"Let me end this, but not before I say that the dreadful Voice was right. As to the combat with Mortimer, I shall express no opinion. You know the facts, and will judge me. But the other act was a deadly crime. Gloss it over as you may, you can never justify murder. Use all the special pleading possible, and the frightful deed is still as black in the eyes of God and man as before. I saw that soon; saw it always; see it to-day; and pray God in his infinite mercy to blot out that crime from his book—to pardon the poor weak creature who was driven to madness, and attempted to commit that deadly sin.

"Well, to end my long history. I remained in Europe until the news from America indicated the approach of war—Nighthawk managing my estate, and remitting me the proceeds at Paris. When I saw that an armed collision was going to take place, I hastened back, reaching Virginia in the winter of 1860. But I did not come to Fonthill. I had a horror of the place. From New York, where I landed, I proceeded to Montgomery, without stopping upon the route; found there a prominent friend of my father who was raising a brigade in the Southwest; was invited by him to aid him; and soon afterward was elected to the command of a company of cavalry by his recommendation. I need only add, that I rose gradually from captain to colonel, which rank I held in 1863, when we first met on the Rappahannock—my regiment having been transferred to a brigade of General Lee's cavalry.

"You saw me then, and remember my bitterness and melancholy. But you had no opportunity to descry the depth and intensity of those sentiments in me. Suddenly the load was lifted. That woman made her appearance, as if from the grave, and you must have witnessed my wonder, as my eyes fell upon her. Then, she was not dead after all! I was not a murderer! And to complete the wonder, he was also alive. A man passing along the bank of the river, as I discovered afterward from Nighthawk, who ferreted out the whole affair—a man named Swartz, a sort of poor farmer and huckster, passing along the Nottoway, on the morning after the storm, had found the woman cast ashore, with the boat overturned near her; and a mile farther, had found Mortimer, not yet dead, in the grave. Succored by Swartz, they had both recovered—had then disappeared. I was to meet them again, and know of their existence only when the chance of war threw us face to face on the field.

"You know the scenes which followed. Mortimer, or Darke, as he now calls himself, confronted me everywhere, and she seemed to have no object in life but my destruction. You heard her boast in the house near Buckland that she had thrice attempted to assassinate me by means of her tool, the man Swartz. Again, at Warrenton, in the hospital, she came near poniarding me with her own hand. Nighthawk, who had followed me to the field, and become a secret agent of General Stuart, warned me of all this—and one day, gave me information more startling still. And this brings me, my dear Surry, to the last point in my narrative, I now enter upon matter with which you have been personally 'mixed up.'

"On that night when I attacked Darke in his house in Pennsylvania, Swartz stole a paper from madam—the certificate of her marriage with Mr. Mortimer-Darke, or Darke-Mortimer. The object of Swartz was, to sell the paper to me for a large sum, as he had gotten an inkling of the state of affairs, and my relation with madam. Well, Nighthawk reported this immediately, made an appointment to meet Swartz in the Wilderness, and many times afterward attempted to gain possession of the paper, which Swartz swore was a bona fide certificate of the marriage of these two persons before the year 1856, when I first met them.

"You, doubtless, understand now, my dear Surry, my great anxiety to gain possession of that paper. Or, if you do not, I have only to state one fact—that will explain all. I am engaged to be married to Miss Conway, and am naturally anxious to have the proof in my possession that I have not one wife yet living! I know that woman well. She will stop at nothing. The rumor that I am about to become the happy husband of a young lady whom I love, has driven madam nearly frantic, and she has already shown her willingness to stop at nothing, by imprisoning Swartz, and starving him until he produced the stolen paper. Swartz is dead, however; the paper is lost; I and madam are both in hot pursuit of the document. Which will find it, I know not. She, of course, wishes to suppress it—I wish to possess it. Where is it? If you will tell me, friend, I will make you a deed for half my estate! You have been with me to visit that strange woman, Amanda, as a forlorn hope. What will come I know not; but I trust that an all-merciful Providence will not withdraw its hand from me, and now dash all my hopes, at the very moment when the cup is raised to my lips! If so, I will accept all, submissively, as the just punishment of my great crime—a crime, I pray God to pardon me, as the result of mad desperation, and not as a wanton and wilful defiance of His Almighty authority! I have wept tears of blood for that act. I have turned and tossed on my bed, in the dark hours of night, groaning and pleading for pardon. I have bitterly expiated throughout long years, that brief tragedy. I have humbled myself in the dust before the Lord of all worlds, and, falling at the feet of the all-merciful Saviour, besought His divine compassion. I am proud—no man was ever prouder—but I have bowed my forehead to the dust, and if the Almighty now denies me the supreme consolation of this pure girl's affection,—if loving her as I do, and beloved by her, as I may venture to tell you, friend, I am to see myself thrust back from this future—then, Surry, I will give the last proof of my submission: I will bow down my head, and say 'Thy will, not mine, Lord, be done!'"

Mohun's head sank as he uttered the words. To the proud face came an expression of deep solemnity and touching sweetness. The firm lips were relaxed—the piercing eyes had become soft. Mohun was greater in his weakness than he had ever been in his strength.

When an hour afterward we had mounted our horses, and were riding back slowly through the night, I said, looking at him by the dim starlight:—

"This is no longer a gay young cavalryman—a mere thoughtless youth—but a patriot, fit to live or die with Lee!"



BOOK V.



THE DEAD GO FAST.



I.

THE "DOOMED CITY" IN PROFILE—DECEMBER, 1864.

The scenes just described took place in the month of November. In December I obtained the priceless boon of a few days' leave of absence, and paid a visit to Richmond.

There was little there of a cheerful character; all was sombre and lugubrious. In the "doomed city," as throughout the whole country, all things were going to wreck and ruin. During the summer and autumn, suffering had oppressed the whole community; but now misery clutched the very heartstrings. Society had been convulsed—now, all the landmarks of the past seemed about to disappear in the deluge. Richmond presented the appearance, and lived after the manner, of a besieged city, as General Grant called it. It no longer bore the least likeness to its former peaceful and orderly self. The military police had usurped the functions of the civil, and the change was for the worse. Garroters swarmed the streets of the city after dark. House-breakers everywhere carried on their busy occupation. Nothing was safe from these prowlers of the night; all was fish for their nets. The old clothes in rags and bales; the broken china and worn spoons; the very food, obtained through immense exertions by some father to feed his children—all became the spoil of these night-birds, who were ever on the watch. When you went to make a visit in the evening, you took your hat and cloak with you into the drawing-room, to have them under your eye. When you retired at night, you deposited your watch and purse under your pillow. At the hotels, you never thought of placing your boots outside the door; and the landlords, in the morning, carefully looked to see if the towels, or the blankets of the beds had been stolen. All things were thus unhinged. Misery had let loose upon the community all the outlaws of civilization; the scum and dregs of society had come to the top, and floated on the surface in the sunlight.

The old respectable population of the old respectable city had disappeared, it seemed. The old respectable habitudes had fallen into contempt. Gambling-houses swarmed everywhere; and the military police ignored them. "The very large number of houses," said a contemporary journal, "on Main and other streets, which have numbers painted in large gilt figures over the door, and illuminated at night, are faro banks. The fact is not known to the public. The very large numbers of flashily dressed young men, with villainous faces, who hang about the street corners in the daytime, are not gamblers, garroters, and plugs, but young men studying for the ministry, and therefore exempt from military duty. This fact is not known to General Winder." The quiet and orderly city had, in a word, become the haunt of burglars, gamblers, adventurers, blockade-runners. The city, once the resort of the most elegant society in Virginia, had been changed by war and misery into a strange chaotic caravanserai, where you looked with astonishment on the faces going and coming, without knowing in the least "who was who," or whether your acquaintance was an honest man or a scoundrel. The scoundrels dressed in excellent clothes, and smiled and bowed when you met them; it was nearly the sole means of identifying them, at an epoch, when virtue almost always went in rags.

The era of "social unrealities," to use the trenchant phrase of Daniel, had come. Even braid on sleeves and collars did not tell you much. Who was the fine-looking Colonel Blank, or the martial General Asterisks? Was he a gentleman or a barber's boy—an F.F. somewhere, or an exdrayman? The general and colonel dressed richly; lived at the "Spottswood;" scowled on the common people; and talked magnificently. It was only when some young lady linked her destiny to his, that she found herself united to quite a surprising helpmate—discovered that the general or the colonel had issued from the shambles or the gutter.

Better society was not wanting; but it remained largely in the background. Vice was strutting in cloth of gold; virtue was at home mending its rags. Every expedient was resorted to, not so much to keep up appearances as to keep the wolf from the door. Servants were sent around by high-born ladies to sell, anonymously, baskets of their clothes. The silk or velvet of old days was now parted with for bread. On the shelves of the bookstores were valuable private libraries, placed there for sale. In the shops of the silversmiths were seen breastpins, watches, bracelets, pearl and diamond necklaces, which their owners were obliged to part with for bread. "Could we have traced," says a late writer, "the history of a set of pearls, we should have been told of a fair bride, who had received them from a proud and happy bridegroom; but whose life had been blighted in her youthful happiness by the cruel blast of war—whose young husband was in the service of his country—to whom stark poverty had continued to come, until at last the wedding present from the dear one, went to purchase food and raiment... A richly bound volume of poems, with here and there a faint pencil-marked quotation, told perchance of a lover perished on some bloody field; and the precious token was disposed of, or pawned, when bread was at last needed for some suffering loved one."

