Mohun, or, The Last Days of Lee by John Esten Cooke (page 8)

firing off salutes about the very day of the election;–something, too, that could not be plainly contradicted by the events till after that critical day–then let the contradiction come and welcome: your true Yankee will only laugh.

“From this necessity came the great ‘reconnoissance in force’ of last Thursday on our lines before Richmond and Petersburg; a ‘reconnoissance’ in very heavy force indeed upon three points of our front at once both north and south of the James river; so that it may be very properly considered as three reconnoissances in force; made with a view of feeling, as it were, LEE’S position; and the object of the three reconnoissances having been fully attained–that is, LEE having been felt–they retired. That is the way in which the transactions of Thursday last are to appear in STANTON’S bulletin, we may be all quite sure; and this representation, together with the occupation of a part of the Boydton plank-road (which road the newspapers can call for a few days the Southside Road) will cause every city from Boston to Milwaukee to fire off its inevitable hundred guns. Thus, the Presidential election will be served, just in the nick of time; for that emergency it is not the real victory which is wanted, so much as the jubilation, glorification and cannon salutes.

“Even when the truth comes to be fully known that this was the grand pre-election assault itself: the resistless advance on Richmond which was to lift the Abolitionists into power again upon a swelling high-tide of glory unutterable–easily repulsed and sent rolling back with a loss of about six or seven thousand men in killed, wounded and prisoners; even when this is known, does the reader imagine that the Yankee nation will be discouraged? Very far from it. On the contrary it will be easily made to appear that from these ‘reconnoissances in force,’ an advantage has been gained, which is to make the next advance a sure and overwhelming success. For the fact is, that a day was chosen for this mighty movement, when the wind was southerly, a soft and gentle breeze, which wafted the odour of the Yankee whiskey-rations to the nostrils of Confederate soldiers. The Confederates ought to have been taken by surprise that morning; but the moment they snuffed the tainted gale, they knew what was to be the morning’s work. Not more unerring is the instinct which calls the vulture to the battle-field before a drop of blood is shed; or that which makes the kites ‘know well the long stern swell, that bids the Romans close;’ than the sure induction of our army that the Yankees are coming on, when morn or noon or dewy eve breathes along the whole line a perfumed savour of the ancient rye. The way in which this discovery may be improved is plain. It will be felt and understood throughout the intelligent North, that it gives them at last the key to Richmond. They will say–Those rebels, to leeward of us, smell the rising valour of our loyal soldiers: the filling and emptying of a hundred thousand canteens perfumes the sweet South as if it had passed over a bed of violets, stealing and giving odours:–when the wind is southerly it will be said, rebels know a hawk from a handsaw. Therefore it is but making our next grand assault on some morning when they are to windward of us–creeping up, in the lee of LEE, as if he were a stag–and Richmond is ours.”

That is savage, and sounds unfraternal to-day, when peace and good feeling reign–when the walls of the Virginia capitol re-echo the stately voices of the conscript fathers of the great commonwealth and mother of States: conscript fathers bringing their wisdom, mature study, and experience to the work of still further improving the work of Jefferson, Mason, and Washington.

“I have Richmond by the throat!” General Grant wrote in October, 1864. In February, 1868, when these lines are written, black hands have got Virginia by the throat, and she is suffocating; Cuffee grins, Cuffee gabbles–the groans of the “Old Mother” make him laugh.

Messieurs of the great Northwest, she gave you being, and suckled you! Are you going to see her strangled before your very eyes?

II.

NIGHTMARE.

In truth, if not held by the throat, as General Grant announced, Richmond and all the South in that autumn of 1864, was staggering, suffocating, reeling to and fro under the immense incubus of all-destroying war.

At that time black was the “only wear,” and widows and orphans were crying in every house throughout the land. Bread and meat had become no longer necessaries, but luxuries. Whole families of the old aristocracy lived on crusts, and even by charity. Respectable people in Richmond went to the “soup-houses.” Men once rich, were penniless, and borrowed to live. Provisions were incredibly dear. Flour was hundreds of dollars a barrel; bacon ten dollars a pound; coffee and tea had become unknown almost. Boots were seven hundred dollars a pair. The poor skinned the dead horses on battle-fields to make shoes. Horses cost five thousand dollars. Cloth was two hundred dollars a yard. Sorghum had taken the place of sugar. Salt was sold by the ounce. Quinine was one dollar a grain. Paper to write upon was torn from old blank books. The ten or twenty dollars which the soldiers received for their monthly pay, was about sufficient to buy a sheet, a pen, and a little ink to write home to their starving families that they too were starving.

In town and country the atmosphere seemed charged with coming ruin. All things were in confusion. Everywhere something jarred. The executive was unpopular. The heads of departments were inefficient. The army was unfed. The finances were mismanaged. In Congress the opposition bitterly criticised President Davis. The press resounded with fierce diatribes, _pro_ and _con_, on all subjects. The _Examiner_ attacked the government, and denounced the whole administration of affairs. The _Sentinel_ replied to the attacks, and defended the assailed officials. One could see nothing that was good. The other could see nothing that was bad. Their readers adopted their opinions; looking through glasses that were deep green, or else _couleur de rose_. But the green glasses outnumbered the rose-colored more and more every day.

Thus, in the streets of the city, and in the shades of the country, all was turmoil, confusion–a hopeless brooding on the hours that were coming. War was no longer an affair of the border and outpost. Federal cavalry scoured the woods, tearing the last mouthful from the poor people. Federal cannon were thundering in front of the ramparts of the cities. In the country, the faint-hearted gathered at the court-houses and cross-roads to comment on the times, and groan. In the cities, cowards croaked in the market-places. In the country, men were hiding their meat in garrets and cellars–concealing their corn in pens, lost in the depths of the woods. In the towns, the forestallers hoarded flour, and sugar, and salt in their warehouses, to await famine prices. The vultures of troubled times flapped their wings and croaked joyfully. Extortioners rolled in their chariots. Hucksters laughed as they counted their gains. Blockade-runners drank their champagne, jingled their coin, and dodged the conscript officers.

The rich were very rich and insolent. The poor were want-stricken and despairing. Fathers gazed at their children’s pale faces, and knew not where to find food for them. Mothers hugged their frail infants to bosoms drained by famine. Want gnawed at the vitals. Despair had come, like a black and poisonous mist, to strangle the heart.

The soldiers were agonized by maddening letters from their families. Their fainting loved ones called for help. “Father! come home!” moaned the children, with gaunt faces, crying for bread. “Husband, come home!” murmured the pale wife, with her half-dead infant in her arms. And the mothers–the mothers–ah! the mothers! They did not say, “Come home!” to their brave boys in the army; they were too proud for that–too faithful to the end. They did not summon them to come home; they only knelt down and prayed: “God, end this cruel war! Only give me back my boy! Do not bereave me of my child! The cause is lost–his blood not needed! God, pity me and give me back my boy!”

So that strange autumn of that strange year, 1864, wore on. The country was oppressed as by some hideous nightmare; and Government was silent.

The army alone, kept heart of hope–Lee’s old soldiers defied the enemy to the last.

III.

LEE’S MISERABLES.

They called themselves “Lee’s Miserables.”

That was a grim piece of humor, was it not, reader? And the name had had a somewhat curious origin. Victor Hugo’s work, _Les Miserables_, had been translated and published by a house in Richmond; the soldiers, in the great dearth of reading matter, had seized upon it; and thus, by a strange chance the tragic story of the great French writer, had become known to the soldiers in the trenches. Everywhere, you might see the gaunt figures in their tattered jackets bending over the dingy pamphlets–“Fantine,” “Cosette,” or “Marius,” or “St. Denis,”–and the woes of “Jean Valjean,” the old galley-slave, found an echo in the hearts of these brave soldiers, immured in the trenches and fettered by duty to their muskets or their cannon.

Singular fortune of a writer! Happy M. Hugo! Your fancies crossed the ocean, and, transmitted into a new tongue, whiled away the dreary hours of the old soldiers of Lee, at Petersburg! Thus, that history of “The Wretched,” was the pabulum of the South in 1864; and as the French title had been retained on the backs of the pamphlets, the soldiers, little familiar with the Gallic pronunciation, called the book “Lees Miserables!” Then another step was taken. It was no longer the book, but themselves whom they referred to by that name. The old veterans of the army thenceforth laughed at their miseries, and dubbed themselves grimly “_Lee’s_ Miserables!”[1]

[Footnote 1: It is unnecessary to say that this is not a jest or fancy on the part of Colonel Surrey. It is a statement of fact.–ED.]

[Illustration: THE TRENCHES.]

The sobriquet was gloomy, and there was something tragic in the employment of it; but it was applicable. Like most popular terms, it expressed the exact thought in the mind of every one–coined the situation into a phrase. Truly, they were “The Wretched,”–the soldiers of the army of Northern Virginia, in the fall and winter of 1864. They had a quarter of a pound of rancid “Nassau bacon”–from New England–for daily rations of meat. The handful of flour, or corn-meal, which they received, was musty. Coffee and sugar were doled out as a luxury, now and then only; and the microscopic ration became a jest to those who looked at it. A little “grease” and cornbread–the grease rancid, and the bread musty–these were the food of the army.

