XXI.

"VIRGINIA EXPECTS EVERY MAN TO DO HIS DUTY!"

Soon after daylight, on the next morning, Stuart was up, and writing busily at his desk.

He was perfectly cool, as always, and his manner when I went in exhibited no sort of flurry. But the couriers going and coming with dispatches indicated clearly that "something was in the wind."

I was seated by the fireplace when Stuart finished a dispatch and came toward me. The next moment he threw himself upon a chair, leaned his head upon my shoulder, and began to caress one of his dogs, who leaped into his lap.

"Well, Surry, old fellow, we are going to get into the saddle. Look out for your head!"

"Excellent advice," I replied. "I recommend you to follow it."

"You think I expose myself, do you?"

"In the most reckless manner."

"For instance—come, an instance!" he laughed.

I saw Stuart was talking to rest himself.

"Well, at Mine Run, when you rode up to that fence lined with sharpshooters—and they fired on us at ten paces, nearly."

"In fact, you might have shot a marble at them—but I am not afraid of any ball aimed at me."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"Then you believe in chance, general?"

"There is no chance, Surry," he said, gravely. "God rules over all things, and not a sparrow, we are told, can fall without his permission. How can I, or you, then?"

"You are right, general, and I have always been convinced of your religious faith."

"I believe in God and our Saviour, with all my heart," said Stuart, solemnly. "I may not show it, but I feel deeply."

"On the contrary, you show it—to me at least—even in trifles," I said, moved by his earnestness. "Do you remember the other day, when an officer uttered a sneer at the expense of a friend of his who had turned preacher? You replied that the calling of a minister was the noblest in which any human being could engage[1]—and I regretted at that moment, that the people who laugh at you, and charge you with vicious things, could not hear you."

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Stuart shook his head, smiling with a sadness on his lips which I had never seen before.

"They would not believe me, my dear Surry; not one would give me credit for a good sentiment or a pure principle! Am I not a drunkard, because my face is burned red by the sun and the wind? And yet I never touched spirit in all my life! I do not know the taste of it![1] Am I not given to women? And yet, God knows I am innocent,—that I recoil in disgust from the very thought! Am I not frivolous, trifling,—laughing at all things, reverencing nothing? And yet my laughter is only from high health and animal spirits. I am young and robust; it is natural to me to laugh, as it is to be pleased with bright faces and happy voices, with colors, and music, and approbation. I am not as religious as I ought to be, and wish, with all my heart, I had the deep and devout piety of that good man and great military genius,[2] Stonewall Jackson. I can lay no claim to it, you see, Surry; I am only a rough soldier, at my hard work. I am terribly busy, and my command takes every energy I possess; but I find time to read my Bible and to pray. I pray for pardon and forgiveness, and try to do my duty, and leave the rest to God. If God calls me—and He may call me very soon—I hope I will be ready, and be able to say, 'Thy will be done.' I expect to be killed in this war;[3]—Heaven knows, I would have my right hand chopped off at the wrist to stop it![4]—but I do not shrink from the ordeal before me, and I am ready to lay down my life for my country."[5]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

[Footnote 3: His words.]

[Footnote 4: His words.]

[Footnote 5: His words.]

Stuart paused, and leaned his arm upon the rude shelf above the fireplace, passing his hand over his forehead, as was habitual with him.

"A hard campaign is coming, Surry," he said, at length, more cheerfully; "I intend to do my duty in it, and deserve the good opinion of the world, if I do not secure it. I have perilled my life many times, and shall not shrink from it in future. I am a Virginian, and I intend to live or die for Old Virginia! The tug is coming; the enemy are about to come over and 'try again!' But we will meet them, and fight them like men, Surry! Our army is small, but with strong hands and brave hearts much can be done. We must be up and doing, and do our duty to the handle.[1] For myself, I am going to fight whatever is before me,—to win victory, with God's blessing, or die trying! Once more, Surry, remember that we are fighting for our old mother, and that Virginia expects every man to do his duty!"

[Footnote 1: His words.]

His face glowed as he spoke; in his dazzling blue eyes burned the fire of an unconquerable resolution, a courage that nothing seemed able to crush.

Years have passed since then, a thousand scenes have swept before me; but still I see the stalwart cavalier, with his proud forehead raised, and hear his sonorous voice exclaim:—

"Virginia expects every man to do his duty!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]



XXII.

WHAT OCCURRED AT WARRENTON.

This conversation took place at an early hour of the morning. Two hours afterward, I was in the saddle and riding toward Chancellorsville, with the double object of inspecting the pickets and taking Mohun his commission.

I have described in my former Memoirs that melancholy country of the Wilderness; its unending thickets; its roads, narrow and deserted, which seem to wind on forever; the desolate fields, here and there covered with stunted bushes; the owls flapping their dusky wings; the whip-poor-will, crying in the jungle; and the moccasin gliding stealthily amid the ooze, covered with its green scum.

Strange and sombre country! lugubrious shades where death lurked! Already two great armies had clutched there in May, 1863. Now, in May, '64, the tangled thicket was again to thunder; men were going to grapple here in a mad wrestle even more desperate than the former!

Two roads stretch from Orange Court-House to Chancellorsville—the old turnpike, and the plank road—running through Verdiersville.

I took the latter, followed the interminable wooden pathway through the thicket, and toward evening came to the point where the Ely's Ford road comes in near Chancellorsville. Here, surrounded by the rotting weapons, bones and skulls of the great battle already fought, I found Mohun ready for the battle that was coming.

He commanded the regiment on picket opposite Ely's Ford; and was pointed out to me at three hundred yards from an old torn down house which still remains there, I fancy.

Mohun had dismounted, and, leaning against the trunk of a tree, was smoking a cigar. He was much thinner and paler than when I had last seen him; but his eye was brilliant and piercing, his carriage erect and proud. In his fine new uniform, replacing that left at Fort Delaware, and his brown hat, decorated with a black feather, he was the model of a cavalier, ready at a moment's warning to meet the enemy.

We exchanged a close grasp of the hand. Something in this man had attracted me, and from acquaintances we had become friends, though Mohun had never given me his confidence.

I informed him of Nighthawk's visit and narrative, congratulated him on his escape, and then presented him with his appointment to the grade of brigadier-general.

