control of it on his return.
His ambition was thus gratified–for the moment at least. The unknown youth, living once on bread and tea, and too poor to possess a bed, was now a foreign minister; had an Italian count for his _chef de cuisine_; and drew a salary which enabled him to return, some years afterward, to the United States with savings amounting to $30,000.
It was a contrast to his past. The sallow youth was _M. le ministre_! The garret in Richmond had been turned into a marble palace in Turin. He had a nobleman for a cook, instead of making his own tea. And the _Examiner_ had done all that for him!
When war became imminent, he returned to Virginia, and resumed control of the _Examiner_. With the exception of brief military service with General Floyd, and on the staff of A.P. Hill, in the battles around Richmond, when he was slightly wounded in the right arm, he remained in editorial harness until his death.
As soon as he grasped the helm of the _Examiner_ again, that great battleship trembled and obeyed him. It had been powerful before, it was now a mighty engine, dragging every thing in its wake. Commencing by supporting the Government, it soon became bitterly inimical to President Davis and the whole administration. The invective in which it indulged was not so violent as in the past, but it was even more powerful and dangerous. Every department was lashed, in those brief, terse sentences which all will remember–sentences summing up volumes in a paragraph, condensing oceans of gall into a drop of ink. Under these mortal stabs, delivered coolly and deliberately, the authors of public abuses shrank, recoiled, and sought safety in silence. They writhed, but knew the power of their adversary too well to reply to him. When once or twice they did so, his rejoinder was more mortal than his first attack. The whole country read the _Examiner_, from the chief officers of the administration to the humblest soldier in the trenches. It shaped the opinions of thousands, and this great influence was not due to trick or chance. It was not because it denounced the Executive in terms of the bitterest invective; because it descended like a wild boar on the abuses or inefficiency of the departments; but because this journal, more, perhaps, than any other in the South, spoke the public sentiment, uttered its views with fearless candor, and conveyed those views in words so terse, pointed, and trenchant–in such forcible and excellent English–that the thought of the writer was driven home, and remained fixed in the dullest apprehension.
The _Examiner_, in one word, had become the controlling power, almost, of the epoch. Its views had become those even of men who bitterly stigmatized its course. You might disapprove of its editorials often, and regret their appearance–as I did–but it was impossible not to be carried onward by the hardy logic of the writer: impossible not to admire the Swift-like pith and vigor of this man, who seemed to have re-discovered the lost well of undefiled English.
When I went to see John M. Daniel, thus, in this summer of 1864, it was not a mere journalist whom I visited, but a historic character. For it was given to him, invisible behind the scenes, to shape, in no small degree, the destiny of the country, by moulding the views and opinions of the actors who contended on the public arena.
Was that influence for good or for evil? Let others answer. To-day this man is dead, and the cause for which he fought with his pen has failed. I reproduce his figure and some scenes of that great cause–make your own comments, reader.
V.
THE EDITOR IN HIS SANCTUM.
Knocking at the door of the journalist’s house on Broad Street, nearly opposite the “African church,” I was admitted by a negro servant, sent up my name, and was invited by Mr. Daniel to ascend to his sanctum on the second story.
I went up, and found him leaning back in a high chair of black horsehair, in an apartment commanding a view southward of James River and Chesterfield. On a table beside him were books and papers–the furniture of the room was plain and simple.
He greeted me with great cordiality, bowing very courteously, and offering me a cigar. I had not seen him since his return from Europe, and looked at him with some curiosity. He was as sallow as before–his eyes as black and sparkling; but his long, black hair, as straight as an Indian’s, and worn behind his ears, when I first knew him, was close-cut now; and his upper lip was covered by a black mustache. His dress was simple and exceedingly neat. It was impossible not to see that the famous journalist was a gentleman.
As I had visited him purely upon a matter of business, I dispatched it, and then rose to take my departure. But he urged me with persistent cordiality, not to desert him. He saw few persons, he said; I must stay and dine with him. I had business? Then I could attend to it, and would do him the favor to return.
Looking at my watch, I found that it was nearly two o’clock–he had informed me that he dined at four–and, not to detain the reader with these details, recurring to a very retentive memory, I found myself, two hours afterward, seated at table with the editor of the _Examiner_.
The table was of ancient, and brilliantly-polished mahogany. The dinner consisted of only two or three dishes, but these were of the best quality, excellently cooked, and served upon china of the most costly description. Coffee followed–then a great luxury–and, not only the sugar-dish, cream-jug and other pieces of the service were of silver; the waiter upon which they rested was of the same material–heavy, antique, and richly carved.
We lingered at table throughout the entire afternoon, my host having resisted every attempt which I made to depart, by taking my hat from my hand, and thrusting upon me another excellent Havana cigar. Cordiality so extreme, in one who bore the reputation of a man-hater, was at least something _piquant_–and as my host had appealed to my weak side, by greatly praising a slight literary performance of mine (“he would be proud,” he assured me, “to have it thought that _he_ had written it),” I yielded, surrendered my hat, lit the cigar offered me, and we went on talking.
I still recall that conversation, the last but one which I ever had with this singular man. Unfortunately, it does not concern the narrative I now write, and I would not like to record his denunciations and invective directed at the Government. He handled it without mercy, and his comments upon the character of President Davis were exceedingly bitter. One of these was laughable for the grim humor of the idea. Opening a volume of Voltaire–whose complete works he had just purchased–he showed me a passage in one of the infidel dramas of the great Frenchman, where King David, on his death-bed, after invoking maledictions upon his opponents, declares that “having forgiven all his enemies _en bon Juif_, he is ready to die.”
A grim smile came to the face of the journalist, as he showed me the passage.
“That suits Mr. Davis exactly,” he said. “He forgives his enemies _en bon Juif_! I believe I will make an editorial, and quote the passage on him–but he wouldn’t understand it!”
That was bitter–was it not, reader? I raised my pen to draw a line through the incident, but it can do no harm now.
The solitary journalist-politician spoke freely of himself and his intentions for the future. With a few passages from our talk on this point, I will terminate my account of the interview.
“You see I am here chained to the pen,” he said, “and, luckily, I have that which defies the conscript officers, if the Government takes a fancy to order editors into the ranks.”
Smiling slightly as he spoke, he showed me his right hand, the fingers of which he could scarcely bend.
“I was wounded at Cold Harbor, in June, 1862,” he added; “not much wounded either; but sufficient to prevent me from handling a sword or musket. It is a trifle. I should like to be able to show an honorable scar[1] in this cause, and I am sorry I left the army. By this time I might have, been a brigadier–perhaps a major-general.”[2]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
[Footnote 2: His words.]
“Possibly,” I replied; “but the position of an editor is a powerful one.”
“Do you think so?”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes, colonel; but what good is the _Examiner_ doing? What can all the papers in the Confederacy effect? Besides, I like to command men. I love power.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
I laughed.
“I would recommend the philosophic view of things,” I said. “Why not take the good the gods provide? As a soldier, you would be in fetters–whatever your rank–to say nothing of the bullet that might cut short your career. And yet this life of the brain is wearing too,–“
“But my health is all the better for it,” he said. “A friend was here to see me the other day, and I startled him by the observation ‘I shall live to eat the goose that eats the grass over your grave.'[1] When he inquired my meaning, I replied, ‘For two reasons–I come of a long-lived race, and have an infallible sign of longevity; I never dream, and my sleep is always sound and refreshing.'”[2]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
[Footnote 2: His words.]
“Do you believe in that dictum?” I said.
“Thoroughly,” he replied, laughing. “I shall live long, in spite of the enmities which would destroy me in an instant, if the secret foes I have could only accomplish their end without danger to themselves.”
“You do not really believe, surely, that you have such foes?”
“Not believe it? I know it. _You_ have them, colonel, too. How long do you think you would live, if your enemies had their way with you? Perhaps you think you have no enemies who hate you enough to kill you. You are greatly mistaken–every man has his enemies. I have them by the thousand, and I have no doubt you, too, have them, though they are probably not so numerous as mine.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
“But their enmity comes to nothing.”
“Because to indulge it, would bring them into trouble,” he replied. “Neither your enemies or mine would run the risk of murdering us in open day; but suppose they could kill us by simply _wishing it?_ I should drop down dead before your eyes–and you would fall a corpse in Main Street before you reached your home!”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
“A gloomy view enough, but I dare not deny it.”
“It would be useless, colonel. That is the way men are made. For myself, I distrust all of them–or nearly all.”
He uttered the words with intense bitterness, and for a moment remained silent.
“This is gloomy talk,” he said, “and will not amuse you. Let us change the topic. When I am not discussing public affairs–the doings of this wretched administration, and the old man of the sea astride upon the country’s back–I ought to try and amuse myself.”
“You find the _Examiner_ a heavy weight upon you?”
“It is a mill-stone around my neck.”[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
“Why not throw it off, if you find it onerous?”
“Because I look to this journal as a father does to an only son–as my pet, my pride, and the support and honor of myself and my name in the future.”