Their clothes, blankets, and shoes were no better–even worse. Only at long intervals could the Government issue new ones to them. Thus the army was in tatters. The old clothes hung on the men like scarecrows. Their gray jackets were in rags, and did not keep out the chilly wind sweeping over the frozen fields. Their old blankets were in shreds, and gave them little warmth when they wrapped themselves up in them, shivering in the long cold nights. The old shoes, patched and yawning, had served in many a march and battle–and now allowed the naked sole to touch the hard and frosty ground.

Happy the man with a new blanket! Proud the possessor of a whole roundabout! What millionaire or favorite child of fortune passes yonder–the owner of an unpatched pair of shoes?

Such were the rations and clothing of the army at that epoch;–rancid grease, musty meal, tattered jackets, and worn-out shoes. And these were the fortunate ones! Whole divisions often went without bread even, for two whole days. Thousands had no jackets, no blankets, and no shoes. Gaunt forms, in ragged old shirts and torn pantaloons only, clutched the musket. At night they huddled together for warmth by the fire in the trenches. When they charged, their naked feet left blood-marks on the abatis through which they went at the enemy.

That is not an exaggeration, reader. These facts are of record.

And that was a part only. It was not only famine and hardship which they underwent, but the incessant combats–and mortal tedium–of the trenches. Ah! the trenches! Those words summed up a whole volume of suffering. No longer fighting in open field; no longer winter-quarters, with power to range; no longer freedom, fresh air, healthful movement–the trenches!

Here, cooped up and hampered at every turn, they fought through all those long months of the dark autumn and winter of 1864. They were no longer men, but machines loading and firing the musket and the cannon. Burrowing in their holes, and subterranean covered-ways, they crouched in the darkness, rose at the sound of coming battle, manned the breastworks, or trained the cannon–day after day, week after week, month after month, they were there in the trenches at their grim work; and some fiat of Destiny seemed to have chained them there to battle forever! At midnight, as at noon, they were at their posts. In the darkness, dusky figures could be seen swinging the sponge-staff, swabbing the cannon, driving home the charge. In the starlight, the moonlight, or the gloom lit by the red glare, those figures, resembling phantoms, were seen marshalled behind the breastworks to repel the coming assault. Silence had fled from the trenches–the crash of musketry and the bellow of artillery had replaced it. That seemed never to cease. The men were rocked to sleep by it. They slept on in the dark trenches, though the mortar-shells rose, described their flaming curves, and, bursting, rained jagged fragments of iron upon them. And to many that was their last sleep. The iron tore them in their tattered blankets. They rose gasping, and streaming with blood. Then they staggered and fell; when you passed by, you saw a something lying on the ground, covered with the old blanket. It was one of “Lee’s Miserables,” killed last night by the mortars–and gone to answer, “Here!” before the Master.

The trenches!–ah! the trenches! Were you in them, reader? Thousands will tell you more of them than I can. There, an historic army was guarding the capital of an historic nation–the great nation of Virginia–and how they guarded it! In hunger, and cold, and nakedness, they guarded it still. In the bright days and the dark, they stood at their posts unmoved. In the black night-watches as by day–toward morning, as at evening–they stood, clutching the musket, peering out into the pitchy darkness; or lay, dozing around the grim cannon, in the embrasures. Hunger, and cold, and wounds, and the whispering voice of Despair, had no effect on them. The mortal tedium left them patient. When you saw the gaunt faces contract, and tears flow, it was because they had received some letter, saying that their wives and children were starving. Many could not endure that. It made them forget all. Torn with anguish, and unable to obtain furloughs for a day even, they went home without leave–and civilians called them deserters. Could such men be shot–men who had fought like heroes, and only committed this breach of discipline that they might feed their starving children? And, after all, it was not desertion that chiefly reduced Lee’s strength. It was battle which cut down the army–wounds and exposure which thinned its ranks. But thin as they were, and ever growing thinner, the old veterans who remained by the flag of such glorious memories, were as defiant in this dark winter of 1864, as they had been in the summer days of 1862 and 1863.

Army of _Northern Virginia_!–old soldiers of Lee, who fought beside your captain until your frames were wasted, and you were truly his “wretched” ones–you are greater to me in your wretchedness, more splendid in your rags, than the Old Guard of Napoleon, or the three hundred of Thermopylae! Neither famine, nor nakedness, nor suffering, could break your spirit. You were tattered and half-starved; your forms, were warworn; but you still had faith in Lee, and the great cause which you bore aloft on the points of your bayonets. You did not shrink in the last hour the hour of supreme trial. You meant to follow Lee to the last. If you ever doubted the result, you had resolved, at least, on one thing–to clutch the musket, to the end, and die in harness!

Is that extravagance–and is this picture of the great army of Northern Virginia overdrawn? Did they or did they not fight to the end? Answer! Wilderness, Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor, Charles City, every spot around Petersburg where they closed in death-grapple with the swarming enemy! Answer! winter of ’64,–bleak spring of ’65,–terrible days of the great retreat when hunted down and driven to bay like wild animals, they fought from Five Forks to Appomattox Court-House–fought staggering, and starving, and falling–but defiant to the last!

Bearded men were seen crying on the ninth of April, 1865. But it was _surrender_ which wrung their hearts, and brought tears to the grim faces.

Grant’s cannon had only made “Lee’s Miserables” cheer and laugh.

IV.

THE BLANDFORD RUINS.

These memories are not cheerful. Let us pass to scenes more sunny–and there were many in that depressing epoch. The cloud was dark–but in spite of General Grant, the sun would shine sometimes!

After reading the _Examiner’s_ comments, I mounted my horse and rode into Petersburg, where I spent a pleasant hour in conversation with a friend, Captain Max. Do you laugh still, my dear Max? Health and happiness attend you and yours, my hearty!

As I got into the saddle again, the enemy began a brisk shelling. The shell skimmed the roofs of the houses, with an unearthly scream; and one struck a chimney which it hurled down with a tremendous crash. In spite of all, however, the streets were filled with young women, who continued to walk quietly, or to trip along laughing and careless, to buy a riband or some trifle at the stores.[1] That seemed singular then, and seems more singular to-day. But there is nothing like being accustomed to any thing–and the shelling had now “lost its interest,” and troubled nobody.

[Footnote 1: Real.]

“Good!” I said, laughing, “our friends yonder are paying us their respects to-day. They have dined probably on the tons of turkey sent from New England, and are amusing themselves shelling us by way of dessert.”

And wishing to have a better view of the lines, I rode toward Blandford.

Do you remember the ivy-draped ruins of the old “Blandford church,” my dear reader? This is one of our Virginia antiquities, and is worth seeing. Around the ruins the large graveyard is full of elegant tombstones. Many are shattered to-day, however, by the Federal shell, as the spot was near the breastworks, and in full range of their artillery. In fact it was not a place to visit in the fall of 1864, unless you were fond of shell and a stray bullet. I was somewhat surprised, therefore, as I rode into the enclosure–with a hot skirmish going on a few hundred yards off–to see a young officer and a maiden sitting on a grass bank, beneath a larch tree, and conversing in the most careless manner imaginable.[1]

[Footnote 1: Real.]

Who were these calmly indifferent personages? Their backs were turned, and I could only see that the young lady had a profusion of auburn hair. Having dismounted, and approached, I made another discovery. The youth was holding the maiden’s hand, and looking with flushed cheeks into her eyes–while she hung her head, the ringlets rippling over her cheeks, and played absently with some wild flowers, which she held between her fingers.

The “situation” was plain. “Lovers,” I said to myself; “let me not disturb the young ones!”

And I turned to walk away without attracting their attention.

Unfortunately, however, a shell at that instant screamed over the ruin; the young girl raised her head with simple curiosity–not a particle of fear evidently–to watch the course of the missile; and, as the youth executed the like manoeuvre, they both became aware of my presence at the same moment.

The result was, that a hearty laugh echoed among the tombstones; and that the youth and maiden rose, hastening rapidly toward me.

An instant afterward I was pressing the hand of Katy Dare, whom I had left near Buckland, and that of Tom Herbert, whom I had not seen since the fatal day of Yellow Tavern.

V.

LES FORTUNES.

The auburn ringlets of Katy Dare were as glossy as ever; her blue eyes had still the charming archness which had made me love her from the first. Indeed her demeanor toward me had been full of such winning sweetness that it made me her captive; and I now pressed the little hand, and looked into the pretty blushing face with the sentiment which I should have experienced toward some favorite niece.

Katy made you feel thus by her artless and warm-hearted smile. How refrain from loving one whose blue eyes laughed like her lips, and whose glances said, “I am happier since you came!”