"Hurrah for Stuart! He is a man to count on!" exclaimed Mohun, "and here inclosed is the order for me to take command of four regiments!"

"I congratulate you, Mohun."

"I hope to do good work with them, my dear Surry—and I think they are just in time."

With which words Mohun put the paper in his pocket.

"You know the latest intelligence?" he said.

"Yes; but do not let us talk of it. Tell me something about yourself—but first listen to a little narrative from me."

And I described the visit which I had made with Tom Herbert to the house near Buckland; the scene between Darke and his companion; and, to keep back nothing, repeated the substance of their conversation.

Mohun knit his brows; then burst into a laugh.

"Well!" he said, "so those two amiable characters are still bent on making mince-meat of me, are they? Did you ever hear any thing like it? They are perfect tigers, thirsting for blood!"

"Nothing more nor less," I said; "the whole thing is like a romance."

"Is it not?"

"A perfect labyrinth."

"The very word!"

"And I have not a trace of a key."

Mohun looked at me for some moments in silence. He was evidently hesitating; and letting his eyes fall, played with the hilt of his sword.

Then he suddenly looked up.

"I have a confidence to make you, Surry," he said, "and would like to make it this very day. But I cannot. You have no doubt divined that Colonel Darke is my bitter enemy—that his companion is no less, even more, bitter—and some day I will tell you what all that means. My life has been a strange one. As was said of Randolph of Roanoke's, 'the fictions of romance cannot surpass it.' These two persons alluded to it—I understand more than you possibly can—but I do not understand the allusions made to General Davenant. I am not the suitor of his daughter—or of any one. I am not in love—I do not intend to be—to be frank with you, friend, I have little confidence in women—and you no doubt comprehend that this strange one whom you have thrice met, on the Rappahannock, in Pennsylvania, and near Buckland, is the cause."

"She seems to be a perfect viper."

"Is she not? You would say so, more than ever, if I told you what took place at Warrenton."

And again Mohun's brows were knit together. Then his bitter expression changed to laughter.

"What took place at Warrenton!" I said, looking at him intently.

"Exactly, my dear friend—it was a real comedy. Only a poignard played a prominent part in the affair, and you know poignards belong exclusively to tragedy."

Mohun uttered these words with his old reckless satire. A sort of grim and biting humor was plain in his accents.

"A poniard—a tragedy—tell me about it, Mohun," I said.

He hesitated a moment. "Well, I will do so," he said, at length. "It will amuse you, my guest, while dinner is getting ready."

"I am listening."

"Well, to go back. You remember my fight with Colonel Darke near Buckland?"

"Certainly; and I was sure that you had killed each other."

"You were mistaken. He is not dead, and you see I am not. He was wounded in the throat, but my sabre missed the artery, and he was taken to a house near at hand, and thence to hospital, where he recovered. My own wound was a bullet through the chest; and this gave me so much agony that I could not be carried in my ambulance farther than Warrenton, where I was left with some friends who took good care of me. Meanwhile, General Meade had again advanced and occupied the place—I was discovered, and removed as soon as possible to the Federal hospital, where they could have me under guard. Faith! they are smart people—our friends the Yankees! They are convinced that 'every little helps,' and they had no idea of allowing that tremendous Southern paladin, Colonel Mohun, to escape! So I was sent to hospital. The removal caused a return of fever—I was within an inch of the grave—and this brings me to the circumstance that I wish to relate for your amusement.

"For some days after my removal to the Federal hospital, I was delirious, but am now convinced that much which I then took for the wanderings of a fevered brain, was real.

"I used to lie awake a great deal, and one gloomy night I saw, or dreamed I saw, as I then supposed, that woman enter my ward, in company with the surgeon. She bent over me, glared upon me with those dark eyes, which you no doubt remember, and then drawing back said to the surgeon:—

"'Will he live?'

"'Impossible to say, madam,' was the reply. 'The ball passed through his breast, and although these wounds are almost always mortal, men do now and then recover from them.'

"'Will this one?'

"'I cannot tell you, madam, his constitution seems powerful.'

"I saw her turn as he spoke, and fix those glaring eyes on me again. They were enough to burn a hole in you, Surry, and made me feel for some weapon. But there was none—and the scene here terminated—both retired. The next night, however, it was renewed. This time the surgeon felt my pulse, touched my forehead, placed his ear to my breast to listen to the action of the heart, and rising up said, in reply to madam's earnest glance of inquiry:—

"'Yes, I am sure he will live. You can give yourself no further anxiety about your cousin, madam.'

"Her cousin! That was not bad, you see. She had gained access, as I ascertained from some words of their conversation, by representing herself as my cousin. I was a member of her family who had 'gone astray' and embraced the cause of the rebellion, but was still dear to her! Womanly heart! clinging affection! not even the sin of the prodigal cousin could sever the tender chord of her love! I had wandered from the right path—fed on husks with the Confederate swine; but I was wounded—had come back; should the fatted calf remain unbutchered, and the loving welcome be withheld?

"'You can give yourself no further uneasiness about your cousin, madam!'

"Such was the assurance of the surgeon, and he turned away to other patients, of whom there were, however, very few in the hospital, and none near me. As he turned his back, madam looked at me. Her face was really diabolical, and I thought at the moment that she was a nightmare—that I dreamed her! Closing my eyes to shut out the vision, I kept them thus shut for some moments. When I reopened them she was gone.

"Well, the surgeon's predictions did not seem likely to be verified. My fever returned. Throughout the succeeding day I turned and tossed on my couch; as night came, I had some hideous dreams. A storm was raging without, and the rain falling in torrents. The building trembled, the windows rattled—it was a night of nights for some devil's work; and I remember laughing in my fever, and muttering, 'Now is the time for delirium, bad dreams, and ugly shapes, to flock around me!'

"I fell into a doze at last, and had, as I thought, a decidedly bad dream—for I felt certain that I was dreaming, and that what I witnessed was the sport of my fancy. What I saw, or seemed to see, was this: the door opened slowly—a head was thrust in, and remained motionless for an instant; then the head moved, a body followed; madam, the lady of the dark eyes, glided stealthily toward my cot. It was enough to make one shudder, Surry, to have seen the stealthy movement of that phantom. I gazed at it through my half-closed eyelids—saw the midnight eyes burning in the white face half covered by a shawl thrown over the head—and, under that covering, the right hand of the phantom grasped something which I could not make out.

