blue figure he scarcely turned; then suddenly he recognized Nighthawk, and burst into laughter.

“Well, my blue night-bird!” he exclaimed, “here you are at last! What news? Is Grant going to cross the river?”

Nighthawk hung his head, and sighed audibly.

“I could not help it, general.”

“Why didn’t you come before?”

“It was impossible, general.”

Stuart shook his head.

“Strike that word out of your dictionary, my friend.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

“That is good advice, general; but this time they nonplussed me. They blocked every road, and I had to join their army.”

“Well, I hope you got the $600 bounty,” said Stuart, laughing.

“That was another impossibility, general; but I enjoyed the very best society yonder.”

“What society, Nighthawk?”

“That of Grant, Meade, and Sedgwick.”

“Ah! my old friend, General Sedgwick! But where are Grant’s headquarters, Nighthawk? Tell me every thing!”

“At Old Wilderness Tavern, general.”

“And you saw him there?”

“In the midst of his generals,–I was temporarily one of his couriers.”

“I understand. Well, their intended movements?”

Nighthawk shook his head.

“I could have foretold you those of to-day, general.”

“How?”

“I heard General Meade dictating his order, through the window of his head-quarters, and can repeat it _verbatim_, if you desire.”

“By all means, Nighthawk,–it will reveal his programme. But is it possible that you can do so?”

“I can, general; I engraved every word on my memory.”

And, fixing his eyes intently upon vacancy, Nighthawk commenced in a low, monotonous voice:–

“The following movements are ordered for the 5th May, 1864. General Sheridan, commanding cavalry corps, will move with Gregg’s and Torbert’s divisions against the enemy’s cavalry, in the direction of Hamilton’s Crossing. General Wilson, with the Third cavalry division, will move at 5 A.M., to Craig’s meeting-house, on the Catharpin road. He will keep out parties on the Orange Court-House pike, and plank road, the Catharpin road, Pamunkey road, and in the direction of Troyman’s store and Andrew’s store, or Good Hope church. 2. Major- General Hancock, commanding Second Corps, will move at 5 A.M., to Shady Grove church, and extend his right toward the Fifth Corps at Parker’s store. 3. Major-General Warren, commanding Fifth Corps, will move at 5 A.M., to Parker’s store, on the Orange Court-House plank road, and extend his right toward the Sixth Corps at Old Wilderness Tavern. 4. Major-General Sedgwick, commanding Sixth Corps, will move to the Old Wilderness Tavern, on the Orange Court-House pike, as soon as the road is clear.”

The monotonous voice stopped. I had listened with astonishment, and found it difficult to credit this remarkable feat of memory, though it took place before my eyes, or rather, in my ears.

“It is really wonderful,” said Stuart, gravely.

“You see,” said Nighthawk, returning to his original voice, so to speak, “you see, general, this would have been of some importance yesterday.”

“It is very important now,” said Stuart; “it indicates Grant’s programme–his wish to get out of the Wilderness. He is at Old Wilderness Tavern?”

“He was this morning, general, with Meade and Sedgwick.”

“You were there?”

“I was, general.”

“What did you gather, Nighthawk?”

“Little or nothing, general. True, I heard one or two amusing things as I loitered among the couriers near.”

“What?”

“General Grant came out talking with Meade, Sedgwick, and Warren. General Meade said, ‘_They have left a division to fool us here, while they concentrate, and prepare a position toward the North Anna,–and what I want is to prevent these fellows from getting back to Mine Run._'”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Stuart laughed.

“Well,’these fellows’ don’t appear to be going back. What did Grant say?”

“He smoked, general.”

“And did not open his lips?”

“Only once, when General Meade said something about ‘manoeuvring.'”

“What did he say?”

“I can give you his words. He took his cigar from his lips–puffed out the smoke–and replied, ‘_Oh! I never manoeuvre_!'”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

“So much the better,” said Stuart: “the general that does not manoeuvre sacrifices his men: and I predict that General Grant will soon alter his programme.”

Stuart had ordered his horse to be saddled, and now mounted to go to General Lee’s head-quarters.

“By the bye,” he said, “did you hear Warren or Sedgwick say any thing, Nighthawk?”

Nighthawk smiled.

“I heard Sedgwick utter a few words, general.”

“What?”

“He said to Warren, ‘_I hear Hood is to take Stuart’s place. I am glad of it, for Stuart is the best cavalry officer ever foaled in North America_!'”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

XXXII.

THE UNSEEN DEATH.

The morning of the 6th of May was ushered in with thunder.

The battle of the preceding day had been a sort of “feeler”–now the real struggle came.

By a curious coincidence, Grant and Lee both began the attack and at the same hour. At five o’clock in the morning the blue and gray ranks rushed together, and opened fire on each other. Or rather, they fired when they heard each others’ steps and shouts. You saw little in that jungle.

I have already spoken more than once of this sombre country–a land of undergrowth, thicket, ooze; where sight failed, and attacks had to be made by the needle, the officers advancing in front of the line with drawn–compasses!

The assaults here were worse than night fighting; the combats strange beyond example. Regiments, brigades, and divisions stumbled on each other before they knew it; and each opened fire, guided alone by the crackling of steps in the bushes. There was something weird and lugubrious in such a struggle. It was not a conflict of men, matched against each other in civilized warfare. Two wild animals were prowling, and hunting each other in the jungle. When they heard each others’ steps, they sprang and grappled. One fell, the other fell upon him. Then the conqueror rose up and went in pursuit of other game–the dead was lost from all eyes.

In this mournful and desolate country of the Spottsylvania Wilderness, did the bloody campaign of 1864 begin. Here, where the very landscape seemed dolorous; here, in blind wrestle, as at midnight, did 200,000 men, in blue and gray, clutch each other–bloodiest and weirdest of encounters.

War had had nothing like it. Destruction of life had become a science, and was done by the compass.

The Genius of Blood, apparently tired of the old common-place mode of killing, had invented the “Unseen Death,” in the depths of the jungle.

On the morning of May 6th, Lee and Grant had grappled, and the battle became general along the entire line of the two armies. In these rapid memoirs I need only outline this bitter struggle–the histories will describe it.

Lee was aiming to get around the enemy’s left, and huddle him up in the thicket–but in this he failed.

Just as Longstreet, who had arrived and taken part in the action, was advancing to turn the Federal flank on the Brock road, he was wounded by one of his own men; and the movement was arrested in mid career.

But Lee adhered to his plan. He determined to lead his column in person, and would have done so, but for the remonstrances of his men.

“To the rear!” shouted the troops, as he rode in front of them; “to the rear!”

And he was obliged to obey.

He was not needed.

The gray lines surged forward: the thicket was full of smoke and quick flashes of flame: then the woods took fire, and the scene of carnage had a new and ghastly feature added to it. Dense clouds of smoke rose, blinding and choking the combatants: the flames crackled, soared aloft, and were blown in the men’s faces; and still, in the midst of this frightful array of horrors, the carnival of destruction went on without ceasing.

At nightfall, General Lee had driven the enemy from their front line of works–but nothing was gained.

What _could_ be gained in that wretched country, where there was nothing but thicket, thicket!

General Grant saw his danger, and, no doubt, divined the object of his adversary,–to arrest and cripple him in this tangle-wood, where numbers did not count, and artillery could not be used.

There was but one thing to do–to get out of the jungle.

So, on the day after this weird encounter, in which he had lost nearly 20,000 men, and Lee about 8,000, Grant moved toward Spottsylvania.

The thickets of the Wilderness were again silent, and the blue and gray objects in the undergrowth did not move.

The war-dogs had gone to tear each other elsewhere.

XXXIII.

BREATHED AND HIS GUN.

In the din and smoke of that desperate grapple of the infantry, I have lost sight of the incessant cavalry combats which marked each day with blood.

And now there is no time to return to them. A great and sombre event drags the pen. With one scene I shall dismiss those heroic fights–but that scene will be superb.