And Tom was equally friendly; his face radiant, his appearance distinguished. He was clad in a new uniform, half covered with gold braid. His hat was decorated with a magnificent black plume. His cavalry boots, reaching to the knee, were small, delicate, and of the finest leather. At a moderate estimation, Tom’s costume must have cost him three thousand dollars!–Happy Tom!

He grasped my hand with a warmth which evidently came straight from the heart; for he had a heart–that dandy!

“Hurrah! old fellow; here you are!” Tom cried, laughing. “You came upon us as suddenly as if you had descended from heaven!”

“Whither you would like to send me back! Am I wrong, Tom?”

And I shot a glance of ancient and paternal affection at these two young things, whose _tete-a-tete_ I had interrupted.

Katy blushed beautifully, and then ended by laughing. Tom caressed his slender mustache, and said:—

“My dear fellow, I certainly should like to go to heaven–consequently to send my friends there–but if it is all the same to everybody, I think I would prefer–hem!–deferring the journey for a brief period, my boy.”

“Until an angel is ready to go with you!”

And I glanced at the angel with the ringlets.

“Ah, my dear Surry!” said Tom, smoothing his chin with his hand, “you really have a genius for repartee which is intolerable, and not to be endured!”

“Let the angel sit in judgment!”

“Oh, you have most ‘damnable iteration!'”

“I learned it all from you.”

“From me, my boy?”

“Certainly–see the beauty of repetition in poetry.”

And looking at the damsel, I began to repeat–

“Katy! Katy!
Don’t marry any other!
You’ll break my heart, and kill me dead, And then be hanged for murder!”

The amount of blushing, laughter, pouting, good humor, and hilarity generally, which this poem occasioned, was charming. In a few minutes we were all seated again on the grassy bank, and Tom had given me a history of his adventures, which had not been either numerous or remarkable. He had been assigned to duty on the staff of General Fitzhugh Lee, and it was delightful to hear his enthusiasm on the subject of that gay and gallant officer.

“I tell you he’s a trump, old fellow,” quoth Tom, with ardor. “He’s as brave as steel, a first-rate officer, a thorough gentleman, generous, kind, and as jolly as a lark! Give me Fitz Lee to fight with, or march with, or hear laugh! He was shot in the Valley, and I have been with him in Richmond. In spite of his wound, which is a severe one, he is as gay as the sunshine, and it would put you in good spirits only to go into his chamber!”

“I know General Fitz well, Tom,” I replied, “and you are right about him; every word you say is true, and more to boot, old fellow. So you are cruising around now, waiting for your chief to recover?”

“Exactly, my dear Surry.”

“And have captured the barque _Katy!_”

“Humph!” quoth Miss Katy, tossing her head, with a blush and a laugh.

“Beware of pirates,” I said, “who make threats even in their verses,–and now tell me, Miss Katy, if you are on a visit to Petersburg? It will give me true pleasure to come and see you.”

“Indeed you must!” she said, looking at me with the most fascinating smile, “for you know you are one of my old friends now, and must not neglect me. I am at my aunt’s, Mrs. Hall,–uncle brought me a month ago from Buckland; but in the morning I shall go down to a cousin’s in Dinwiddie.”

“In Dinwiddie, Miss Katy?”

“Yes, near the Rowanty. My cousin, Mr. Dare, has come for me.”

“Well, I will visit you there.”

“Please do. The house is called ‘Disaway’s.'”

I bowed, smiling, and turned to Tom Herbert.

“When shall I see you again, Tom, and where? Next week–at Disaway’s?”

Tom colored and then laughed. This dandy, you see, was a good boy still.

“Well, old fellow,” he replied, “I think it possible I may visit Dinwiddie. My respected chieftain, General Fitz, is at present reposing on his couch in Richmond, and I am bearer of bouquets as well as of dispatches between him and his surgeon. But I am told he is ordered to Dinwiddie as soon as he is up. The country is a new one; the thought has occurred to me that any information I can acquire by–hem!–a topographical survey, would be valuable. You perceive, do you not, my dear friend? You appreciate my motive?”

“Perfectly, Tom. There will probably be a battle near ‘Disaway’s.'”

“And I’d better ride over the ground, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll do it!”

“Only beware of one thing!”

“What, my dear Surry?” asked Tom, anxiously.

“There is probably a conservatory at Disaway’s.”

“A conservatory?”

“Like that near Buckland, and the battle might take place _there_. If it does–two to one you are routed!”

Katy blushed exquisitely, smiled demurely, and burst into laughter. Then catching my eye she raised her finger, and shook her head with sedate reproach, looking at Tom. He was laughing.

“All right, I’ll look out, Surry!”

“Resolve on one thing, Tom.”

“What is that?”

“That you will never surrender, but be taken in arms!”

With which mild and inoffensive joke I shook hands with Tom, informing him where to find me; made Miss Katy a bow, which she returned with a charming smile and a little inclination which shook together her ringlets; and then leaving the young people to themselves, I mounted my horse, and returned to the Cedars.

All the way I was smiling. A charming influence had descended upon me. The day was brighter, the sunshine gayer, for the sight of the young fellow, and the pretty little maiden, with her blue eyes, like the skies, and her ringlets of silken gold!

VI.

ON THE BANKS OF THE ROWANTY.

When I again set out for the cavalry, a few days after the scene at Blandford church, the youth and sunshine of those two faces still dwelt in my memory, and I went along smiling and happy.

Not even the scenes on the late battle-field beyond the Rowanty, made my mood gloomy; and yet these were not gay. Graves were seen everywhere; the fences were broken down; the houses riddled by balls; and in the trampled roads and fields negroes were skinning the dead horses, to make shoes of their hides. On the animals already stripped sat huge turkey-buzzards feeding. My horse shied as the black vultures rose suddenly on flapping wings. They only circled around, however, sailing back as I disappeared.

Such is war, reader,–a charming panorama of dead bodies and vultures!

Turning into the Quaker road, I went on until I reached the head-quarters of General William H.F. Lee, opposite Monk’s Neck. Here, under the crest of a protecting hill, where the pine thickets afforded him shelter from the wind, that gallant soldier had “set up his rest”–that is to say a canvass fly, one end of which was closed with a thick-woven screen of evergreens. My visit was delightful, and I shall always remember it with pleasure. Where are you to-day, general, and good comrades of the old staff? You used to laugh as hard as you fought–so your merriment was immense! Heaven grant that to-day, when the bugles are silent, the sabres rusting, you are laughing as in the days I remember!

Declining the friendly invitation to spend the night, I went on in the afternoon; and on my way was further enlivened by a gay scene which makes me smile even to-day. It was in passing General Butler’s headquarters near the Rowanty. In the woods gleamed his white tents; before them stretched the level sandy road; a crowd of staff officers and others, with the general in their midst, were admiring two glossy ponies, led up by two small urchins, evidently about to run a race on them.

Butler–that brave soldier, whom all admired as much as I did–was limping about, in consequence of a wound received at Fleetwood. In the excitement of the approaching race he had forgotten his hurt. And soon the urchins were tossed up on the backs of their little glossy steeds–minus all but bridle. Then they took their positions about three hundred yards off; remained an instant abreast and motionless; then a clapping of hands was heard–it was the signal to start–and the ponies came on like lightning.

The sight was comic beyond expression. The boys clung with their knees, bending over the floating manes; the little animals darted by; they disappeared in the woods “amid thunders of applause;” and it was announced that the roan pony had won.

“Trifles,” you say, perhaps, reader; “why don’t our friend, the colonel, go on with his narrative?”

True,–the reproach is just. But these trifles cling so to the memory! I like to recall them–to review the old scenes–to paint the “trifles” even, which caught my attention during the great civil war. This is not a history, friend–only a poor little memoir. I show you our daily lives, more than the “great events” of history. That is the way the brave Butler and his South Carolinians amused themselves–and the figure of this soldier is worth placing amid my group of “paladins.” He was brave–none was braver; thoroughbred–I never saw a man more so. His sword had flashed at Fleetwood, and in a hundred other fights; and it was going to flash to the end.

I pushed on after the pony race, and very soon had penetrated the belt of shadowy pines which clothe the banks of the Rowanty, making of this country a wilderness as singular almost as that of Spottsylvania. Only here and there appeared a small house, similar to that of Mr. Alibi’s–all else was woods, woods, woods! Through the thicket wound the “military road” of General Hampton; and I soon found that his head-quarters were at a spot which I had promised myself to visit–“Disaway’s.”

Two hours’ ride brought me to the place. Disaway’s was an old mansion, standing on a hill above the Rowanty, near the “Halifax bridge,” by which the great road from Petersburg to North Carolina crosses the stream. It was a building of considerable size, with wings, numerous gables, and a portico; and was overshadowed by great oaks, beneath which gleamed the tents of Hampton and his staff.

As I rode up the hill, the staff came out to welcome me. I had known these brave gentlemen well, when with Stuart, and they were good enough, now, to give me the right hand of fellowship,–to receive me for old times’ sake, with “distinguished consideration.” The general was as cordial as his military family–and in ten minutes I was seated and conversing with him, beneath the great oak.

