Chapter XV: Book III: Behind the Scenes (3)

“My brigade is holding the right of the army, colonel,” he had said; “we have just moved to this position, and have not had time to become very comfortable. But I can offer you a tolerable supper and a camp-bed after it, with a warm welcome, I assure you.”

I declined the supper, but accepted the bed; and seated opposite the grizzled old cavalier, in his gray uniform, had begun to converse.

Something about the stately general of infantry, drew me irresistibly toward him. His bearing was lofty, and not without a species of hauteur; but under all was an exquisite high-breeding and courtesy, which made his society quite charming.

At some words of mine, however, in reference to my visit on this day to his son, a decided expression of gloom had obscured the smiles of the old soldier.

“Yes, colonel,” he said, with something like a sigh, “Willie has lost his good spirits, and has been much depressed for more than a year. You are his friend--you share his confidence--you doubtless know the origin of this depression.”

“I do, general; a very common cause of trouble to young men--a young lady.”

“A young lady,” repeated General Davenant, in the same gloomy tone. “He has committed the imprudence of falling in love, as the phrase is, with--Miss Conway.”

He paused before the words “Miss Conway,” and uttered them with evident repugnance. They issued from his lips, indeed, with a species of jerk; and he seemed glad to get rid of them, if I may so express myself.

“I can talk of this affair with you, colonel,” he added, gloomily, “for Will has told me of your regard for him.”

I bowed, and said:--

“You are not wrong in supposing that I am one of your son’s best friends, general. I was long in the cavalry with him--there is no more heroic soldier in the army--and it has given me sincere sorrow to see him laboring under such melancholy.”

General Davenant, with his hand covering his brow, listened in silence.

“I have not inquired the origin of this depression,” I added--“that would have been indiscreet--though I know Will would tell me. I guessed it, however, and I have visited the young lady at her house to-night. I will certainly use my utmost exertions to remove all obstacles.”

General Davenant suddenly rose erect. His eye was flashing.

“I beg you will not, colonel!” he exclaimed. “The barrier between himself and--Miss Conway--can never be removed.”

I looked at the speaker’s flushed face with positive wonder, and replied:--

“You astonish me, general! Are there any such obstacles in life?”

“There are!”

I made no reply.

“There are, colonel,” repeated the now fiery old soldier. “Judge Conway has been guilty of a gross wrong to me. No son of mine shall ever form an alliance with his family!”

I looked up with deep astonishment.

“This is a very great surprise to me, my dear general,” I said; “I thought, from many things, that it was Judge Conway who opposed this alliance; and from the belief that _you_ had done _him_ some great wrong.”

General Davenant had taken his seat again, after his outburst. Once more his forehead was covered with his hand. For some moments he preserved a silence so profound, that nothing disturbed the night but the long breathing of the sleeping boy, and the measured tramp of the sentinel.

Then, all at once, the general raised his head. His expression was no longer fiery--it was unutterably sad.

“I have been reflecting, colonel,” he said gravely, “and, in these few minutes, have come to a somewhat singular determination.”

“What is that, general?”

“To tell you why _my_ son can never marry the daughter of Judge Conway!”

XVIII.

TWO MEN AND A WOMAN.

General Davenant leaned his elbow on the desk, rested his forehead in his hand, and said in a deep, measured voice:--

“My story need not be a long one, colonel. Those who relate gay adventures and joyous experiences, indulge in endless details--memory is charming to them at such moments--they go back to the past, with a smile on the lips, recalling every little detail, every color of the bright picture.

“My own narrative will be brief, because it is a gloomy one. It is far from pleasant to return to the scenes I propose to describe. I only do so to erase a stigma which seems to attach to my family and myself; to show you that, in spite of Judge Conway, I deserve your good opinion. Assuredly I do not propose any pleasure to myself in relating these events. Alas! one of the bitterest things to a proud man--and I am proud--is to even seem to defend his good name from imputed dishonor!”

Knitting his brows as he spoke, the old soldier looked gloomily into the blaze before us. In a moment, he went on:--

“I was born in the county of Dinwiddie, colonel, where my family had lived from the time of the first settlement of Virginia. My father was a large landholder, and his most intimate friend was Mr. Conway, the father of the present judge. The family friendship was inherited by the young people of the two families--and my two most intimate friends were George and William Conway. One is dead, the other is Judge William Conway, member of Congress. We had played together as children, been companions at school. When our fathers died, and we in turn became the representatives of the two families, our friendship became even more close. I was half my time at ‘Five Forks’--they paid long visits to me at ‘The Pines’--we hunted together, went to entertainments together, drank wine together, and were inseparable.