You can see these poor women—can you not, reader? The bride looking at her pearl necklace, with flushed cheeks and eyes full of tears, murmuring:—"He gave me this—placed it around my neck on my wedding day—and I must sell it!" You can see too, the fair girl, bending down and dropping tears on the page marked by her dead lover; her bosom heaving, her heart breaking, her lips whispering:—"His hand touched this—we read this page together—I hear his voice—see his smile—this book brings back all to me—and now, I must go and sell it, to buy bread for my little sister and brother, who are starving!"

That is dolorous, is it not, reader?—and strikes you to the heart. It is not fancy. December, 1864, saw that, and more, in Virginia.



II.

THE MEN WHO RUINED THE CONFEDERACY.

In the streets of Richmond, crowded with uniforms, in spite of the patrols, marching to and fro, and examining "papers," I met a number of old acquaintances, and saw numerous familiar faces.

The "Spottswood" was the resort of the militaires, and the moneyed people. Here, captains and colonels were elbowed by messieurs the blockade-runners, and mysterious government employees—employed, as I said on a former occasion, in heaven knows what. The officer stalked by in his braid. The "Trochilus" passed, smiling, in shiny broadcloth. Listen! yonder is the newsboy, shouting, "The Examiner!"—that is to say, the accurate photograph of this shifting chaos, where nothing seems stationary long enough to have its picture taken.

Among the first to squeeze my hand, with winning smiles and cordial welcome, was my friend Mr. Blocque. He was clad more richly than before; smiled more sweetly than ever; seemed more prosperous, better satisfied, firmer in his conviction than ever that the President and the administration had never committed a fault—that the world of December, 1864, was the best of all possible worlds.

"My dear colonel!" exclaimed Mr. Pangloss-Trochilus, alias Mr. Blocque, "delighted to see you, I assure you! You are well? You will dine with me, to-day? At five precisely? You will find the old company—jolly companions, every one! We meet and talk of the affairs of the country. All is going on well, colonel. Our city is quiet and orderly. The government sees farther than its assailants. It can not explain now, and set itself right in the eyes of the people—that would reveal military secrets to the enemy, you know. I tell my friends in the departments not to mind their assailants. Washington himself was maligned, but he preserved a dignified silence. All is well, colonel! I give you my word, we are all right! I know a thing or two—!" and Mr. Blocque looked mysterious. "I have friends in high quarters, and you can rely on my statement. Lee is going to whip Grant. The people are rallying to the flag. The finances are improving. The resources of the country are untouched. A little patience—only a very little patience! I tell my friends. Let us only endure trials and hardships with brave hearts. Let us not murmur at dry bread, colonel—let us cheerfully dress in rags—let us deny ourselves every thing, sacrifice every thing to the cause, cast away all superfluities, shoulder our muskets, and fight to the death! Then there can be no doubt of the result, colonel—good morning!"

And Mr. Blocque shook my hand cordially, gliding away in his shiny broadcloth, at the moment when Mr. Croker, catching my eye in passing, stopped to speak to me.

"You visit Richmond at an inauspicious moment, colonel," said Mr. Croker, jingling his watch-seals with dignity. "The country has at last reached a point from which ruin is apparent in no very distant perspective, and when the hearts of the most resolute, in view of the depressing influences of the situation, are well nigh tempted to surrender every anticipation of ultimate success in the great cause which absorbs the energies of the entire country—hem!—at large. The cause of every trouble is so plain, that it would be insulting your good judgment to dwell upon the explanation. The administration has persistently disregarded the wishes of the people, and the best interests of the entire community; and we have at last reached a point where to stand still is as ruinous as to go on—as we are going—to certain destruction and annihilation. Look at the finances, entirely destroyed by the bungling and injudicious course of the honorable Mr. Memminger, who has proceeded upon fallacies which the youngest tyro would disdain to refute. Look at the quartermaster's department,—the commissary department,—the State department, and the war department, and you will everywhere find the proofs of utter incompetence, leading straight, as I have before remarked, to that ruin which is pending at the present moment over the country. Our society is uprooted, and there is no hope for the country. Blockade-runners, forestallers, stragglers from the army—Good morning, Colonel Desperade; I was just speaking to our friend, Colonel Surry."

And leaving me in the hands of the tall, smiling, and imposing Colonel Desperade, who was clad in a magnificent uniform, Mr. Croker, forestaller and extortioner, continued his way with dignity toward his counting house.

"This is a very great pleasure, colonel!" exclaimed Colonel Desperade, squeezing my hand with ardor. "Just from the lines, colonel? Any news? We are still keeping Grant off! He will find himself checkmated by our boys in gray! The country was never in better trim for a good hard fight. The immortal Lee is in fine spirits—the government steadily at work—and do you know, my dear Colonel, I am in luck to-day? I am certain to receive my appointment at last, as brigadier-general—"

"Look out, or you'll be mistaken!" said a sarcastic voice behind us. And Mr. Torpedo, smoking a short and fiery cigar, stalked up and shook hands with me.

"Desperade depends on the war department, and is a ninny for doing so!" said Mr. Torpedo, member of Congress. "The man that depends on Jeff Davis, or his war secretary, is a double-distilled dolt. Jeff thinks he's a soldier, and apes Napoleon. But you can't depend on him, Desperade. Look at Johnston! He fooled him. Look at Beauregard—he envies and fears him, so he keeps him down. Don't depend on the President, Desperade, or you'll be a fool, my friend!"

And Mr. Torpedo walked on, puffing away at the fiery stump of his cigar, and muttering curses against President Davis.

An hour afterward, I was conversing in the rotunda of the capitol, with the high-bred and smiling old cavalier, Judge Conway, and he was saying to me:—

"The times are dark, colonel, I acknowledge that. But all would be well, if we could eradicate abuses and bring out our strength. A fatality, however, seems pursuing us. The blockade-runners drain the country of the little gold which is left in it; the forestallers run up prices, and debase the currency beyond hope; the able-bodied and healthy men who ought to be in the army, swarm in the streets; and the bitter foes of the President poison the public mind, and infuse into it despair. It is this, colonel, not our weakness, which is going to ruin us, if we are ruined!"



III.

MY LAST VISIT TO JOHN M. DANIEL.

On the night before my return to the army, I paid my last visit to John M. Daniel.

Shall I show you a great career, shipwrecked—paint a mighty ship run upon the breakers? The current of our narrative drags us toward passionate and tragic events, but toward few scenes more sombre than that which I witnessed on this night in December, 1864.

I found John M. Daniel in his house on Broad Street, as before; perched still in his high chair of black horse-hair, all alone. His face was thinner; his cheeks more sallow, and now haggard and sunken; his eyes sparkling with gloomy fire, as he half reclined beneath the cluster of globe lamps, depending from the ceiling, and filling the whole apartment with their brilliant light—one of his weaknesses.

He received me with grim cordiality, offered me a cigar, and said:—

"I am glad to see you, colonel, and to offer you one of the last of my stock of Havanas. Wilmington is going soon—then good-bye to blockade goods."

"You believe Wilmington is going to fall, then?"

"As surely as Savannah."

"Savannah! You think that? We are more hopeful at Petersburg."

"Hopeful or not, colonel, I am certain of what I say. Remember my prediction when it is fulfilled. The Yankees are a theatrical people. They take Vicksburg, and win Gettysburg, on their 'great national anniversary;' and now they are going to present themselves with a handsome 'Christmas gift'—that is the city of Savannah."

He spoke with evident difficulty, and his laboring voice, like his haggard cheeks, showed that he had been ill since I last saw him.

"Savannah captured, or surrendered!" I said, with knit brows. "What will be the result of that?"

"Ruin," was the curt response.

"Not the loss of a mere town?"

"No; the place itself is nothing. For Sherman to take it will not benefit him much; but it will prove to the country, and the President, that he is irresistible. Then they will hack; and you will see the beginning of the end."

"That is a gloomy view enough."

"Yes—every thing is gloomy now. The devil of high-headed obstinacy and incompetence rules affairs. I do not croak in the Examiner newspaper. But we are going straight to the devil."

As he uttered these words, he placed his hand upon his breast, and closed his eyes, as though he were going to faint.

"What is the matter?" I exclaimed, rising abruptly, and approaching him.

"Nothing!" he replied, in a weak voice; "don't disturb yourself about me. These fits of faintness come on, now and then, in consequence of an attack of pneumonia which I had lately. Sit down, colonel. You must really pardon me for saying it, but you make me nervous."

There was nothing in the tone of this singular address to take offence at,—the voice of the speaker was perfectly courteous,—and I resumed my seat.

"We were talking about Sherman," he said. "They call him Gog, Magog, anti-Christ, I know not what, in the clerical circles of this city!"

His lip curled as he spoke.

"One reverend divine publicly declared the other day, that 'God had put a hook in Sherman's nose, and was leading him to his destruction!' I don't think it looks much like it!"

The speaker was stopped by a fit of coughing, and when it had subsided, leaned back, faint and exhausted, in his chair.

"The fact is—Sherman—" he said, with difficulty, "seems to have—the hook in—our nose!"

There was something grim and lugubrious in the smile which accompanied the painfully uttered words. A long silence followed them, which was broken by neither of us. At last I raised my head, and said:—

"I find you less hopeful than last summer. At that time you were in good spirits, and the tone of the Examiner was buoyant."