A charming cordiality inspired the words and countenance of the great soldier. Nearly four years have passed, but I remember still his courteous smile and friendly accents.

All at once, the figure of a young woman appeared in the doorway. At a glance I recognized the golden ringlets of Katy Dare. She beckoned to me, smiling; I rose and hastened to greet her; in a moment we were seated upon the portico, conversing like old friends.

There was something fascinating in this child. The little maiden of eighteen resembled a blossom of the spring. Were I a poet, I should declare that her azure eyes shone out from her auburn hair like glimpses of blue sky behind sun-tinted clouds!

I do not know how it came about, or how I found myself there, but in a few moments I was walking with her in the autumn woods, and smiling as I gazed into the deep blue of her eyes. The pines were sighing above us; beneath our feet a thick carpet of brown tassels lay; and on the summit of the evergreens the golden crown of sunset slowly rose, as though the fingers of some unseen spirit were bearing it away into the night.

Katy tripped on, rather than walked–laughing and singing gayly. The mild air just lifted the golden ringlets of her hair, as she threw back her beautiful face; her cheeks were rosy with the joy of youth; and from her smiling lips, as fresh and red as carnations, escaped in sweet and tender notes, like the carol of an oriole, that gay and warbling song, the “Bird of “Beauty.”

Do you remember it, my dear reader? It is old–but so many good things are old!

“Bird of beauty, whose bright plumage Sparkles with a thousand dyes:
Bright thine eyes, and gay thy carol, Though stern winter rules the skies!”

Do you say that is not very grand poetry? I protest! friend, I think it superior to the _chef d’oeuvres_ of the masters? You do not think so? Ah! that is because you did not hear it sung in the autumn forest that evening–see the ringlets of Katy Dare floating back from the rosy cheeks, as the notes escaped from her smiling lips, and rang clearly in the golden sunset. Do you laugh at my enthusiasm? Well, I am going to increase your mirth. To the “Bird of Beauty” succeeded a song which I never heard before, and have never heard since. Thus it is a lost pearl I rescue, in repeating some lines. What Katy sang was this:–

“Come under, some one, and give her a kiss! My honey, my love, my handsome dove!
My heart’s been a-weeping,
This long time for you!

“I’ll hang you, I’ll drown you,
My honey, my love, my handsome dove! My heart’s been a-weeping,
This long time for you!”

That was the odd, original, mysterious, incomprehensible poem, which Katy Dare carolled in the sunset that evening. It may seem stupid to some–to me the words and the air are charming, for I heard them from the sweetest lips in the world. Indeed there was something so pure and childlike about the young girl, that I bowed before her. Her presence made me better–banished all discordant emotions. All about her was delicate and tender, and pure. Like her “bird of bright plumage” she seemed to have flitted here to utter her carol, after which she would open her wings and disappear!

Katy ran on, in the pauses of her singing, with a hundred little jests, interspersed with her sweet childlike laughter, and I was more and more enchanted–when all at once I saw her turn her head over her shoulder. A bright flush came to her cheeks as she did so; her songs and laughter ceased; then–a step behind us!

I looked back, and found the cause of her sudden “dignity,” her demure silence. The unfortunate Colonel Surry had quite disappeared from the maiden’s mind.

Coming on rapidly, with springy tread, I saw–Tom Herbert! Tom Herbert, radiant; Tom Herbert, the picture of happiness; Tom Herbert, singing in his gay and ringing voice:–

“Katy! Katy!
Don’t marry any other!
You’ll break my heart and kill me dead, And you’ll be hung for murder!”

Wretch!–I could cheerfully have strangled him!

VII.

THE STUART HORSE ARTILLERY.

An hour afterward I was at the camp of the Stuart horse artillery.

Five minutes after greeting Tom, who had sought Katy, at “Disaway’s”–been directed to the woods–and there speedily joined us–I left the young ones together, and made my way back to the mansion. There are few things, my dear reader, more disagreeable than–just when you are growing poetical–when blue eyes have excited your romantic feelings–when your heart has begun to glow–when you think “I am the cause of all this happiness, and gayety!”–there are few things I say–but why say it? In thirty seconds the rosy-faced youngster Tom, had driven the antique and battered Surry quite from the mind of the Bird of Beauty. That discomfited individual, therefore, took his way back sadly to Disaway’s, leaving the children his blessing; declined the cordial invitations to spend the night, mounted his horse, and rode to find Will Davenant, at the horse artillery.

Their camp was in the edge of a wood, near the banks of the Rowanty; and having exchanged greetings with my old comrades of the various batteries, and the gallant Colonel Chew, their chieftain, I repaired to Will Davenant’s head-quarters.

These consisted of a breadth of canvass, stretched beneath a tree in the field–in front of which burned a fire.

I had come to talk with Will, but our conversation was obliged to be deferred. The brave boys of the horse artillery, officers and men, gathered round to hear the news from Petersburg; and it was a rare pleasure to me to see again the old familiar faces. Around me, in light of the camp-fire, were grouped the tigers who had fought with Pelham, in the old battles of Stuart. Here were the heroes of a hundred combats; the men who had held their ground desperately in the most desperate encounters–the bulldogs who had showed their teeth and sprung to the death-grapple at Cold Harbor, Manassas, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Fleetwood, Gettysburg, in the Wilderness, at Trevillian’s, at Sappony, in a thousand bitter conflicts with the cavalry. Scarred faces, limping bodies, the one-armed, the one-legged,–these I saw around me; the frames slashed and mutilated, but the eyes flashing and full of fight, as in the days when Pelham thundered, loosing his war-hounds on the enemy. I had seen brave commands, in these long years of combat–had touched the hands of heroic men, whose souls fear never entered–but I never saw braver fighters than the horse artillery–soldiers more reckless than Pelham’s bloodhounds. They went to battle laughing. There was something of the tiger in them. They were of every nation nearly–Frenchmen, Irishmen, Italians,–but one sentiment seemed to inspire them–hatred of our friends over the way. From the moment in 1862, when at Barbee’s they raised the loud resounding _Marseillaise_, while fighting the enemy in front and rear, to this fall of 1864, when they had strewed a hundred battle-fields with dead men and horses, these “swarthy old hounds” of the horse artillery had vindicated their claims to the admiration of Stuart;–in the thunder of their guns, the dead chieftain had seemed still to hurl his defiance at the invaders of Virginia.

Looking around me, I missed many of the old faces, sleeping now beneath the sod. But Dominic, Antonio, and Rossini were still there–those members of the old “Napoleon Detachment” of Pelham’s old battery; there still was Guillemot, the erect, military-looking Frenchman,–Guillemot, with his hand raised to his cap, saluting me with the profoundest respect; these were the faces I had seen a hundred times, and never any thing but gay and full of fight.

Doubtless they remembered me, and thought of Stuart, as others had done, at seeing me. They gave me a soldier’s welcome; soon, from the group around the camp-fire rose a song. Another followed, then another, in the richest tenor; and the forests of Dinwiddie rang with the deep voices, rising clear and sonorous in the moonlight night.

They were old songs of Ashby and Stuart; unpublished ditties of the struggle, which the winds have borne away into the night of the past, and which now live only in memory. There was one of Ashby, commencing,–

“See him enter on the valley,”

which wound up with the words,–

“And they cried, ‘O God they’ve shot him! Ashby is no more!’
Strike, freemen, for your country, Sheathe your swords no more!
While remains in arms a Yankee
On Virginia’s shore!”

The air was sad and plaintive. The song rose, and wailed, and died away like the sigh of the wind in the trees, the murmuring airs of evening in the brambles and thickets of the Rowanty. The singers had fought under Ashby, and in their rude and plaintive song they uttered their regrets.

Then the music changed its character, and the stirring replaced the sad.

“If you want to have a good time,
J’ine the cavalry!”

came in grand, uproarious strains; and this was succeeded by the jubilant–

“Farewell, forever to the star-spangled banner, No longer shall she wave o’er the land of the free; But we’ll unfurl to the broad breeze of heaven, The thirteen bright stars round the Palmetto tree!”

At that song–and those words, “the thirteen bright stars round the Palmetto tree!”–you might have seen the eyes of the South Carolinians flash. Many other ditties followed, filling the moonlight night with song–“The Bonnie Blue Flag,” “Katy Wells,” and “The Louisiana Colors.” This last was never printed. Here are a few of the gay verses of the “Irish Lad from Dixie:”–

“My sweetheart’s name is Kathleen,
For her I’ll do or die;
She has a striped straw mattress,
A shanty, pig, and sty.
Her cheeks are bright and beautiful, Her hair is dark and curly,
She sent me with the secesh boys
To fight with General Early.

“She made our flag with her own hands, My Kathleen fair and clever,
And twined its staff with shamrock green, Old Ireland’s pride forever!
She gave it into our trust,
Among our weeping mothers;–
‘Remember, Irish men!’ she said,
‘You bear the Red Cross colors!’