Does the reader remember the brave Breathed, commanding a battalion of the Stuart horse artillery? I first spoke of him on the night preceding Chancellorsville, when he came to see Stuart, at that time he was already famous for his “do-or die” fighting. A Marylander by birth, he had “come over to help us:” had been the right-hand man of Pelham; the favorite of Stuart; the admiration of the whole army for a courage which the word “reckless” best describes;–and now, in this May, 1864, his familiar name of “Old Jim Breathed,” bestowed by Stuart, who held him in high favor, had become the synonym of stubborn nerve and _elan_, unsurpassed by that of Murat. To fight his guns to the muzzles, or go in with the sabre, best suited Breathed. A veritable bull-dog in combat, he shrank at nothing, and led everywhere. I saw brave men in the war–none braver than Breathed. When he failed in any thing, it was because reckless courage could not accomplish it.

He was young, of vigorous frame, with dark hair and eyes, and tanned by sun and wind. His voice was low, and deep; his manners simple and unassuming; his ready laugh and off-hand bearing indicated the born soldier; eyes mild, friendly, and full of honesty. It was only when Breathed was fighting his guns, or leading a charge, that they resembled red-hot coals, and seemed to flame.

To come to my incident. I wish, reader, to show you Breathed; to let you see the whole individual in a single exploit. It is good to record things not recorded in “history.” They are, after all, the real glory of the South of which nothing can deprive her. I please myself, too, for Breathed was my friend. I loved and admired him–and only a month or two before, he had made the whole army admire–and laugh with–him too.

See how memory leads me off! I am going to give ten words, first, to that incident which made us laugh.

In the last days of winter, a force of Federal cavalry came to make an attack on Charlottesville–crossing the Rapidan high up toward the mountains, and aiming to surprise the place. Unfortunately for him, General Custer, who commanded the expedition, was to find the Stuart horse artillery in winter quarters near. So sudden and unexpected was Custer’s advance, that the artillery camps were entirely surprised. At one moment, the men were lying down in their tents, dozing, smoking, laughing–the horses turned out to graze, the guns covered, a profound peace reigning–at the next, they were running to arms, shouting, and in confusion, with the blue cavalry charging straight on their tents, sabre in hand.

Breathed had been lounging like the rest, laughing and talking with the men. Peril made him suddenly king, and, sabre in hand, he rushed to the guns, calling to his men to follow.

With his own hands he wheeled a gun round, drove home a charge, and trained the piece to bear upon the Federal cavalry, trampling in among the tents within fifty yards of him.

“Man the guns!” he shouted, in his voice of thunder. “Stand to your guns, boys! You promised me you would never let these guns be taken!”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

A roar of voices answered him. The bull-dogs thrilled at the voice of the master. Suddenly the pieces spouted flame; shell and canister tore through the Federal ranks. Breathed was everywhere, cheering on the cannoneers. Discharge succeeded discharge; the ground shook: then the enemy gave back, wavering and losing heart.

Breathed seized the moment. Many of the horses had been caught and hastily saddled. Breathed leaped upon one of them, and shouted:–

“Mount!”

The men threw themselves into the saddle–some armed with sabres, others with clubs, others with pieces of fence-rail, caught up from the fires.

“Charge!” thundered Breathed.

At the head of his men, he lead a headlong charge upon the Federal cavalry, which broke and fled in the wildest disorder, pursued by the ragged cannoneers, Breathed in front, with yells, cheers, and cries of defiance.

They were pursued past Barboursville to the Rapidan, without pause. That night Stuart went after them: their officers held a council of war, it is said, to decide whether they should not bury their artillery near Stannardsville, to prevent is capture. On the day after this, they had escaped.

In passing Barboursville, on their return from Charlottesville, one of the Federal troopers stopped to get a drink of water at the house of a citizen.

“What’s the matter?” asked the citizen.

“Well, we are retreating.”

“Who is after you?”

“Nobody but old Jim Breathed and his men, armed with fence-rails.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Such was one of a dozen incidents in Breathed’s life. Let me come to that which took place near Spottsylvania Court-House.

Grant had moved, as we have seen, by his left flank toward that place. General Fitzhugh Lee opposed him on the way, and at every step harassed the head of the Federal column with his dismounted sharp-shooters and horse artillery. Near Spottsylvania Court-House, it was the stand made by Fitz Lee’s cavalry that saved the position, changing the aspect of the whole campaign.

Sent by Stuart with a message to the brave “General Fitz,” I reached him near Spottsylvania Court-House, at the moment when he had just ordered his cavalry to fall back slowly before the advancing enemy, and take a new position in rear.

Two guns which had been firing on the enemy were still in battery on a hill; upon these a heavy Federal skirmish line was steadily moving: and beside the guns, Breathed and Fitzhugh Lee sat their horses, looking coolly at the advancing line.

“Give them a round of canister, Breathed!” exclaimed General Fitz Lee.

Breathed obeyed, but the skirmish line continued bravely to advance. All at once, there appeared in the woods behind them, a regular line of battle advancing, with flags fluttering.

To remain longer on the hill was to lose the guns. The bullets were whizzing around us, and there was but one course left–to fall back.

“Take the guns off, Breathed!” exclaimed the general; “there is no time to lose! Join the command in the new position, farther down the road!”

Breathed looked decidedly unwilling.

“A few more rounds, general!”

And turning to the men, he shouted:–

“Give them canister!”

At the word, the guns spouted flame, and the canister tore through the line of skirmishers, and the Federal line of battle behind; but it did not check them. They came on more rapidly, and the air was full of balls.

“Look out for the guns, Breathed! Take them off!” exclaimed the general.

Breathed turned toward one of the pieces, and ordered:–

“Limber to the rear!”

The order was quickly obeyed.

“Forward!”

The piece went off at a thundering gallop, pursued by bullets.

“Only a few more rounds, general!” pleaded Breathed; “I won’t lose the guns!”

“All right!”

As he spoke, the enemy rushed upon the single gun.

Breathed replied by hurling canister in their faces. He sat his horse, unflinching. Never had I seen a more superb soldier.

The enemy were nearly at the muzzle of the piece.

“Surrender!” they were heard shouting; “surrender the gun!” Breathed’s response was a roar, which hurled back the front rank.

Then, his form towering amid the smoke, his eyes flashing, his drawn sabre whirled above his head, Breathed shouted,–

“Limber up!”

The cannoneers seized the trail; the horses wheeled at a gallop; the piece was limbered up; and the men rushed down the hill to mount their horses, left there.

Then around the gun seemed to open a volcano of flame. The Federal infantry were right on it. A storm of bullets cut the air. The drivers leaped from the horses drawing the piece, thinking its capture inevitable, and ran down the hill.

In an instant they had disappeared. The piece seemed in the hands of the enemy–indeed, they were almost touching it–a gun of the Stuart horse artillery for the first time was to be captured!

That thought seemed to turn Breathed into a giant. As the drivers disappeared, his own horse was shot under him, staggered, sunk, and rolled upon his rider. Breathed dragged himself from beneath the bleeding animal, rose to his feet, and rushing to the lead horses of the gun, leaped upon one of them, and struck them violently with his sabre to force them on.

As he did so, the horse upon which he was mounted fell, pierced by a bullet through the body.

Breathed fell upon his feet, and, with the edge of his sabre, cut the two leaders out of the traces. He then leaped upon one of the middle horses–the gun being drawn by six–and started off.

He had not gone three paces, when the animal which he now rode fell dead in turn. Breathed rolled upon the ground, but rising to his feet, severed the dead animal and his companion from the piece, as he had done the leaders.

He then leaped upon one of the wheel-horses–these alone being now left–struck them furiously with his sabre–started at a thundering gallop down the hill–and pursued by a hail-storm of bullets, from which, as General Lee says in his report, “he miraculously escaped unharmed,” carried off the gun in safety, and rejoined the cavalry, greeted by a rolling thunder of cheers.

Such was the manner in which Breathed fought his artillery, and the narrative is the barest and most simple statement of fact.