“You are proud of it.”
“It has made me, and it will do more for me hereafter than it has ever done yet.”
He paused, and then went on, with a glow in his swarthy face:
“Every man has his cherished object in this world, colonel. Mine is the success and glory of the _Examiner_. I intend to make of it what the London _Times_ is in England, and the world–a great power, which shall lay down the law, control cabinets, mould parties, and direct events. It has given me much trouble to establish it, but _ca ira_ now! From the _Examiner_ I expect to realize the great dream of my life.”
“The dream of your life? What is that?–if I may ask without intrusion.”
“Oh! I make no secret of it, and as a gentleman speaking to a gentleman, can say what I could not in the society of _roturiers_ or common people. My family is an old and honorable one in Virginia–this, by way of explanation only, I beg you to note. We are thus, people of old descent, but my branch of the family is ruined. My object is to reinstate it; and you will perhaps compare me to the scheming young politician in Bulwer’s ‘My Novel,’ who seeks to restore the family fortunes, and brighten up the lonely old house–in Yorkshire, is it? You remember?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, I always sympathized with that character. He is morally bad, you say: granted; but he is resolute and brave–and his object is noble.”
“I agree with you, the object _is_ noble.”
“I am glad you think so, colonel. I see I speak to one who has the old Virginia feeling. You respect family.”
“Who does not? There are those who profess to care naught for it, but it is because they are new-comers.”
“Yes,” was the journalist’s reply, “mushrooms–and very dirty ones!”
I laughed at the speaker’s grimace.
“For my own part,” I said, “I do not pretend to be indifferent whether or not my father was a gentleman. I bow as politely to the new-comer as if it were the Conqueror he came over with; but still I am glad my father was a gentleman. I hope no one will quarrel with that.”
“You are mistaken. They will hate you for it.”
“You are right–but I interrupted you.”
“I am glad the interruption came, colonel, for it gave you an opportunity of showing me that my views and your own are in exact accord on this subject. I will proceed, therefore, without ceremony, to tell you what I design doing some day.”
I listened with attention. It is always interesting to look into the recesses of a remarkable man’s character. This human being was notable in an epoch filled with notabilities; and chance was about to give me an insight into his secret thoughts.
He twirled a paper-cutter in his fingers, reflected a moment, and said:–
“I am still young–not very young either, for I will soon be forty–but I know no young man who has better prospects than myself, and few who have done so well. I suppose I am worth now nearly $100,000 in good money. I have more gold coin than I know what to do with. The _Examiner_ is very valuable property, and is destined to be much more so. I expect to live long, and if I do, I shall be rich. When I am rich, I shall buy the old family estate in Stafford County, and shall add to it all the land for miles around. I shall build a house to my fancy, and, with all my possessions walled in, I shall teach these people what they never knew–how to live like a gentleman.”[1]
[Footnote 1: This paragraph is in Mr. J.M. Daniel’s words.]
The glow had deepened on the sallow face. It was easy to see that the speaker had unfolded to me the dream of his life.
“Your scheme is one,” I said, “which takes my fancy greatly. But why do you intend to wall in your property?”
“To keep out those wolves called men.”
“Ah! I forgot. You do not like those bipeds without feathers.”
“I like some of them, colonel; but the majority are worse than my dogs, Fanny and Frank, yonder. Sometimes I think they are human–they bite each other so!”
I laughed. There was something _piquant_ in the grim humor of this singular personage.
“What is your ideal man?” I said, “for, doubtless, you have such an ideal?”
“Yes. I like a man of bronze, who does not snivel or weep. I like Wigfall for his physique and his magnificent courage. It is the genuine thing. There is no _put on_ there. He has native pluck–the actual article–and it is no strain on him to exhibit it. The grit is in him, and you can’t shake him.”[1]
[Footnote 1: This paragraph is in Mr. J.M. Daniel’s words.]
“You would admit your men of bronze, then, into the walled-up domain in Stafford?”
“I don’t know,” he said grimly. “With my violin, a good cook, English books and papers–I hate your Yankee trash–and occasional travel, I think I could get through life without very great ennui. I do not expect to be governor of Virginia for ten years yet!”
And smiling, the journalist said:–
“Let us change the subject. What are people talking about? I never ask what is the news.[1] Is any thing said of evacuating Virginia? That is a pernicious idea![2] Whom have you seen lately?”
[Footnote 1: His words.]
[Footnote 2: His words.]
“A queer set,” I said.
And I gave him an account of my dinner at Mr. Blocque’s.
“What a little wretch!” he said. “I think I will run a pin through that bug, and impale him. He would make a fine dish served up _a la Victor Hugo_. You have read _Les Miserables_ yonder? It is a trashy affair.”
And taking up the elegantly bound volume, which must have cost him a considerable sum, he quietly pitched it out of the window.
As he did so, the printer’s devil appeared at the door, holding proof in his hand.
“You see I am never safe from intrusion, colonel. This _Examiner_ newspaper keeps me at the oar.”
I rose and put on my hat.
“Come and see me again soon, if it suits your convenience,” he said. “I am going to write an editorial, and I think I will serve up your host, Blocque.”
“Do not use his name.”
“Be tranquil. He will be the type only.”
And, escorting me to the door, Mr. Daniel bestowed a courteous bow upon me, which I returned. Then the door closed.
VI.
AN EDITORIAL IN THE EXAMINER.
On the following morning I opened the _Examiner_, and the first article which I saw was the following one, on
THE BLOCKADE-RUNNER.
“We owe to the kindness of SHEM’S Express Company, which has charge of the line between the front door of the State Department and the back door of the Tuileries kitchen, the advance sheets of a new novel by VICTUS HAUTGOUT, which bears the striking title, _Les Fortunes_, and which consists of five parts–ABRAHAM, ISAAC, JACOB, JUDAH, and BENJAMIN. Of course, the discerning reader will not suppose for a moment that there is any connection between _Les Fortunes_ and _Les Miserables_; between the chaste style of HAUTGOUT and the extravaganzas of HUGO; whose works, in former days, were not considered fit reading for an Anglo-Saxon public, whose latest and most corrupt fiction owes its success (let us hope) rather to the dearth of new literature than to the vitiated taste of the Southern people. How great the difference between the two authors is, can best be appreciated by comparing the description of the _gamin_ in _Marius_, with the following extracts from HAUTGOUT’S portraiture of the BLOCKADE-RUNNER:–
“Yankeedom has a bird, and the crocodile has a bird. The crocodile’s bird is called the Trochilus. Yankeedom’s bird is called the blockade-runner. Yankeedom is the crocodile. The blockade-runner is the Trochilus.
“Couple these two ideas–Yankeedom and the crocodile. They are worth the coupling. The crocodile is asleep. He does not sleep on both ears; he sleeps with one eye open; his jaws are also open. Rows of teeth appear, sharped, fanged, pointed, murderous, carnivorous, omnivorous. Some of the teeth are wanting: say a dozen. Who knocked those teeth out? A demon. What demon? Or perhaps an angel. What angel? The angel is secession: the demon is rebellion. ORMUZD and AHRIMAN: BALDUR and LOKI: the DEVIL and ST. DUNSTAN. So we go.
“The Trochilus picks the crocodile’s teeth. Does the crocodile object? Not he. He likes to have his teeth picked. It is good for his health. It promotes his digestion. It is, on the whole, a sanitary measure. ‘Feed yourself,’ he says,’my good Trochilus, on the broken meats which lie between my grinders. Feed your little ones at home. I shan’t snap you up unless I get very hungry. There are Confederates enough. Why should I eat _you_?’
“This little creature–this _Trochilus obsidionalis_–this blockade-running tomtit–is full of joy. He has rich food to eat every day. He goes to the show every evening, when he is not on duty. He has a fine shirt on his back; patent-leather boots on his feet; the pick and choice of a dozen houses. He is of any age–chiefly of the conscript age; ranges singly or in couples; haunts auction houses; dodges enrolling officers; eats canvass-backs; smells of greenbacks; swears allegiance to both sides; keeps faith with neither; is hand and glove with ABE’S detectives as well as with WINDER’S Plugs; smuggles in an ounce of quinine for the Confederate Government, and smuggles out a pound of gold for the Lincolnites; fishes in troubled waters; runs with the hare and hunts with the hounds; sings Yankee Doodle through one nostril, and My Maryland through the other; is on good terms with everybody–especially with himself–and, withal, is as great a rascal as goes unhung.
“He has sports of his own; roguish tricks of his own, of which a hearty hatred of humdrum, honest people is the basis. He has his own occupations, such as running for hacks, which he hires at fabulous prices; crossing the Potomac in all kinds of weather; rubbing off Yankee trade-marks and putting English labels in their stead. He has a currency of his own, slips of green paper, which have an unvarying and well regulated circulation throughout this gipsy band.
“He is never satisfied with his pantaloons unless they have a watch-fob, and never satisfied with his watch-fob unless it contains a gold watch. Sometimes he has two watch-fobs; sometimes a score.