“She told me I must never run;
The Rebel boys were brothers;–
To stand forever by our flag,
The Louisiana colors!
And then she said, ‘If you desert, You’ll go to the Old Baily!’
Says I, ‘My love, when I can’t shoot, I’ll use my old shillalah!’

“And many a bloody charge we made,
Nor mind the battle’s blaze;
God gave to us a hero bold,
Our bonny Harry Hays!
And on the heights of Gettysburg,
At twilight first was seen,
The stars of Louisiana bright,
And Katy’s shamrock green.

“And oh! if I get home again,
I swear I’ll never leave her;
I hope the straw mattress will keep, The pig won’t have the fever!
For then, you know, I’ll marry Kate, And never think of others.
Hurrah, then, for the shamrock green, And the Louisiana colors!”

It was nearly midnight before the men separated, repairing to their tents. Their songs had charmed me, and made the long hours flit by like birds. Where are you, brave singers, in this year ’68? I know not–you are all scattered. Your guns have ceased their thunder, your voices sound no more. But I think you sometimes remember, as you muse, in these dull years, those gay moonlight nights on the banks of the Rowanty.

VIII.

“CHARGE! STUART! PAY OFF ASHBY’S SCORE!”

These memories are beguiling, and while they possess me, my drama does not march.

But you have not been wearied, I hope, my dear reader, by this little pencil sketch of the brave horse artillerymen. I found myself among them; the moonlight shone; the voices sang; and I have paused to look and listen again in memory.

These scenes, however, can not possess for you, the attraction they do for me. To proceed with my narrative. I shall pass over my long conversation with Will Davenant, whose bed I shared. I had promised his father to reveal nothing of the events which I had so strangely discovered–and was then only able to give the young man vague assurances of a coming change for the better in his affair with Miss Conway. He thanked me, blushing, and trying to smile–and then we fell asleep beside each other.

Just at daylight I was suddenly aroused. The jarring notes of a bugle were ringing through the woods. I extended my arm in the darkness, and found that Will Davenant was not beside me.

What had happened? I rose quickly, and throwing my cape over my shoulders, went out of the tent.

The horse artillery was already hitched up, and in motion. The setting moon illumined the grim gun-barrels, caissons, and heavy horses, moving with rattling chains. Behind came the men on horseback, laughing and ready for combat.

As I was gazing at this warlike scene so suddenly evoked, Will Davenant rode up and pointed to my horse, which was ready saddled, and attached to a bough of the great tree.

“I thought I wouldn’t wake you, colonel,” he said, with a smile, “but let you sleep to the last moment. The enemy are advancing, and we are going to meet them.”

He had scarcely spoken, when a rapid firing was heard two or three miles in front, and a loud cheer rose from the artillerymen. In a moment the guns were rushing on at a gallop, and, as I rode beside them, I saw a crimson glare shoot up above the woods, in the direction of the Weldon railroad. The firing had meanwhile grown heavier, and the guns were rushed onward. Will Davenant’s whole appearance had completely changed. The youth, so retiring in camp, so cool in a hot fight, seemed burnt up with impatience, at the delay caused by the terrible roads. His voice had become hoarse and imperious; he was everywhere urging on the drivers; when the horses stalled in the fathomless mudholes, he would strike the animals, in a sort of rage, with the flat of his sabre, forcing them with a leap which made the traces crack, to drag the piece out of the hole, and onward. A glance told me, then, what was the secret of this mere boy’s splendid efficiency. Under the shy, blushing face, was the passion and will of the born soldier–the beardless boy had become the master mind, and drove on every thing by his stern will.

In spite of every exertion to overcome the obstacles in the roads, it was nearly sunrise before we reached open ground. Then we emerged upon the upland, near “Disaway’s,” and saw a picturesque spectacle. From the hill, we could make out every thing. A hot cavalry fight was going on beneath us. The enemy had evidently crossed the Rowanty lower down; and driving in the pickets, had passed forward to the railroad.

The guns were rushed toward the spot, unlimbered on a rising ground, and their thunder rose suddenly above the forests. Shell after shell burst amid the enemy, breaking their ranks, and driving them back–and by the time I had galloped through a belt of woods to the scene of the fight, they lost heart, retreated rapidly, and disappeared, driven across the Rowanty again, with the Confederates pursuing them so hotly, that many of the gray cavalry punched them in the back with their empty carbines.[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

Their object in crossing had been to burn a small mill; and in this they had succeeded, after which they retired as soon as possible to their “own side.” Some queer scenes had accompanied this “tremendous military movement.” In a house near the mill, resided some ladies; and we found them justly indignant at the course of the enemy. The Federal officers–general officers–had ordered the house-furniture to be piled up, the carriage to be drawn into the pile, and then shavings were heaped around, and the whole set on fire, amid shouts, cheers, and firing. The lady of the mansion remonstrated bitterly, but received little satisfaction.

“I have no time to listen to women!”[1] said the Federal general, rudely.

[Footnote 1: His words.]

“It is not _time_ that you want, sir!” returned the lady, with great hauteur, “it is _politeness_!”[1]

[Footnote 1: Her words.]

This greatly enraged the person whom she addressed, and he became furious, when the lady added that all the horses had been sent away. At that moment an officer near him said:–

“General if you are going to burn the premises, you had better commence, as the rebs are pursuing us.”

“Order it to be done at once!” was the gruff reply.

And the mill was fired, in the midst of a great uproar, with which mingled shouts of, “The Rebels are coming! The Rebels are coming!”

Soon they came, a hot fight followed, and during this fight a young woman watched it, holding her little brother by the hand near the burning mill. I had afterward the honor of making her acquaintance, and she told me that throughout the firing she found herself repeating over and over, unconsciously, the lines of the song,–

“Charge! Stuart! pay off Ashby’s score, In Stonewall Jackson’s way.”[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

The enemy had thus effected their object, and retreated hotly pursued. I followed toward the lower Rowanty, and had the pleasure of seeing them hurried over. So ended this immense military movement.

IX.

MOHUN,–HIS THIRD PHASE.

I was about to turn my horse and ride back from the stream, across which the enemy had disappeared, when all at once Mohun, who had led the pursuit, rode up to me, and we exchanged a cordial greeting.

“Well, this little affair is over, my dear Surry,” he said; “have you any thing to occupy you for two or three hours?”

“Nothing; entirely at your service, Mohun.”

“Well, I wish you to accompany me on a private expedition. Will you follow me blindfold?”

“Confidingly.”

And I rode on beside Mohun, who had struck into a path along the banks of the Rowanty, leading back in the direction of Halifax bridge.

As we rode on, I looked attentively at him. I scarcely recognized, in the personage beside me, the Mohun of the past. His gloom so profound on that night when I parted with him, after the expedition to the lonely house beyond Monk’s Neck, had entirely disappeared; and I saw in him as few traces of the days on the Rappahannock, in Pennsylvania, and the Wilderness. These progressive steps in the development of Mohun’s character may be indicated by styling them the first, second, and third phases of the individual. He had entered now upon the third phase, and I compared him, curiously with his former self.

On the Rappahannock, when I saw him first, Mohun had been cynical, bitter, full of gloomy misanthropy. Something seemed to have hardened him, and made him hate his species. In the bloom of early manhood, when his life was yet in the flower, and should have prompted him to all kind and sweet emotions, he was a stranger to all–to charity, good-will, friendship, all that makes life endurable. The tree was young and lusty; the spring was not over; freshness and verdure should have clothed it; and yet it appeared to have been blasted. What had dried up its sap, I asked myself–withering and destroying it? What thunder-bolt had struck this sturdy young oak? I could not answer–but from the first moment of our acquaintance, Mohun became for me a problem.

Then the second phase presented itself. When I met him in the Wilderness, in May, 1864, a great change had come over him. He was no longer bitter and cynical. The cloud had plainly swept away, leaving the skies of his life brighter. Gayety had succeeded gloom. The rollicking enjoyment of the true cavalryman had replaced the recklessness of the man-hater. Again I looked at him with attention–for his courage had made me admire him, and his hidden grief had aroused my sympathy. A great weight had plainly been lifted from his shoulders; he breathed freer; the sap long dried up had begun to flow again; and the buds told that the leaves of youth and hope were about to reappear. What was the meaning of that?

Now the third phase of the man had come to excite in me more surprise and interest than the former ones. This time the change was complete. Mohun seemed no longer himself. Was the man riding beside me the old Mohun of 1863? Where was the gloomy misanthropy–where the rollicking humor? They had quite disappeared. Mohun’s glance was gentle and his countenance filled with a charming modesty and sweetness. His voice, once so cold, and then so hilarious, had grown calm, low, measured, almost soft. His smile was exquisitely cordial; his glance full of earnestness and sweetness. The heaven-born spirit of kindness–that balm for all the wounds of human existence–shone in his eyes, on his lips, in every accent of his voice.