Breathed came out of the war a lieutenant-colonel only. Napoleon would have made him a marshal.

XXXIV.

MY LAST RIDE WITH STUART.

More than one stirring incident marked those days of desperate fighting, when, barricading all the roads, and charging recklessly, Stuart opposed, at every step, Grant’s advance toward the Po.

But I can not describe those incidents. They must be left to others. The pen which has paused to record that exploit of Breathed, is drawn onward as by the hand of Fate toward one of those scenes which stand out, lugubrious and bloody, from the pages of history.

From the moment when Grant crossed the Rapidan, Stuart had met the horsemen of Sheridan everywhere in bitter conflict; and the days and nights had been strewed all over with battles.

Now, on the ninth of May, when the two great adversaries faced each other on the Po, a more arduous service still was demanded of the great sabreur. Sheridan had been dispatched to sever General Lee’s communications, and, if possible, capture Richmond. The city was known to be well nigh stripped of troops, and a determined assault might result in its fall. Sheridan accordingly cut loose a heavy column, took command of it in person, and descended like a thunderbolt toward the devoted city.

No sooner, however, had he begun to move, than Stuart followed on his track. He had no difficulty in doing so. A great dust-cloud told the story. That cloud hung above the long column of Federal cavalry, accompanied it wherever it moved, and indicated clearly to Stuart the course which his adversary was pursuing.

If he could only interpose, with however small a force, between Sheridan and Richmond, time would be given for preparation to resist the attack, and the capital might be saved. If he failed to interpose, Sheridan would accomplish his object–Richmond would fall.

It was a forlorn hope, after all, that he could arrest the Federal commander. General Sheridan took with him a force estimated at 9,000. Stuart’s was, in all, about 3,000; Gordon, who was not in the battle at Yellow Tavern, included. That action was fought by Fitz Lee’s division of 2,400 men all told. But the men and officers were brave beyond words; the incentive to daring resistance was enormous; they would do all that could be done.

Such was the situation of affairs on the 9th of May, 1864.

Stuart set out at full gallop on his iron gray, from Spottsylvania Court-House, about three o’clock in the day, and reached Chilesburg, toward Hanover Junction, just as night fell.

Here we found General Fitz Lee engaged in a hot skirmish with the enemy’s rear-guard; and that night Stuart planned an attack upon their camp, but abandoned the idea.

His spirits at this time were excellent, but it was easy to see that he realized the immense importance of checking the enemy.

An officer said in his presence:–

“We won’t be able to stop Sheridan.”

Stuart turned at those words; his cheeks flushed; his eyes flamed, and he said:–

“No, sir! I’d rather die than let him go on!”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words]

On the next morning, he moved in the direction of Hanover Junction; riding boot to boot with his friend General Fitz Lee. I had never seen him more joyous. Some events engrave themselves forever on the memory. That ride of May 10th, 1864, was one of them.

Have human beings a presentiment, ever, at the near approach of death? Does the shadow of the unseen hand ever reveal itself to the eye? I know not, but I know that no such presentiment came to Stuart; no shadow of the coming event darkened the path of the great cavalier. On the contrary, his spirits were buoyant beyond example, almost; and, riding on with General Fitz Lee, he sang in his gallant voice his favorite ditties “Come out of the Wilderness!” and “Jine the Cavalry!”

As he rode on thus, he was the beau ideal of a cavalier. His seat in the saddle was firm; his blue eyes dazzling; his heavy mustache curled with laughter at the least provocation. Something in this man seemed to spring forward to meet danger. Peril aroused and strung him. All his energies were stimulated by it. In that ride through the May forest, to attack Sheridan, and arrest him or die, Stuart’s bearing and expression were superbly joyous and inspiring. His black plume floated in the spring breeze, like some knight-errant’s; and he went to battle humming a song, resolved to conquer or fall.

Riding beside him, I found my eyes incessantly attracted to his proud face; and now I see the great cavalier as then, clearly with the eyes of memory. What a career had been his! what a life of battles!

As we went on through the spring woods, amid the joyous songs of birds, all the long, hard combats of this man passed before me like an immense panorama. The ceaseless scouting and fighting in the Shenandoah Valley; the charge and route of the red-legged “Zouaves” at Manassas; the falling back to the Peninsula, and the fighting all through Charles City; the famous ride around McClellan; the advance and combats on the Rapidan and Rappahannock, after Cedar Mountain; the night attack on Catlett’s, when he captured Pope’s coat and papers; the march on Jackson’s flank, and the capture of Manassas; the advance into Maryland; the fights at Frederick, Crampton’s, and Boonsboro’, with the hard rear-guard work, as Lee retired to Sharpsburg; his splendid handling of artillery on the left wing of the army there; the retreat, covered by his cavalry; the second ride around McClellan, and safe escape from his clutches; the bitter conflicts at Upperville and Barbee’s, as Lee fell back; the hard fighting thereafter, on the banks of the Rappahannock; the “crowding ’em with artillery,” on the night of Fredericksburg; the winter march to Dumfries; the desperate battle at Kelly’s Ford; the falling back before Hooker; the battle of Chancellorsville, when he succeeded Jackson; the stubborn wrestle of Fleetwood; the war of giants below Upperville; the advance across Maryland into Pennsylvania, when the long march was strewed all over with battles, at Westminister, Hanover, Carlisle, Gettysburg, where he met and repulsed the best cavalry of the Federal army; the retreat from Gettysburg, with the tough affair near Boonsboro’; guarding the rear of the army as it again crossed the Potomac; then the campaign of October, ending with Kilpatrick’s route at Buckland; the assault on Meade’s head of column, when he came over to Mine Run; the bold attack on his rear there; and the hard, incessant fighting since Grant had come over to the Wilderness;–I remembered all these splendid scenes and illustrious services as I rode on beside Stuart, through the fields and forests of Hanover, and thought, “This is one of those great figures which live forever in history, and men’s memories!”

To-day, I know that I was not mistaken, or laboring under the influence of undue affection and admiration. That figure has passed from earth, but still lives!

Stuart is long dead, and the grass covers him; but there is scarce a foot of the soil of Virginia that does not speak of him. He is gone, but his old mother is proud of him–is she not?

Answer, mountains where he fought–lowlands, where he fell–river, murmuring a dirge, as you foam through the rocks yonder, past his grave!

XXXV.

“SOON WITH ANGELS I’LL BE MARCHING.”

Let me rapidly pass over the events of the tenth of May.

Gordon’s little brigade had been ordered to follow on the rear of the enemy, while Fitz Lee moved round by Taylorsville to get in front of them.

Stuart rode and met Gordon, gave the brave North Carolinian, so soon to fall, his last orders; and then hastened back to Fitz Lee, who had continued to press the enemy.

They had struck the Central railroad, but the gray cavaliers were close on them. Colonel Robert Randolph, that brave soul, doomed like Gordon, charged them furiously here, took nearly a hundred prisoners, and drove them across the road.

At this moment Stuart returned, and pushed forward toward Taylorsville, from which point he intended to hasten on and get in their front.

About four in the afternoon we reached Fork church, and the command halted to rest.

Stuart stretched himself at full length, surrounded by his staff, in a field of clover; and placing his hat over his face to protect his eyes from the light, snatched a short sleep, of which he was very greatly in need.

The column again moved, and that night camped near Taylorsville, awaiting the work of the morrow.

At daylight on the 11th, Stuart moved toward Ashland. Here he came up with the enemy; attacked them furiously, and drove them before him, and out of the village, killing, wounding, and capturing a considerable number.

Then he put his column again in motion, advanced rapidly by the Telegraph road toward Yellow Tavern, a point near Richmond, where he intended to intercept the enemy–the moment of decisive struggle, to which all the fighting along the roads of Hanover had only been the prelude, was at hand.

Stuart was riding at the head of his column, looking straight forward, and with no thought, apparently, save that of arriving in time.

He was no longer gay. Was it the coming event; was it the loss of sleep; the great interest at stake; the terrible struggle before him? I know not; but he looked anxious, feverish, almost melancholy.