“George was especially my favorite. He was the soul of amiability; everybody loved him; and I entertained for him the most tender friendship. His brother William was equally estimable, but did not attract you as strongly. Although a person of the highest sense of honor, and universally respected for talents of the first order, he was irascible, bitter, and, when once aroused, allowed nothing to restrain him. At such moments his best friends avoided him, for he was dangerous. He brooked no opposition. His anger was like a consuming fire; and a friendship which he had formed with that gentleman of splendid powers, but venomous antipathies, John Randolph of Roanoke, served still more to encourage him in the indulgence of the natural acerbity of his disposition. More than once, I have seen him almost foam at the mouth as he denounced some political adversary from the stump, and when one of these fits of passion seized him, he became as ungovernable as a wild animal. You can scarcely realize that, now. Sorrow has chastened him; trouble has softened him; I have nothing to say against the Judge William Conway of to-day. He is a self-sacrificing patriot, a gentleman of irreproachable courtesy, and sweetness of character; but, as a young man, he was a firebrand, and I think the fire is still unquenched beneath the gray hairs of the man of seventy.

“Such were George and William Conway, when I knew them as young men--the one mild, amiable, the soul of kindness and good-nature; the other proud, honorable, but subject to fits of stormy passion, which made all avoid him when the paroxysm was upon him.

“From this hasty description, you will understand why George was a greater favorite with me than his brother. Our friendship was, indeed, as close and tender as possible, and we passed our majority and approached the age of twenty-five, without ever having had a moment’s interruption of our intimacy.

“Then, all at once, there appeared upon the stage, that cause of so much happiness, woe, joy, grief, to mankind--a woman. To make a long story short, George Conway and myself were so unfortunate as to become attached to the same young lady, and very soon this sentiment amounted, both on his part and on my own, to a wild and consuming passion. The young lady--it is unnecessary to mention her name--was a person of rare beauty, and mistress of all the wiles which bring young men to the feet of women. She used these unsparingly, too, for nothing delighted her so much as to attract admiration and inspire love. Perceiving the effect which her grace and loveliness had produced upon myself and George, she made every exertion to increase our infatuation--encouraged first one, then the other; and, in the end, succeeded in breaking those close ties of friendship which had bound us from the time when we had played together as children.

“That is a sad confession, colonel, but it is the truth. The bright eyes and smiles of a girl had terminated a life-long friendship. The mere love of admiration in the heart of a young girl had interrupted the affection of years--making George and myself cold and _distrait_ toward each other. Soon things became still worse. From friends we had become mere acquaintances--from acquaintances we became strangers, and finally foes. Busy-bodies whispered, tale-bearers blew the flames. If the young lady smiled on me at a party where George was present, the good people around us looked at _him_ with satirical meaning. If she smiled on George, their eyes were turned toward me, and they giggled and whispered.

“That is all tedious--is it not? An old story, which every country neighborhood knows. You laugh, perhaps, at hearing it told of A and B,--but you do not laugh when you are one of the actors. Well, not to lengthen my history unduly, an open rivalry and enmity at last arose between myself and poor George. We had been spurred on to hate each other, and narrowly escaped having an ‘affair’ together--appealing to the pistol as the arbiter.

“It never came to that, however. I saw, ere long, that the young lady had made up her mind. George was in every way a more attractive and lovable person than myself; and after drawing me on, encouraging me, and inducing me to offer her my hand, she turned her back on me, and married George!

“Such was the result of the campaign. George had won,--and I am obliged to say that I hated him cordially. I should never have done so, from the simple fact of his success. I am not so ignoble as that, my dear colonel. Bitter as was my disappointment, I could have bowed to the fiat--pardoned the young lady--and offered my hand to dear George; but there were our ‘friends,’ the busy-bodies and talebearers. They were unresting in their exertions--took the whole affair under their personal supervision, and invented a hundred fables to sting and arouse me. You would have said that they were bloody minded--the busy-bodies--and bent on trouble; that their aim was to profoundly enrage me, and cause bloodshed. George had laughed at me, they said; never had had a moment’s doubt of the young lady’s sentiments; had often jested about me, and expressed his pity for my ‘silly presumption;’ had even amused himself and the young lady, by mimicking my peculiarities, and raising a laugh at my expense.