Colonel Mohun had been reckless, defiant, unhappy, or wildly gay. General Mohun was calm, quietly happy it seemed. You would have said of him, formerly, “This is a man who fights from hatred of his enemies, or the exuberant life in him.” Now you would have said, “This is a patriot who fights from principle, and is worthy to die in a great cause.”

What had worked this change? I asked myself once more. Was it love? Or was it the conviction which the Almighty sends to the most hardened, that life is not made to indulge hatred, but to love and perform our duty in?

I knew not; but there was the phenomenon before me. Mohun was certainly a new man, and looked on life and the world around him with a gentleness and kindness of which I had believed him incapable.

“I am going to take you to see a somewhat singular character,” he said.

“Who is he?”

“It is a woman.”

“Ah!”

“And a very strange one, I promise you, my dear Surry.”

“Lead on, I’ll follow thee!”

“Good! and I declare to you, I think Shakespeare would have examined this human being with attention.”

“She is a phenomenon, then?”

“Yes.”

“A witch?”

“No, an epileptic; at least I think so.”

“Indeed! And where does she live?”

“On the Halifax road, some miles from the Rowanty.”

“In the lines of the enemy, then?”

“Something like it.”

“Humph!”

“Don’t disturb yourself about that, Surry. I have sent out a scouting party who are clearing the country. Their pickets are back to Reams’s by this time, and there is little danger.”

“At all events, we’ll share any, Mohun. Forward!”

And we pushed on to the Halifax bridge, where, as Mohun expected, there was no Federal picket.

The bridge–a long rough affair–had been half destroyed by General Hampton; but we forded near it, pushed our horses through the swamp, amid the heavy tree trunks, felled to form an abatis, and gaining the opposite bank of the Rowanty, rode on rapidly in the direction of Petersburg, that is to say, toward the rear of the Federal army.

X.

AMANDA.

Half an hour’s ride through the swampy low grounds rising to gentle uplands, and beneath the festoons of the great vines trailing from tree to tree, brought us in front of a small house, half buried in a clump of bushes, like a hare’s nest amid brambles.

“We have arrived!” said Mohun, leading the way to the cabin, which we soon reached.

Throwing his bridle over a bough near the low fence, Mohun approached the door on foot, I following, and when close to the door, he gave a low knock.

“Come in!” said a cheerful and smiling voice.

And Mohun opened the door, through which we passed into a small and very neat apartment containing a table, some chairs, a wide fireplace, in which some sticks were burning, a number of cheap engravings of religious scenes, framed and hanging on the wall, and a low bed, upon which lay a woman fully dressed.

She was apparently about thirty-five, and her appearance was exceedingly curious. Her figure was slender and of medium height; her complexion that of a Moorish or oriental woman, rather than that of the quadroon, which she appeared to be; her hair black, waving, and abundant; her eyes as dark and sparkling as burnished ebony; and her teeth of dazzling whiteness. Her dress was neat, and of bright colors. Around her neck she wore a very odd necklace, which seemed made of carved bone; and her slender fingers were decorated with a number of rings.[1]

[Footnote 1: “I have endeavored to give an exact description of this singular woman.” Colonel Surry said to me when he read this passage to me: “She will probably be remembered by numbers of persons in both the Federal and Confederate armies. These will tell you that I describe her accurately, using her real name, and will recall the strange prediction which she made, and which I repeat. Was she an epileptic? I do not know. I have certainly never encountered a more curious character!”–EDITOR.]

Such was the personage who greeted us, in a voice of great calmness and sweetness, as we entered. She did not rise from the bed upon which she was lying; but her cordial smile clearly indicated that this did not arise from discourtesy.

“Take seats, gentlemen,” she said, “and please excuse me from getting up. I am a little poorly to-day.”

“Stay where you are, Amanda,” said Mohun, “and do not disturb yourself.”

She looked at him with her dark eyes, and said, in her gentle, friendly voice:–

“You know me, I see, General Mohun.”

“And you me, I see, Amanda.”

“I never saw you before, sir, but–am I mistaken?”

“Not in the least. How did you know me?”

The singular Amanda smiled.

“I have _seen you_ often, sir.”

“Ah–in your visions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or, perhaps, Nighthawk described me. You know Mr. Nighthawk!”

“Oh, yes, sir. I hope he is well. He has often been here; he may have told me what you were like, sir, and then I _saw you_ to know you afterward.”

I looked at the speaker attentively. Was she an impostor? It was impossible to think so. There was absolutely no evidence whatever that she was acting a part–rather every thing to forbid the supposition, as she thus readily acquiesced in Mohun’s simple explanation.

For some moments Mohun remained silent. Then he said:–

“Those visions which you have are very strange. Is it possible that you really _see_ things before they come to pass–or are you only amusing yourself, and others, by saying so? I see no especial harm in the matter, if you are jesting; but tell me, for my own satisfaction and that of my friend, if you _really_ see things.”

Amanda smiled with untroubled sweetness.

“I am in earnest, sir,” she said, “and I would not jest with you and Colonel Surry.”

I listened in astonishment.

“Ah! you know me, too, Amanda!”

“Yes, sir–or I think I do. I think you are Colonel Surry, sir.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have _seen you, too_, sir?” was the smiling reply.

I sat down, leaned my head upon my hand, and gazed at this incomprehensible being. Was she really a witch? I do not believe in witches, and at once rejected that theory. If not an impostor, then, only one other theory remained–that Nighthawk had described my person to her, in the same manner that he had Mohun’s, and the woman might thus believe that she had seen me, as well as my companion, in her “visions.”

To her last words, however, I made no reply, and Mohun renewed the colloquy, as before.

“Then you are really in earnest, Amanda, and actually see, in vision, what is coming to pass?” he said.

“I think I do, sir.”

“Do you have the visions often?”

“I did once, sir, but they now seldomer come.”

“What produces them?”

“I think it is any excitement, sir. They tell me that I lay on my bed moaning, and moving my arms about,–and when I wake, after these attacks, I remember seeing the visions.”

“I hear that you predicted General Hunter’s attack on Lexington last June.”

“Yes, sir, I told a lady what _I saw_, some months before it came to pass.”

“What did you see? Will you repeat it for us?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I remember all, and will tell you about it, as it seems to interest you. I saw a town, on the other side of the mountain, which they afterward told me was called Lexington–but I did not know its name then–and a great army of men in blue dresses came marching in, shouting and cheering. The next thing I saw was a large building on fire, and through the windows I saw books burning, with some curious- looking things, of which I do not know the names.”

“The Military Institute, with the books and scientific apparatus,” said Mohun, calmly.

“Was it, sir? I did not know.”

“What did you see afterward, Amanda?”

“Another house burning, sir; the Federal people gave the ladies ten minutes to leave it, and then set it on fire.”

Mohun glanced at me.

“That is strange,” he said; “do you know the name of the family?”

“No, sir.”

“It was Governor Letcher’s. Well, what next?”

“Then they went in a great crowd, and broke open another building–a large house, sir–and took every thing. Among the things they took was a statue, which they did not break up, but carried away with them.”

“Washington’s statue!” murmured Mohun; and, turning to me, he added:–

“This is curious, is it not, Surry?”

I nodded.

“_Very_ curious.”

I confess I believed that the strange woman was trifling with us, and had simply made up this story after the event. Mohun saw my incredulity, and said, in a low tone:–

“You do not believe in this?”

“No,” I returned, in the same tone.

“And yet one thing is remarkable.”

“What?”

“That a lady of the highest character assured me, the other day, that all this was related to her before Hunter even entered the Valley.”[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

And turning to Amanda, he said:–

“When did you see these things?”

“I think it was in March, sir.”

The words were uttered in the simplest manner possible. The strange woman smiled as sweetly as she spoke, and seemed as far from being guilty of a deliberate imposture as before.

“And you _saw_ the fight at Reams’s, too?”

“Yes, sir; I saw it two months before it took place. There was a man killed running through the yard of a house, and they told me, afterward, he was found dead there.”

“Have you had any visions, since?”

“Only one, sir.”

“Lately?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you see?”

“It was not much, sir. I saw the Federal people on horses, watering their horses in a large river somewhere west of here, and the vision said the war would be over about next March.”

Mohun smiled.

“Which side will be successful, Amanda?”

“The vision did not say, sir.”[1]

[Footnote 1: Colonel Surry assured me that he had scrupulously searched his memory to recall the exact words of this singular woman: and that he had given the precise substance of her statements; often, the exact words.–ED.]

Mohun, who had taken his seat on a rude settee, leaned his elbow on his knee, and for some moments gazed into the fire.

“I have asked you some questions, Amanda,” he said at length, “relating to public events. I _now come to some private matters_–those which brought me hither–in which your singular visions may probably assist me. Are you willing to help me?”

“Yes, indeed, sir, if I can,” was the reply.

XI.

DEEP UNDER DEEP.

Mohun fixed his mild, and yet penetrating glance upon the singular woman, who sustained it, however, with no change in her calm and smiling expression.

“You know Nighthawk?”

“Oh, yes, sir. He has been here often.”

“And Swartz?”

“Very well, sir–I have known him many years.”