“My men and horses are tired, jaded, and hungry, but all right,” he had written to General Bragg, from Ashland.

And these words will serve in large measure to describe the condition of the great commander himself.

I was riding beside him, when he turned to me and said, in a low tone:–

“Do you remember a conversation which we had at Orange, Surry, that night in my tent?”

“Yes, general.”

“And what I said?”

“Every word is engraved, I think, upon my memory.”

“Good. Do not let one thing ever escape you. Remember, that I said what I say again to-day, that ‘Virginia expects every man to do his duty!'”

“I will never forget that, general.”

He smiled, and rode on. For half a mile he was silent. Then I heard escape from his lips, in a low, musing voice, a refrain which I had never heard him sing before–

“Soon with angels I’ll be marching!”[1]

[Footnote 1: Real]

I know not why, but that low sound made me shiver.

XXXVI.

YELLOW TAVERN, MAY 11, 1864.

Yellow Tavern! At the mention of that name, a sort of tremor agitates me even to-day, when nearly four years have passed.

In my eyes, the locality is cursed. A gloomy cloud seems ever hanging over it. No birds sing in the trees. The very sunshine of the summer days is sad there.

But I pass to my brief description of the place, and the event which made it one of the black names in Southern history.

Yellow Tavern is an old dismantled hostelry, on the Brook road, about six miles from Richmond. Nothing more dreary than this desolate wayside inn can be imagined. Its doors stand open, its windows are gone, the rotting floor crumbles beneath the heel, and the winds moan through the paneless sashes, like invisible spirits hovering near and muttering some lugubrious secret. “This is the scene of some deed of darkness!” you are tempted to mutter, as you place your feet upon the threshold. When you leave the spot behind you, a weight seems lifted from your breast–you breathe freer.

Such was the Yellow Tavern when I went there in the spring of 1864. Is it different to-day? Do human beings laugh there? I know not; but I know that nothing could make it cheerful in my eyes. It was, and is, and ever will be, a thing accursed!

For the military reader, however, a few words in reference to the topographical features of the locality are necessary.

Yellow Tavern is at the forks of the Telegraph and Mountain roads, six miles from Richmond. The Telegraph road runs north and south–over this road Stuart marched. The Mountain road comes into it from the northwest. By this road Sheridan was coming.

Open the left hand, with the palm upward; the index finger pointing north. The thumb is the Mountain road; the index-finger the Telegraph road; where the thumb joins the hand is the Yellow Tavern in open fields; and Richmond is at the wrist.

Toward the head of the thumb is a wood. Here Wickham, commanding Stuart’s right, was placed, his line facing the Mountain road so as to strike the approaching enemy in flank.

From Wickham’s left, or near it, Stuart’s left wing, under Lomax, extended along the Telegraph road to the Tavern–the two lines thus forming an obtuse angle.

On a hill, near Lomax’s right, was Breathed with his guns.

The object of this disposition of Stuart’s force will be seen at a glance. Lomax, commanding the left, was across the enemy’s front; Wickham, commanding the right, was on their flank; and the artillery was so posted as to sweep at once the front of both Stuart’s wings.

The enemy’s advance would bring them to the first joint of the thumb. There they would receive Lomax’s fire in front; Wickham’s in flank; and Breathed’s transversely. The cross fire on that point, over which the enemy must pass, would be deadly. Take a pencil, reader, and draw the diagram, and lines of fire. That will show Stuart’s excellent design.

Stuart had reached Yellow Tavern, and made his dispositions before the arrival of Sheridan, who was, nevertheless, rapidly advancing by the Mountain road. Major McClellan, adjutant-general, had been sent to General Bragg, with a suggestion that the latter should attack from the direction of the city, at the moment when the cavalry assailed the Federal flank. All was ready.

It was the morning of May 11th, 1864.

Never was scene more beautiful and inspiring. The men were jaded, like their horses; but no heart shrank from the coming encounter. Stretching in a thin line from the tavern into the woods on the right of the Mountain road, the men sat their horses, with drawn sabres gleaming in the sun; and the red battle-flags waved proudly in the fresh May breeze, as though saluting Stuart, who rode in front of them.

Such was the scene at Yellow Tavern. The moment had come. At about eight, a stifled hum, mixed with the tramp of hoofs, was heard. Then a courier came at a gallop, from the right, to Stuart. The enemy were in sight, and advancing rapidly.

Stuart was sitting his horse near Yellow Tavern when that intelligence reached him. He rose in his saddle, took his field-glasses from their leathern case, and looked through them in the direction of the woods across the Mountain road.

Suddenly, quick firing came on the wind–then, loud shouts. Stuart lowered his glasses, shut them up, replaced them in their case, and drew his sabre.

Never had I seen him present an appearance more superb. His head was carried proudly erect, his black plume floated, his blue eyes flashed–he was the _beau ideal_ of a soldier, and as one of his bravest officers[1] afterward said to me, looked as if he had resolved on “victory or death.” I had seen him often aroused and strung for action. On this morning he seemed on fire, and resembled a veritable king of battle.

[Footnote 1: Breathed.]

Suddenly, the skirmish line of the enemy appeared in front of the woods, and a quick fire was opened on Stuart’s sharp-shooters under Colonel Pate, in the angle of the two roads; Stuart hastened to take the real initiative. He posted two guns on a rising ground in the angle, and opened a heavy fire; and galled by this fire, the enemy suddenly made a determined charge upon the guns.

Stuart rose in his stirrups and gazed coolly at the heavy line advancing upon him, and forcing Pate’s handful back.

“Take back the guns!” he said.

They were limbered up, and went off rapidly.

At the same moment Colonel Pate appeared, his men obstinately contesting every foot of ground as they fell back toward the Telegraph road, where a deep cut promised them advantage.

Colonel Pate was a tall, fair-haired officer, with a ready smile, and a cordial bearing. He and Stuart had bitterly quarrelled, and the general had court-martialed the colonel. It is scarcely too much to say that they had been deadly enemies.

For the first time now, since their collision, they met. But on this day their enmity seemed dead. The two men about to die grasped each other’s hands.

“They are pressing you back, colonel!” exclaimed Stuart.

“Yes, general, I have but three skeleton squadrons! and you see their force.”

“You are right. You have done all that any man could. Can you hold this cut?”

“I will try, general.”

Their glances crossed. Never was Stuart’s face kinder.

“If you say you will, you will do it! Hold this position to the last, colonel.”

“I’ll hold it until I die, general.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

With a pressure of the hand they parted.

Fifteen minutes afterward, Pate was dead. Attacked at once in front and on both flanks in the road, his little force had been cut to pieces. He fell with three of his captains, and his handful were scattered.

Stuart witnessed all, and his eye grew fiery.

“Pate has died the death of a hero!”[1] he exclaimed.

[Footnote 1: His words.]

“Order Wickham to dismount his brigade, and attack on the right!” he added to Lieutenant Garnett, aid-de-camp. Twenty minutes afterward, Wickham’s men were seen advancing, and driving the enemy before them. This relieved the left, and Wickham continued to push on until he struck up against a heavy line behind rail breastworks in the woods.

He then fell back, and each side remained motionless, awaiting the movement of the other.

Such was the preface to the real battle of Yellow Tavern,–the species of demonstration which preluded the furious grapple.

Stuart’s melancholy had all vanished. He was in splendid spirits. He hastened back his artillery to the point from which it had been driven, and soon its defiant roar was heard rising above the woods.

At the same moment a courier galloped up.

“What news?”

“A dispatch from Gordon, general.”

Stuart took it and read it with high good humor.

“Gordon has had a handsome little affair this morning,” he said; “he has whipped them.”

And looking toward the northwest–

“I wish Gordon was here,”[1] he said.

[Footnote 1: His words.]

The guns continued to roar, and the enemy had not again advanced. It was nearly four o’clock. Night approached.

But the great blow was coming.