"It is hopeful still," he replied, "but by an effort—from a sentiment of duty. I often write far more cheerfully than I feel, colonel."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"Your views have changed, I perceive—but you change with the whole country."

"Yes. A whole century has passed since last August, when you visited me here. One by one, we have lost all that the country could depend on—hope goes last. For myself, I began to doubt when Jackson fell at Chancellorsville, and I have been doubting, more or less, ever since. He was a dominant man, colonel, fit, if any thing happened, to rise to the head of affairs.[1] Oh! for an hour of Jackson! Oh! for a day of our dead Dundee!"[2]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

The face of the speaker glowed, and I shall never forget the flash of his dark eye, as he uttered the words, "if any thing happened." There was a whole volume of menace to President Davis in those words.

"But this is useless!" he went on; "Jackson is dead, and there is none to take his place. So, without leaders, with every sort of incompetence, with obstinacy and stupidity directing the public councils, and shaping the acts of the administration, we are gliding straight into the gulf of destruction."

I could make no reply. The words of this singular man and profound thinker, affected me dolefully.

"Yes, colonel," he went on, "the three or four months which have passed since your last visit, have cleared away all mists from my eyes at least, and put an end to all my dreams—among others, to that project which I spoke of—the purchase and restoration of the family estate of Stafford. It will never be restored by me. Like Randolph, I am the last of my line."

And with eyes full of a profound melancholy, the speaker gazed into the fire.

"I am passing away with the country," he added. "The cause is going to fail. I give it three months to end in, and have sent for a prominent senator, who may be able to do something. I intend to say to him, 'The time has come to make the best terms possible with the enemy,' and I shall place the columns of the Examiner newspaper at his disposal to advocate that policy."[1]

[Footnote 1: This, I learned afterward, from the Hon. Mr. ——-, was duly done by Mr. Daniel. But it was too late.]

"Is it possible!" I said. "Frankly, I do not think things are so desperate."

"You are a soldier, and hopeful, colonel. The smoke blinds you."

"And yet General Lee is said to repudiate negotiations with scorn. He is said to have lately replied to a gentleman who advised them, 'For myself, I intend to die sword in hand!'"

"General Lee is a soldier—and you know what the song says: 'A soldier's business, boys, is to die!'"

I could find no reply to the grim words.

"I tell you the cause is lost, colonel!" with feverish energy, "lost irremediably, at this moment while we are speaking! It is lost from causes which are enough to make the devil laugh, but it is lost all the same! When the day of surrender, and Yankee domination comes—when the gentlemen of the South are placed under the heel of negroes and Yankees—I, for one, wish to die. Happy is the man who shall have gotten into the grave before that day![1] Blessed will be the woman who has never given suck![2] Yes, the best thing for me is to die—[3] and I am going to do so. I shall not see that Dies Irae! I shall be in my grave!"

[Footnote 1: His words.]

[Footnote 2: His words.]

[Footnote 3: His words.]

And breathing heavily, the journalist again leaned back in his chair, as though about to faint.

An hour afterward, I terminated my visit, and went out, oppressed and gloomy.

This singular man had made a reluctant convert of me to his own dark views. The cloud which wrapped him, now darkened me—from the black future I saw the lightnings dart already.

His predictions were destined to have a very remarkable fulfilment.

On the 21st of December, a few days after our interview, Sherman telegraphed to Lincoln:—

"I beg to present you, as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah, with one hundred and fifty guns, and plenty of ammunition, and also about twenty-five thousand bales of cotton."

In January, Wilmington fell.

Toward the end of the same month, John M. Daniel was a second time seized with pneumonia, and took to his bed, from which he was never again to rise. He would see no one but his physician and a few chosen friends. All other persons were persistently denied admittance to his chamber. Lingering throughout the remainder of the winter, as spring approached, life seemed gradually leaving him. Day by day his pulse grew weaker. You would have said that this man was slowly dying with the cause for which he had fought; that as the life-blood oozed, drop by drop, from the bleeding bosom of the Southern Confederacy, the last pulses of John M. Daniel kept time to the pattering drops.

One morning, at the end of March, his physician came to see him, and found him lying on the outer edge of his bed. Not wishing to disturb him, the physician went to the window to mix a stimulant. All at once a noise attracted his attention, and he turned round. The dying man had, by a great effort, turned completely over, and lay on his back in the middle of the bed, with his eyes closed, and his arms folded on his breast, as though he were praying.

When the physician came to his bedside, he was dead.

It was four days before the fall of Petersburg and Richmond; and he was buried in Hollywood, just in time to escape the tramp of Federal feet around his coffin.

His prophecy and wish were thus fulfilled.[1]

[Footnote 1: These details are strictly accurate.]



IV.

GARROTED.

When I left Mr. John M. Daniel it was past ten at night, and designing to set out early in the morning for Petersburg, I bent my steps toward home.

The night was not however to pass without adventures of another character.

I was going along Governor Street, picking my way by the light of the few gas-lamps set far apart and burning dimly, when all at once I heard a cry in front, succeeded by the noise of a scuffle, and then by a heavy fall.

Hastening forward I reached the spot, which was not far from the City Hall; and a glance told me all.

A wayfarer had been garroted; that is to say, suddenly attacked while passing along, by one of the night-birds who then infested the streets after dark; seized from behind; throttled, and thrown violently to the ground—the object of the assailant being robbery.

When I reached the spot the robber was still struggling with his victim, who, stretched beneath him on the ground, uttered frightful cries. One hand of the garroter was on his throat, the other was busily rifling his pockets.

I came up just in time to prevent a murder, but not to disappoint the robber. As I appeared he hastily rose, releasing the throat of the unfortunate citizen. I saw a watch gleam in his hand; he bestowed a violent kick on his prostrate victim;—then he disappeared running, and was in an instant lost in the darkness.

I saw that pursuit would be useless; and nobody ever thought, at that period, of attempting to summon the police. I turned to assist the victim, who all at once rose from the ground, uttering groans and cries.

The lamp-light shone upon his face. It was the worthy Mr. Blocque—Mr. Blocque, emitting howls of anguish! Mr. Blocque, shaking his clenched hands, and maligning all created things! Mr. Blocque, devoting, with loud curses and imprecations, the assembled wisdom of the "city fathers," and the entire police force of the Confederate capital, to the infernal deities!

"I am robbed—murdered!" screamed the little Jewish-looking personage, in a shrill falsetto which resembled the shriek of a furious old woman, "robbed! rifled!—stripped of every thing!—garroted!—my money taken!—I had ten thousand dollars in gold and greenbacks on my person!—not a Confederate note in the whole pack—not one! gold and greenbacks!—two watches!—-I am ruined! I will expose the police! I was going to my house like a quiet citizen! I was harming nobody! and I am to be set on and robbed of my honest earnings by a highwayman —choked, strangled, knocked down, my pockets picked, my money taken —and this in the capital of the Confederacy, under the nose of the police!"

It was a shrill squeak which I heard—something unutterably ludicrous. I could scarce forbear laughing, as I looked at the little blockade-runner, with disordered hair, dirty face, torn clothes, and bleeding nose, uttering curses, and moaning in agony over the loss of his "honest earnings!"

I consoled him in the best manner I could, and asked him if he had lost every thing. That question seemed to arouse him. He felt hastily in his pockets,—and then at the result my eyes opened wide. Thrusting his hand into a secret pocket, he drew forth an enormous roll of greenbacks, and I could see the figures "100" on each of the notes as he ran over them. That bundle alone must have contained several thousands of dollars. But the worthy Mr. Blocque did not seem in the least consoled.

"He got the other bundle!" shrieked the victim, still in his wild falsetto; "it was ten thousand dollars—I had just received it this evening—I am robbed!—they are going to murder me!—Where is the police!—murder!"

I laid my hand upon his arm.

"You have lost a very considerable sum," I said, "but—you may lose more still."

And I pointed to the roll of bank notes in his hand, with a significant glance. At these words he started.

"You are right, colonel!" he said, hastily; "I may be attacked again! I may be robbed of all—they may finish me! I will get home as quickly as I can! Thank you, colonel! you have saved me from robbery and murder! Come and see me, colonel. Come and dine with me, my dear sir! At five, precisely!"

And Mr. Blocque commenced running wildly toward a place of safety.

In a moment he had disappeared, and I found myself alone—laughing heartily.



V.

THE CLOAKED WOMAN.

"Well," I said, as I walked on, "this is a charming adventure and conveys a tolerably good idea of the city of Richmond, after dark, in the year 1864. Our friend Blocque is garroted, and robbed of his 'honest earnings,' at one fell swoop by a footpad! The worthy citizen is waylaid; his pockets rifled; his life desolated. All the proceeds of a life of virtuous industry have disappeared. Terrible condition of things!—awful times when a good citizen can not go home to his modest supper of canvas-backs and champagne, without being robbed by——his brother robber!"

Indulging in these reflections, not unaccompanied with smiles, I continued my way, with little fear, myself, of pickpockets or garroters. Those gentry were intelligent. They were never known to attack people with gray coats—they knew better! They attacked the black coats, in the pockets of which they suspected the presence of greenbacks and valuable papers; never the gray coats, where they would find only a frayed "leave of absence" for their pains!