“These reports were persistently and regularly repeated for my information: I was baited, and worried, and driven nearly mad by them--finally a duel nearly resulted; but that last step was not taken. I simply made my bow to the happy pair, left them without a word, and returned home, determined to drop the whole matter--but none the less enraged and embittered.

“From that moment George and myself rarely met, and never as friends. I had been brought to hate him--he knew the fact--and although he was innocent of all wrong to me, as I know to-day, made no effort to win my regard again. He was as proud as myself--he said nothing--and our paths here separated forever.

“Such is the necessary introduction, colonel,” said General Davenant, “to the events which I propose to relate.”

XIX.

THE MURDER.

“More than twenty years had passed,” continued General Davenant, “when that old hatred which had been aroused in me, toward George Conway, produced bitter fruits.

“I was to be taught by a terrible experience that hatred is a deadly sin; that God punishes it more severely than all other sins, for it is the poison which turns the whole heart to bitterness. I had indulged it--made no effort to banish it--nourished it like a snake in the recesses of my breast, and now God decreed, as a punishment, that the snake should turn and sting me.

“To go back for a moment, however. George had married--a year afterward I had imitated him. My wife was an angel upon earth--she is an angel in heaven now--and in comparison with the deep affection which I felt for her, the ephemeral fancy for the young lady whom my rival had married, appeared the veriest trifle. William Conway had also married, and he and George, with their wives, were living at Five Forks. William was judge of the circuit--George managed the estate--and their affection for each other, at this period of their mature manhood, was said to exceed that of their youth.

“‘Was said to,’ I say, colonel; for I never saw either of them. All intercourse between “The Pines” and “Five Forks” had ceased twenty years before; and George and William Conway were as much strangers to me, as if we lived in opposite quarters of the globe; for time had not changed--or rather restored--the _entente cordial_ of the past. On the contrary, the feud had become chronic--the gulf separating us had grown deeper. When I met either of the brothers, we exchanged no greetings--passed without looking at each other--and the ‘family feud’ between the Davenants and the Conways was not even alluded to; it had become an old story, and lost its interest.

“Such was the condition of things--such the attitude which I occupied toward the two brothers--when the event, which I am about to relate, took place. The event in question was tragic and terrible. It came without warning, to shock the entire surrounding country. One night, on his return from the county seat, whither he was said to have gone upon some matter of business, George Conway was murdered, and his body concealed in some bushes by the roadside.

“The body was not discovered until the morning succeeding the murder. His riderless horse was then seen standing at the door of the stable at Five Forks, and in great terror. Judge Conway set out rapidly to look for his brother, who was supposed to have met with some accident. Two or three neighbors, whom he chanced to meet, joined in the search; the body was discovered; and, on examination, revealed a deep gash in the region of the heart, apparently inflicted by a dagger or a knife.

“The blow had evidently been mortal--no other hurt was visible. George Conway seemed to have been waylaid by some unknown person, and murdered on his return from the court-house.

“It was impossible to divine the perpetrator of the crime, or form any idea of his motive. Upon the person of the murdered man a large sum of money, which he had received that day, was discovered. He had not been waylaid, thus, by one designing to rob him; and his peaceful and amiable character excluded the hypothesis that he had aroused such enmity as could have led to the bloody deed. The whole affair was a profound mystery--no clue could be discovered to the perpetrator, or the motive of the crime--and the body was borne to “Five Forks,” where it was laid in state to await burial on the next day.

“Judge Conway, it was said, had nearly lost his reason at this sudden and terrible blow. He had loved his brother with extraordinary affection; and the event struck him like a thunderbolt. His stupor of grief was succeeded by rage. He fell into one of his paroxysms. With flushed face, bloodshot eyes, and mouth foaming with a species of fury, he mounted his horse, went at full speed to the court-house, made inquiries of everybody who had seen his brother, asked with whom he had last been seen, and left no stone unturned to ferret out the author of the crime.

“Meanwhile, the whole county was discussing, with awe-struck eyes, the extraordinary event. Who could have perpetrated the act? Who could have waylaid and murdered a man so universally popular? Who was safe, if such a state of things could exist in a peaceful community,--if a good citizen could not ride to see a neighbor, or to the county seat, without danger of being murdered?