Stuart was sitting his horse near the guns, with Breathed beside him. Suddenly the edge of the woods on the Mountain road swarmed with blue horsemen. As they appeared, the long lines of sabres darted from the scabbards; then they rushed like a hurricane toward the guns.

The attack was so sudden and overpowering, that nothing could stand before it. For a short time the men fought desperately, crossing sabres and using their pistols. But the enemy’s numbers were too great. The left was driven back. With triumphant cheers, the Federal troopers pressed upon them to drive them completely from the field.

Suddenly, as the men fell back, Stuart appeared, with drawn sabre, among them, calling upon them to rally. His voice rose above the fire, and a wild cheer greeted him.

The men rallied, the enemy were met again, sabre to sabre, and the field became a scene of the most desperate conflict.

Stuart led every charge. I shall never forget the appearance which he presented at that moment; with one hand he controlled his restive horse, with the other he grasped his sabre; in his cheeks burned the hot blood of the soldier.

“Breathed!” he exclaimed.

“General!”

“Take command of all the mounted men in the road, and hold it against whatever may come! If this road is lost, we are gone!”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Breathed darted to the head of the men and shouted:–

“Follow me!”

His sword flashed lightning, and digging the spur into his horse, he darted ahead of the column, disappearing in the middle of a swarm of enemies.

A superb sight followed. Breathed was seen in the midst of the Federal cavalry defending himself, with pistol and sabre, against the blows which were aimed at him on every side.

He cut one officer out of the saddle; killed a lieutenant with a pistol ball; was shot slightly in the side, and a sabre stroke laid open his head. But five minutes afterward he was seen to clear a path with his sabre, and reappear, streaming with blood.[1]

[Footnote: This incident, like all here related as attending this battle, is rigidly true.]

The momentary repulse effected nothing. The enemy re-formed their line, and again charged the guns, which were pouring a heavy fire upon them. As they rushed forward, the hoofs of their horses shook the ground. A deafening cheer arose from the blue line.

Stuart was looking at them, and spurred out in front of the guns. His eyes flashed, and, taking off his brown felt hat, he waved it and cheered.

Then he wheeled to take command of a column of Lomax’s men, coming to meet the charge.

They were too late. In a moment the enemy were trampling among the guns. All but one were captured, and that piece was saved only by the terror of the drivers. They lashed their horses into a gallop, and rushed toward the Chickahominy, followed by the cannoneers who were cursing them, and shouting:–

“For God’s sake, boys, let’s go back! They’ve got Breathed! Let’s go back to him!”[1]

[Footnote 1: Their words.]

That terror of the drivers, which the cannoneers cursed so bitterly, ended all. The gun, whirling on at wild speed, suddenly struck against the head of the column advancing to meet the enemy. A war-engine hurled against it could not have more effectually broken it. Before it could re-form the enemy had struck it, forced it back; and then the whole Federal force of cavalry was hurled upon Stuart.

His right, where Fitz Lee commanded in person, was giving back. His left was broken and driven. The day was evidently lost; and Stuart, with a sort of desperation, rushed into the midst of the enemy, calling upon his men to rally, and firing his pistol in the faces of the Federal cavalrymen.

Suddenly, one of them darted past him toward the rear, and as he did so, placed his pistol nearly on Stuart’s body, and fired.

As the man disappeared in the smoke, Stuart’s hand went quickly to his side, he reeled in the saddle, and would have fallen had not Captain Dorsay, of the First Virginia Cavalry, caught him in his arms.

The bullet had passed through his side into the stomach, and wounded him mortally. In its passage, it just grazed a small Bible in his pocket. The Bible was the gift of his mother–but the Almighty had decreed that it should not turn the fatal bullet.

Stuart’s immense vitality sustained him for a moment. Pale, and tottering in the saddle, he still surveyed the field, and called on the men to rally.

“Go back,” he exclaimed, “and do your duty, as I have done mine! And our country will be safe!”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

A moment afterward he called out again to the men passing him:–

“Go back! go back! I’d rather die than be whipped!”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

The old lightning flashed from his eyes as he spoke. Then a mist passed over them; his head sank upon his breast; and, still supported in the saddle, he was led through the woods toward the Chickahominy.

Suddenly, Fitzhugh Lee, who had been stubbornly fighting on the right, galloped up, and accosted Stuart. His face was flushed, his eyes moist.

“You are wounded!” he exclaimed.

“Badly,” Stuart replied, “but look out, Fitz! Yonder they come!”

A glance showed all. In the midst of a wild uproar of clashing sabres, quick shots, and resounding cries, the Federal cavalry were rushing forward to overwhelm the disordered lines.

Stuart’s eye flashed for the last time. Turning to General Fitzhugh Lee, he exclaimed in a full, sonorous voice:–

“Go ahead, Fitz, old fellow! I know you will do what is right!”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

This was the last order he ever gave upon the field. As he spoke, his head sank, his eyes closed, and he was borne toward the rear.

There was scarcely time to save him from capture. His wound seemed to have been the signal for his lines to break. They had now given way everywhere–the enemy were pressing them with loud shouts. Fighting with stubborn desperation, they fell back toward the Chickahominy, which they crossed, hotly pressed by the victorious enemy.

Stuart had been placed in an ambulance and borne across the stream, where Dr. Randolph and Dr. Fontaine made a brief examination of his wound. It was plainly mortal–but he was hastily driven, by way of Mechanicsville, into Richmond.

His hard fighting had saved the city. When Sheridan attacked, he was repulsed.

But the capital was dearly purchased. Twenty-four hours afterward Stuart was dead.

[Illustration: DEATH OF STUART]

The end of the great cavalier had been as serene as his life was stormy. His death was that of the Christian warrior, who bows to the will of God, and accepts whatever His loving hand decrees for him.

He asked repeatedly that his favorite hymns should be sung for him; and when President Davis visited him, and asked:–

“General, how do you feel?”

“Easy, but willing to die,” he said, “if God and my country think I have fulfilled my destiny, and done my duty.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

As night came, he requested his physician to inform him if he thought he would live till morning. The physician replied that his death was rapidly approaching, when he faintly bowed his head, and murmured:–

“I am resigned, if it be God’s will. I should like to see my wife, but God’s will be done.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

When the proposed attack upon Sheridan, near Mechanicsville, was spoken of in his presence, he said:–

“God grant that it may be successful. I wish I could be there.”*

Turning his face toward the pillow, he added, with tears in his eyes, “but I must prepare for another world.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Feeling now that his end was near, he made his last dispositions.

“You will find in my hat,” he said to a member of his staff, “a little Confederate flag, which a lady of Columbia, South Carolina, sent me, requesting that I would wear it on my horse in battle, and return it to her. Send it to her.”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

He gave then the name of the lady, and added:–

“My spurs–those always worn in battle–I promised to give to Mrs. Lily Lee, at Shepherdstown. My sabre I leave to my son.”

His horses and equipments were then given to his staff–his papers directed to be sent to his wife.

A prayer was then offered by the minister at his bedside: his lips moved as he repeated the words. As the prayer ended he murmured:–

“I am going fast now–I am resigned. God’s will be done!”[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

As the words escaped from his lips, he expired.

BOOK III.

BEHIND THE SCENES.

I.

WHAT I DID NOT SEE.

I was not at Stuart’s bedside when he died. While aiding the rest to hold him in the saddle, I had been shot through the shoulder; and twenty-four hours afterward I lay, at the house of a friend in Richmond, turning and tossing with fever.

In my delirium I heard a mournful tolling of bells. It was many days, however, before I knew that they were tolling for Stuart.

When, at last, after more than a month’s confinement to my bed, I rose, and began to totter about,–pale, faint, and weak, but convalescent–my great loss, for the first time, struck me in all its force.