I thus banished the whole affair from my mind; but it had aroused and excited me. I did not feel at all sleepy; and finding, by a glance at my watch beneath a lamp, that it was only half past ten, I resolved to go and ask after the health of my friend, Mr. X——-, whose house was only a square or two off.

This resolution I proceeded at once to carry out. A short walk brought me to the house, half buried in its shrubbery; but as I approached I saw a carriage was standing before the house.

Should I make my visit then, or postpone it? Mr. X——- evidently had company. Or had the carriage brought a visitor to some other member of the household? Mr. X——- was only a boarder, and I might be mistaken in supposing that he was engaged at the moment.

As these thoughts passed through my mind, I approached the gate in the iron railing. The carriage was half hidden by the shadow of the elms, which grew in a row along the sidewalk. On the box sat a motionless figure. The vehicle and driver were as still and silent as if carved out of ebony.

"Decidedly I will discover," I said, and opening the gate I turned into the winding path through the shrubbery, which led toward the rear of the house; that is to say, toward the private entrance to the room of Mr. X——-.

Suddenly, as I passed through the shadowy shrubs, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I started back, and unconsciously felt for some weapon.

"Don't shoot me, colonel!" said a voice in the darkness, "I am a friend."

I recognized the voice of Nighthawk.

"Good heavens! my dear Nighthawk," I said, drawing a long breath of relief, "you are enough to make Alonzo the Brave, himself, tremble? You turn up everywhere, and especially in the dark! What are you doing here?"

"I am watching, colonel," said Nighthawk, with benignant sweetness.

"Watching?"

"And waiting."

"Waiting for whom?"

"For a lady with whom you have the honor of being acquainted."

"A lady—?"

"That one you last saw in the lonely house near Monk's Neck. Hush! here she comes."

His voice had sunk to a whisper, and he drew me into the shrubbery, as a long bar of light, issuing from the door in the rear of the house, ran out into the night.

"I am going to follow her," whispered Nighthawk, placing his lips close to my ear, "she is at her devil's work here in Richmond, as Swartz was—."

Suddenly he was silent; a light step was heard. A form approached us, passed by. I could see that it was a woman, wrapped from head to foot in a gray cloak.

She passed so close to us that the skirt of her cloak nearly brushed our persons, and disappeared toward the gate. The iron latch was heard to click, the door of the carriage to open and close, and then the vehicle began to move.

Nighthawk took two quick steps in the direction of the gate.

"I am going to follow the carriage, colonel," he whispered. "I have been waiting here to do so. I will tell you more another time. Give my respects to General Mohun, and tell him I am on his business!"

With which words Nighthawk glided into the darkness—passed through the gate without sound from the latch—and running noiselessly, disappeared on the track of the carriage.

I gazed after him for a moment, said to myself, "well this night is to be full of incident!"—and going straight to the door in the rear of the house, passed through it, went to the door of Mr. X——-'s room, and knocked.

"Come in," said the voice of that gentleman; and opening the door I entered.



VI.

THE HEART OF A STATESMAN.

Mr. X——- was seated in front of an excellent coal fire, in his great armchair, near a table covered with papers, and between his lips was the eternal cigar.

At sight of me he rose courteously—for he never omitted any form of politeness—and cordially shook my hand.

"I am glad to see you, colonel," he said. "Just from the army? Have a cigar."

And he extended toward me an elegant cigar-case full of Havanas, which he took from the table. I declined, informing him that I had been smoking all the evening in the sanctum of the editor of the Examiner.

"Ah! you have been to see Daniel," said Mr. X——-. "He is a very remarkable man. I do not approve of the course of his paper, and he has attacked me very bitterly on more than one occasion. But I bear no grudge against him. He is honest in his opinions. I admire the pluck of the man, and the splendid pith of his writings."

"My views accord with your own," I replied.

"Everybody thinks with us," said Mr. X——-, puffing at his cigar. "It is only ignoramuses who deny this man's courage and ability. I have never done injustice to Daniel—and I call that 'liberal' in myself, colonel! He has flayed me alive on three or four occasions, and it is not his fault that I am enjoying this excellent Havana."

"I read the attacks," I said.

"Were they not fearful?" said Mr. X——-, smiling tranquilly. "After reading them, I regarded myself as a moral and political monster!"

I could not forbear from laughing as the portly statesman uttered the words. He seemed to derive a species of careless enjoyment from the recollection of his "flayings."

"I expect to talk over these little affairs with Daniel hereafter," he said. "We shall have a great deal of time on our hands—in Canada."

And Mr. X——- smiled, and went on smoking. It was the second time he had uttered that phrase—"in Canada."

I laughed now, and said:—

"You continue to regard Toronto, or Montreal, or Quebec, as your future residence?"

"Yes; I think I prefer Quebec. The view from Cape Diamond is superb; and there is something English and un-American in the whole place, which I like. The Plains of Abraham bring back the history of the past,—which is more agreeable to me at least than the history of the present."

"You adhere more than ever, I see, to your opinion that we are going to fail?"

"It is not an opinion, my dear colonel, but a certainty."

My head sank. In the army I had been hopeful. When I came to Richmond, those high intelligences, John M. Daniel and Mr. X——-, did not even attempt to conceal their gloomy views.

"I see you think me a croaker," said Mr. X——-, tranquilly smoking, "and doubtless say to yourself, colonel, that I am injudicious in thus discouraging a soldier, who is fighting for this cause. A year ago I would not have spoken to you thus, for a year ago there was still some hope. Now, to discourage you—if thinking men, fighting for a principle, like yourself, could be discouraged—would result in no injury: for the cause is lost. On the contrary, as the friend of that most excellent gentleman, your father, I regard it as a sort of duty to speak thus—to say to you 'Don't throw away your life for nothing. Do your duty, but do no more than your duty, for we are doomed.'"

I could find no reply to these gloomy words.

"The case is past praying for," said Mr. X——- composedly, "the whole fabric of the Confederacy at this moment is a mere shell. It is going to crumble in the spring, and another flag will float over the Virginia capitol yonder—what you soldiers call 'The Gridiron.' The country is tired. The administration is unpopular, and the departments are mismanaged. I am candid, you see. The days of the Confederacy are numbered, and worse than all, nobody knows it. We ought to negotiate for the best terms, but the man who advises that, will be hissed at and called a 'coward.' It is an invidious thing to do. It is much grander to shout 'Death sooner than surrender!' I shouted that lustily as long as there was any hope—now, I think it my duty as a statesman, and public functionary, to say, 'There are worse things than death—let us try and avoid them by making terms.' I say that to you—I do not say so on the streets—the people would tear me to pieces, and with their sources of information they would be right in doing so."

"Is it possible that all is lost? That negotiations are our only hope?"

"Yes; and confidentially speaking—this is a State secret, my dear colonel—these will soon be made."

"Indeed!"

"You think that impossible, but it is the impossible which invariably takes place in this world. We are going to send commissioners to meet Mr. Lincoln in Hampton Roads—and it will be useless."

"Why?"

"We are going to demand such terms as he will not agree to. The commissioners will return. The war will continue to its legitimate military end, which I fix about the last days of March."

"Good heaven! so soon!"

"Yes."

"In three months?"

Mr. X——- nodded.

"General Lee may lengthen the term a little by his skill and courage, but it is not in his power, even, to resist beyond the month of April."

"The army of Northern Virginia, driven by the enemy!"

"Forced to surrender, or annihilated; and in Virginia—it will never join Johnston. Its numbers are too small to cut a path through the enemy. Grant will be at the Southside road before the first of April; Lee will evacuate his lines, which he will be compelled to hold to the last moment; he will retreat; be intercepted; be hunted down toward Lynchburg, and either surrender, or be butchered. Cheerful, isn't it?"

"It is frightful!"

"Yes, Lee's men are starving now. The country is tired of the war, and disgusted with the manner in which we manage things. No recruits are arriving. The troops are not deserting, but they are leaving the army without permission, to succor their starving families. Lee's last hours are approaching, and we are playing the comedy here in Richmond with an immense appearance of reality; dancing, and fiddling, and laughing on the surface of the volcano. I play my part among the rest. I risk my head more even, perhaps, than the military leaders. I take a philosophic view, however, of the present and future. If I am not hung, I will go to Canada; meanwhile, I smoke my cigar, colonel."

And Mr. X——- lazily threw away his stump, and lit a fresh Havana. It is impossible to imagine any thing more careless than his attitude. This man was either very brave or frightfully apathetic.

Five minutes afterward, I knew that any thing but apathy possessed him. All at once he rose in his chair, and his eyes were fixed upon me with a glance so piercing and melancholy, that they dwell still in my memory, and will always dwell there.