“Have you seen him, lately?”

“No, sir; not for some weeks.”

“Ah! You saw him some weeks since?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At this house?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know what has become of him?”

“No, sir; but I suppose he is off somewhere.”

“He is dead!”

Her head rose slightly, but the smile was unchanged.

“You don’t tell me, sir!”

“Yes, murdered; perhaps you know his murderer?”

“Who was it, sir?”

“Colonel Darke.”

“Oh, I know _him_. He has been here, lately. Poor Mr. Swartz! And so they murdered him! I am sorry for him.”

Mohun’s glance became more penetrating.

“You say that Colonel Darke has been here lately?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was the occasion of his visit?”

“I don’t know, sir; unless it was to hear me tell my visions.”

“You never knew him before?”

Amanda hesitated.

“Yes, sir,” she said at length.

“When, and how?”

“It was many years ago, sir;–I do not like to speak of these things. He is a terrible man, they say.”

“You can speak to me, Amanda. I will repeat nothing; nor will Colonel Surry.”

The singular woman looked from Mohun to me, evidently hesitating. Then she seemed suddenly to make up her mind, and said, with her eternal smile:–

“I will tell you, then, sir. I can read faces, and I know neither you nor Colonel Surry will get me into trouble.”

“I will not–on my honor.”

“Nor I,” I said.

“That is enough, gentlemen; and now I will tell you what you wish to know, General Mohun.”

As she spoke she closed her eyes, and seemed for some moments to be reflecting. Then opening them again, she gazed, with her calm smile, at Mohun, and said:–

“It was many years ago, sir, when I first saw Colonel Darke, who then went by another name. I was living in this same house, when late one evening a light carriage stopped before the door, and a gentleman got out of it, and came in. He said he was travelling with his wife, who had been taken sick, and would I give them shelter until morning, when she would be able to go on? I was a poor woman, sir, as I am now, and hoped to be paid. I would have given the poor sick lady shelter all the same, though–and I told him he could come in, and sleep in this room, and I would go into that closet-like place behind you, sir. Well, he thanked me, and went back to the carriage, where a lady sat. He took her in his arms and brought her along to the house, when I saw that she was a very beautiful young lady, but quite pale. Well, sir, she came in and sat down in that chair you are now sitting in, and after awhile, said she was better. The gentleman had gone out and put away his horse, and when he came back I had supper ready, and every thing comfortable.”

“What was the appearance of the lady?” said Mohun, over whose brow a contraction passed.

“She was small and dark, sir; but had the finest eyes I ever saw.”

“The same,” said Mohun, in a low tone. “Well?”

“They stayed all night, sir. Next morning they paid me,–though it was little–and went on toward the south.”

“They seemed poor?”

“Yes, sir. The lady’s dress was cheap and faded–and the gentleman’s threadbare.”

“What names did they give?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, sir.”

Mohun’s brow again contracted.

“Well, go on,” he said, “or rather, go back, Amanda. You say that they remained with you until the morning. Did you not hear some of their conversation–gain some knowledge of whence they came, whither they were going, and what was the object of their journey?”

The woman hesitated, glancing at Mohun. Then she smiled, and shook her head.

“You will get me into trouble, sir,” she said.

“I will not, upon my honor. You have told me enough to enable me to do so, however–why not tell me all? You say you slept in that closet there–so you must have heard them converse. I am entitled to know all–tell me what they said.”

And taking from his purse a piece of gold, Mohun placed it in the hand extended upon the bed. The hand closed upon it–clutched it. The eye of the woman glittered, and I saw that she had determined to speak.

“It was not much, sir,” she said. “I did listen, and heard many things, but they would not interest you.”

“On the contrary, they will interest me much.”

“It was a sort of quarrel I overheard, sir. Mr. Mortimer was blaming his wife for something, and said she had brought him to misery. She replied in the same way, and said that it was a strange thing in _him_ to talk to _her_ so, when she had broken every law of God and man, to marry the–“

“The–?” Mohun repeated, bending forward.

“The murderer of her father, she said, sir,” returned Amanda.

Mohun started, and looked with a strange expression at me.

“You understand!” he said, in a low tone, “is the thing credible?”

“Let us hear more,” I said, gloomy in spite of myself.

“Go on,” Mohun said, turning more calmly toward the woman; “that was the reply of the lady, then–that she had broken all the laws of God and man by marrying the murderer of her father. Did she utter the name of her father?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What was it?”

“A Mr. George Conway,” replied Amanda, who seemed to feel that she had gone too far to conceal any thing.

“And the reason for this marriage?” said Mohun, in a low tone; “did she explain, or say any thing which explained to you, how such a union had ever taken place?”

“Yes, sir. They said so many things to each other, that I came to know all. The young lady was a daughter of a Mr. George Conway, and when she was a girl, had fallen in love with some worthless young man, who had persuaded her to elope with him and get married. He soon deserted her, when she fell in with this Mr. Mortimer and married him.”

“Did she know that he was her father’s murderer?”

“No, sir–not until after their marriage, I gathered.”

“Then,” said Mohun, who had suppressed all indications of emotion, and was listening coolly; “then it seems to me that she was wrong in taking shame to herself–or claiming credit–for the marriage.”

“Yes, sir,” returned Amanda, “and he told her as much.”

“So they had something like a quarrel?”

“Not exactly a quarrel, sir. He seemed to love her with all his heart–more than she loved him. They went on talking, and laying plans to make money in some way. I remember he said to her, ‘You are sick, and need every luxury–I would rather die than see you deprived of them–I would cheat or rob to supply you every thing–and we must think of some means, honest or dishonest, to get the money we want. I do not care for myself, but you are all that I have left in the world.’ That is what he said, sir.”

And Amanda was silent.

“Then they fell asleep?” asked Mohun.

“Yes, sir; and on the next morning he took her in his arms again, and carried her to the carriage, and they left me.”

Mohun leaned his chin upon his hand, knit his brows, and reflected. The singular narrative plunged me too into a reverie. This man, Darke, was a veritable gulf of mystery–his life full of hidden and inexplicable things. The son of General Davenant, he had murdered his father’s foe; permitted that father to be tried for the crime, and to remain under suspicion; disappeared, changed his name, encountered the daughter of his victim, married her, had those mysterious dealings with Mohun, disappeared a second time, changed his name a second time, and now had once more made his appearance near the scene of his first crime, to murder Swartz, capture his father and brother, and complete his tragic record by fighting under the enemy’s flag against his country and his family!

There was something diabolical in that career; in this man’s life “deep under deep” met the eye. And yet he was not entirely bad. On that night in Pennsylvania, he had refused to strike Mohun at a disadvantage–and had borne off the gray woman at the peril of death or capture. He had released his captured father and brother, bowing his head before them. He had confessed the murder of George Conway, over his own signature, to save this father. The woman who was his accomplice, he seemed to love more than his own life. Such were the extraordinary contrasts in a character, which, at first sight, seemed entirely devilish; and I reflected with absorbing interest upon the singular phenomenon.

I was aroused by the voice of Mohun. He had never appeared more calm: in his deep tones I could discern no emotion whatever.

“That is a singular story,” he said, “and your friend, Colonel Darke, is a curious personage. But let us come back to events more recent–to the visits of Swartz.”

“Yes, sir,” said Amanda, smiling.

“But, first, let me ask–did Colonel Darke recognize you?”

“You mean _know_ me? Oh, yes, sir.”

“And did he speak of his former visit–with his wife?”

“No, sir.”

“And you–?”

Amanda smiled.

“I made out I didn’t remember him, sir; I was afraid he would think I had overheard that talk with his wife.”

“So he simply called as if to see you as a curiosity?”

“Yes, sir–and staid only a few minutes.”

“But you know or rather knew poor Swartz better?”

“I knew him well, sir.”

“He often stopped here?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mohun looked at the woman keenly, and said:–

“I wish you, now, to answer plainly the question which I am about to ask. I come hither as a friend–I am sent by your friend Mr. Nighthawk. Listen and answer honestly–Do you know any thing of a paper which Swartz had in his possession–an important paper which he was guarding from Colonel Darke?”

“I do not, sir,” said Amanda, with her eternal smile.

“For that paper I will pay a thousand dollars in gold. Where is it?”

The woman’s eyes glittered, then she shook her head.

“On my salvation I do not know, sir.”

“Can you discover?”

Again the shake of the head.

“How can I, sir?”

Mohun’s head sank. A bitter sigh issued from his lips–almost a groan.

“Listen!” he said, almost fiercely, but with a singular smile, “you have visions–you see things! I do not believe in your visions–they seem folly–but only _see_ where that paper is to be discovered, and I will believe! nay more, I will pay you the sum which I mentioned this moment.”

I looked at the woman to witness the result of this decisive test of her sincerity. “If she believes in her own visions, she will be elated,” I said, “if she is an impostor, she will be cast down.”

She smiled radiantly!

“I will try, sir!” she said.

Mohun gazed at her strangely.