Where should I turn now–and whither should I go? Jackson dead at Chancellorsville–Stuart at Yellow Tavern–thenceforth I seemed to have lost my support, to grope and totter in darkness, without a guide! These two kings of battle had gone down in the storm, and, like the Knight of Arthur, I looked around me, with vacant and inquiring eyes, asking whither I was now to direct my steps, and what work I should work in the coming years. Jackson! Stuart!–who could replace them? They had loved and trusted me–their head-quarters had been my home. Now, when they disappeared, I had no friends, no home; and an inexpressible sense of loss descended upon me, as a dark cloud descends and obscures a landscape, smiling and full of sunshine.

Another woe had come to me. My father was dead. The war had snapped the chords of that stout heart as it snapped the chords of thousands, and the illustrious head of the house had descended into the tomb. From this double blow I scarcely had strength to rise. For weeks I remained in a sort of dumb stupor; and was only aroused from it by the necessity of looking after my family affairs.

As soon as I had strength to mount my horse, I rode to Eagle’s Nest. A good aunt had come and installed herself as the friend and protector of my little Annie; and with the arms of my young sister around me, I wept for my father.

I remained at Eagle’s Nest more than two months. The long ride had made the wound in my shoulder reopen, and I was again stretched upon a bed of illness, from which, at one time, I thought I should not rise. More than once I made a narrow escape from scouting parties of Federal cavalry in the neighborhood; and on one occasion, an officer entered my chamber, but left me unmolested, under the impression that I was too ill to live.

It was late in the month of August before I rose from my bed again, and set out on my return.

In those three months and a half–counting from the time I left Spottsylvania with Stuart–great events had happened in Virginia. Grant’s hammer and Lee’s rapier had been clashing day and night. Hill and valley, mountain and lowland–Virginia and Maryland–had thundered.

General Grant had hastened forward from the Wilderness, only to find Lee confronting him behind breastworks at Spottsylvania Court-House. The Confederate commander had taken up a defensive position on the line of the Po; and for more than two weeks Grant threw his masses against the works of his adversary, in desperate attempts to break through.

On the 12th of May, at daylight, he nearly succeeded. “The Horse Shoe” salient was charged in the dusk of morning; the Southerners were surprised, and bayoneted in the trenches; the works carried; the artillery captured; and a large number of prisoners fell into the hands of the enemy.

The blow was heavy, but General Grant derived little advantage from it. Lee rallied his troops; formed a new line; and repulsed every assault made on it, throughout the entire day. When night fell, Grant had not advanced further; Lee’s position was stronger than before, and plainly impregnable.

For many days, Grant was occupied in reconnoitring and feeling his adversary. At the end of a week, the hope of breaking Lee’s line was seen to be desperate.

Then commenced the second great “movement by the left flank” toward Richmond.

Grant disappeared one morning, and hastened toward Hanover Junction. When he arrived, Lee was there in his front, ready to receive him. And the new position was stronger, if any thing, than that of Spottsylvania. Grant felt it; abandoned the attempt to carry it, at once; and again moved, on his swift and stealthy way, by the left flank toward Richmond. Crossing the Pamunkey at Hanovertown, he made straight for the capital; but reaching the Tottapotomoi, he found Lee again awaiting him.

Then the days and nights thundered, as they had been thundering since the day when Grant crossed the Rapidan. Lee could not be driven, and the Federal movement by the left flank began again.

Grant made for Cold Harbor, and massed his army to burst through the Chickahominy, and seize Richmond. The huge engine began to move at daylight, on the third of June. Half an hour afterward, 13,000 of General Grant’s forces were dead or wounded. He was repulsed and driven back. His whole loss, from the moment of crossing the Rapidan, had been about 60,000 men.

That ended all hopes of forcing the lines of the Chickahominy. The Federal commander gave up the attempt in despair, and resumed his Wandering-Jew march. Moving still by the left flank, he hastened to cross James River and advance on Petersburg. But Lee was again too rapid for him. In the works south of the Appomattox the gray infantry, under the brave General Wise, confronted the enemy. They repulsed every assault, and Grant sat down to lay siege to Richmond from the distance of thirty miles.

Such had been the great campaign of the summer of 1864 in Virginia. Lee had everywhere stood at bay, and repulsed every attack: he had also struck in return a great aggressive blow, in Maryland.

At Cold Harbor, early in June, news had arrived that a Federal column, under Hunter, was advancing on Lynchburg. A force was sent to intercept Hunter, under the command of Early. That hard fighter crossed the mountains; attacked his adversary; drove him beyond the Alleghanies; and then, returning on his steps, hurried down the Shenandoah Valley toward the Potomac, driving every thing before him. Once at the Potomac, he hastened to cross into Maryland. Once in Maryland, Early advanced, without loss of time, upon Washington. At Monocacy he met and defeated General Wallace; pressed after him toward Washington; and reaching the outer works, advanced his lines to the assault. But he had but a handful, after the long and prostrating march. His numbers were wholly inadequate to storm the defences of the capital. Grant had sent forward, in haste, two army corps to defend the city, and Early was compelled to retreat across the Potomac to the Shenandoah Valley, with the sole satisfaction of reflecting that he had given the enemy a great “scare,” and had flaunted the red-cross flag in front of the ramparts of Washington.

I have not space to describe the cavalry movements of the summer. Hampton had succeeded Stuart in command of all the cavalry, and the country soon heard the ring of his heavy blows.

In June, Sheridan was sent to capture Gordonsville and Charlottesville; but Hampton checked and defeated him in a fierce action near Trevillian’s, and in another at Charlottesville; pursued him to the White House; hurried him on to James River; and Sheridan crossed that stream on pontoons, glad, no doubt, to get back to the blue infantry. Hampton crossed also; penetrated to Dinwiddie; defeated the enemy at Sappony church, capturing their men and artillery–everywhere they had been routed, with a total loss of more than 2,000 prisoners.

Such were the events which had taken place during my tedious illness. They came to me only in vague rumors, or by means of chance newspapers sent by my neighbors. At last, however, I rose from my sick couch, and embracing my aunt and sister, who were to remain together at Eagle’s Nest, set out on my return.

Stuart’s staff were all scattered, and seeking new positions. I was one of them, and I again asked myself more gloomily than at first, “Where shall I go?” The gentlemen of the red tape at Richmond would doubtless inform me, however; and riding on steadily, with a keen look out for scouting parties, I at last reached the city.

On the next day I filed my application in the war office, to be assigned to duty.

A week afterward I had not heard from it.

Messieurs, the red tapists, were evidently not in the least bit of a hurry–and hat in hand I awaited their good pleasure.

II.

THE “DOOMED CITY.”

Richmond presented a singular spectacle in that summer of 1864.

It was styled “the doomed city,” by our friends over the border, and in truth there was something gloomy and tragic in its appearance–in the very atmosphere surrounding it.

On every countenance you could read anxiety, poverty, the wasting effect of the terrible suffering and suspense of the epoch. All things combined to deepen the colors of the sombre picture. Hope long deferred had sickened the stoutest hearts. Men were nervous, anxious, burnt up by the hot fever of war. Provisions of every description were sold at enormous prices. Fathers of families could scarcely procure the plainest food for their wives and children. The streets were dotted with poor widows, bereaved sisters, weeping mothers, and pale daughters, whose black dresses told the story of their loss to all eyes. Hunger clutched at the stomach; agony tore the heart. Soldiers, pale and tottering from their wounds, staggered by. Cannon rattled through the streets. Couriers dashed backward and forward from the telegraph office to the war office. The poor starved–the rich scarcely fared any better. Black hair had become white. Stalwart frames were bent and shrunken. Spies and secret emissaries lurked, and looked at you sidewise. Forestallers crowded the markets. Bread was doled out by the ounce. Confederate money by the bushel. Gold was hoarded and buried. Cowards shrunk and began to whisper–“the flesh pots! the flesh pots! they were better!” Society was uprooted from its foundations. Strange characters were thrown up. The scum had come to the top, and bore itself bravely in the sunshine. The whole social fabric seemed warped and wrenched from its base; and in the midst of this chaos of starving women, feverish men, spies, extortioners, blockade-runners,–over the “doomed city,” day and night, rolled the thunder of the cannon, telling that Grant and Lee were still holding their high debate at Petersburg.