"I said we were playing a comedy here in Richmond, colonel," he said, in tones so deep and solemn that they made me start; "I am playing my part with the rest; I play it in public, and even in private, as before you to-night. I sit here, indolently smoking and uttering my jests and platitudes, and, at the moment that I am speaking, my heart is breaking! I am a Virginian—I love this soil more than all the rest of the world—not a foot but is dear and sacred, and a vulgar horde are about to trample it under foot, and enslave its people. Every pulse of my being throbs with agony at the thought! I can not sleep. I have lost all taste for food. One thought alone haunts me—that the land of Washington, Jefferson, Mason, Henry, and Randolph, is to become the helpless prey of the scum of Europe and the North! My family has lived here for more than two hundred years. I have been, and am to-day, proud beyond words, of my birthright! I am a Virginian! a Virginian of Virginians! I have for forty years had no thought but the honor of Virginia. I have fought for her, and her only, in the senate and cabinet of the old government at Washington. I have dedicated all my powers to her—shrunk from nothing in my path—given my days and nights for years, and was willing to pour out my blood for Virginia; and now she is about to be trampled upon, her great statues hurled down, her escutcheon blotted, her altars overturned! And I, who have had no thought but her honor and glory, am to be driven, at the end of a long career, to a foreign land! I am to crouch yonder in Canada, with my bursting brow in my two hands—and every newspaper is to tell me 'the negro and the bayonet rule Virginia!' Can you wonder, then, that I am gloomy—that despair lies under all this jesting? You are happy. You go yonder, where a bullet may end you. Would to God that I had entered the army, old as I am, and that at least I could hope for a death of honor, in arms for Virginia!"



VII.

SECRET SERVICE.

The statesman leaned back in his great chair, and was silent. At the same moment a tap was heard at the door; it opened noiselessly, and Nighthawk glided into the apartment.

Under his cloak I saw the gray uniform of a Confederate soldier; in his hand he carried a letter.

Nighthawk saluted Mr. X——- and myself with benignant respect. His quick eye, however, had caught the gloomy and agitated expression of the statesman's countenance, and he was silent.

"Well," said Mr. X——-, raising his head, with a deep sigh. Then passing his hand over his face, he seemed to brush away all emotion. When he again looked up, his face was as calm and unmoved as at the commencement of our interview.

"You see I begin a new scene in this comedy," he said to me in a low tone.

And turning to Nighthawk, he said:—

"Well, you followed that agreeable person?"

"Yes, sir," said Nighthawk, with great respect.

"She turned out to be the character you supposed? Speak before Colonel Surry."

Nighthawk bowed.

"I never had any doubt of her character, sir," he said. "You will remember that she called on you a week ago, announcing that she was a spy, who had lately visited the Federal lines and Washington. You described her to me, and informed me that you had given her another appointment for to-night; when I assured you that I knew her; she was an enemy, who had come as a spy upon us; and you directed me to be here to-night, and follow her, after your interview."

"Well," said Mr. X——-, quietly, "you followed her!"

"Yes, sir. On leaving you, after making her pretended report of affairs in Washington, she got into her carriage, and the driver started rapidly, going up Capitol and Grace streets. I followed on foot, and had to run—but I am used to that, sir. The carriage stopped at a house in the upper part of the city—a Mr. Blocque's; the lady got out, telling the driver to wait, and went into the house, where she staid for about half an hour. She then came out—I was in the shadow of a tree, not ten yards from the spot, and as she got into the carriage, I could see that she held in her hand a letter. As the driver closed the door, she said, 'Take me to the flag-of-truce bureau, on Ninth Street, next door to the war office.' The driver mounted his box, and set off—and crossing the street, I commenced running to get a-head. In this I succeeded, and reached the bureau five minutes before the carriage.

"Well, sir, I hastened up stairs, and went into the bureau, where three or four clerks were examining the letters left to be sent by the flag-of-truce boat to-morrow. They were laughing and jesting as they read aloud the odd letters from the Libby and other prisons—some of which, I assure you, were very amusing, sir—when the lady's footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and she came in, smiling.

"I had turned my back, having given some excuse for my presence to one of the clerks, who is an acquaintance. Thus the lady, who knows me, could not see my face; but I could, by looking out of the corners of my eyes, see her. She came in, in her rich gray cloak, smiling on the clerks, and handing an open letter to one of them, said:—"'Will you oblige me by sending that to my sister in New York, by the flag-of-truce boat, to-morrow, sir?'

"'If there is nothing contraband in it, madam,' said the clerk.

"'Oh!' she replied, with a laugh, 'it is only on family matters. My sister is a Southerner, and so am I, sir. You can read the letter; it is not very dangerous!'

"And she smiled so sweetly that the clerk was almost ashamed to read the letter. He, however, glanced his eye over it, and evidently found nothing wrong in it. While he was doing so, the lady walked toward the mail-bags in which the clerks had been placing such letters as they found unobjectionable, the others being marked, 'Condemned,' and thrown into a basket. As she passed near one of the bags, I saw the lady, whom I was closely watching, flirt her cloak, as though by accident, across the mouth of one of the mail-bags, and at the same instant her hand stole down and dropped a letter into the bag. As she did so, the clerk, who had finished reading the other letter, bowed, and said:—-

"'There is nothing objectionable in this, madam, and it will be sent, of course.'

"'I was sure of that, sir,' replied the lady, with a smile. 'I am very much obliged. Good evening, sir!'

"And she sailed out, all the clerks politely rising as she did so.

"No sooner had the door closed than I darted upon the bag in which I had seen her drop the letter. The clerks wished to stop me, but I informed them of what I had seen. If they doubted, they could see for themselves that the letter, which I had easily found, was not sealed with the seal of the bureau. They looked at it, and at once acknowledged their error.

"'Arrest her!' exclaimed one of them, suddenly. The rapid rolling of a carriage came like an echo to his words.

"'It is useless, gentlemen,' I said. 'I know where to find the lady, and will look to the whole affair. You know I am in the secret service, and will be personally responsible for every thing. I will take this letter to the official who directed me to watch the lady who brought it.'

"To this, no objection was made, as I am known at the office. I came away; returned as quickly as possible; and here is the letter, sir."

With which words Nighthawk drew his hand from under his cloak, and presented the letter to Mr. X——-, who had listened in silence to his narrative.



VIII.

BY FLAG-OF-TRUCE BOAT.

MR. X——- took the letter, broke the seal, and ran his eye over the contents.

"Decidedly, that woman is a skilful person," he said; "she fishes in troubled waters with the coolness of an experienced hand."

And presenting the letter to me, the statesman said:—

"Would you like to see a specimen of the sort of documents which go on file in the departments, colonel?"

I took the letter, and read the following words:—

"RICHMOND, 18 Dec'r, 1864.

"Tell, you know who, that I have just seen the honorable Mr.——-" (here the writer gave the real name and official position of Mr. X——-), "and have had a long conversation with him. He is fully convinced that I am a good Confederate, and spoke without reserve of matters the most private. He is in high spirits, and looks on the rebel cause as certain to succeed. I never saw one more blinded to the real state of things. Richmond is full of misery, and the people seem in despair, but this high official, who represents the whole government, is evidently certain of Lee's success. I found him in a garrulous mood, and he did not conceal his views. The government has just received heavy supplies from the south, by the Danville railroad—others are coming—the whole country in rear of Sherman is rising—and Lee, he stated, would soon be re-enforced by between fifty and seventy-five thousand men. What was more important still, was a dispatch, which he read me, from England. This startled me. There seems no doubt that England is about to recognize the Confederacy. When he had finished reading this dispatch, on the back of which I could see the English postmark, he said to me—these are his words:—'You see, things were never brighter; it is only a question of time; and by holding out a little longer, we shall compel the enemy to retire and give up the contest. With the re-enforcements coming, Lee will have about one hundred thousand men. With that force, he will be able to repulse all General Grant's assaults. Things look dark at this moment, but the cause was never more hopeful.'

"He seemed insane, but I give you his words. It is certain that these are the views of the government, and that our authorities are much mistaken in supposing the Confederacy at its last gasp. It is impossible that the honorable Mr.——- was attempting to deceive me; because I carried him a letter from ——-" (here the writer gave the name of a prominent official of the Confederate Government, which I suppress) "who vouched for me, and declared that I was passionately Southern in my sympathies.

"I shall see the honorable Mr.——- in a day or two again. In the mean while, I am staying, incognita, at the house of our friend, Mr. Blocque, who has afforded me every facility in return for the safeguard I brought him, to protect his property when we occupy Richmond. The city is in a terrible state. Mr. Blocque has just come in, and informs me that he has been garroted near the capitol, and robbed of ten thousand dollars in good money. He is in despair.

"As soon as I have finished some important private business, which keeps me in the Confederate lines, I shall be with ——- again. Tell him to be in good spirits. This city has still a great deal of money hoarded in garrets—and we shall soon be here. Then we can retire on a competence—and when Fonthill is confiscated, we will purchase it, and live in affluence.

"LUCRETIA."

I looked at the back of the letter. It was directed to a lady in Suffolk. From the letter, my glance passed to the face of Mr. X——-. He was smiling grimly.

"A valuable document," he said, "which madam will doubtless duplicate before very long, with additional particulars. I make you a present of it, colonel, as a memorial of the war."

I thanked him, and placed the letter in my pocket. To-day I copy it, word for word.

Mr. X——- reflected a moment; then he said to Nighthawk:—

"Arrest this woman; I am tired of her. I have no time to waste upon such persons, however charming."

Nighthawk looked greatly delighted.

"I was going to beg that order of you, sir," he said, "as the 'private business' alluded to in the letter, concerns a friend of mine, greatly."

"Ah! well, here is the order."

And taking a pen, Mr. X——- scrawled two lines, which he handed to Nighthawk. A glow of satisfaction came to that worthy's face, and taking the paper, he carefully placed it in his pocket.

As he did so, the bell in the capitol square struck midnight, and I rose to take my departure.

"Come and see me soon again, colonel," said Mr. X——-, going to the door with me. He had made a sign to Nighthawk, who rose to go out with me, that he wished him to remain.