“Grief, indignation, horror, were the universal sentiments. Some one must be discovered upon whom to lay the crime. And that some one was the individual before you, colonel!”

XX.

THE KNIFE.

“Let me continue, I beg,” continued General Davenant, gloomily. “Your look of astonishment is quite natural; you feel the indignation of a gentleman at my words; but allow me to go on with my narrative.

“Poor George Conway was buried on the day after the discovery of his body, and an immense concourse accompanied him to his grave. The funeral procession was a mile long, for the notoriety attached to the event had drawn people from far and near; and when the body reached the grave-yard, the crowd nearly filled the small enclosure.

“I was present in my carriage with my wife, and my son Charles yonder, then a child in arms. You will understand, colonel, that I had not the heart to be absent. I had long ceased to feel a sentiment of any great regard for the Conways; but at the intelligence of George’s sudden death, all my old friendship had revived--the old kindly feeling came back; pity banished all enmity. I thought of his former love for me, and I determined to do all that remained in my power to show my sympathy--attend his funeral among those who mourned him.

“Well, the body was borne to the grave, the service read, and the remains of the unfortunate gentleman deposited in their last resting-place. Then the clods rattled on the coffin, the service ended, and George Conway had passed away from all eyes.

“I looked at his poor wife and brother with tears in my eyes. All my enmity was gone--my memory went back to the old scenes; at that instant I could have reached out my arms, and drawn the bereaved brother to my heart, mingling my tears with his own.

“All at once, however, I looked at Judge Conway with astonishment. I had expected to see him overwhelmed with grief--but as he now raised his head, and turned in the direction of the spot where I was standing, I saw that his features were convulsed with wrath. His cheeks were crimson, his teeth clenched, his eyes injected with blood. Suddenly these bloodshot eyes met my own--the cheeks a moment before so red, grew pale--and exclaiming, ‘It is you who murdered my brother!’ he threw himself upon me with the fury of a wild animal, and his fingers were nearly buried in my throat.

“The assault was so sudden and terrible that I staggered back, and nearly fell over the grave.

“Then regaining my self-possession, I caught Judge Conway by the throat in turn, hurled him from me, and stood confronting him, pale, panting, my throat bleeding--and resolved if he attacked me again to put him to death with the first weapon upon which I could lay my hand.

“He was, meanwhile, struggling in the hands of his friends, who, by main force, held him back.

“‘Let me go!’ he shouted, foaming at the mouth with rage--‘that man murdered my brother! I will take the law into my own hands! he shall not leave this spot alive! He dares to come here in the presence of the dead body of George Conway--and he is his murderer!’

“These words were rather howled than uttered. The speaker seemed to have lost his reason, from pure excess of rage. If his friends had not restrained him by main force, he would have thrown himself upon me a second time, when one of us would have lost his life, colonel, for I was now as violently enraged as himself.

“That _I_ should be thus publicly branded with the basest crime! that the representative of the old and honorable house of the Davenants, should be thus grossly insulted, his person assailed, his good name torn from him--that he should be denounced thus in the presence of all as a felon and murderer!

“‘You are insane, sir!’ I at length said, struggling to regain my coolness. ‘Your grief has affected your brain! I can pardon much in you today, sir, but beware how you again attempt to degrade me!’

“‘Hear him!’ was the hoarse and furious reply of Judge Conway; and reaching out his thin fingers, a habit he had caught from Mr. Randolph--he pointed at me where I stood.

“‘Hear him! He affects innocence! He is outraged! He is indignant! And yet he waylaid my brother, whom he has hated for twenty years--he waylaid him like an assassin, and murdered him! There is the proof!’

“And drawing from his pocket a knife, covered with clotted blood, he threw it upon the grave before all eyes.

“Good God! It was my own!”

XXI.

THE CHAIN OF EVIDENCE.

“At the sight of that terrible object” continued General Davenant, “I staggered back, and nearly fell. I could not believe my eyes--never thought of denying the ownership of the fearful witness,--I could only gaze at it, with a wild horror creeping over me, and then all these terrible emotions were too much for me.

“I took two steps toward the grave, reached out with a shudder to grasp the knife whose clots of blood seemed to burn themselves into my brain--then vertigo seized me, and letting my head fall, I fainted.

“When I regained my senses, I was in my carriage, supported by the arms of my wife, and rolling up the avenue to my own house.