“This rosy child of Richmond lives, develops, gets into and out of scrapes–a merry witness of our social unrealities. He looks on ready to laugh; ready also for something else, for pocketing whatever he can lay his hands on. Whoever you are, you that call yourselves Honor, Justice, Patriotism, Independence, Freedom, Candour, Honesty, Right, beware of the grinning blockade-runner. He is growing. He will continue to grow.
“Of what clay is he made? Part Baltimore street-dirt, part James River mud, best part and worst part sacred soil of Palestine. What will become of him in the hands of the potter, chance? Heaven grant that he may be ground into his original powder before he is stuck up on our mantel-pieces as a costly vase, in which the choice flowers of our civilization can but wither and die.”
Admire that grim humor, reader–the firm stroke with which this Aristophanes of 1864 drew my friend, Mr. Blocque. See how he reproduced every trait, delineated the worthy in his exact colors, and, at the foot of the picture, wrote, as it were, “Here is going to be the founder of ‘one of the old families,’–one of the ornaments of the future, who will come out of the war rich, and be a costly vase, not a vessel of dishonor, as at present.”
Grim satirist! You saw far, and I think we want you to-day!
VII.
UNDER THE CROSSED SWORDS.
I had dined with Mr. Blocque; two days afterward I went to sup with Judge Conway.
Does the reader remember his appearance at Culpeper Court-House, on the night of the ball after the review in June, 1863? On that evening he had excited my astonishment by abruptly terminating the interview between his daughter and Captain Davenant; and I little supposed that I would ever penetrate the motive of that action, or become intimate with the performer.
Yet the chance of war had decreed that both events should occur. All will be, in due time, explained to the reader’s satisfaction; at present we will simply make the acquaintance of one of the most distinguished statesmen of the epoch.
My friendly relations with the judge came about in a very simple manner. He was an intimate associate of the gentleman at whose house I was staying; had taken great interest in my recovery after Yellow Tavern; and therefore had done me the honor to bestow his friendship upon me.
On the day to which we have now come, Judge Conway had made a speech of surpassing eloquence, in Congress, on the condition of the country, and I had listened, thrilling at the brave voice which rang out its sonorous, “All’s well!” amid the storm. I was now going to call on the statesman to express my admiration of his eloquent appeal, and converse upon the exciting topics of the hour.
I found him in a mansion not far from the splendid residence of Mr. Blocque. Here he occupied “apartments,” or rather a single room,–and, in 1864, my dear reader, that was a very common mode of living.
Like others, Judge Conway was too poor to occupy a whole house,–even too poor to board. He had a single apartment, containing a few chairs and a bed; was waited on by a maid; and, I think, prepared his own meals, which were plain to poverty.
He met me at the door of his bare and poor-looking apartment, extending his hand with the gracious and stately courtesy of the ancient regime. His figure was small, slight, and bent by age; his face, thin and pale; his hair nearly white, and falling in long curls upon his shoulders; under the gray brows sparkled keen, penetrating, but benignant eyes.
As I pressed the hand of my host, and looked around the poor apartment, I could not refrain from a sentiment of profound bitterness. Two days before I had dined at the table of a peddling blockade-runner, who ate canvass-backs, drank champagne, wore “fine linen,” and, dodging the conscript officers, revelled in luxury and plenty. And now here before me was a gentleman of ancient lineage, whose ancestors had been famous, who had himself played a great part in the history of the commonwealth,–and this gentleman was poor, lived in lodgings, had scarce a penny; he had been wealthy, and was still the owner of great possessions; but the bare land was all that was left him for support. He had been surrounded with luxury, but had sacrificed all to the cause. He had had two gallant sons, but they had fallen at the first Manassas–their crossed swords were above his poor bare mantel-piece.
From the splendid table of the sneaking blockade-runner, I had come to the poverty-stricken apartment of this great statesman and high-bred gentleman. “Oh, Juvenal!” I muttered, “it is your satires, not the bucolics of Virgil, that suit this epoch!”
The old statesman pointed, with all the grace of a nobleman, to a bare rocking-chair, and received my congratulations upon his speech with modest simplicity.
“I am glad that my views are honored by your good opinion, colonel,” he said, “and that you approve of the tone of them. I am naturally given to invective–a habit derived from my friend, the late Mr. Randolph; but the country wants encouragement.”
“And yet not to satirize is so hard, my dear sir!”
“Very hard.”
“Think of the army depleted–the soldiers starving–the finances in ruin, and entire destruction threatening us!”
The old statesman was silent. A moment afterward he raised his head, and with his thin finger pointed to the crossed swords above his mantelpiece.
“I try to bear and forbear since I lost my poor boys,” he said. “They died for their country–I ought to live for it, and do what I can in my sphere–to suppress my bitterness, and try to utter words of good cheer. But we are discussing gloomy topics. Let us come to more cheerful matters. I am in very good spirits to-day. My daughters have come to make me a visit,” and the old face glowed with smiles; its expression was quite charming.
“I see you do not appreciate that great treat, my dear colonel,” he added, smiling. “You are yet unmarried, though I rejoice to hear you are soon to be united to a daughter of my old friend, Colonel Beverly, of “The Oaks.” Some day I hope you will know the great charm of paternity. This morning I was lonely–this evening I am no longer so. Georgia and Virginia have come up from my house, “Five Forks,” escorted by my faithful old Juba, and they burst in upon me like the sunshine!”
The words had scarcely been uttered when a tap came at the door; a voice said, “May we come in, papa?” and a moment afterward the door opened, and admitted Miss Georgia Conway and her sister Virginia.
Miss Georgia was the same tall and superb beauty, with the dark hair and eyes; Miss Virginia the same winning little blonde, with the blue eyes, and the smiles which made her lips resemble rose-buds. The young ladies were clad in poor, faded-looking calicoes, and the slippers on the small feet, peeping from their skirts, were full of holes. Such was the appearance presented in that summer of 1864, my dear reader, by two of the most elegant and “aristocratic” young ladies of Virginia!
But you did not look at the calicoes, and soon forgot the holes in the shoes. My bow was such as I should have bestowed on two princesses, and the young ladies received it with a grace and courtesy which were charming.
In ten minutes we were all talking like old friends, and the young ladies were making tea.
This was soon ready; some bread, without butter, was placed upon the little table; and the meal was the most cheerful and happy imaginable. “Oh, my dear Mr. Blocque!” I could not help saying to myself, “keep your champagne, and canvass-backs, and every luxury, and welcome! I like dry bread and tea, with this company, better!”
I have not room to repeat the charming words, mingled with laughter, of the young women, on that evening. Their presence was truly like sunshine, and you could see the reflection of it upon the old statesman’s countenance.
Only once that countenance was overshadowed. I had uttered the name of Willie Davenant, by accident; and then all at once remembering the scene at Culpeper Court-House, had looked quietly at Judge Conway and Miss Virginia. A deep frown was on his face–that of the young girl was crimson with blushes, and two tears came to her eyes, as she caught her father’s glance of displeasure.
I hastened to change the topic–to banish the dangerous subject; and in a few moments everybody was smiling once more. Miss Georgia, in her stately and amusing way, was relating their experiences from a scouting party of the enemy, at “Five Forks.”
“I heard something of this from old Juba,” said the Judge; “you do not mention your deliverer, however.”
“Our deliverer, papa?”
“General Mohun.”
Miss Georgia unmistakably blushed in her turn.
“Oh, I forgot!” she said, carelessly, “General Mohun _did_ drive them off. Did I not mention it?–I should have done so before finishing, papa.”
As she spoke, the young lady happened to catch my eye. I was laughing quietly. Thereupon her head rose in a stately way–a decided pout succeeded–finally, she burst into laughter.
The puzzled expression of the old Judge completed the comedy of the occasion–we all laughed in a perfectly absurd and foolish way–and the rest of the evening passed in the most cheerful manner imaginable.
When I bade my friends good evening, I knew something I had not known before:–namely, that Mohun the woman-hater, had renewed his “friendly relations” with Miss Georgia Conway, at her home in Dinwiddie.
Exchanging a pressure of the hand with my host and his charming daughters, I bade them good evening, and returned homeward. As I went along, I thought of the happy circle I had left; and again I could not refrain from drawing the comparison between Judge Conway and Mr. Blocque.
At the fine house of the blockade-runner–champagne, rich viands, wax-lights, gold and silver, and profuse luxury.
At the poor lodgings of the great statesman,–a cup of tea and cold bread; stately courtesy from my host, charming smiles from his beautiful daughters, clad in calico, with worn-out shoes–and above the simple happy group, the crossed swords of the brave youths who had fallen at Manassas!
VIII.
MR. X—–.
It was past ten in the evening when I left Judge Conway. But I felt no disposition to retire; and determined to pay a visit to a singular character of my acquaintance.
The name of this gentleman was Mr. X—–.