"What I have said to you, to-night," continued the statesman, gravely, "may have been injudicious, colonel. I am not certain of that—but I am quite sure that to have it repeated at this time would be inconvenient. Be discreet, therefore, my dear friend—after the war, tell or write what you fancy; and I should rather have my present views known then, than not known. They are those neither of a time-server, a faint heart, or a fool. I stand like the Roman sentinel at the gate of Herculaneum, awaiting the lava flood that will bury me. I see it coming—I hear the roar—I know destruction is rushing on me—but I am a sentinel on post; I stand where I have been posted; it is God and my conscience that have placed me on duty here. I will stay, whatever comes, until I am relieved by the same authority which posted me." And with the bow of a nobleman, the gray-haired statesman bade me farewell.

I returned to my lodgings, buried in thought, pondering deeply on the strange scenes of this night of December.

On the next morning I set out, and rejoined the army at Petersburg.

I, too, was a sentinel on post, like the statesman. And I determined to remain on duty to the last.



IX.

TO AND FRO IN THE SPRING OF '65.

The months of January and February, 1865, dragged on, sombre and dreary.

Two or three expeditions which I made during that woeful period, gave me a good idea of the condition of the country.

In September, 1864, I had traversed Virginia from Petersburg to Winchester, and had found the people—especially those of the lower Shenandoah Valley—still hopeful, brave, resolved to resist to the death.

In January and February, 1865, my official duties carried me to the region around Staunton; to the mountains west of Lynchburg; and to the North Carolina border, south of Petersburg. All had changed. Everywhere I found the people looking blank, hopeless, and utterly discouraged. The shadow of the approaching woe seemed to have already fallen upon them.

The army was as "game" as ever—even Early's little handful, soon to be struck and dispersed by General Sheridan's ten thousand cavalry. Everywhere, the soldiers laughed in the face of death. Each seemed to feel, as did the old statesman with whom I had conversed on that night at Richmond, that he was a sentinel on post, and must stand there to the last. The lava might engulf him, but he was "posted," and must stand until relieved, by his commanding officer or death. It was the "poor private," in his ragged jacket and old shoes, as well as the officer in his braided coat, who felt thus. For those private soldiers of the army of Northern Virginia were gentlemen. Noblesse oblige was their motto; and they meant to die, musket in hand!

Oh, soldiers of the army, who carried those muskets in a hundred battles!—who fought with them from Manassas, in 1861, to Appomattox, in 1865—you are the real heroes of the mighty struggle, and one comrade salutes you now, as he looked at you with admiration in old days! What I saw in those journeys was dreary enough; but however black may be the war-cloud, there is always the gleam of sunlight somewhere! We laughed now and then, reader, even in the winter of 1864-'5!

I laugh still, as I think of the brave cannoneers of the horse artillery near Staunton—and of the fearless Breathed, their commander, jesting and playing with his young bull-dog, whom he had called "Stuart" for his courage. I hear the good old songs, all about "Ashby," and the "Palmetto Tree," and the "Bonnie Blue Flag"—songs sung with joyous voices in that dreary winter, as in other days, when the star of hope shone more brightly, and the future was more promising.

At Lynchburg, where I encountered a number of old friends, songs still sweeter saluted me—from the lips of my dear companions, Major Gray and Captain Woodie. How we laughed and sang, on that winter night, at Lynchburg! Do you chant your sweet "Nora McShane" still, Gray? And you, Woodie, do you sing in your beautiful and touching tenor to-day,—

"The heart bowed down by deep despair. To weakest hopes will cling?"

Across the years comes once more that magical strain; again I hear your voice, filled with the very soul of sadness, tell how

"Memory is the only friend That grief can call its own!"

That seemed strangely applicable to the situation at the time. The memory of our great victories was all that was left to us; and I thought that it was the spirit of grief itself that was singing. Again I hear the notes—but "Nora McShane" breaks in—"Nora McShane," the most exquisite of all Gray's songs. Then he winds up with uproarious praise of the "Bully Lager Beer!"—and the long hours of night flit away on the wings of laughter, as birds dart onward, and are buried in the night.

Are you there still, Gray? Do you sing still, Woodie? Health and happiness, comrades! All friendly stars smile on you! Across the years and the long leagues that divide us, I salute you!

Thus, at Staunton and Lynchburg, reader, gay scenes broke the monotony. In my journey toward North Carolina, I found food also, for laughter.

I had gone to Hicksford, fifty miles south of Petersburg, to inspect the cavalry; and in riding on, I looked with curiosity on the desolation which the enemy had wrought along the Weldon railroad, when they had destroyed it in the month of December. Stations, private houses, barns, stables, all were black and charred ruins. The railroad was a spectacle. The enemy had formed line of battle close along the track; then, at the signal, this line of battle had attacked the road. The iron rails were torn from the sleepers; the latter were then piled up and fired; the rails were placed upon the blazing mass, and left there until they became red-hot in the middle, and both ends bent down —then they had been seized, broken, twisted; in a wild spirit of sport the men had borne some of the heated rails to trees near the road; twisted them three or four times around the trunks; and there, as I passed, were the unfortunate trees with their iron boa-constrictors around them—monuments of the playful humor of the blue people, months before.

Hill and Hampton had attacked and driven them back; from the dead horses, as elsewhere, rose the black vultures on flapping wings: but it is no part of my purpose, reader, to weary you with these war-pictures, or describe disagreeable scenes. It is an odd interview which I had on my return toward Petersburg that my memory recalls. It has naught to do with my narrative—but then it will not fill more than a page!

I had encountered two wagons, and, riding, ahead of them, saw a courier of army head-quarters, whose name was Ashe.

I saluted the smiling youth, in return for his own salute, and said:—

"Where have you been, Ashe?"

"To Sussex, colonel, on a foraging expedition."

"For the general?"

"And some of the staff, colonel."

Ashe smiled; we rode on together.

"How did you come to be a forager, Ashe?" I said.

"Well this was the way of it, colonel," he said. "I belonged to the old Stonewall brigade, but General Lee detailed me at the start of the war to shoe the head-quarters horses. It was old General Robert that sent me with these wagons. I was shoeing the general's gray, and had just pared the hind-hoof, when he sent for me. A man had started with the wagons, and had mired in the field right by head-quarters. So old General Robert says, says he, 'Ashe, you can get them out.' I says, 'General, I think I can, if you'll give me a canteen full of your French brandy for the boys.' He laughed at that, and I says, 'General, I have been with you three years, and if in that time you have ever seen me out of the way, I hope you will tell me so.' 'No, Ashe,' says he, 'I have not, and you shall have the brandy.' And his black fellow went into the closet and drew me a canteen full; for you see, colonel, old General Robert always keeps a demijohn full, and carries it about in his old black spring wagon, to give to the wounded soldiers—he don't drink himself. Well, I got the brandy, and set the boys to work, building a road with pine saplings, and got the wagons out! From that time to this, I have been going with them, colonel, and sometimes some very curious things have happened."

I assumed that inquiring expression of countenance dear to story-tellers. Ashe saw it, and smiled.

"Last fall, colonel," he said, "I was down on the Blackwater, foraging with my wagons, for old General Robert, when a squadron of Yankees crossed in the ferryboat, and caught me. I did not try to get off, and the colonel says, says he, 'Who are you?' I told him I was only foraging with General Lee's head-quarters teams, to get something for the old general to eat, as nothing could be bought in Petersburg; and, says I, 'I have long been looking to be captured, and now the time has come.' As I was talking, I saw an uncle of mine among the Yankees, and says he, 'Ashe, what are you doing here?' 'The same you are doing there,' I says; and I asked the colonel just to let me off this time, and I would try and keep out of their way hereafter. He asked me, Would I come down there any more? And I told him I didn't know—I would have to go where I was ordered. 'Well,' says he, 'you can't beg off.' But I says, 'step here a minute, colonel,' and I took him to the wagon, and offered him my canteen of brandy. He took three or four good drinks, and then he says, says he, 'That's all I want! You can go on with your wagons.' And I tell you I put out quick, colonel, and never looked behind me till I got back to Petersburg?"[1]

[Footnote 1: In the words of the narrator.]

I have attempted to recall here, reader, the few gleams of sunshine, the rare moments of laughter, which I enjoyed in those months of the winter of 1864-'5.

I shrink from dwelling on the events of that dreary epoch. Every day I lost some friend. One day it was the brave John Pegram, whom I had known and loved from his childhood; the next day it was some other, whose disappearance left a gap in my life which nothing thenceforth could fill. I pass over all that. Why recall more of the desolate epoch than is necessary?

For the rest that is only a momentary laugh that I have indulged in. Events draw near, at the memory of which you sigh—or even groan perhaps—to-day, when three years have passed.

For this page is written on the morning of April 8, 1868.

This day, three years ago, Lee was staggering on in sight of Appomattox.



X.

AEGRI SOMNIA.—MARCH, 1865.

These letters and figures arouse terrible memories—do they not, reader? You shudder as you return in thought to that epoch, provided always that you then wore the gray, and not the blue. If you wore the blue, you perhaps laugh.