“Opposite me, in the carriage, little Charley, who, dimly realized apparently that some trouble had come to me, was crying bitterly, and a rough personage was endeavoring to quiet his sobbing.

“The personage in question was a constable. When I fainted at the grave, my friends had caught me in their arms--protested with burning indignation that the charge against me was a base calumny--and the magistrate who was summoned by Judge Conway to arrest me, had declined to do more than direct a constable to escort me home, and see that I did not attempt to escape.

“That was kind. I was a murderer, and my proper place a jail. Why should _I_ be more favored than some poor common man charged with that crime? Had such a person been confronted with such a charge, supported by such damning evidence as the bloody knife, would any ceremony have been observed? ‘To jail!’ all would have cried, ‘No bail for the murderer!’ And why should the rich Mr. Davenant be treated with more consideration?

“On the day after my arrest--I spare you all the harrowing scenes, my poor wife’s agony, and every thing, colonel--on the day after, I got into my carriage, and went and demanded to be confined in jail. It was the first time a Davenant had ever been _in jail_--but I went thither without hesitation, if not without a shudder. No sooner had I taken this step than the whole country seemed to have left their homes to visit me in my prison. On the evening of the scene at the grave, twenty persons had called at the ‘Pines,’ to express their sympathy and indignation at the charge against me. Now, when the iron door of the law had closed upon me, and I was a real prisoner, the visitors came in throngs without number. One and all, they treated the charge as the mere result of Judge Conway’s fury--some laughed at, others denounced it as an attempt to entrap and destroy me--all were certain that an investigation would at once demonstrate my innocence, and restore me to liberty and honor.

“Alas! I could only thank my friends, and reply that I hoped that such would be the result. But when they had left me alone, I fell into fits of the deepest dejection.

“What proofs could I give that I was innocent? There was a terrible array of circumstances, on the contrary, to support the hypothesis of my guilt--much more than I have mentioned, colonel. I had visited the courthouse on the same day with poor George Conway, and for the first time in twenty years had exchanged words with him. And the words were unfriendly. We had both been in the clerk’s office of the county, when that gentleman asked me some common-place question--in what year such a person had died, and his will had been recorded, I think. I replied, mentioning a year. The clerk shook his head, declaring that it must have been later, and appealed to poor George Conway, who agreed with him, adding, ‘Mr. Davenant is certainly in the wrong.’ I was much annoyed that day--made some curt reply--poor George made a similar rejoinder, and some harsh, almost insulting words, passed between us. The affair went no further, however. I left the clerk’s office, and having attended to the business which brought me, left the court-house about dusk. As I mounted my horse, I saw poor George Conway riding out of the place. I followed slowly, not wishing to come up with him, turning into a by-road which led toward my own house--and knew nothing of the murder until it was bruited abroad on the next day.

“That is much like the special pleading of a criminal--is it not, colonel? If I had really murdered the poor man, would not this be my method of explaining every thing? You see, I do not deny what several witnesses could prove; the fact that I quarreled with Conway, came to high words, uttered insults, exhibited anger, followed him from the court-house at dusk--I acknowledge all that, but add, that I struck into a by-road and went home! That sounds suspicious, I assure you, even to myself, to-day. Imagine the effect it promised to have then, when I was a man charged with murder--who would naturally try to frame such a statement as would clear him--and when a large portion of the community were excited and indignant at the murder.

“Such had been the truly unfortunate scene in the clerk’s office,--the fatality which made me follow the man going to his death, and my known enmity of long standing, supported the hypothesis of my guilt. There was another, and even more fatal circumstance still,--the discovery of the knife with which George Conway had been slain. That knife was my own; it was one of peculiar shape, with a handle of tortoise-shell, and I had often used it in presence of my friends and others. A dozen persons could make oath to it as my property; but it was not needed; the scene at the grave made that useless. I evidently did not deny the ownership of the weapon which had been used in the commission of the murder. At the very sight of it, on the contrary, in the hands of the brother of my victim, I had turned pale and fainted!

“This was the condition of things when the special term of the court, held expressly to try me, commenced at Dinwiddie.”

XXII.

THE TRIAL.

“A great crowd assembled on the day of the trial. Judge Conway had vacated the bench, as personally interested, and the judge from a neighboring circuit had taken his place.

“Below the seat of the judge sat the jury. Outside the railing, the spectators were crowded so closely that it was with difficulty the sheriff made a passage for my entrance.