Looking back now to the days spent in Richmond, in that curious summer of ’64, I recall, among the representative personages whom I encountered, no individual more remarkable than the Honorable Mr. X—–. You are acquainted with him, my dear reader, either personally or by reputation, for he was a prominent official of the Confederate Government, and, before the war, had been famous in the councils of “the nation.”
He resided at this time in a small house, on a street near the capitol. You gained access to his apartment after night–if you knew the way–by a winding path, through shrubbery, to the back door of the mansion. When you entered, you found yourself in presence of a tall, powerful, gray-haired and very courteous personage, who sat in a huge arm-chair, near a table littered with papers, and smoked, meditatively, a cigar, the flavor of which indicated its excellent quality.
I enjoyed the intimacy of Mr. X—– in spite of the difference of our ages and positions. He had been the friend of my father, and, in my turn, did me the honor to bestow his friendship upon me. On this evening I was seized with the fancy to visit him–and passing through the grounds of the capitol, where the bronze Washington and his great companions looked silently out into the moonlight, reached the small house, followed the path through the shrubbery, and opening the door in the rear, found myself suddenly enveloped in a cloud of cigar smoke, through which loomed the portly figure of Mr. X—–.
He was seated, as usual, in his large arm-chair, by the table, covered with papers; and a small bell near his hand seemed placed there for the convenience of summoning an attendant, without the trouble of rising. Near the bell lay a package of foreign-looking documents. Near the documents lay a pile of telegraphic dispatches. In the appearance and surroundings of this man you read “Power.”
Mr. X—– received me with easy cordiality.
“Glad to see you, my dear colonel,” he said, rising and shaking my hand; then sinking back in his chair, “take a cigar, and tell me the news.” I sat down,–having declined the proffered cigar.
“The news!” I said, laughing; “I ought to ask that of you.”
“Ah! you think I am well-informed?”
I pointed to the dispatches. Mr. X—– shrugged his shoulders.
“Papers from England and France–they are not going to recognize us.
“And those telegrams–nothing. We get little that is worth attention, except a line now and then, signed ‘R.E. Lee.'”
“Well, there is that signature,” I said, pointing to an open paper.
“It is a private letter to me–but do you wish to see a line which I have just received? It is interesting, I assure you.”
And he handed me a paper.
It was a telegram announcing the fall of Atlanta!
“Good heavens!” I said, “is it possible? Then there is nothing to stop Sherman.”
“Nothing whatever,” said Mr. X—–, coolly.
“What will be the consequence?”
“The Confederacy will be cut in two. Sherman will be at Savannah before Grant reaches the Southside road–or as soon, at least.”
“You think Grant will reach that?”
“Yes, by April; and then–you know what!”
“But Lee will protect it.”
Mr. X—– shrugged his shoulders.
“Shall I tell you a secret?”
I listened.
“Lee’s force is less than 50,000–next spring it will not number 40,000. Grant’s will be at least four times that.”
“Why can not our army be re-enforced?”
Mr. X—– helped himself to a fresh cigar.
“The people are tired, and the conscript officers are playing a farce,” he said. “The commissary department gives the army a quarter of a pound of rancid meat. That even often fails, for the quartermaster’s department does not supply it. The result is–no conscripts, and a thousand desertions. The soldiers are starving; their wives and children are writing them letters that drive them mad–the end is not far off; and when Grant reaches the Southside road we are gone.”
Mr. X—– smoked his cigar with extreme calmness as he spoke.
“But one thing remains,” I said.
“What is that?”
“Lee will retreat from Virginia.”
Mr. X—– shook his head.
“He will not.”
“Why not?”
“He will be prevented from doing so.”
“Under any circumstances?”
“Until too late, at least.”
“And the result?”
“Surrender–though he said to me the other day, when he came to see me here, ‘For myself, I intend to die sword in hand.'”
I could not refrain from a sentiment of profound gloom, as I listened to these sombre predictions. It seemed incredible that they could be well founded, but I had more than once had an opportunity to remark the extraordinary prescience of the remarkable man with whom I conversed.
“You draw a black picture of the future,” I said. “And the South seems moving to and fro, on the crust of a volcano.”
“No metaphor could be more just.”
“And what will be the result of the war?”
“That is easy to reply to. Political slavery, negro suffrage, and the bayonet, until the new leaven works.”
“The new leaven?”
“The conviction that democratic government is a failure.”
“And then–?”
“An emperor, or dictator–call him what you will. The main fact is, that he will rule the country by the bayonet–North and South impartially.”
Mr. X—– lit a fresh cigar.
“Things are going on straight to that,” he said. “The future is perfectly plain to me, for I read it in the light of history. These events are going to follow step by step. Lee is brave–no man is braver; a great leader. I think him one of the first captains of the world. But in spite of his courage and skill–in spite of the heroism of his army–in spite of the high character and pure motives of the president–we are going to fail. Then the rest will follow–negro suffrage and the bayonet. Then the third era will begin–the disgust of the white man at the equality of the negro; his distrust of a government which makes such a farce possible; consequent revulsion against democracy; a tendency toward monarchy; a king, emperor or dictator, who will restore order out of the chaos of misrule and madness. England is rushing toward a democracy, America is hastening to become an empire. For my own part I think I prefer the imperial to the popular idea–Imperator to Demos. It is a matter of taste, however.”
And Mr. X—– turned his head, calling out, calmly,
“Come in!”
The door opened and a stranger glided into the apartment. He was clad in a blue Federal uniform, half-concealed by a brown linen overall. His face was almost covered by a red beard; his lips by a mustache of the same color; and his eyes disappeared behind huge green goggles.
“Come in,” repeated Mr. X—–, who seemed to recognize the intruder; “what news?”
The personage glanced quickly at me.
“Speak before him,” said Mr. X—–, “he is a friend.”
“I am very well acquainted with Colonel Surry,” said the other, smiling, “and have the honor to number him, I hope, among my own friends.”
With which words, the new-comer quietly removed his red beard, took off his green spectacles, and I saw before me no less a personage than Mr. Nighthawk!
IX.
“SEND ME A COPY.–IN CANADA!”
Nothing was more surprising in this singular man than these sudden appearances at places and times when you least expected him.
I had parted with him in Spottsylvania, on the night when he “deserted” from the enemy, and rode into our lines; and he was then the secret agent of General Stuart. Now, he reappeared in the city of Richmond, with an excellent understanding, it was evident, between himself and Mr. X—–!
Our greeting was cordial, and indeed I never had classed Nighthawk among professional spies. General Stuart assured me one day, that he invariably refused all reward; and his profound, almost romantic devotion to Mohun, had deeply impressed me. Love of country and watchful care of the young cavalier, whose past life was as mysterious as his own, seemed the controlling sentiments of Nighthawk; and he always presented himself to me rather in the light of a political conspirator, than as a “spy.”
His first words now indicated that he was a secret agent of the Government. He seemed to have been everywhere, and gained access to everybody; and once more, as in June, 1863, when he appeared at Stuart’s head-quarters, near Middleburg, he astonished me by the accuracy and extent of his information. Political and military secrets of the highest importance, and calling for urgent action on the part of the Government, were detailed by Nighthawk, in his calm and benignant voice; he gave us an account of a long interview which he had had at City Point, with General Grant; and wound up as usual by announcing an impending battle–a movement of the enemy, which duly took place as he announced.
Mr. X—– listened with close attention, asking few questions.
When Nighthawk had made his report, the statesman looked at his watch, said, _sotto voce_, “Midnight–too late,” and added aloud:–
“Come back at ten to-morrow morning, my friend; your information is highly interesting and important.”
Nighthawk rose, and I did likewise, declining the courteous request of Mr. X—– to prolong my visit. He held the door open with great politeness and said, smiling:–
“I need not say, my dear colonel, that the views I have expressed this evening are confidential–for the present, at least.”
“Assuredly,” I replied, with a bow and a smile.
“Hereafter you are at liberty to repeat them, if you wish, only I beg you will ascribe them to Mr. X—–, an unknown quantity. If you write a book, and put me in it, send me a copy–in Canada!”
A moment afterward I was wending my way through the shrubbery, thinking of the curious personage I had left.
At the gate Nighthawk awaited me, and I scarcely recognized him. He had resumed his red beard, and green glasses.
“I am glad to see you again, colonel,” he said benignantly; “I heard that you were in the city and called at your lodgings, but found you absent.”
“You wished to see me particularly, then, Nighthawk.”
“Yes, and to-night, colonel.”
“Ah!”
“I know you are a friend of General Mohun’s.”
“A very sincere friend.”
“Well, I think we will be able to do him a very great service by attending to a little matter in which he is interested, colonel. Are you disengaged, and willing to accompany me?”
X.
THE WAY THE MONEY WENT.
I looked intently at Nighthawk. He was evidently very much in earnest.
“I am entirely disengaged, and perfectly willing to accompany you,” I said; “but where?”
Nighthawk smiled.