"In three quick steps it was beside me. I say it, for the figure resembled that of a ghost, or some horrible thing. From the eyes two flames seemed to dart, the lips opened, and I heard, in a low mutter:—

"'Ah! he is going to recover, then!'

"As the words left the phantom's lips, it reached my cot at a bound; something gleamed aloft, and I started back only in time to avoid the sharp point of a poniard, which grazed my head and nearly buried itself in the pillow on which I lay.

"Well, I started up and endeavored to seize my assailant; but she suddenly broke away from me, still clutching her weapon. Her clothing was torn from her person—she recoiled toward the door—and I leaped from my couch to rush after and arrest her. I had not the strength to do so, however. I had scarcely taken three steps when I began to stagger.

"'Murderess!' I exclaimed, extending my arms to arrest her flight.

"It was useless. A few feet further I reeled—my head seemed turning round—and again shouting 'Murderess!' I fell at full length on the floor, at the moment when the woman disappeared.

"That was curious, was it not? It would have been a tragical dream—it was more tragical in being no dream at all, but a reality. What had taken place was simple, and easy to understand. That woman had come thither, on this stormy night, to murder me; and she had very nearly succeeded. Had she found me asleep, I should never have waked. Fortunately, I was awake. Some noise frightened her, and she disappeared. A moment afterward one of the nurses came, and finally the surgeon.

"When I told him what had taken place, he laughed.

"'Well, colonel, go back to bed,' he said, 'such dreams retard your recovery more than every thing else.'

"I obeyed, without taking the trouble to contradict him. My breast was bleeding again, and I did not get over the excitement for some days. The phantom did not return. I slowly recovered, and was taken in due time to Fort Delaware—the rest you know.

"I forgot to tell you one thing. The surgeon almost persuaded me that I had been the victim of nightmare. Unfortunately, however, for the theory of the worthy, I found a deep hole in my pillow, where the poniard had entered.

"So you see it was madam, and not her ghost, who had done me the honor of a visit, Surry."



XXIII.

THE GRAVE OF ACHMED.

An hour afterward I had dined with Mohun at his head-quarters, in the woods; mounted our horses; and were making our way toward the Rapidan to inspect the pickets.

This consumed two hours. We found nothing stirring. As sunset approached, we retraced our steps toward Chancellorsville. I had accepted Mohun's invitation to spend the night with him.

As I rode on, the country seemed strangely familiar. All at once I recognized here a tree, there a stump—we were passing over the road which I had followed first in April, 1861, and again in August, 1862, when I came so unexpectedly upon Fenwick, and heard his singular revelation.

We had been speaking of Mordaunt, to whose brigade Mohun's regiment belonged, and the young officer had grown enthusiastic, extolling Mordaunt as 'one of the greatest soldiers of the army, under whom it was an honor to serve.'

"Well," I said, "there is a spot near here which he knows well, and where a strange scene passed on a night of May, 1863."

"Ah! you know the country, then?" said Mohun.

"Perfectly well."

"What are you looking at?"

"That hill yonder, shut in by a thicket. There is a house there."

And I spurred on, followed by Mohun. In five minutes we reached the brush-fence; our horses easily cleared it, and we rode up the hill toward the desolate-looking mansion.

I surveyed it intently. It was unchanged, save that the porch seemed rotting away, and the window-shutters about to fall—that on the window to the right hung by a single hinge. It was the one through which I had looked in August, 1862. There was the same door through which I had burst in upon Fenwick and his companion.

I dismounted, threw my bridle over a stunted shrub, and approached the house. Suddenly I stopped.

At ten paces from me, in a little group of cedars, a man was kneeling on a grave, covered with tangled grass. At the rattle of my sabre he rose, turned round—it was Mordaunt.

In a moment we had exchanged a pressure of the hand; and then turning to the grave:—

"That is the last resting-place of poor Achmed," he said; adding, in his deep, grave voice:—

"You know how he loved me, Surry."

"And how you loved him, Mordaunt. I can understand your presence at his grave, my dear friend."

Mordaunt sighed, then saluted Mohun, who approached.

"This spot," he said, "is well known to Colonel Surry and myself, Mohun."

Then turning to me, he added:—

"I found a melancholy spectacle awaiting me here."

"Other than Achmed's grave?"

"Yes; come, and I will show you."

And he led the way into the house. As I entered the squalid and miserable mansion, the sight which greeted me made me recoil.

On a wretched bed lay the corpse of a woman; and at a glance, I recognized the woman Parkins, who had played so tragic a part in the history of Mordaunt. The face was hideously attenuated; the eyes were open and staring; the lower jaw had fallen. In the rigid and bony hand was a dry and musty crust of bread.

"She must have starved to death here," said Mordaunt, gazing at the corpse. And, approaching it, he took the crust from the fingers. As he did so, the teeth seemed grinning at him.

"Poor creature!" he said; "this crust was probably all that remained to her of the price of her many crimes! I pardon her, and will have her buried!"

As Mordaunt turned away, I saw him look at the floor.

"There is Achmed's blood," he said, pointing to a stain on the plank; "and the other is the blood of Fenwick, who was buried near his victim."

"I remember," I murmured. And letting my chin fall upon my breast, I returned in thought to the strange scene which the spot recalled so vividly.

"There is but one other actor in that drama of whom I know nothing, Mordaunt!"

"You mean—"

"Violet Grafton."

Mordaunt raised his head quickly. His eyes glowed with a serene sweetness.

"She is my wife," he said; "the joy and sunlight of my life! I no longer read Les Miserables, and sneer at my species—I no longer scowl, Surry, and try to rush against the bullet that is to end me. God has rescued a lost life in sending me one of his angels; and it was she who made me promise to come hither and pray on the grave of our dear Achmed!"

Mordaunt turned toward the door as he spoke, and inviting me to ride with him, left the mansion. As I had agreed to stay with Mohun, I was obliged to decline.