“When shall I come to hear the result?”

“In ten days from this time, sir.”

“In ten days? So be it.”

And rising, Mohun bade the singular personage farewell, and went toward his horse.

I followed, and we rode back, rapidly, in dead silence, toward the Rowanty.

XII.

HOW THE MOMENT AT LAST CAME.

Mohun rode on for more than a mile at full gallop, without uttering a word. Then he turned his head, and said, with a sigh:–

“Well, what do you think of your new acquaintance, Surry?”

“I think she is an impostor.”

“As to her visions, you mean?”

“Yes. Her story of Darke I believe to be true.”

“And I know it,” returned Mohun. “A strange discovery, is it not? I went there to-day, without dreaming of this. Nighthawk informed me that Swartz had often been at the house of this woman–that the paper which I wish to secure might have been left with her for safe keeping–and thus I determined to go and ferret out the matter, in a personal interview. I have done so, pretty thoroughly, and it seems plain that she knows nothing of its present whereabouts. Will she discover through her visions–her spies–or her strange penetration, exhibited in the recognition of our persons? I know not; and so that matter ends. I have failed, and yet have learned some singular facts. Can you believe that strange story of Darke? Is he not a weird personage? This narrative we have just heard puts the finishing touch to his picture–the murderer marries the daughter of his victim!”

“It is truly an extraordinary history altogether,” I said, “and the whole life of this man is now known to me, with a single exception.”

“Ah! you mean–?”

“The period when you fought with him, and ran him through the body, and threw him into that grave, from which Swartz afterward rescued him on the morning of the 13th December, 1856.”

Mohun looked at me with that clear and penetrating glance which characterized him.

“Ah! you know that!” he said.

“I could not fail to know it, Mohun.”

“True–and to think that all this time you have, perhaps, regarded me as a criminal, Surry! But I am one–that is I was–in intent if not in reality. Yes, my dear friend,” Mohun added, with a deep sigh, his head sinking upon his breast, “there was a day in my life when I was insane, a simple madman,–and on that day I attempted to commit murder, and suicide! You have strangely come to catch many glimpses of those past horrors. On the Rappahannock the words of that woman must have startled you. In the Wilderness my colloquy with the spy revealed more. Lastly, the words of Darke on the night of Swartz’s murder must have terribly complicated me in this issue of horrors. I knew that you must know much, and I did not shrink before you, Surry! Do you know why? Because I have repented, friend! and thank God! my evil passions did not result, as I intended, in murder and self-destruction!”

Mohun passed his hand across his forehead, to wipe away the drops of cold perspiration.

“All this is gloomy and tragic,” he said; “and yet I must inflict it on you, Surry. Even more, I earnestly long to tell you the whole story of which you have caught these glimpses. Will you listen? It will not be long. I wish to show you, my dear friend–you are that to me, Surry!–that I am not unworthy of your regard; that there are no degrading scenes, at least, in my past life; that I have not cheated, tricked, deceived–even if I have attempted to destroy myself and others! Will you listen?”

“I have been waiting long to do so, Mohun,” I said. “Speak, but first hear me. There is a man in this army who is the soul of honor. Since my father’s death I value his good opinion more than that of all others–it is Robert E. Lee. Well, come with me if you choose, and I will go to Lee with you, and place my hand upon your shoulder, and say: ‘General, this is my friend! I vouch for him; I am proud of his regard. Think well of him, or badly of me too!’ Are you satisfied?”

Mohun smiled sadly.

“I knew all that,” he said. “Do you think I can not read men, Surry? Long since I gave you in my heart the name of _friend_, and I knew that you had done as much toward me. Come, then! Go to my camp with me; in the evening we will take a ride. I am going to conduct you to a spot where we can talk without interruption, the exact place where the crimes of which I shall speak were committed.”

And resuming the gallop, Mohun led the way, amid the trailing festoons, through the fallen logs, across the Rowanty.

Half an hour afterward we had reached his camp.

As the sun began to decline we again mounted our horses.

Pushing on rapidly we reached a large house on a hill above the Nottoway, and entered the tall gateway at the moment when the great windows were all ablaze in the sunset.

XIII.

FONTHILL.

Mohun spurred up the hill; reined in his horse in front of the great portico, and, dismounting, fastened his bridle to the bough of a magnificent exotic, one of a hundred which were scattered over the extensive grounds.

I imitated him, and we entered the house together, through the door, which gave way at the first push. No one had come to take our horses. No one opposed our entrance. The house was evidently deserted.

I looked round in astonishment and admiration. In every thing appertaining to the mansion were the indications of almost unlimited wealth, directed by the severest and most elegant taste. The broken furniture was heavy and elaborately carved; the remnants of carpet of sumptuous velvet; the walls, ceiling, doorways, and deep windows were one mass of the richest chiselling and most elaborate fresco-painting.

On the walls still hung some faded portraits in the most costly frames. On the mantel-pieces of variegated marble, supported by fluted pillars, with exquisitely carved capitals, rested a full length picture of a gentleman, the heavy gilt frame tarnished and crumbling.

The house was desolate, deserted, inexpressibly saddening from the evident contrast between its present and its past. But about the grand mansion hung an august air of departed splendor which to me, was more striking than if I had visited it in the days of its glory.

“Let me introduce ‘Fonthill’ to you, or rather the remains of it, Surry,” Mohun said, with a sad smile. “It is not pleasant to bring a friend to so deserted a place; but I have long been absent; the house is gone to decay like other things in old Virginia. Still we can probably find two chairs. I will kindle a blaze, and we can light a cigar and talk without interruption.”

With these words, Mohun proceeded to the adjoining apartment, from which he returned a moment afterward, dragging two chairs with elaborately carved backs.

“See,” he said, with a smile, “they were handsome once. That one with the ragged remnants of red velvet was my father’s. Take a seat, my dear Surry. I will sit in the other–it was my mother’s.”

Returning to the adjoining room, Mohun again reappeared, this time bearing in his arms the broken remnants of a mahogany table, which he heaped up in the great fireplace.

“This is all that remains of our old family dining-table,” he said. “Some Yankee or straggling soldier will probably use it for this purpose–so I anticipate them!”

And, placing combustibles beneath the pile, Mohun had recourse to the metallic match case which he always carried with him in order to read dispatches, lit the fuel, and a blaze sprung up.

Next, he produced his cigar case, offered me an excellent Havana, which I accepted, and a minute afterward we were leaning back in the great chairs, smoking.

“An odd welcome, this,” said Mohun, with his sad smile; “broken chairs, old pictures, and a fire made of ruined furniture! But one thing we have–an uninterrupted opportunity to converse. Let us talk, therefore, or rather, I will at once tell you what I promised.”

XIV.

“LORD OF HIMSELF, THAT HERITAGE OF WOE.”

Mohun leaned back in his chair, reflected for a moment with evident sadness, and then, with a deep sigh, said:–

“I am about to relate to you, my dear Surry, a history so singular, that it is probable you will think I am indulging my fancy, in certain portions of it. That would be an injustice. It is a true life I am about to lay before you–and I need not add that actual occurrences are often more surprising than any due to the imagination of the romance writer. I once knew a celebrated novelist, and one day related to him the curious history of a family in Virginia. ‘Make a romance of that,’ I said, ‘it is an actual history.’ But my friend shook his head. ‘It will not answer my purpose,’ he replied, smiling, ‘it is too strange, and the critics would call me a “sensation writer”–that is, ruin me!’ And he was right, Surry. It is only to a friend, on some occasion like the present, that I could tell my own story. It is too singular to be believed otherwise.

“But I am prosing. Let me proceed. My family is an old one, they tell me, in this part of Virginia; and my father, whose portrait you see before you, on the mantel-piece, was what is called an ‘aristocrat.’ That is to say, he was a gentleman of refined tastes and habits; fond of books; a great admirer of fine paintings; and a gentleman of social habits and feelings. ‘Fonthill’–this old house–had been, for many generations, the scene of a profuse hospitality; my father kept up the ancient rites, entertaining all comers; and when I grew to boyhood I unconsciously imbibed the feelings, and clung to the traditions of the family. These traditions may be summed up in the maxims which my father taught me–‘Use hospitality; be courteous to high and low alike; assist the poor; succor the unhappy; give bountifully without grudging; and enjoy the goods heaven provides you, with a clear conscience, whether you are called an aristocrat or a democrat!’ Such were my father’s teachings; and he practised them, for he had the kindest and sweetest heart in the world. He was aided in all by my mother, a perfect saint upon earth; and if I have since that time given way to rude passions, it was not for wanting a good example in the blameless lives of this true gentleman and pure gentlewoman.

“Unhappily, I did not have their example long. When I was seventeen my mother died; and my father, as though unable to live without her who had so long been his blessing, followed her a year afterward, leaving me the sole heir of the great possessions of the family. For a time grief crushed me. I was alone–for I had neither brother nor sister–a solitary youth in this great lonely house, standing isolated amid its twenty thousand acres–and even the guardian who had been appointed to