“You know I am a mysterious person, colonel, both by character and profession. I fear the habit is growing on me, in spite of every exertion I make. I predict I will end by burning my coat, for fear it will tell some of my secrets.”
“Well,” I said with a smile, “keep your secret then, and lead the way. I am ready to go far to oblige Mohun in any thing.”
“I thank you, colonel, from my heart. You have only to follow me.”
And Nighthawk set out at a rapid pace, through the grounds of the capitol, toward the lower part of the city.
There was something as singular about the walk of my companion, as about his appearance. He went at a great pace, but his progress was entirely noiseless. You would have said that he was skimming along upon invisible wings.
In an incredibly short time we had reached a street below the capitol, and my companion, who had walked straight on without turning his head to the right or the left, all at once paused before a tall and dingy-looking house, which would have appeared completely uninhabited, except for a bright red light which shone through a circular opening in the door.
At this door Nighthawk gave a single tap. The glass covering the circular space glided back, and a face reconnoitred. My companion uttered two words; and the door opened, giving access to a stairs, which we ascended, the janitor having already disappeared.
At the head of the stairs was a door which Nighthawk opened, and we found ourselves in an apartment where a dozen persons were playing faro.
Upon these Nighthawk threw a rapid glance–some one whom he appeared to be seeking, was evidently not among the players.
Another moment he returned through the door, I following, and we ascended a second flight of stairs, at the top of which was a second door. Here another janitor barred the way, but my companion again uttered some low words,–the door opened; a magnificently lit apartment, with a buffet of liquors, and every edible, presented itself before us; and in the midst of a dozen personages, who were playing furiously, I recognized–Mr. Blocque, Mr. Croker, Mr. Torpedo, and Colonel Desperade.
For some moments I stood watching the spectacle, and it very considerably enlarged my experience. Before me I saw prominent politicians, officers of high rank, employees of government holding responsible positions, all gambling with an ardor that amounted to fury. One gentleman in uniform–apparently of the quartermaster’s department–held in his hand a huge package of Confederate notes, of the denominations, of $100 and $500, and this worthy staked, twice, the pretty little amount of $10,000 upon a card, and each time lost.
The play so absorbed the soldiers, lawgivers, and law-administrators, that our presence was unperceived. My friend, Mr. Blocque, did not turn his head; Mr. Croker, Mr. Torpedo, and Colonel Desperade, were red in the face and oblivious.
After that evening I knew where some of the public money went.
As I was looking at the strange scene of reckless excitement, one of the players, a portly individual with black mustache, rich dark curls, gold spectacles, and wearing a fine suit of broadcloth–rose and looked toward us. Nighthawk was already gazing at him; and suddenly I saw their glances cross like steel rapiers. They had evidently recognized each other; and going up to the gentleman of the spectacles, Nighthawk said a few words in a low voice, which I did not distinguish.
“With pleasure, my dear friend,” said the portly gentleman, “but you are sure you are not provided with a detective of General Winder’s?”
“Can you believe such a thing?” returned Nighthawk, reproachfully.
“I thought it possible you might have one waiting below; but if you give me your word, Nighthawk–“
And without further objection the worthy followed Nighthawk and myself down the stairs.
As we approached the outer door, the invisible janitor opened it; we issued forth into the street; and the portly gentleman, fixing a keen look upon me in the clear moonlight, said:–
“I believe we have had the pleasure of meeting before, colonel.”
“I am ashamed to say I do not remember where, sir,” I said.
“My memory is better, colonel; we met last May, in a house in the Wilderness, near Chancellorsville.”
“Is it possible that you are–“
“Swartz, very much at your service. It is wonderful what a difference is made by a wig and spectacles!”
As he spoke, he gracefully removed his black wig and the gold spectacles. In the man with gray hair, small eyes, and double chin, I recognized the spy of the Wilderness.
XI.
THE PASS.
Replacing his wig and spectacles, Mr. Swartz smiled in a good-humored manner, and said:–
“May I ask to what I am indebted for this visit?”
Nighthawk replied even more blandly:–
“I wish to have a conversation with you, my dear Swartz, before arresting you.”
“Ah! you intend to arrest me!”
“Unless you make it unnecessary.”
“How?”
“By producing the paper which we spoke of in the Wilderness,” said Nighthawk, briefly.
Swartz shook his head.
“That is not in my power, my friend. I did not bring it with me.”
“Will you think me very impolite if I say I do not believe you, my dear Swartz?”
Swartz smiled.
“Well, that would be speaking without ceremony, my friend–but I assure you I am unable to do as you desire.”
“Aha! you repeat that curious statement, my dear Swartz! Well, oblige me by accompanying me to the provost-marshal’s.”
“You arrest me?”
“Precisely.”
“As a spy?”
“Why not?”
“It is impossible, Nighthawk!”
“You resist?”
“I might do so.”
And, opening his coat, Mr. Swartz exhibited a bowie-knife and revolver.
“I show you these little toys,” said he, laughing good-humoredly, “to let you see, my friend, that I might oppose your project–and you know I am not backward in using them on occasion. But I make a difference. You are not a common police-officer or detective, Nighthawk–you are a friend and comrade, and I am going to prove that I appreciate your feelings, and respect your wishes.”
Nighthawk fixed his eyes on the speaker and listened.
“You are a friend of General Mohun’s,” said Mr. Swartz, with bland good humor; “you wish to secure a certain document in which he is interested; you fancy I have that document here in the city of Richmond; and your object, very naturally, is to force me to surrender it. Well, I do not object to doing so–for a consideration. I fully intend to produce it, when my terms are accepted. I would have stated them to you in the Wilderness, but you were unable to meet me–or to General Mohun, but his violence defeated every thing. You meet me now, and without discussion, demand the paper. I reply, that I have not brought it with me, but three days from this time will meet you at a spot agreed on, with the document, for which you will return me–my consideration.”
Nighthawk shook his head.
“Unfortunately, my dear Swartz, experience tells me that the present is always the best time for business–that ‘a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.'”
Mr. Swartz smiled sweetly.
“And I am the bird in your hand?”
“Something like it.”
“I am a spy?”
“Don’t use hard names, my friend.”
“By no means, my dear Nighthawk, and if I have hurt your feelings, I deeply regret it. But I am speaking to the point. You regard me as a Federal spy, lurking in Richmond–you penetrate my disguise, and are going to arrest me, and search my lodgings for that paper.”
“The necessity is painful,” said Nighthawk.
“It is useless, my friend.”
“I will try it.”
Swartz smiled, and drew a paper from his pocket, which he unfolded.
“You are then determined to arrest your old comrade, Nighthawk.”
“Yes, my dear Swartz.”
“As a spy?”
“Exactly.”
“In spite of this?”
And Mr. Swartz held out the paper.
“Do me the favor to read this, colonel, and then oblige me by returning it.”
I took the paper, and easily read it by moonlight. It contained the following words:–
“The bearer is employed on secret service, by the Confederate Government, and will not be molested.”
The paper was signed by a personage of high position in the government, and was stamped with the seal of the department over which he presided. There could be no doubt of the genuineness of the paper. The worthy Mr. Swartz loomed up before me in the novel and unexpected light of a _Confederate_ emissary!
I read the paper aloud to Nighthawk, and pointed to the official signature and seal.
Nighthawk uttered a groan, and his chin sank upon his breast.
That spectacle seemed to excite the sympathy of his friend.
“There, my dear Nighthawk,” said Mr. Swartz, in a feeling tone, “don’t take the blow too much to heart. I have beaten you, this game, and your hands are tied at present. But I swear that I will meet you, and produce that paper.”
“When?” murmured Nighthawk.
“In three days from this time.”
“Where?”
“At the house of our friend Alibi, near Monk’s Neck, in Dinwiddie.”
“On your word?”
“On the word of Swartz!”
“That is enough, my dear Swartz; I will be at Alibi’s, when we will come to terms. And now, pardon this visit, which has put you to so much inconvenience. I was merely jesting, my dear friend, when I spoke of arresting you. Arrest you! Nothing could induce me to think of so unfriendly a proceeding. And now, good night, my dear friend. I will return with you, colonel.”
With which words Nighthawk saluted his “friend,” and we returned toward the upper part of the city.
Such were the scenes of a night in the summer of 1864.
XII.
THE GRAVE OF STUART.
On the next morning a piece of good fortune befell me. In spite of continued visits to the war-office, and an amount of importunity which must have been exceedingly annoying to the gentlemen of the red tape, I found myself, at the end of August, apparently no nearer to an “assignment to duty” than at first.
It really seemed that the Confederate States had no need of my services; that the privilege of performing military duty in behalf of the Government was one jealously guarded, and not to be lightly bestowed upon any one. I was in despair, and was revolving the project of resigning my empty commission, and enlisting in the cavalry as a private soldier, when the _deus ex machina_ to extricate me from all my troubles, appeared in the person of Colonel P—–, of army head- quarters.