Five minutes afterward he had mounted, and with a salute, the tall form disappeared in the forest.

We set out in turn, and were soon at Mohun's bivouac.



XXIV.

A NIGHT BIRD.

I shared Mohun's blankets, and was waked by the sun shining in my face.

My companion had disappeared, but I had scarcely risen when he was seen approaching at full gallop.

Throwing himself from his horse, he grasped my hand, his face beaming.

"All right, Surry!" he exclaimed; "I have seen Mordaunt; my command is all arranged; I have four superb regiments; and they are already in the saddle."

"I congratulate you, my dear general! Make good use of them—and I think you are going to have the opportunity at once."

"You are right—the enemy's cavalry are drawn up on the north bank of the river."

"Any firing in front?"

"They are feeling at all the fords."

"Are you going there?"

"At once."

"I will go with you."

And I mounted my horse which stood saddled near by.

Swallowing some mouthfuls of bread and beef as we rode on, we soon reached Mohun's command. It consisted of four regiments, drawn up in column, ready to move—and at sight of the young sabreur, the men raised a shout.

Mohun saluted with drawn sabre, and galloped to the front.

A moment afterward the bugle sounded, and the column advanced toward the Rapidan, within a mile of which it halted—Mohun and myself riding forward to reconnoitre at Germanna Ford, directly in our front.

The pickets were engaged, firing at each other across the river. On the northern bank were seen long columns of Federal cavalry, drawn up as though about to cross.

I rode with Mohun to the summit of the lofty hill near the ford, and here, seated on his horse beneath a tree, we found Mordaunt. It was hard to realize that, on the evening before, I had seen this stern and martial figure, kneeling in prayer upon a grave—had heard the brief deep voice grow musical when he spoke of his wife. But habit is every thing. On the field, Mordaunt was the soldier, and nothing but the soldier.

"You see," he said, "the game is about to open," pointing to the Federal cavalry. "You remember this spot, and that hill yonder, I think."

"Yes," I replied, "and your charge there when we captured their artillery in August, '62."

As he spoke, a dull firing, which we had heard for some moments from the direction of Ely's Ford, grew more rapid. Five minutes afterward, an officer was seen approaching from the side of the firing, at full speed.

When he was within a hundred yards, I recognized Harry Mordaunt. He was unchanged; his eyes still sparkled, his plume floated, his lips were smiling.

He greeted me warmly, and then turned to General Mordaunt, and reported the enemy attempting to cross at Ely's.

"I will go, then; will you ride with me, Surry? Keep a good look out here, Mohun."

I accepted Mordaunt's invitation, and in a moment we were galloping, accompanied by Harry, toward Ely's.

"Glad to see you again, colonel!" exclaimed the young man, in his gay voice, "you remind me of old times, and a young lady was speaking of you lately."

"A certain Miss Fitzhugh, I will wager!"

"There's no such person, colonel."

"Ah! you are married!"

"Last spring; but I might as well be single! That's the worst of this foolishness,—I wish they would stop it! I don't mind hard tack, or fighting, or sleeping in the rain; what I do mind is never being able to go home! I wish old Grant would go home and see his wife, and let me go and see mine! We could then come back, and blaze away at each other with some satisfaction!"

Harry was chattering all the way, and I encouraged him to talk; his gay voice was delightful. We talked of a thousand things, but they interested me more than they would interest the reader, and I pass on to matters more important.

Pushing rapidly toward Ely's, we soon arrived, and found the enemy making a heavy demonstration there. It lasted throughout the day, and I remained to witness the result. At sunset, however, the firing stopped, and, declining Mordaunt's invitation to share the blankets of his bivouac, I set out on my way back to Orange.

Night came almost before I was aware of it, and found me following the Brock road to get on the Orange plank road.

Do you know the Brock road, reader? and have you ever ridden over it on a lowering night? If so, you have experienced a peculiar sensation. It is impossible to imagine any thing more lugubrious than these strange thickets. In their depths the owl hoots, and the whippoorwill cries; the stunted trees, with their gnarled branches, are like fiends reaching out spectral arms to seize the wayfarer by the hair. Desolation reigns there, and you unconsciously place your hand on your pistol as you ride along, to be ready for some mysterious and unseen enemy.

At least, I did so on that night. I had now penetrated some distance, and had come near the lonely house where so many singular events had occurred.

I turned my head and glanced over my shoulder, when, to my surprise, I saw a light glimmering through the window. What was its origin? The house was certainly uninhabited, even by the dead—for Mordaunt had informed me that a detail had, that morning, buried the corpse.

There was but one means of solving the mystery, and I leaped the fence, riding straight toward the house; soon reaching it, I dismounted and threw open the door.

What should greet my eyes, but the respectable figure of Mr. Nighthawk, seated before a cheerful blaze, and calmly smoking his pipe!



XXV.

THE APPOINTMENT.

As I entered, Mr. Nighthawk rose politely, without exhibiting the least mark of astonishment.

"Good evening, colonel," he said, smiling, "I am glad to see you."

"And I, never more surprised to see any one than you, here, Nighthawk!"

"Why so, colonel?"

I could not help laughing at his air of mild inquiry.

"Did I not leave you at our head-quarters?"

"That was two days ago, colonel."

"And this is your residence, perhaps?"

"I have no residence, colonel; but am here, temporarily, on a little matter of business."

"Ah! a matter of business!"

"I think it might be called so, colonel."

"Which it would be indiscreet to reveal to me, however. That is a pity, for I am terribly curious, my dear Nighthawk!"

Nighthawk looked at me benignly, with a philanthropic smile.

"I have not the least objection to informing you, colonel. You are a gentleman of discretion, and have another claim on my respect."

"What is that?"

"You are a friend of Colonel Mohun's."

"A very warm one."

"Then you can command me; and I will tell you at once that I am awaiting the advance of General Grant."

"Ah! Now I begin to understand."