“To one resolution I had adhered in spite of the remonstrances of all my friends,--to employ no counsel. In this determination nothing could shake me. A disdainful pride sustained me, mingled with bitter obstinacy. If I, the representative of one of the oldest and most honorable families in the county of Dinwiddie was to be branded as a murderer,--if my past life, my family and personal character, did not refute the charge,--if I was to be dragged to death on suspicion, gibbeted as a murderer, because some felon had stolen my pocket-knife, and committed a crime with it,--then I would go to my death unmoved. I would disdain to frame explanations; let the law murder _me_ if it would; no glib counsel should save my life by technicalities; I would be vindicated by God and my past life, or would die.

“Such was my state of mind, and such the origin of my refusal to employ counsel. When the court now assigned me counsel, I rose and forbade them to appear for me. In the midst of a stormy scene, and with the prosecuting attorney sitting dumb in his chair, resolved to take no part in the trial, the witnesses appeared upon the stand, and, rather by sufferance than the judge’s consent, the jury proceeded to interrogate them.

“The circumstances which I have detailed to you were all proved in the clearest manner; the altercation in the clerk’s office on the day of the murder; my long enmity against him, dating back more than twenty years; the fact that I had followed him out of the village just at dusk on the fatal night; and the discovery of my knife in the tall grass by the roadside near the body.

“I had summoned no witnesses, but some appeared of their own accord, and gave important testimony. Many neighbors testified that my enmity toward George Conway had almost entirely disappeared in the lapse of years, and that I had spoken of him, upon more than one occasion, with great kindness. The clerk of the county described the scene in his office, stating that the affair had appeared to him a mere interchange of curt words, without exhibition of the least malice on my part. The most important witness, however, was a poor man, living in the neighborhood, who made oath that he had been riding toward the court-house on the evening of the murder; had passed Mr. Conway, and, riding on farther, came in sight of me, and he had, before reaching me, seen me turn into the by-road which led toward my own residence. I could not have committed the murder, he added, for Mr. Conway had time to pass the spot where his body was found before I could have ridden back to the highroad and caught up with him.

“Unfortunately, the witness who gave this testimony bore a very indifferent character, and I could see that more than one of the jurors suspected that he was perjuring himself.

“Another ugly-looking circumstance also intervened to neutralize the favorable impression thus made. From the irregular mode of proceeding, the fatal knife had not been exhibited in court. Suddenly, a juror called for it, and it could nowhere be found! The sheriff swore that he had left it in the clerk’s office, where he supposed it to be entirely safe. Upon searching for it, however, in the drawer where he had deposited it, the weapon was missing.

“When that fact was stated, I saw a curious expression pass over the faces of more than one of the jury. They evidently suspected foul play.

“‘Was the door of the office locked?’ asked one of them.

“‘Yes, sir,’ was the reply.

“‘Were the windows secured?’

“‘By shutters with bolts.’

“‘Are all the bolts on the windows of this building firm?’

“‘I think so, sir.’

“‘There is one, that is not!’ said the juror.

“And he pointed to a long iron bolt on one of the windows, which bore evident traces of having been rent from its socket.

“The sheriff looked in amazement in the direction indicated.

“‘You are right, sir!’ he said; ‘some one has entered the court-house by breaking open the shutter, and stolen that knife from the clerk’s office, which is never locked.’

“A meaning silence followed the words. It was not difficult to understand it. The jury looked at each other, and in their glances I could read this--‘Mr. Davenant is on trial for his life. He or his friends suborn testimony to prove an alibi on the night of the murder, and not content with that, they hire a burglar to enter the court-house and steal the knife which proves his connection with the deed--that it may not appear in evidence against him.’

“The evidence closed. I had not uttered a word. I had sworn in my heart that I would not stir a finger in the matter--but now, stung beyond endurance, I rose and addressed the jury in impassioned words. ‘Their verdict,’ I told them, ‘was of little importance if I was to lose the respect of my fellow-citizens. I had made no effort to shape their decision, but now on the brink, it might be of a felon’s grave, I would utter my dying words. I would confine myself to protesting before God, and on my honor, that I had long since forgiven George Conway the wrongs done me--that the scene on the day of his murder was the result of momentary irritability, caused by business annoyances, and not malice--that I had forgotten it in an hour--returned directly to my own house--and only heard of the murder on the day after its commission. As to the knife--I had been suspected if not charged with having had the weapon stolen. Well! my answer to that was to declare that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, _the murder was committed with my own knife!_ More than that. A witness had sworn that he saw me turn into the road to my own residence, at such a distance behind George Conway that I could not have rejoined him before he had passed the fatal spot. The witness was mistaken. There was time. _By riding across the angle through the thicket, I could easily have rejoined him_!