This accomplished soldier and gentleman met me as I was coming out of the war-office, on the morning after the visit to Mr. X—–, looking I suppose, like some descendant of the Knight of the Sorrowful Countenance, and stopped to inquire the cause of my dejection. I informed him of the whole affair, and he laughed heartily. “You have set about your affairs, my dear colonel, in a manner entirely wrong,” he said. “You should have gone to some general, discovered that your grandmother and his own were third cousins; expressed your admiration of his valor; denounced the brother-general with whom he was quarreling; written puffs to the papers about him; and then, one morning said, ‘By the by, general, you are entitled to another staff officer.’ The result would have been a glowing letter to the war department, requesting your assignment–you would have attained your object–you would have been torn from the horrors of Richmond, and once more enjoyed the great privilege of being shot at!”
I echoed the colonel’s laugh.
“Alas!” I said, “I have no genius for all that. I never yet could ‘crook the hinges of the knee that thrift might follow fawning,’ and I suppose I shall be compelled to resign, and enter the ranks. Why not? Better men are there, carrying musket or carbine, or pulling the lanyard.”
“Still you gained your rank by your services–and I am going to make you an offer which will enable you to retain it. Come and be my assistant inspector-general–an officer is required to inspect the cavalry and horse artillery, which is so distant, often, that I have no time to visit them.”
“A thousand thanks, colonel! You could not offer me a more pleasant duty.”
“You will have to ride a great deal, but will have a great deal of freedom. If you consent to my proposition, I will have the matter arranged at once, and will request you to make a tour of inspection to General Early’s army, near Winchester.”
He looked at me, laughing.
“‘The Oaks’ is–a charming place,” he added, “and you are certain to be very tired when you reach the vicinity of Markham’s! If you find it convenient to stop there–say, for a day or more–present my regards to Colonel Beverly, and any of the family you find present!”
With which words he laughed again, shook me by the hand, and then his tall form disappeared in the doorway of the war office.
On the next day I found my assignment awaiting me. I was appointed assistant inspector-general of the cavalry and horse artillery of the army of Northern Virginia. Tremendous title!
That evening I went by railway to Petersburg, to visit Colonel P—–, and receive his instructions. Returning the same night, the next day set out on horseback for the Valley of the Shenandoah, by way of Orange, Gaines’s Cross Roads, and Ashby’s Gap.
Of this journey it is unnecessary for me to speak in the present volume. Some curious adventures occurred to me, in the valley, near Millwood, and I made the acquaintance of St. Leger Landon, of “Bizarre,” one of the bravest and truest gentlemen I have ever known. The adventures alluded to, and some events in the strange history of my friend, Captain Landon, are embraced in a separate memoir, to which I have given the fanciful title, _Hilt to Hilt, or Days and Nights on the Banks of the Shenandoah_.
I remained in the valley from the first to the eighteenth of September, when I set out on my return to Petersburg, little thinking that, on the very next day, General Early would be attacked on the Opequon, driven from Winchester, and forced to retreat up the valley, in spite of fighting which was never surpassed.
I had received some rough handling in a cavalry combat near the Old Chapel, beyond Millwood, and my ride back was tedious. But at last I reached Richmond, and made preparations to set out at once for the army. On the evening before my departure, I went to visit the grave of Stuart at Hollywood, on the beautiful hill above the falls, west of the city.
As I approached the lonely spot, where the great cavalier was lying beside his little Flora, of whom he had often spoken to me with tears, a thousand memories knocked at the door of my heart. With head bent down, and chin resting on my breast, I drew near the grassy mound over which waved the autumn foliage, tinted with yellow and crimson–and in these few moments, all the splendid career of Stuart passed before me, as on that day when I rode with him toward the fatal field of Yellow Tavern.
I remembered all his hard combats, his glorious encounters, his victories over such odds as vindicated his claim to a descent from the dashing Rupert, and ranked him with the most famous leaders of cavalry in all history. I recalled the courage, the joy, the gay laughter of the great soldier–the blue eyes that flashed so–the sonorous voice singing the merry songs. I remembered all the occasions when he had led his men in the charge–how he had wept for Jackson, bowed his head above the cold face of Pelham–how he had met the torrent unmoved, shrunk from nothing in his path, fallen to save the Virginia capital, and died murmuring “God’s will be done!”–I remembered all that, and with something in my throat that seemed choking me, drew near the quiet mound, beneath which rested such a career, and so much glory.
The birds were twittering and singing, the foliage waving gently–I raised my head–when suddenly I became aware that a solitary mourner was bending over the grave.
He was an officer in gray uniform. He held a flower in his hand, which he dropped upon the grave, uttering a low sob as he did so.
At the same moment he turned round, and I recognized the great partisan, Colonel Mosby.[1]
[Footnote 1: Real.]
XIII.
THE CEDARS.
Twenty-four hours after, I had passed over the same number of miles, and found myself at the staff head-quarters, on the left bank of the Appomattox, above Petersburg.
I had soon pitched my tent, with the assistance of a servant; had erected a hedge of cedar boughs to protect it from the cutting blasts of the coming winter; and, a few days afterwards, was surrounded with many objects of comfort. My tent had been floored; at one end rose an excellent chimney; strips of planks, skillfully balanced on two logs, supplied a spring bed; I had secured a split bottom chair, and my saddle and bridle were disposed upon a rough rack, near a black valise containing my small stock of apparel, and the pine table and desk holding official papers.
Having christened this castle “The Cedars,” I settled down for a long winter,–and it was not a great while before I congratulated myself on the good fortune which had provided me with that warm nest. More than once, however, I experienced something like a sentiment of shame, when, in the dark and freezing nights, with the hail rattling on my tent, I sat by my warm fire, and heard the crack of the sharp-shooters, along the lines beyond Petersburg. What right had I to be there, by that blazing fire, in my warm tent, when my brethren–many of them my betters–were yonder, fighting along the frozen hills? What had I done to deserve that comfort, and exemption from all pain? I was idling, or reading by my blazing fire,–_they_ were keeping back the enemy, and, perhaps, falling and dying in the darkness. I was musing in my chair, gazing into the blaze, and going back in memory to the fond scenes of home, so clearly, that I laughed the heart’s laugh, and was happy. And they? They, too, were thinking of home, perhaps,–of their wives and children, to sink down the next moment shivering with cold, or stagger and fall, with spouting blood, as the bullet pierced them. Why should _I_ be thus favored by a good Providence? I often asked myself that question, and I could not answer it. I could only murmur, “I did not sneak here to get out of the way of the bullets,–those, yonder, are my betters,–God guard and keep the brave soldiers of this army!”
And now, worthy reader, having given you some idea of the manner in which the more fortunate ones wintered near Petersburg, in 1864, I am going to drop the subject of army head-quarters, and my surroundings there. Jackson and Stuart are dead, and have become figures of history. I have drawn them as well as I could,–I dare not attempt to do the same with the great commander-in-chief. He is alive. May he live long!–and, saluting him, I pass on.
So if I speak of General Lee, it will be of the individual in his official character. What he utters, he will have uttered in the hearing of many.
With these words of preface, I resume the thread of my history.
XIV.
THE SITUATION.
October, 1864, had come.
The “situation” may be described in a few words.
Grant had drawn his lines from a point in Charles City, on the left bank of James River, across that stream and across the Appomattox, around Petersburg to the Squirrel Level road, where he threatened the Southside railroad, Lee’s line of communication with the south and west. Fort Harrison had just been taken. Grant was gradually hemming in his opponent along the immense line extending across the two rivers, past the scene of the famous “Crater” explosion, to the vicinity of the Rowanty, a distance of nearly forty miles. One incessant crash and thunder went up, day and night. Grant was “hammering continuously,” carrying out his programme; and, the military view apart, never was spectacle more picturesque than that presented in these combats.
The long lines of works were wreathed with the smoke of battle. The glare of cannon lit the smoke-cloud; mortar shells rose, described their fiery curves, and descended in the trenches, and these were saluted as they rose and fell by the crack of musketry, the roar of artillery, the echoing cheers of the blue and gray people, who never seemed weary of fighting, yelling, and paying their compliments to each other. At night the spectacle was superb; the mortars were like flocks of fire-birds, swooping down upon their prey. The horizon glared at each cannon-shot; shell burst in vivid lightnings, shining for a moment, then extinguished. And yonder object, like a bloodshot eye, shining grimly through the darkness,–what is that? It is a lamp, my dear reader, with a transparent shade; and on this shade is written, for the information of the graybacks:–
“While yet the lamp holds out to burn, The vilest rebel may return.”
Lee’s lines faced Grant’s, following the blue cordon across the rivers, around Petersburg, toward the Southside railroad.
Beyond the right of the Confederate infantry stretched the cavalry, which consisted of the divisions of Wade Hampton and W.H.F. Lee,–the former commanding. Fitz Lee, with his division, was in the Valley.
Such, reader was the situation, when I joined the army. The great fifth act of the tragic drama was approaching.
XV.