"I was sure you would at the first word I uttered, colonel. General Grant will cross the Rapidan to-night—by to-morrow evening his whole force will probably be over—and I expect to procure some important information before I return to General Stuart. To you I am Mr. Nighthawk, an humble friend of the cause, employed in secret business,—to General Grant I shall be an honest farmer, of Union opinions, who has suffered from the depredations of his troops, and goes to head-quarters for redress. You see they have already stripped me of every thing," continued Mr. Nighthawk, waving his arm and smiling; "not a cow, a hog, a mule, or a mouthful of food has been left me. They have destroyed the very furniture of my modest dwelling, and I am cast, a mere pauper, on the cold charities of the world!"

Mr. Nighthawk had ceased smiling, and looked grave; while it was I who burst into laughter. His eyes were raised toward heaven, with an expression of meek resignation; he spread out both hands with the eloquence of Mr. Pecksniff; and presented the appearance of a virtuous citizen accepting meekly the most trying misfortunes.

When I had ceased laughing, I said:—

"I congratulate you on your histrionic abilities, Nighthawk. They deserve to be crowned with success. But how did you discover this house?"

"I was acquainted with its former owner, Mrs. Parkins. She was a sister of a friend of mine, whom I think you have seen, colonel."

"What friend?"

"His name is Swartz, colonel."

"Not the Federal spy?"

"The same, colonel."

"Whom we saw last in the house between Carlisle and Gettysburg?"

"I saw him the other day," returned Mr. Nighthawk, smiling sweetly.

"Is it possible!"

"Near Culpeper Court-House, colonel. And, to let you into a little secret, I expect to see him to-night."

I looked at the speaker with bewilderment.

"That man will be here!"

"If he keeps his appointment, colonel."

"You have an appointment?"

"Yes, colonel."

"In this house?"

"To-night."

"With what object, in heaven's name!"

Nighthawk hesitated for some moments before replying.

"The fact is, colonel," he said, "that I inadvertently mentioned my appointment with Swartz without reflecting how singular it must appear to you, unless I gave you some explanation. But I am quite at my ease with you—you are a friend of Colonel Mohun's—and I will explain, as much of my business as propriety will permit. To be brief, I am anxious to procure a certain document in Swartz's possession."

"A certain document?" I said, looking intently at the speaker.

"Exactly, colonel."

"Which Swartz has?"

"Precisely, colonel."

"And which he stole from the papers of Colonel Darke on the night of Mohun's combat with Darke, in the house near Carlisle?"

Mr. Nighthawk looked keenly at me, in turn.

"Ah! you know that!" he said, quickly.

"I saw him steal it, through the window, while the woman's back was turned."

"I am deeply indebted to you, colonel," said Mr. Nighthawk, gravely, "for informing me of this fact, which, I assure you, is important. Swartz swore to me that he had the paper, and had procured it in that manner, but I doubted seriously whether he was not deceiving me. He is a very consummate rascal, knows the value of that document, and my appointment with him to-night is with an eye to its purchase from him."

"Do you think he will come?"

"I think so. He would sell his soul for gold."

"And that woman? he seems to be her friend."

"He would sell her for silver!"

After uttering which bon mot, Mr. Nighthawk smiled.

This man puzzled me beyond expression. His stealthy movements were strange enough—it was singular to meet him in this lonely house—but more singular still was the business which had brought him. What was that paper? Why did Nighthawk wish to secure it? I gave up the inquiry in despair.

"Well," I said, "I will not remain longer; I might scare off your friend, and to eaves-drop is out of the question, even if you were willing that I should be present."

"In fact, colonel, I shall probably discuss some very private matters with my friend Swartz, so that—"

"You prefer I should go."

Mr. Nighthawk smiled; he was too polite to say "yes."

"You are not afraid to meet your friend in this lonely place?" I said, rising.

"Not at all, colonel."

"You are armed?"

Mr. Nighthawk opened his coat, and showed me a brace of revolvers.

"I have these; but they are unnecessary, colonel."

"Unnecessary?"

"I have an understanding with Swartz, and he with me."

"What is that?"

"That we shall not employ the carnal weapon; only destroy each other by superior generalship."

"You speak in enigmas, Nighthawk!"

"And yet, my meaning is very simple. If I can have Swartz arrested and hung, or he me, it is all fair. But we have agreed not to fight."

"So, if you caught him to-night, you could have him hung as a spy?"

"Yes, colonel; but nothing would induce me to betray him."

"Ah!"

"I have given him my parol, that he shall have safe conduct!"

I laughed, bade Nighthawk good-bye, and left him smiling as I had found him. In ten minutes I was again on the Brock road, riding on through the darkness, between the impenetrable thickets.



XXVI.

STUART SINGS.

My reflections were by no means gay. The scenes at the lonely house had not been cheerful and mirth-inspiring.

That grinning corpse, with the crust of bread in the bony fingers; that stain of blood on the floor; the grave of Achmed; lastly, the appointment of the mysterious Nighthawk with the Federal spy; all were fantastic and lugubrious.

Who was Nighthawk, and what was his connection with Mohun? Who was Mohun, and what had been his previous history? Who was this youth of unbounded wealth, as Nighthawk had intimated, in whose life personages supposed to be dead, but still alive, had figured?

"Decidedly, Mohun and Nighthawk are two enigmas!" I muttered, "and I give the affair up."

With which words I spurred on, and soon debouched on the Orange plank road, leading toward Mine Run.

As I entered it, I heard hoof-strokes on the resounding boards, and a company of horsemen cantered toward me through the darkness. As they came, I heard a gay voice singing the lines:—

"I wake up in the morning, I wake up in the morning, I wake up in the morning, Before the break o' day!"

There was no mistaking that gay sound. It was Stuart, riding at the head of his staff and couriers.

In a moment he had come up, and promptly halted me.

"Ah! that's you, Surry!" he exclaimed with a laugh, "wandering about here in the Wilderness! What news?"

I reported the state of things in front, and Stuart exclaimed:—

"All right; we are ready for them! Coon Hollow is evacuated—head-quarters are in the saddle! Hear that whippoorwill! It is a good omen. Whip 'em well! Whip 'em well!—and we'll do it too!"[1] Stuart laughed, and began to sing—

"Never mind the weather But get over double trouble! We are bound for the Happy land of Lincoln!"

[Footnote 1: His words.]

As the martial voice rang through the shadowy thickets, I thought, "How fortunate it is that the grave people are not here to witness this singular 'want of dignity' in the great commander of Lee's cavalry!"