Such was Richmond at the end of summer in 1864. Society was approaching one of those epochs, when all things appear unreal, monstrous, gliding toward some great catastrophe. All rascaldom was rampant. The night-birds had come forth. Vice stalked, and flaunted its feathers in the light of day. Chaos seemed coming, and with it all the powers of darkness.

That spectacle was singular to a soldier, bred in camps, and habituated, now, for some years, to the breezy airs of “the field.” I looked on with astonishment. The whole drama seemed unreal–the characters mere players. Who was A, and B, and what did C do for a living? You knew not, but they bowed, and smiled, and were charming. They grasped your hand, offered you cigars, invited you to supper–they wanted nothing. And they found no difficulty in procuring guests. I was no better than the rest, reader–there is an honest confession–and, looking back now, I can see that I knew, and dined or supped with some queer characters in those days.

Shall I give you a brief sketch of one of these worthies and his surroundings? It will afford some idea of the strange contrasts then presented in the “doomed” and starving city.

III.

I DINE WITH MR. BLOCQUE.

He was a prominent personage at that time–my friend (in a parliamentary sense at least) Mr. Blocque.

He was a charming little fellow, acquainted with everybody–an “employee of government,” but employed to do heaven knows what; and while others were starving, Mr. Blocque was as plump as a partridge. He wore the snowiest shirt bosoms, glittering with diamond studs; the finest broadcloth coats; the most brilliant patent leather shoes; and his fat little hands sparkled with costly rings. He was constantly smiling in a manner that was delightful to behold; hopped about and chirped like a sparrow or tomtit; and was the soul of good humor and enjoyment. There was no resisting his charms; he conquered you in five minutes. When he linked his arm in yours, and chirped, “My dear friend, come and dine with me–at five o’clock precisely–I shall certainly expect you!” it was impossible to refuse the small gentleman’s invitation. Perhaps you asked yourself, “Who is my dear friend, Mr. Blocque–how does he live so well, and wear broadcloth and fine linen?” But the next moment you smiled, shrugged your shoulders, elevated your eye-brows, and–went to dine with him.

I was like all the world, and at five o’clock one evening was shown into Mr. Blocque’s elegant residence on Shockoe Hill, by a servant in white gloves, who bowed low, as he ushered me in. Mr. Blocque hastened to receive me, with his most charming smile; I was introduced to the guests, who had all arrived; and ten minutes afterward the folding doors opened, revealing a superb banquet–for the word “dinner” would be too common-place. The table was one mass of silver. Waxlights, in candelabra, were already lit; and a host of servants waited, silent and respectful, behind every chair.

The guests were nearly a dozen in number, and more than one prominent “government official” honored Mr. Blocque’s repast. I had been introduced among the rest to Mr. Torpedo, member of Congress, and bitter foe of President Davis; Mr. Croker, who had made an enormous fortune by buying up, and hoarding in garrets and cellars, flour, bacon, coffee, sugar, and other necessaries; and Colonel Desperade, a tall and warlike officer in a splendid uniform, who had never been in the army, but intended to report for duty, it was supposed, as soon as he was made brigadier-general.

The dinner was excellent. The table literally groaned with every delicacy. Everywhere you saw canvass-back ducks, grouse, salmon, pate de foie gras, oysters; the champagne, was really superb; the Madeira and sherry beyond praise; and the cigars excellent Havanas, which at that time were rarely seen, and cost fabulous prices. Think, old army comrades, starving on a quarter of a pound of rancid bacon during that summer of ’64–think of that magical bill of fare, that array of wonders!

Who was the magician who had evoked all this by a wave of his wand? How could smiling Mr. Blocque roll in luxury thus, when everybody else was starving? How could my host wear broadcloth, and drink champagne and smoke Havanas, when ragged clothing, musty bacon, and new apple-abomination, were the order of the day with all others?

These questions puzzled me extremely; but there was the magician before us, smiling in the most friendly manner, and pressing his rich wines on his guests, as they sat around the polished mahogany smoking their cigars. Elegantly clad servants hovered noiselessly behind the convives–the wine circulated–the fragrant smoke rose–the conversation became general–and all was animation.

“No, sir!” says Mr. Torpedo, puffing fiercely at his cigar, “the President never will assign Johnston to command again, sir! You call Mr. Davis ‘pig-headed,’ Mr. Croker–you are wrong, sir! You do injustice to the pigs, sir! Pigs are not insane, sir!”

And Mr. Torpedo sucks at his cigar, as though he were a vampire, extracting the blood of his victim.

Mr. Croker sips his wine; he is large and portly; ruddy and pompous; his watch seals jingle; and he rounds his periods with the air of a millionaire, who is accustomed to be listened to with deference.

“You are right, my dear, sir,” says Mr. Croker, clearing his throat. “The government has assuredly been administered, from its very inception, in a manner which the most enthusiastic adherents of the Executive will scarcely venture to characterize as either judicious or constitutional. In the year which has just elapsed, things have been managed in a manner which must excite universal reprobation. Even the alleged performances of the army are problematical, and–“

“I beg your pardon, sir,” says Colonel Desperade, twirling his mustache in a warlike manner; “do I understand you to call in question the nerve of our brave soldiers, or the generalship of our great commander?”

“I do, sir,” says Mr. Croker, staring haughtily at the speaker. “I am not of those enthusiasts who consider General Lee a great soldier. He has succeeded in defensive campaigns, but is deficient in genius–and I will add, sir, as you seem to be surprised at my remarks, sir, that in my opinion the Southern Confederacy will be overwhelmed, sir, and the South compelled to return to the Union, sir!”

“Upon what do you ground that extraordinary assumption, may I ask, sir?”

“On common sense and experience, sir,” returns Mr. Croker, severely; “look at the currency–debased until the dollar is merely a piece of paper. Look at prices–coffee, twenty dollars a pound, and sugar the same. Look at the army starving–the people losing heart–and strong, able-bodied men,” adds Mr. Croker, looking at Colonel Desperade, “lurking about the cities, and keeping out of the way of bullets.”

The mustached warrior looks ferocious–his eyes dart flame.

“And who causes the high prices, sir? Who makes the money a rag? I answer–the forestallers and engrossers–do you know any, sir?”

“I do not, sir!”

“That is singular!” And Colonel Desperade twirls his mustache satirically–looking at the pompous Mr. Croker in a manner which makes that worthy turn scarlet.

I was laughing to myself quietly, and listening for the expected outbreak, when Mr. Blocque interposed with his winning voice.

“What are you discussing, gentlemen?” he said, with his charming smile. “But first tell me your opinion of this Madeira and those cigars. My agent writes me word that he used every exertion to procure the best. Still, I am not entirely pleased with either the wine or brand of cigars, and hope you will excuse them. Were you speaking of our great President, Mr. Torpedo? And you, Mr. Croker–I think you were referring to the present state of affairs. They appear to me more hopeful than at any previous time, and his Excellency, President Davis, is guiding the helm of state with extraordinary courage and good judgment. I know some of you differ with me in these views, my friends. But let us not be censorious–let us look on the bright side. The troubles of the country are great, and we of the South are suffering every privation–but we must bear up, gentlemen; we must keep brave hearts, and endure all things. Let us live on dry bread if it comes to that, and bravely fight to the last! Let us cheerfully endure hardships, and oppose the enemy at all points. Our present troubles and privations will soon come to an end–we shall again be surrounded by the comforts and luxuries of life–and generations now unborn will bless our names, and pity our sufferings in these days that try men’s souls!”

Mr. Blocque ceased, and smoothing down his snowy shirt bosom, pushed the wine. At the same moment, an alabaster clock on the marble mantelpiece struck seven.

“So late?” said Colonel Desperade. “I have an appointment at the war office!”

Mr. Blocque drew out a magnificent gold watch.

“The clock is fast,” he said, “keep your seats, gentlemen,–unless you fancy going to the theatre. My private box is at your disposal, and carriages will be ready in a few minutes.”