“‘And now, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘I have done. I have left you no ground to charge me with suborning testimony--with having the evidence of my crime stolen--with plotting in darkness, to hide my crime and blind your eyes in determining my guilt or innocence. That knife was mine, I repeat. It was possible for me to rejoin Mr. Conway, and do him to death by a blow with it. Now, retire, gentlemen! Bring in your verdict! Thank God! no taint of real dishonor will rest upon a Davenant, and I can appear before my Maker as I stand here to-day--innocent!’

“Ten minutes afterward the jury had retired, with every mark of agitation upon their faces. The great concourse of spectators seemed moved almost beyond control.

“Suddenly the crowd opened, I saw my wife hastening through the space thus made--a living wall on each side--and in an instant she had thrown herself into my arms, with a low cry which brought tears to the roughest faces of the auditory. I placed my arm around her, remonstrated with her for this ill-advised proceeding, and was trying to soothe her, when she hastily gave me a letter. A strange man had brought it an hour before, she said--it was marked ‘In haste--this will save Mr. Davenant’s life.’ She had mounted her riding horse, and brought it at full speed in person, without waiting to question the stranger, who had at once disappeared.

“I opened the letter--glanced at its contents--at the same instant the jury made their appearance--and the clerk said:--

“‘Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?’

“‘We have, sir,’ said the foreman.

“‘What is it?’

“‘Not guilty!’

“The court-house rang with applause. The crowd rushed toward me to shake me by the hand and congratulate me. Suddenly, in the midst of the tumult, I heard the furious words:--

“‘Murderer! you have escaped, but I brand you before God and man as the murderer of my brother!’

“It was Judge Conway, who, mounted upon a bench, with glaring eyes, foaming lips, teeth clenched, in a wild fury, shook his arm at me, and denounced me as a convict before God, if not before man.”

XXIII.

WHAT THE LETTER CONTAINED.

General Davenant was silent for a moment. The deep voice, so long resounding in my ears, made the silence oppressive.

“Now you know, my dear colonel,” he suddenly added, “why my son can not form an alliance with a daughter of Judge Conway.”

I bowed my head. The whole mystery was patent before me.

“The family opposition is mutual,” said General Davenant, with a proud smile; “he objects because he believes that I murdered his brother--and I object because he believes it! He insulted me, outraged me--at the grave, in the court-house, in public, as in private; and I could not think of beseeching his honor to give his consent to the marriage of his daughter with the son of an ‘escaped murderer.’”

The old soldier uttered these words with gloomy bitterness; but in a moment he had regained his coolness.

“That was the end of the affair,” he said. “I went home, accompanied by a _cortége_ of friends who seemed never weary of congratulating me; and on the next day, I wrote a mortal defiance to Judge Conway, which I placed in the hands of a friend to convey to him. An hour afterward, I had mounted my horse, ridden rapidly, caught up with this friend on his way to Five Forks, and had taken from him the challenge, which I tore to pieces. You will probably comprehend the motive which compelled me to do this. It was not repugnance to the modern form of single combat, I am sorry to say. Old as I was, I had still the ancient hallucination on that subject. I did not then know that duels were mere comedies--child’s play; that one infantry skirmish results in the shedding of more blood than all the affairs of a generation. The motive that induced me to withdraw my challenge, was one which you will probably understand. The pale face of the dead George Conway had risen up before me--I knew his brother’s deep love for him--that he regarded me as the dead man’s murderer; and I no longer writhed under that public insult in the court-house, or, at least controlled myself. ‘Let him go on his way, poor, stricken heart!’ I said with deep pity; ‘I forgive him, and will not avenge that affront to me!’