Those "grave people" would certainly have rolled their eyes, and groaned, "Oh! how undignified!" Was not the occasion solemn? Was it not sinful to laugh and sing? No, messieurs! It was right; and much better than rolling the eyes, and staying at home and groaning! Stuart was going to fight hard—meanwhile he sang gayly. Heaven had given him animal spirits, and he laughed in the face of danger. He laughed and sang on this night when he was going to clash against Grant, as he had laughed and sung when he had clashed against Hooker—when his proud plume floated in front of Jackson's veterans, and he led them over the breastworks at Chancellorsville, singing, "Old Joe Hooker, will you come out of the Wilderness!"

Stuart cantered on: we turned into the Brock road, and I found myself retracing my steps toward the Rapidan.

As I passed near the lonely house, I cast a glance toward the glimmering light. Had Nighthawk's friend arrived?

We soon reached Ely's Ford, and I conducted Stuart to Mordaunt's bivouac, which I had left at dusk. He had just wrapped his cloak around him, and laid down under a tree, ready to mount at a moment's warning.

"What news, Mordaunt?" said Stuart, grasping his hand.

"Some fighting this evening, but it ceased about nightfall, general."

Stuart looked toward the river, and listened attentively.

"I hear nothing stirring."

And passing his hand through his beard he muttered half to himself:—

"I wonder if Grant can have made any change in his programme?"

"The order at least was explicit—that brought by Nighthawk," I said.

Stuart turned toward me suddenly.

"I wonder where he could be found? If I knew, I would send him over the river to-night, to bring me a reliable report of every thing."

I drew the general aside.

"I can tell you where to find Nighthawk."

"Where."

"Shall I bring him?"

"Like lightning, Surry! I wish to dispatch him at once!"

Without reply I wheeled my horse, and went back rapidly toward the house in the Wilderness. I soon reached the spot, rode to the window, and called to Nighthawk, who came out promptly at my call.

"Your friend has not arrived?" I said.

"He will not come till midnight, colonel."

"When, I am afraid, he will not see you, Nighthawk—you are wanted."

And I explained my errand. Nighthawk sighed—it was easy to see that he was much disappointed.

"Well, colonel," he said, in a resigned tone, "I must give up my private business—duty calls. I will be ready in a moment."

And disappearing, he put out the light—issued forth in rear of the house—mounted a horse concealed in the bushes—and rejoined me in front.

"Swartz will not know what to think," he said, as we rode rapidly toward the river; "he knows I am the soul of punctuality, and this failure to keep my appointment will much distress him."

"Distress him, Nighthawk?"

"He will think some harm has happened to me."

And Mr. Nighthawk smiled so sadly, that I could not refrain from laughter.

We soon reached the spot where Stuart awaited us. At sight of Nighthawk he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction, and explained in brief words his wishes.

"That will be easy, general," said Nighthawk.

"Can you procure a Federal uniform?"

"I always travel with one, general."

And Mr. Nighthawk unstrapped the bundle behind his saddle, drawing forth a blue coat and trousers, which in five minutes had replaced his black clothes. Before us stood one of the "blue birds." Nighthawk was an unmistakable "Yankee."

Stuart gave him a few additional instructions, and having listened with the air of a man who is engraving the words he hears upon his memory, Nighthawk disappeared in the darkness, toward the private crossing, where he intended to pass the river.

Half an hour afterward, Stuart was riding toward Germanna Ford. As we approached, Mohun met us, and reported all quiet.

Stuart then turned back in the direction of Chancellorsville, where Nighthawk was to report to him, before daylight, if possible.



XXVII.

MOHUN RIDES.

I lingered behind a moment to exchange a few words with Mohun. Something told me that he was intimately connected with the business which had occasioned the appointment between Nighthawk and Swartz—and at the first words which I uttered, I saw that I was not mistaken.

Mohun raised his head quickly, listened with the closest attention, and when I had informed him of every thing, said abruptly:—

"Well, I'll keep Nighthawk's appointment for him!"

"You!" I said.

"Yes, my dear Surry—this is a matter of more importance than you think. The business will not take long—the enemy will not be moving before daylight—and you said, I think, that the appointment was for midnight?"

"Yes."

Mohun drew out his watch; scratched a match which he drew from a small metal case.

"Just eleven," he said; "there is time to arrive before midnight, if we ride well—will you show me the way?"

I saw that he was bent on his scheme, and said no more. In a few moments we were in the saddle, and riding at full speed toward the house where the meeting was to take place.

Mohun rode like the wild huntsman, and mile after mile disappeared behind us—flitting away beneath the rapid hoofs of our horses. During the whole ride he scarcely opened his lips. He seemed to be reflecting deeply, and to scarcely realize my presence.

At last we turned into the Brock road, and were soon near the lonely house.

"We have arrived," I said, leaping the brushwood fence. And we galloped up the knoll toward the house, which was as dark and silent as the grave.

Dismounting and concealing our horses in the bushes, we opened the door. Mohun again had recourse to his match-case, and lit the candle left by Nighthawk on an old pine table, and glanced at his watch.

"Midnight exactly!" he said; "we have made a good ride of it, Surry."

"Yes; and now that I have piloted you safely, Mohun, I will discreetly retire."

"Why not remain, if you think it will amuse you, my dear friend?"

"But you are going to discuss your private affairs, are you not?"

"They are not private from you, since I have promised to relate my whole life to you."

"Then I remain; but do you think our friend will keep his appointment?"

"There he is," said Mohun, as hoof-strokes were heard without. "He is punctual."



XXVIII.

THE SPY.

A moment afterward we heard the new-comer dismount. Then his steps were heard on the small porch. All at once his figure appeared in the doorway.

It was Swartz. The fat person, the small eyes, the immense double chin, and the chubby fingers covered with pinchbeck rings, were unmistakable.

He was clad in citizens' clothes, and covered with dust as from a long ride.

Mohun rose.

"Come in, my dear Mr. Swartz," he said coolly; "you see we await you."

The spy recoiled. It was plain that he was astonished beyond measure at seeing us. He threw a glance behind him in the direction of his horse, and seemed about to fly.

Mohun quietly drew his revolver, and cocked it.