As the charming little gentleman spoke, he led the way back to the drawing-room–the folding doors flanked by silent and respectful servants as the guests passed in.

In five minutes, coffee and liqueurs were served; both were superb, the white sugar sparkled like crystal in the silver dish, and the cream in the solid jug was yellow and as thick as a syrup.

“Shall it be the theatre, gentlemen?” said Mr. Blocque, with winning smiles. “We can amuse ourselves with cards for an hour, as the curtain does not rise before eight.”

And he pointed to a silver basket on the centre table of carved walnut, surmounted by a slab of variegated marble. I looked, and saw the crowning wonder. The silver basket contained piles of gold coin and greenbacks! Not a trace of a Confederate note was visible in the mass!

Packs of fresh cards were brought quickly by a servant, on a silver waiter; the guests helped themselves to the coin and bank notes; in ten minutes they were playing furiously.

As I do not play, I rose and took my leave. Mr. Blocque accompanied me to the door, smiling sweetly to the last.

“Come again very soon, my dear colonel,” he said, squeezing my hand, “my poor house, and all in it, is at your service at all times!”

I thanked my host, shook hands, and went out into the darkness,–determined never to return.

I had had an excellent dinner, and, physically, had never felt better. Morally, I must say, I felt contaminated, for, unfortunately, I had begun to think of Lee’s hungry soldiers, lying in rags, in the Petersburg trenches.

“Eight o’clock! All is well!” came from the sentinel, as I passed by the capitol.

IV.

JOHN M. DANIEL.

On the day after this scene, a trifling matter of business led me to call on John M. Daniel, editor of the _Examiner_.

The career of this singular personage had been as remarkable as his character. He was not a stranger to me. I had known him in 1849 or ’50, when I accompanied my father on a visit to Richmond, and I still recall the striking appearance of the individual at that time. He had come, a poor boy of gentle birth, from the bleak hills of Stafford, to the city of Richmond, to seek his fortune, and, finding nothing better to do, had accepted the position of librarian to the Richmond library, waiting for something to “turn up,” and ready to grasp it. About the same time, that experienced journalist, the late B.M. De Witt, had founded the _Examiner_. He, no doubt, saw the eminent talents of the youth from Stafford, and the result had been an invitation to assist in the editorial department of the journal.

Going to the Richmond library, to procure for my father some volume for reference, I had made the acquaintance of the youthful journalist. At the first glance, I felt that I was in the presence of an original character. His labors on the _Examiner_ had just commenced. He was seated, half-reclining, in an arm-chair, surrounded by “exchanges,” from which he clipped paragraphs, throwing the papers, as soon as he had done so, in a pile upon the floor. His black eyes, long black hair, brushed behind the ears, and thin, sallow cheeks, were not agreeable; but they made up a striking physiognomy. The black eyes glittered with a sullen fire; the thin lips were wreathed with a sardonic smile; and I was informed that the youth lived the life of a _solitaire_, voluntarily absenting himself from society, to give his days and nights to exhausting study.

He read every thing, it was said–history, poetry, political economy, and theology. Swift was said to be his literary divinity, and Rabelais was at his elbow always. Poor, uneducated, ignorant of nearly every thing, he was educating himself for the future–sharpening, by attrition with the strongest minds in all literatures, ancient and modern, that trenchant weapon which afterward flashed its superb lightnings in the heated atmosphere of the great epoch in which he figured.

Bitter, misanthropic, solitary; burning the midnight lamp, instead of moving among his fellows in the sunshine, he yet possessed hardy virtues and a high pride of gentleman. He hated the world at large, it was said, but loved his few friends with an ardor which shrank at nothing. One of them owed a sum of money–and Daniel went on foot, twenty-two miles, to Petersburg, paid it, and returned in the same manner. Afterward he went in person to Charlottesville, to purchase a house for the use of another friend of limited means. For his friends he was thus willing to sacrifice his convenience and his means, without thought of return. All who were not his friends, he is said to have hated or despised. An acquaintance was in his room one day, and showed him a valuable pen-knife. Daniel admired it, and the gentleman said “You may have it, if you like it.” Daniel turned upon him, scowled at him, his lip curled, and he replied, “What do you expect me to do for you?”

His other virtues were self-denial, and a proud independence. At the library, he lived on bread and tea–often making the tea himself. Too poor to possess a chamber, he slept on a lounge in the public room. He would owe no man any thing, asked no favors, and fawned on nobody. He would fight his own fight, make his own way; with the intellect heaven had sent him, carve out his own future, unassisted. The sallow youth, groaning under dyspepsia, with scarce a friend, and nothing but his brain, promised himself that he would one day rise from his low estate, and wield the thunderbolts of power, as one born to grasp and hurl them.

He was not mistaken, and did not overestimate his powers. When I saw him in 1849 or ’50, he was obscurest of the obscure. Two or three years afterward he had made the _Examiner_ one of the great powers of the political world, and was living in a palace at Turin, minister to Sardinia. He had achieved this success in life by the sheer force of his character; by the vigor and recklessness of his pen, and the intensity of his invective. Commencing his editorial career, apparently, with the theory that, in order to rise into notice, he must spare nothing and no one, he had entered the arena of partisan politics like a full armed gladiator; and soon the whole country resounded with the blows which he struck. Bitter personality is a feeble phrase to describe the animus of the writer in those days. There was something incredibly exasperating in his comments on political opponents. He flayed and roasted them alive. It was like thrusting a blazing torch into the raw flesh of his victims. Nor was it simple “abuse.” The satirist was too intelligent to rely upon that. It was his scorching wit which made opponents shrink. His scalpel divided the arteries, and touched the vitals of the living subject. Personal peculiarities were satirized with unfailing acumen. The readers of the _Examiner_, in those days, will still recall the tremendous flaying which he administered to his adversaries. It may almost be said, that when the remorseless editor had finished with these gentlemen, there was “nothing of them left”–what lay before him was a bleeding and mortally wounded victim. And what was worse, all the world was laughing. Those who looked with utter disapproval upon his ferocious course, were still unable to resist the influence of his mordant humor. They denounced the _Examiner_ without stint, but they subscribed to it, and read it every morning. “Have you seen the _Examiner_ to-day?” asked the friend whom you met on the street. “John M. Daniel is down on Blank!” said A to B, rubbing his hands and laughing. Blank may have been the personal acquaintance and friend of Mr. A, but there was no resisting the cartoon of him, traced by the pen of the satirist! The portrait might be a caricature, but it was a terrible likeness! The long nose was very long; the round shoulders, very round; the cast in the eye, a frightful squint; but the individual was unmistakable. The bitter humor of the artist had caught and embodied every weakness. Thenceforth, the unfortunate adversary went on his way before all eyes, the mark of suppressed ridicule and laughing whispers. Whether you approved or disapproved, you read those tremendous satires. Not to see the _Examiner_ in those days was to miss a part of the history of the times. The whole political world felt the presence of a _power_ in journalism. Into all the recesses of the body politic, those shafts of ridicule or denunciation penetrated. That venomous invective pierced the hardest panoply. For the first time in American journalism, the world saw the full force of ridicule; and tasted a bitterness of invective unknown since the days of Swift.

Out of these personal attacks grew numerous duels. The butts of the editor’s ridicule sent him defiances, and he was engaged in several affairs, which, however, resulted in nothing, or nearly nothing, as I believe he was wounded only once. They did not induce him to change his course. He seemed to have marked out his career in cold blood, and was plainly resolved to adhere to his programme–to write himself into power. In this he fully succeeded. By dint of slashing and flaying, he attracted the attention of all. Then his vigorous and masculine intellect riveted the spell. Hated, feared, admired, publicly stigmatized as one who “ruled Virginia with a rod of iron,” he had reached his aim; and soon the material results of success came. The director of that great political engine, the Richmond _Examiner_, found no difficulty in securing the position which he desired; and he received the appointment of minister to Sardinia, which he accepted, selling his newspaper, but reserving the right to resume editorial