The South had reached, in this month of March, one of those periods when the most hopeful can see, through the black darkness, no single ray of light. Throughout the winter, the government had made unceasing efforts to bring out the resources of the country—efforts honest and untiring, if not always judicious—but as the days, and weeks, and months wore on, it became more and more evident that the hours of the Confederacy were numbered. The project of employing negro troops, which Congress long opposed, had been adopted at last, but only in time to be too late. The peace commissioners had held their interview with Lincoln, but effected nothing. The enemy continually advanced toward the achievement of their end. Sherman had safely made his famous "march to the sea"—Savannah and Charleston had fallen—the western army was about to unite with the army of Grant at Petersburg. There the great game went on, but the end was near. Lee had attempted, late in February, to evacuate his lines, but was overruled. His army was reduced to about forty thousand, while Grant's numbered about one hundred and fifty thousand. The Confederate troops were almost naked, and had scarce food enough to sustain life. They fought still, in the trenches, along the great line of works, but it was plain, as Lee said, that the line was stretched so far, that a very little more would snap it.

That line extended from the Williamsburg road, east of Richmond to Five Forks, west of Petersburg—a distance of nearly fifty miles. Gradually Grant had pushed westward, until his grasp was now very nearly upon the Southside road. Lee had extended his own thin line to still confront him. The White Oak road, beyond the Rowanty, had been defended by heavy works. The hill above Burgess's bristled with batteries. The extreme right of the Confederate line rested in the vicinity of Five Forks. Beyond that it could not be extended. Already it began to crack. Along the works stretching from east to west, there was scarce a soldier every ten yards. Grant was only prevented from bursting through by the masterly handling of Lee's troops—the rapid concentration of masses at the points which he threatened. The cavalry was almost paralyzed. The destruction of the Weldon road southward to Hicksford, in December, had been a death-blow nearly, to that arm of the service. The Confederate cavalry had depended upon it, hauling their forage from Stony Creek Station. Now they had been compelled to go south to Hicksford, the nearest point, fifty miles from Petersburg. The consequence was that Lee's right was almost undefended by cavalry. Grant's horsemen could penetrate, almost unchecked, to the Danville and Southside railroads. The marvel was, not that this was effected at the end of March, but that it was not effected a month sooner. But I anticipate.

To glance, for an instant before proceeding, at the condition of the country. It had reached the last point of depression, and was yielding to despair. The government was enormously unpopular—mismanagement had ceased to attract attention. The press roared in vain. The Enquirer menaced the members of Congress from the Gulf States. The Examiner urged that the members of the Virginia Legislature, to be elected in the spring, should be "clothed with the state sovereignty," to act for Virginia! Thus the executive and legislative were both attacked. The people said, "Make General Lee dictator." And General ——- wrote and printed that, in such an event, he "had the dagger of Brutus" for Lee. Thus all things were in confusion. The currency was nothing but paper—it was a melancholy farce to call it money. The Confederate note was popularly regarded as worth little more than the paper upon which it was printed. Fathers of families went to market and paid hundreds of dollars for the few pounds of meat which their households required each day. Officers were forced to pay one thousand dollars for their boots. Old saddle-bags were cut up, and the hides of dead horses carried off, to manufacture into shoes. Uniform coats were no longer procurable—the government had to supply them gratis, even to field officers. Lee subsisted, like his soldiers, on a little grease and corn bread. Officers travelling on duty, carried in their saddle-pockets bits of bacon and stale bread, for the country could not supply them. In the homes of the land once overflowing with plenty, it was a question each day where food could be procured. The government had impressed every particle, except just sufficient to keep the inmates alive. What the commissaries had left, the "Yankee cavalry" took. A lady of Goochland said to a Federal officer, "General, I can understand why you destroy railroads and bridges, but why do you burn mills, and the houses over women and children?" The officer bowed, and replied, "Madam, your soldiers are so brave that we can't beat you; and we are trying to starve you!"

The interior of these homes of the country was a touching spectacle. The women were making every sacrifice. Delicate hands performed duties which had always fallen to menials. The servants had gone to the enemy, and aristocratic young women cooked, washed, swept, and drudged—a charming spectacle perhaps to the enemy, who hated the "aristocracy," but woeful to fathers, and sons, and brothers, when they came home sick, or wounded. Clothes had long grown shabby, and were turned and mended. Exquisite beauty was decked in rags. A faded calico was a treasure. The gray-haired gentleman, who had always worn broadcloth, was content with patched homespun. It was not of these things that they were thinking, however. Dress had not made those seigneurs and dames—nor could the want of it hide their dignity. The father, and care-worn wife, and daughter, and sister, were thinking of other things. The only son was fighting beside Lee—dying yonder, in the trenches. He was only a "poor private," clad in rags and carrying a musket—but he was the last of a long line, perhaps, of men who had built up Virginia and the Federal government which he was fighting—he was "only a private," but his blood was illustrious; more than all, he was the treasure of the gray-haired father and mother; the head of the house in the future; if he fell, the house would fall with him—and it was nearly certain that he would fall!

So they mourned, and looked fearfully to the coming hours, in town and country. In the old homesteads—poverty and despair. In the cities—wasting cares and sinking hearts. More than ever before, all the vile classes of society rioted and held sway. The forestallers and engrossers drove a busy trade. They seemed to feel that their "time was short"—that the night was coming, in which not even rascals could work! Supplies were hoarded, and doled out at famine prices to the famine-stricken community; not supplies of luxuries, but of the commonest necessaries of life. The portly extortioner did not invite custom, either. Once he had bowed and smirked behind his counter when a purchaser entered. Now, he turned his back coldly, went on reading his newspaper, scarce replied to the words addressed to him, and threw his goods on the counter with the air of one reluctantly conferring a favor. Foreboding had entered even the hearts of the forestaller and extortioner. They had sold their souls for gain, and that gain was turning to dross. As at the wave of a magician's wand, their crisp new "Confederate notes" had become rags. The biter was bit. His gains were to count for nothing. Extortioner and victim were soon to be stripped equally naked—the cold blast of ruin was to freeze both alike. Thus, all things hastened toward the inevitable catastrophe. Brave hearts did not shrink, but they saw ruin striding on. Every thing crumbled—the Confederacy was staggering and gasping in the death agony. Day by day the cause was slowly, but certainly, being lost. Children cried aloud for bread—women moaned, and knelt, and prayed. Their last hope was leaving them. Lee's army was starving and dying. Hour by hour, nearer and nearer came the roar of the gulf of destruction. A sort of stupor descended. The country—prostrate and writhing—tried to rise, but could not. The government knew not where to turn, or what course to pursue. Grant was growing in strength hourly. Lee's little force was dwindling. Sherman was streaming through South Carolina. Grant was reaching out toward Five Forks. All-destroying war grinned hideously—on all sides stared gaunt Famine. The air jarred with the thunder of cannon. The days and nights blazed, and were full of wild cries—of shouts, groans, and reverberations. The ground shook—the grave yawned—the black cloud slowly drew on; that cloud from which the thunderbolt was about to fall.

How to describe in a volume like this, now near its end, that terrible state of coma—that approaching cataclysm, in which all things, social, civil, and military were about to disappear! The whole fabric of society was going to pieces; every hour flamed with battles; tragic events jostled each other; blood gushed; a people were wailing; a victorious enemy were rushing on; the whole continent trembled; Lee was being swept away, in spite of every effort which he made to steady his feet—and that torrent was going to engulf a whole nation!

All this I am to describe in the last few pages of this volume! The task is far beyond my strength. In the future, some writer may delineate that hideous dream—to do so to-day, in this year 1868, would tear the stoutest heart.

For myself, I do not attempt it. Were I able to paint the picture, there would be no space. My memoir is nearly ended. The threads of the woof are nearly spun out, and the loom is going to stop. Death stands ready with his shears to cut the ravelled thread, knit up the seam, and put his red label on the fabric!



XI.

I VISIT GENERAL FITZHUGH LEE.

The end of March, 1865, was approaching when I set out on what was to prove my last tour of duty amid the pine woods of Dinwiddie.

It was a relief to be back in the army; to see brave faces and smiles around me, instead of gloomy eyes and careworn cheeks, as in the city. I passed along the Boydton road almost gayly; crossed the Rowanty at Burgess's, and went on by General Lee's powerful works covering the White Oak road, beyond. Soon I was approaching Dinwiddie Court-House, in the vicinity of which was encamped our small force of starved and broken-down cavalry.

Hampton had gone to meet Sherman, and the cavalry was commanded now by General Fitzhugh Lee, who had recovered from his severe wound received at Winchester. I was greeted by this brave soldier and accomplished gentleman as warmly as I could have desired—for "General Fitz," as we always called him at Stuart's head-quarters, was the soul of good humor and good fellowship. You have seen him, have you not, reader—whether you wore gray or blue—fighting beside him, or meeting him in battle? You recall the open and manly features, the frank and soldierly glance of the eye, the long beard and heavy mustache, almost always curling with laughter? You remember the mirthful voice, the quick jest, the tone of badinage—that joyful and brave air which said, "as long as life lasts there is hope!" You have not forgotten this gay cavalier, the brother-in-arms of Stuart; this born cavalryman, with his love of adventure, his rollicking mirth, his familiar greeting of high and low, his charming abandon and ever-ready laughter. That was the character of the individual—of "Fitz Lee," the good companion. The commander-in-chief has defined for all, the traits of Major-General Fitzhugh Lee. It was General R.E. Lee who wrote him in 1863, "Your admirable conduct, devotion to the cause of your country, and devotion to duty, fill me with pleasure. I hope you will soon see her efforts for independence crowned with success, and long live to enjoy the affection and gratitude of your country."