"Fear nothing, my dear sir," he said, "and, above all, do not attempt to escape."

Swartz hesitated, and cast an uneasy glance upon the weapon.

"Does the sight of this little instrument annoy you?" said Mohun, laughing. "It shall not be guilty of that impoliteness, Mr. Swartz."

And he uncocked the weapon, and replaced it in its holster.

"Now," he continued, "sit down, and let us talk."

Swartz obeyed. Before Mohun's penetrating glance, his own sank. He took his seat in a broken-backed chair; drew forth a huge red bandanna handkerchief; wiped his forehead; and said quietly:—

"I expected to meet a friend here to-night, gentlemen, instead of—"

"Enemies?" interrupted Mohun. "We are such, it is true, my dear sir, but you are quite safe. Your friend Nighthawk is called away; he is even ignorant of our presence here."

"But meeting him would have been different, gentlemen. I had his safe conduct!"

"You shall have it from me."

"May I ask from whom?" said Swartz.

"From General Mohun, of the Confederate army."

Swartz smiled this time; then making a grotesque bow, he replied:—

"I knew you very well, general—that is why I am so much at my ease. I am pleased to hear that you are promoted. When I last saw you, you were only a colonel, but I was certain that you would soon be promoted or killed."

There was a queer accent of politeness in the voice of the speaker. He did not seem to have uttered these words in order to flatter his listener, but to express his real sentiment. He was evidently a character.

"Good!" said Mohun, with his habitual accent of satire. "These little compliments are charming. But I am in haste to-night—let us come to business, my dear sir. I came hither to ask you some questions, and to these I expect plain replies."

Swartz looked at the speaker intently, but without suspicion. His glance, on the contrary, had in it something strangely open and unreserved.

"I will reply to all your questions, general," he said, "and reply truthfully. I have long expected this interview, and will even say that I wished it. You look on me as a Yankee spy, and will have but little confidence in what I say. Nevertheless, I am going to tell you the whole truth about every thing. Ask your questions, general, I will answer them."

Mohun was leaning one elbow on the broken table. His glance, calm and yet fiery, seemed bent on penetrating to the most secret recess of the spy's heart.

"Well," he said, "now that we begin to understand each other, let us come to the point at once. Where were you on the morning of the thirteenth of December, 1856?"

Swartz replied without hesitation:—

"On the bank of Nottoway River, in Dinwiddie, Virginia, and bound for Petersburg."

"The object of your journey?"

"To sell dried fruits and winter vegetables."

"Then you travelled in a cart, or a wagon?"

"In a cart, general."

"You reached Petersburg without meeting with any incident on the way?"

"I met with two very curious ones, general. I see you know something about the affair, and are anxious to know every thing. I will tell you the whole truth; but it will be best to let me do it in my own way."

"Do so, then," said Mohun, fixing his eyes more intently upon the spy.

Swartz was silent again for more than a minute, gazing on the floor. Then he raised his head, passed his red handkerchief over his brow, and said:—

"To begin at the beginning, general. At the time you speak of, December, 1856, I was a small landholder in Dinwiddie, and made my living by carting vegetables and garden-truck to Petersburg. Well, one morning in winter—you remind me that it was the thirteenth of December,—I set out, as usual, in my cart drawn by an old mule, with a good load on board, to go by way of Monk's Neck. I had not gone two miles, however, when passing through a lonely piece of woods on the bank of the river, I heard a strange cry in the brush. It was the most startling you can think of, and made my heart stop beating. I jumped down from my cart, left it standing in the narrow road, and went to the spot. It was a strange sight I saw. On the bank of the river, I saw a woman lying drenched with water, and half-dead. She was richly dressed, and of very great beauty—but I never saw any human face so pale, or clothes more torn and draggled."

The spy paused. Mohun shaded his eyes from the light, with his hands, and said coolly:—

"Go on."

"Well, general—that was enough to astonish anybody—and what is more astonishing still, I have never to this day discovered the meaning of the woman's being there—for it was plain that she was a lady. She was half-dead with cold, and had cried out in what seemed to be a sort of delirium. When I raised her up, and wrung the wet out of her clothes, she looked at me so strangely that I was frightened. I asked her how she had come there, but she made no reply. Where should I take her? She made no reply to that either. She seemed dumb—out of her wits—and, to make a long story short, I half led and half carried her to the cart in which I put her, making a sort of bed for her of some old bags.

"I set out on my way again, without having the least notion what I should do with her—for she seemed a lady—and only with a sort of idea that her friends might probably pay me for my trouble, some day.

"Well, I went on for a mile or two farther, when a new adventure happened to me. That was stranger still—it was like a story-book; and you will hardly believe me—but as I was going through a piece of woods, following a by-road by which I cut off a mile or more, I heard groans near the road, and once more stopped my cart. Then I listened. I was scared, and began to believe in witchcraft. The groans came from the woods on my left, and there was no doubt about the sound—so, having listened for some time, I mustered courage to go in the direction of the sound. Can you think what I found, general?"

"What?" said Mohun, in the same cool voice; "tell me."

"A man lying in a grave;—a real grave, general—broad and deep—a man with a hole through his breast, and streaming with blood."

"Is it possible?"

And Mohun uttered a laugh.

"Just as I tell you, general—it is the simple, naked truth. When I got to the place, he was struggling to get out of the grave, and his breast was bleeding terribly. I never saw a human being look paler. 'Help!' he cried out, in a suffocated voice like, when he saw me—and as he spoke, he made such a strong effort to rise, that his wound gushed with blood, and he fainted."

"He fainted, did he? And what did you do?" said Mohun.

"I took him up in my arms, general, as I had taken the woman, carried him to my cart, when I bound up his breast in the best way I could, and laid him by the side of the half-drowned lady."

"To get a reward from his friends, too, no doubt?"

"Well, general, we must live, you know. And did I not deserve something for being so scared—and for the use of my mule?"

"Certainly you did. Is not the laborer worthy of his hire? But go on, sir—your tale is interesting."

"Tale, general? It is the truth—on the word of Swartz!"

"I no longer doubt now, if I did before," said Mohun; "but tell me the end of your adventure."