MOHUN AGAIN.
Three days after my arrival, I mounted my horse, crossed the Appomattox, followed the Boydton road, struck southward at the Quaker road, and soon found myself in the heart of the shadowy pine woods of that singular country, Dinwiddie.
My official duty was to inspect and report the condition of the cavalry and horse artillery of the army at the beginning and middle of each month. And now, first assuring the reader that I performed my duty in all weather, and amid every difficulty, I will drop the official phase of my history, and proceed to matters rather more entertaining.
On the day after my departure from Petersburg, I had made my inspections, and was returning.
I had been received by my old friends of the cavalry with every mark of cordial regard. General Hampton, General Lee, and the various officers and men whom I had known as a staff-officer of General Stuart, seemed to welcome the sight of a face which, perhaps, reminded them of their dead leader; and I had pressed all these warm hands, and received these friendly greetings not without emotion–for I, too, was carried back to the past.
I saw Mordaunt and Davenant, but not Mohun–he was absent, visiting his picket line. Mordaunt was the same stately soldier–his grave and friendly voice greeted me warmly as in old days; and Willie Davenant, now a major, commanding a battalion of horse artillery, shook hands with me, as shy and blushing as before–and even more sad.
“How had his suit prospered? Were things more encouraging?”
I asked him these questions with a laugh, apologizing for my intrusion.
He assured me sadly that it was not in the least an intrusion; but that he had not seen the person to whom I alluded, for many months.
And executing a blush which would have become a girl, this young tiger of the horse artillery–for such he always proved himself, in a fight–hastened to change the subject. Soon afterward I took my departure, turned my horse’s head toward Petersburg, and set out at a round trot between the walls of pine.
It was dusk when I reached the debouchment of the “military road,” and, tired and hungry, I was contemplating ruefully the long ride still before me, when rapid hoof-strokes behind me attracted my attention, and, turning my head, I recognized the bold figure of Mohun.
He was mounted on a fine animal, and came at full speed.
In a moment he had caught up, recognized, and we exchanged a warm grasp of the hand.
“I am delighted to see you, Surry. I thought you had deserted us, old fellow. The sight of you is a treat!”
“And the sight of you, my dear Mohun. You look beaming.”
Indeed, Mohun had never presented a better appearance, with his dark eyes; his tanned and glowing cheeks; his raven mustached lips, which, parting with a smile, showed white and regular teeth. He was the picture of a gallant soldier; all his old melancholy and cynical bitterness gone, as mist is swept away by the morning sunshine.
“You are positively dazzling, Mohun. Where are you going, and what has happened to you? Ah!–I begin to understand!”
And pointing northward, I said:–
“Five Forks is not far from here, is it?”
Mohun colored, but, the next moment, burst into laughter.
“You are right, old friend! It is impossible to hide any thing from you.”
“And a friend of yours is there–whom you are going to see?”
“Yes, my dear Surry,” was his reply, in a voice of sudden earnestness, “you are not mistaken, and you see I am like all the rest of the world. When we first met on the Rapidan, I was a woman-hater. I despised them all, for I had had reason. That was my state of mind, when a very beautiful and noble girl, whom you have seen, crossed my path. Events threw us together–first, the wound I received at Fleetwood–she caught me as I was falling on that day–and several times afterward I saw and conversed with her, finding her proud, satirical, indifferent to admiration, but as honest and true as steel. Still, our relations did not proceed beyond friendship, and when I told you one day in the Wilderness that I was not her suitor, I spoke the truth. I am not exactly able to say as much to-day!–But to finish my account of myself: I came here to Dinwiddie on the right of the army, and a week or two after my arrival the enemy made a cavalry raid toward the Southside railroad. I followed, and came up with them as they were plundering a house not far from Five Forks. Well, I charged and drove them into the woods–when, who should make her appearance at the door but Miss Conway, whom I had last seen in Culpeper! As you know, her father resides here–he is now at Richmond–and, after following the enemy back to their own lines, hurrying them up with sabre and carbine, I came back to inquire the extent of their depredations at Five Forks.
“Such is the simple explanation of the present ‘situation,’ my dear friend. Miss Virginia cordially invited me to come whenever I could do so, and although Miss Georgia was less pressing–in fact, said nothing on the subject–I was not cast down thereby! I returned, have been often since, and–that’s all.”
Mohun laughed the heart’s laugh. You have heard that, have you not, reader? “Now tell me about yourself,” he added, “and on the way to Five Forks! I see you are tired and hungry. Come! they have the easiest chairs yonder, and are the soul of hospitality!”
The offer was tempting. Why not accept it? My hesitation lasted exactly three seconds.
At the end of that time, I was riding beside Mohun in the direction of Five Forks, which we reached just as I terminated my account of myself since Mohun and I had parted in the Wilderness.
XVI.
“FIVE FORKS.”
“Five Forks” was an old mansion not far from the place of the same name, now become historical. It was a building of large size; the grounds were extensive, and had been elegant; the house had evidently been the home of a long line of gentlemen, whose portraits, flanked by those of their fair helpmates, adorned the walls of the great drawing-room, between the lofty windows. In the hall stood a tall bookcase, filled with law books, and volumes of miscellany. From the woodwork hung pictures of racehorses, and old engravings. Such was the establishment which the Federal cavalry had visited, leaving, as always, their traces, in broken furniture, smashed crockery, and trampled grounds.
I shall not pause to describe my brief visit to this hospitable house. The young ladies had returned from Richmond some time before, escorted by the gray-haired Juba, that faithful old African retainer; and, as a result of the evenings which I had spent with them and their father, I had the honor to be received in the character of an old friend.
Ten minutes after my arrival I saw that Mohun was passionately in love with Miss Georgia; and I thought I perceived as clearly that she returned his affection. Their eyes–those tell-tales–were incessantly meeting; and Mohun followed every movement of the queenly girl with those long, fixed glances, which leave nothing in doubt.
The younger sister, Miss Virginia, received me with charming sweetness, but a secret melancholy weighed down the dusky eye-lashes. The blue eyes were sad; the very smiles on the rosy lips were sad. All was plain here, too, at a single glance. The pure girl had given her heart to the brave Willie Davenant, and some mysterious hostility of her father toward the young officer, forced them apart.
What was the origin of that hostility? Why had Judge Conway so abruptly torn his daughter away from Davenant at the ball in Culpeper–and why had that shadow passed over the old statesman’s brow when I uttered the name of the young man in Richmond?
I asked myself these questions vainly–and decided in my mind that I should probably never know.
I was mistaken. I was going to know before midnight.
After an excellent supper, over which Miss Georgia presided with stately dignity–for she, too, had changed, in as marked a degree as Mohun,–I rose, declared I must return to Petersburg, and bade the young ladies, who cordially pressed me to remain, good-night.
Mohun declared that he would remain an hour longer–and having promised a visit soon, at his camp on the Rowanty, I mounted my horse, and set out, through the darkness, for Petersburg.
XVII.
GENERAL DAVENANT.
Following the White Oak road, I passed Hatcher’s Run at Burgess’s mill, and went on over the Boydton road, reflecting upon the scene I had just left.
All at once my horse placed his foot upon a sharp root in the road, stumbled, nearly fell, and when I touched him with the spur I found that he limped painfully.
Dismounting, I examined his foot. The sharp point had entered it, and it was bleeding profusely. The accident was unfortunate–and, attempting to ride on, I found the hurt worse than I had expected. My gray staggered on as if the limb were broken.
I dismounted once more, led him slowly by the bridle, and continued my way on foot. A quarter of a mile farther, the animal was in such agony that I looked around for some light, by which to examine the hurt more fully.
On the right, a glimmer was seen through the trees. I made straight toward it, through the woods, and soon found myself near a group of tents, one of which was lit up.
“Whose head-quarters are these?” I asked of a man on post, near.
“Mine, my dear colonel,” said a voice in the darkness near. “My candle yonder is hospitable and enables me to recognize you.”
With which words the figure advanced into the light, and I recognized the tall and stately form of General Davenant.
He gave me his hand cordially, and I explained my dilemma. “You are unfortunate, but fortunate, too,” said Davenant, “as I have a man among my couriers who knows all about horses. I will send yours to him; meanwhile come into my tent.”
And intrusting my horse to the orderly with some brief directions, the general led the way into his head-quarters tent.
A cheerful fire burned in the rude log-built chimney. On one side were a plain desk and two camp-stools; on the other a rough couch of pine logs, filled with straw, and spread with blankets. Upon the blankets a boy of about fourteen was sound asleep, the light auburn curls tossed in disorder over the rosy young face. At a glance I recognized the youth who had entered the ranks at Gettysburg, taken part in Pickett’s charge, and been borne out through the smoke, wounded and bleeding, in the arms of his father. The young Charley had evidently recovered, and was as ruddy as before. His little braided jacket was as jaunty, his face as smiling, as on that evening near Paris.