These few lines were worth fighting hard for—were they not? All things change; many things fail. Chaos or monarchy may come, but the good opinion of Lee will survive all!

I talked with General Fitz Lee for an hour nearly, recalling the old days with Stuart, who had loved and confided in him more than in any other living man. It was a beautiful friendship, indeed, and each understood the value of the other as man and soldier. Stuart is dead, and can not give his testimony; but General Fitz Lee is alive, and can give his. Here and there a voice still denies Stuart's genius as a commander. Ask his friend who survives; and if tears do not choke the voice, you will learn the real rank of Stuart!

But I can not linger on these scenes. The narrative draws on.

I mounted my horse, after shaking hands with General Fitz Lee and his brave staff, and, for the first time, remembered to ask, "Where was Tom Herbert?"

At that question, a beaming smile came to every countenance.

"Done for!" said one.

"Captured!" laughed another.

"Demoralized, subjugated, and negotiating with the enemy!" said a third.

"Well, where is the place of meeting—where are the terms being arranged?" I said.

"At a place called Disaways, on the lower Rowanty!"

"Good! I know the road there," I said.

And with a laugh, which the general and his gay cavaliers echoed, I touched my gray with the spur, and set out toward the south.



XII.

BY A FIRE IN THE WOODS.

I pushed on, having resolved, after finishing my duties, to visit Disaways.

Soon Dinwiddie Court-House came in sight. I entered the small village, and looked attentively—as I had done on more than one occasion before—at the locality which General Davenant's narrative had surrounded with so strange an interest. There was the old tavern, with its long portico, where Darke had held his orgies, and from which he had set forth on his errand of robbery and murder. There was the county jail, in which General Davenant had insisted upon being confined, and where so many friends had visited him. There was the old court-house, in which he had been tried for the murder of George Conway; and I fancied I could distinguish upon one of the shutters, the broken bolt which Darke had forced, more than ten years before, in order to purloin the knife with which the crime had been committed.

For some miles, that tragic story absorbed me, banishing all other reflections. That was surely the strangest of histories!—and the drama had by no means reached its denouement. Between the first and last acts "an interval of ten years is supposed to pass." There was the stage direction! Darke was still alive, active, dangerous, bent on mischief. He had an able coadjutress in his female ally. That singular woman, with whom his life was so closely connected, was in prison, it was true, but the Confederate authorities might release her; she might, at any moment, recommence her diablerie. Had she found that paper—or had Mohun found it? In any event, she was dangerous—more so, even, than her male companion—that worthy whom I might meet at every turn in the road—that prince of surprises and tragic "appearances!"

"Decidedly, these are curiosities, this man and this woman!" I said; "they are two bottomless pits of daring and depravity. Mohun has escaped them heretofore, but now, when the enemy seem driving us, and sweeping every thing before them, will not Darke and madam attain their vengeance, and come out winners in the struggle?"

With that reflection, I dismissed the subject, and pushed on, over the narrow and winding roads, to make my inspections.

The day was cold and brilliant; the winds cut the face; and I rode on steadily, thinking of many things. Then the desire to smoke seized upon me. General Fitzhugh Lee had given me some excellent cigars, captured from the enemy, and I looked around to find some house where I could light my cigar. None appeared; but at two hundred yards from the road, in a hidden hollow, I thought I perceived the glimmer of a fire—probably made by some straggler. I rode toward it, descended into the hollow, approached the fire, beside which crouched a figure, wrapped in an overcoat. The figure raised its head—and I recognized Nighthawk.

He rose and smiled benignantly, as he shook hands with me.

"An unexpected meeting, Nighthawk," I said, laughing. "What on earth makes you come out and camp in the woods?"

"A little fancy, colonel; you know I am eccentric. I like this way of living, from having scouted so much—but I came here with an object!"

"What?"

"To be private. I thought my fire could not be seen from the road."

"Why should it not be?"

"Well, perhaps I exaggerate danger. But I am on an important scouting expedition—wanted to reflect, and not be seen—I am going, to-night, through the lines on a little affair of which you know something."

"Ah, what do you refer to?"

"That paper," said Nighthawk, succinctly. "It is in the hands of Alibi—there is a Yankee picket at his house—but I am going to see him, and force him to surrender it."

"Is it possible he has it! Do you know that?"

"Strangely enough, colonel. Do you remember that woman, Amanda?"

"Perfectly. I visited her with Mohun."

"He told me of your visit. Well, you no doubt remember also, colonel, that he offered her a large sum to discover the paper—that she offered to try and find it, or give him a clue to its whereabouts—he was to return in ten days, and hear her report."

"Yes," I said.

"Well, he returned, colonel, but Amanda could tell him nothing—which you no doubt have heard."

"Yes, from him."

"I have been more successful, at last, in dealing with this strange woman. I do not know if she is a witch or an epileptic, or what—but she has convinced me that Alibi has the paper we want."

And Nighthawk proceeded to explain. It was an exceedingly curious explanation. Amanda had first demanded of him a statement of all the facts. He had thereupon informed her of the appointment which he had made with Swartz in Richmond, to meet him three days afterward at the house of Alibi—of his detention by the pickets, so that he had been unable to keep the appointment—Alibi's statement when he saw him, that Swartz had not been to his house—and Swartz's confinement in the lonely house, ending in his murder by Darke. That was all he knew, he said—the paper was gone—where was it?

"At Mr. Alibi's," Amanda had replied; "I only asked you this, Mr. Nighthawk, to satisfy myself that my visions were true. I saw poor Mr. Swartz go to Mr. Alibi's, and ask for you, on the day you appointed. When he was told that you had not come, he seemed very low-spirited, and told Mr. Alibi that he must see you, to give you a paper. His life was threatened, he said, on account of that paper. An officer and a lady had discovered that he had that paper—it was as much as his life was worth to keep it on his person—if Mr. Alibi would take it, and for old times' sake, put it away until he came back, he would pay him as much gold as he could hold in both hands. Then he gave the paper to Mr. Alibi, and went away, telling him to say nothing of it."

"I then asked her," continued Nighthawk, "where the paper could be found. She replied that Alibi always carried it on his person. That was a few days ago. I am going to-night to see him, and recover the paper."

I had listened to this narrative with strange interest. This singular woman was a curious problem. Were her visions really such as she described them? Or did she only "put this and that together," as the phrase is, and by her marvellous acumen, sharpened possibly by disease, arrive at results which defied the most penetrating glance of the sane? I knew not—but reflecting often upon this subject since, have finally come to the latter conclusion, as the more philosophic of the two. Epilepsy is insanity of mind and body; and one of the most infallible characteristics of insanity is cunning—which is only another word for diseased and abnormal activity of brain. Amanda arrived at strange results, but I think she attained them by disease. Her acumen in this affair could be thus explained, almost wholly. As to the truth of the explanation, I felt a singular presentiment that it was correct.

"Well, that is curious enough," I said, "and I wish you success, Nighthawk. What of our other female friend—the fair lady you arrested in Richmond?"

"She is safe enough, colonel, and I don't think she will trouble us soon."

"I am glad of it. I think her the more dangerous of the two."

"And I agree with you."

"When did you see Darke, last?"

"I have not met him for three months."

"He can not be dead?"

"He may be wounded."

"And Mohun—is he at his head-quarters?"

Nighthawk smiled.

"He is at Five Forks, to-day, colonel."

"And Willie Davenant?"

"In Richmond, on business at the war department."

"Humph! So I shall see neither—but another time."

And mounting my horse, I added:—

"Good luck, Nighthawk."

"Thank you, colonel—the same to you."

And leaving Nighthawk crouching down beside his fire, I rode on.



XIII.

DRINKING TEA UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

Pushing on, I reached the cavalry and horse artillery, which I was soon done with—you see I dismiss "official" matters with commendable rapidity, reader—then I went on across Roney's bridge and along the "Flat Foot road" toward Disaways.

Following, amid a great wind and falling boughs, this winding road, stretching onward between its lofty walls of pines—a wild and deserted track, outside of the pickets, and completely untravelled. I recrossed Stony Creek, rode on over a bridle-path, and came just at sunset in sight of the hill upon which Disaways raised its ancient gables, near the Rowanty.

My horse neighed as he cantered up, and passed under the great oaks. He seemed to feel that this was something like home to him now, and that his day's march was over. In fact, all the months of winter I had regularly stopped at Disaways on my way to the cavalry at Hicksford. My friends had pathetically remonstrated—"there was not a single picket on the Rowanty in front of me, there, and I would certainly be captured some day,"—but I had persisted in stopping there still, on every tour which I made. How to resist the temptation! Disaways was just thirty miles from Petersburg. I always reached its vicinity as night fell, on the dark winter days. I was always cold, hungry, weary, depressed by the dull gray skies; and I knew what awaited me there—a blazing fire, a good supper, and Katy's smiles brighter than sunshine! She always ran to greet me, with both hands extended. Her blue eyes danced with joy, her rosy cheeks glowed, her lips laughed, and were like carnations, her golden ringlets fell in a shower over her white and delicate temples, or were blown back in ripples by the wintry wind.

Could you have resisted that, my dear reader? Would you have shrunk from Yankee scouting parties? For my part I thought I would risk it. I might be surprised and captured at any moment—the territory was open to the enemy—but I would have had a charming evening, would have been cheered by Katy's sunshine—while I was alive and free, I would have lived, and in a manner the most delightful!