"I can do that in a few words, general. I whipped up my old mule, and went on through the woods, thinking what I had best do with the man and the woman I had saved, I could take them to Petersburg, and tell my story to the mayor or some good citizen, who would see that they were taken care of. But as soon as I said 'mayor' to myself, I thought 'he is the chief of police.' Police!—that is one of the ugliest words in the language, general! Some people shiver, and their flesh crawls, when you cut a cork, or scratch on a window pane—well, it is strange, but I have always felt in that way when I heard, or thought of, the word, police! And here I was going to have dealings with the said police! I was going to say 'I found these people on the Nottoway—one half- drowned, and the other in a newly dug grave!' No, I thank you! We never know what our characters will stand, and I was by no means certain that mine would stand that! Then the reward—I wished to have my lady and gentleman under my eye. So, after thinking over the matter for some miles, I determined to leave them with a crony of mine near Monk's Neck, named Alibi, who would take care of them and say nothing. Well, I did so, and went on to Petersburg, where I sold my truck. When I got back they were in bed, and on my next visit they were at the point of death. About that time I was taken sick, and was laid up for more than three months. When I went to see my birds at Monk's Neck, they had flown!"

"Without leaving you their adieux?"

"No, they were at least polite. They left me a roll of bank notes—more than I thought they had about them."

"You had searched them, of course, when they were lying in your cart," said Mohun.

Swartz smiled.

"I acknowledge it, general—I forgot to mention the fact. I had found only a small amount in the gentleman's pocket-book—nothing on the lady—and I never could understand where he or she had concealed about their persons such a considerable amount of money—though I suppose, in a secret pocket."

Mohun nodded.

"That is often done—well, that was the last of them?"

Swartz smiled, and glanced at Mohun.

"What is the use of any concealment, my dear Mr. Swartz?" said the latter. "You may as well tell the whole story, as you have gone this far."

"You are right, general, and I will finish. The war broke out, and I sold my truck patch, and invested in a better business—that is, running the blockade across the Potomac, and smuggling in goods for the Richmond market. On one of these trips, I met, plump, in the streets of Washington, no less a person than the lady whom I had rescued. She was richly dressed, and far more beautiful, but there was no mistaking her. I spoke to her; she recognized me, took me to her house, and here I found the gentleman, dressed in a fine new uniform. He was changed too—his wound had long healed, he was stout and strong, but I knew him, too, at a glance. Well, I spent the evening, and when I left the house had accepted an offer made me to combine a new business with that of blockade runner."

"That of spy, you mean?" said Mohun.

Swartz smiled.

"You speak plainly, general. We call ourselves 'secret agents'—but either word expresses the idea!"



XXIX.

THE PAPER.

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

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

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

Mohun leaned toward the spy.

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

"Exactly, general."

"Is that his real name, or a false one?"

Swartz hesitated; then replied:—

"A false one."

"His real name?"

"Mortimer."

"And the lady is—?"

"His wife, general."

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

"You flatter my pride, general!"

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

"I saw them frequently, general."

"In the army—and at their home, both?"

"Yes, general."

"Where did they live?"

"Near Carlisle, Pennsylvania."

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

"Yes, general."

"Very good!"

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

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

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

"Then Nighthawk has told you all!" he exclaimed.

"Colonel Surry saw you hide the paper."

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

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

"I have left it in Culpeper, general."

"Liar!—give me the paper!"

Swartz started to his feet.

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

"The enemy have crossed, Mohun!" I cried.

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

"They are advancing!" I said, "but look out!—the spy!—"

Mohun wheeled, drawing his pistol.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An hour afterward, I had rejoined Stuart.



XXX.

GRANT STRIKES HIS FIRST BLOW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead of retreating, Lee advanced and delivered battle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



XXXI.

THE REPORT.

It was twilight and the fighting was over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: This scene is real.]

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

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

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

"I will take you to him."

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

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

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

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

Nighthawk hung his head, and sighed audibly.

"I could not help it, general."

"Why didn't you come before?"

"It was impossible, general."

Stuart shook his head.

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

[Footnote 1: His words.]

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

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

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

"What society, Nighthawk?"

"That of Grant, Meade, and Sedgwick."

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

"At Old Wilderness Tavern, general."

"And you saw him there?"

"In the midst of his generals,—I was temporarily one of his couriers."

"I understand. Well, their intended movements?"

Nighthawk shook his head.

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

"How?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is really wonderful," said Stuart, gravely.

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

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

"He was this morning, general, with Meade and Sedgwick."

"You were there?"

"I was, general."

"What did you gather, Nighthawk?"

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

"What?"

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

[Footnote 1: His words.]

Stuart laughed.

"Well,'these fellows' don't appear to be going back. What did Grant say?"

"He smoked, general."

"And did not open his lips?"

"Only once, when General Meade said something about 'manoeuvring.'"

"What did he say?"

"I can give you his words. He took his cigar from his lips—puffed out the smoke—and replied, 'Oh! I never manoeuvre!'"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

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

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

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

Nighthawk smiled.

"I heard Sedgwick utter a few words, general."

"What?"

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

[Footnote 1: His words.]



XXXII.

THE UNSEEN DEATH.

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

The battle of the preceding day had been a sort of "feeler"—now the real struggle came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he was obliged to obey.

He was not needed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



XXXIII.

BREATHED AND HIS GUN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Footnote 1: His words.]

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

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

"Mount!"

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

"Charge!" thundered Breathed.

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

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

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

"What's the matter?" asked the citizen.

"Well, we are retreating."

"Who is after you?"

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

[Footnote 1: His words.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breathed looked decidedly unwilling.

"A few more rounds, general!"

And turning to the men, he shouted:—

"Give them canister!"

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

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

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

"Limber to the rear!"

The order was quickly obeyed.

"Forward!"

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

"Only a few more rounds, general!" pleaded Breathed; "I won't lose the guns!"

"All right!"

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

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

The enemy were nearly at the muzzle of the piece.

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

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

"Limber up!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



XXXIV.

MY LAST RIDE WITH STUART.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An officer said in his presence:—

"We won't be able to stop Sheridan."

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

"No, sir! I'd rather die than let him go on!"[1]

[Footnote 1: His words]

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

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

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

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

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