An hour afterward, General Davenant and myself were conversing like old friends. We were by no means strangers, as I had repeatedly been thrown with him in the army, and my intimacy with Will doubtless commended me to the brave soldier’s regard. An accident now seemed about to make us still better acquainted. The orderly had reported that it would be impossible to proceed farther with my horse that night, and I had accepted the invitation of General Davenant to remain with him until morning.
“My brigade is holding the right of the army, colonel,” he had said; “we have just moved to this position, and have not had time to become very comfortable. But I can offer you a tolerable supper and a camp-bed after it, with a warm welcome, I assure you.”
I declined the supper, but accepted the bed; and seated opposite the grizzled old cavalier, in his gray uniform, had begun to converse.
Something about the stately general of infantry, drew me irresistibly toward him. His bearing was lofty, and not without a species of hauteur; but under all was an exquisite high-breeding and courtesy, which made his society quite charming.
At some words of mine, however, in reference to my visit on this day to his son, a decided expression of gloom had obscured the smiles of the old soldier.
“Yes, colonel,” he said, with something like a sigh, “Willie has lost his good spirits, and has been much depressed for more than a year. You are his friend–you share his confidence–you doubtless know the origin of this depression.”
“I do, general; a very common cause of trouble to young men–a young lady.”
“A young lady,” repeated General Davenant, in the same gloomy tone. “He has committed the imprudence of falling in love, as the phrase is, with–Miss Conway.”
He paused before the words “Miss Conway,” and uttered them with evident repugnance. They issued from his lips, indeed, with a species of jerk; and he seemed glad to get rid of them, if I may so express myself.
“I can talk of this affair with you, colonel,” he added, gloomily, “for Will has told me of your regard for him.”
I bowed, and said:–
“You are not wrong in supposing that I am one of your son’s best friends, general. I was long in the cavalry with him–there is no more heroic soldier in the army–and it has given me sincere sorrow to see him laboring under such melancholy.”
General Davenant, with his hand covering his brow, listened in silence.
“I have not inquired the origin of this depression,” I added–“that would have been indiscreet–though I know Will would tell me. I guessed it, however, and I have visited the young lady at her house to-night. I will certainly use my utmost exertions to remove all obstacles.”
General Davenant suddenly rose erect. His eye was flashing.
“I beg you will not, colonel!” he exclaimed. “The barrier between himself and–Miss Conway–can never be removed.”
I looked at the speaker’s flushed face with positive wonder, and replied:–
“You astonish me, general! Are there any such obstacles in life?”
“There are!”
I made no reply.
“There are, colonel,” repeated the now fiery old soldier. “Judge Conway has been guilty of a gross wrong to me. No son of mine shall ever form an alliance with his family!”
I looked up with deep astonishment.
“This is a very great surprise to me, my dear general,” I said; “I thought, from many things, that it was Judge Conway who opposed this alliance; and from the belief that _you_ had done _him_ some great wrong.”
General Davenant had taken his seat again, after his outburst. Once more his forehead was covered with his hand. For some moments he preserved a silence so profound, that nothing disturbed the night but the long breathing of the sleeping boy, and the measured tramp of the sentinel.
Then, all at once, the general raised his head. His expression was no longer fiery–it was unutterably sad.
“I have been reflecting, colonel,” he said gravely, “and, in these few minutes, have come to a somewhat singular determination.”
“What is that, general?”
“To tell you why _my_ son can never marry the daughter of Judge Conway!”
XVIII.
TWO MEN AND A WOMAN.
General Davenant leaned his elbow on the desk, rested his forehead in his hand, and said in a deep, measured voice:–
“My story need not be a long one, colonel. Those who relate gay adventures and joyous experiences, indulge in endless details–memory is charming to them at such moments–they go back to the past, with a smile on the lips, recalling every little detail, every color of the bright picture.
“My own narrative will be brief, because it is a gloomy one. It is far from pleasant to return to the scenes I propose to describe. I only do so to erase a stigma which seems to attach to my family and myself; to show you that, in spite of Judge Conway, I deserve your good opinion. Assuredly I do not propose any pleasure to myself in relating these events. Alas! one of the bitterest things to a proud man–and I am proud–is to even seem to defend his good name from imputed dishonor!”
Knitting his brows as he spoke, the old soldier looked gloomily into the blaze before us. In a moment, he went on:–
“I was born in the county of Dinwiddie, colonel, where my family had lived from the time of the first settlement of Virginia. My father was a large landholder, and his most intimate friend was Mr. Conway, the father of the present judge. The family friendship was inherited by the young people of the two families–and my two most intimate friends were George and William Conway. One is dead, the other is Judge William Conway, member of Congress. We had played together as children, been companions at school. When our fathers died, and we in turn became the representatives of the two families, our friendship became even more close. I was half my time at ‘Five Forks’–they paid long visits to me at ‘The Pines’–we hunted together, went to entertainments together, drank wine together, and were inseparable.
“George was especially my favorite. He was the soul of amiability; everybody loved him; and I entertained for him the most tender friendship. His brother William was equally estimable, but did not attract you as strongly. Although a person of the highest sense of honor, and universally respected for talents of the first order, he was irascible, bitter, and, when once aroused, allowed nothing to restrain him. At such moments his best friends avoided him, for he was dangerous. He brooked no opposition. His anger was like a consuming fire; and a friendship which he had formed with that gentleman of splendid powers, but venomous antipathies, John Randolph of Roanoke, served still more to encourage him in the indulgence of the natural acerbity of his disposition. More than once, I have seen him almost foam at the mouth as he denounced some political adversary from the stump, and when one of these fits of passion seized him, he became as ungovernable as a wild animal. You can scarcely realize that, now. Sorrow has chastened him; trouble has softened him; I have nothing to say against the Judge William Conway of to-day. He is a self-sacrificing patriot, a gentleman of irreproachable courtesy, and sweetness of character; but, as a young man, he was a firebrand, and I think the fire is still unquenched beneath the gray hairs of the man of seventy.
“Such were George and William Conway, when I knew them as young men–the one mild, amiable, the soul of kindness and good-nature; the other proud, honorable, but subject to fits of stormy passion, which made all avoid him when the paroxysm was upon him.
“From this hasty description, you will understand why George was a greater favorite with me than his brother. Our friendship was, indeed, as close and tender as possible, and we passed our majority and approached the age of twenty-five, without ever having had a moment’s interruption of our intimacy.
“Then, all at once, there appeared upon the stage, that cause of so much happiness, woe, joy, grief, to mankind–a woman. To make a long story short, George Conway and myself were so unfortunate as to become attached to the same young lady, and very soon this sentiment amounted, both on his part and on my own, to a wild and consuming passion. The young lady–it is unnecessary to mention her name–was a person of rare beauty, and mistress of all the wiles which bring young men to the feet of women. She used these unsparingly, too, for nothing delighted her so much as to attract admiration and inspire love. Perceiving the effect which her grace and loveliness had produced upon myself and George, she made every exertion to increase our infatuation–encouraged first one, then the other; and, in the end, succeeded in breaking those close ties of friendship which had bound us from the time when we had played together as children.
“That is a sad confession, colonel, but it is the truth. The bright eyes and smiles of a girl had terminated a life-long friendship. The mere love of admiration in the heart of a young girl had interrupted the affection of years–making George and myself cold and _distrait_ toward each other. Soon things became still worse. From friends we had become mere acquaintances–from acquaintances we became strangers, and finally foes. Busy-bodies whispered, tale-bearers blew the flames. If the young lady smiled on me at a party where George was present, the good people around us looked at _him_ with satirical meaning. If she smiled on George, their eyes were turned toward me, and they giggled and whispered.
“That is all tedious–is it not? An old story, which every country neighborhood knows. You laugh, perhaps, at hearing it told of A and B,–but you do not laugh when you are one of the actors. Well, not to lengthen my history unduly, an open rivalry and enmity at last arose between myself and poor George. We had been spurred on to hate each other, and narrowly escaped having an ‘affair’ together–appealing to the pistol as the arbiter.
“It never came to that, however. I saw, ere long, that the young lady had made up her mind. George was in every way a more attractive and lovable person than myself; and after drawing me on, encouraging me, and inducing me to offer her my hand, she turned her back on me, and married George!
“Such was the result of the campaign. George had won,–and I am obliged to say that I hated him cordially. I should never have done so, from the simple fact of his success. I am not so ignoble as that, my dear colonel. Bitter as was my disappointment, I could have bowed to the fiat–pardoned the young lady–and offered my hand to dear George; but there were our ‘friends,’ the busy-bodies and talebearers. They were unresting in their exertions–took the whole affair under their personal supervision, and invented a hundred fables to sting and arouse me. You would have said that they were bloody minded–the busy-bodies–and bent on trouble; that their aim was to profoundly enrage me, and cause bloodshed. George had laughed at me, they said; never had had a moment’s doubt of the young lady’s sentiments; had often jested about me, and expressed his pity for my ‘silly presumption;’ had even amused himself and the young lady, by mimicking