“Such is my history, colonel. It is sad, you see. I have related it to explain what has come to your knowledge--the bitter hostility which Judge Conway indulges toward me, and his frowns at the very name of Davenant. These events occurred more than ten years ago. During all that time, he has been laboring under the belief that I am really guilty of his brother’s blood. See where my ‘high pride’ has conducted me,” said General Davenant, with a smile of inexpressible melancholy and bitterness. “I was proud and disdainful on the day of my trial--I would not use the common weapons of defence--I risked my life by refusing counsel, and acknowledging the ownership of that knife. Pride, hauteur, a sort of disdain at refuting a charge of base dishonor--that was my sentiment then, and I remain as haughty to-day! I am a Davenant--I was found ‘not guilty’--why go and tell Judge Conway the contents of that letter received in the court-house?”

“The contents of the letter, general?”

“Yes, colonel.”

“What did it contain?--I beg you to tell me!”

“The confession of the murderer of George Conway!”

XXIV.

“BLOOD.”

General Davenant had scarcely uttered the words which I have just recorded, when rapid firing was heard in the woods, a quarter of a mile from his head-quarters; and a moment afterward a courier came at a gallop, bearing a dispatch.

“My horse!” came in the brief tone of command.

And General Davenant tore open the dispatch, which he read attentively.

“The enemy are advancing to attack me,” he said; “this note was written ten minutes since. The attack has commenced. Will you go and see it, colonel?”

“Willingly.”

General Davenant ordered another horse, as my own was useless; we mounted and rode at full speed through the woods; in five minutes we were at the scene of action.

A heavy assault was in progress. The enemy had massed a large force in front of the hastily erected earth-works, and were endeavoring, by a determined charge, to carry them.

General Davenant was everywhere amid the fight, the guiding and directing head, and beside him I saw distinctly in the starlight, the brave figure of little Charley, who had started from his couch, buckled on a huge sword, and was now galloping to and fro, cheering on the men as gallantly as his father. It was an inspiring sight to see that child in his little braided jacket, with his jaunty cap balanced gallantly on his auburn curls--to see his rosy cheeks, his smiling lips, and his small hand flourishing that tremendous sabre, as he galloped gaily amid the fire.

“And yet,” I said, “there are those who will not believe in _blood_--or race!”

Fill the space which that dash occupies, my dear reader, with an abrupt “duck” of the head, as a bullet went through my hat!

The charge was repulsed in twenty minutes; but the firing continued throughout the night. When it ceased, toward daybreak, and I rode back with General Davenant and Charley, who was as gay as a lark, and entertained me with reminiscences of Gettysburg, I was completely broken down with fatigue. Throwing myself upon a bed, in General Davenant’s tent, I fell asleep.

When I opened my eyes the sun was high in the heavens. I looked around for the general, he was invisible.

I rose, and at the door of the tent met Charley, with bright eyes, and cheeks like roses.

“The general has gone to corps head-quarters, colonel, and told me to present you his compliments, and beg that you will remain to breakfast.”

After which formal and somewhat pompous sentence the youthful Charley drew near, slapped me in a friendly way upon the back, and exclaimed, with dancing eyes:--

“I say, colonel! wasn’t that a jolly old he-fight we had last night?”

My reply was a laugh, and a glance of admiration at the gay boy.

I declined the invitation of General Davenant, as I had to return. My horse was brought, and I found his foot much easier. In half an hour I was on the road to Petersburg.

XXV.

THE BLUE SERPENT.

Once back at the “Cedars,” I reflected deeply upon the history which I had heard from the lips of General Davenant.

I shall refrain, however, from recording these reflections. If the reader will cast his eyes back over the pages of these memoirs, he will perceive that I have confined myself generally to the simple narration of events--seldom pausing to offer my own comments upon the scenes passing before me. Were I to do so, what an enormous volume I should write, and how the reader would be bored! Now, to bore a reader, is, in my eyes, one of the greatest crimes of which an author can be guilty. It is the unpardonable sin, indeed, in a writer. For which reason, and acting upon the theory that a drama ought to explain itself and be its own commentator, I spare the worthy reader of these pages all those reflections which I indulged in, after hearing General Davenant’s singular narrative.

“Pride! pride!” I muttered, rising at the end of an hour. “I think I can understand that--exceptional as is this instance; but I wish I had heard who was the ‘real murderer’ of George Conway!”

Having thus dismissed the subject, I set about drawing up my official report, and this charmingly common-place employment soon banished from my mind every more inviting subject!

It was nearly ten days after this my first ride into the wilds of Dinwiddie, before I again set out to look after the cavalry. The end of October was approaching. Grant had continued to hammer away along his immense line of earth-works; and day by day, step by step, he had gone on extending his left in the direction of the Southside railroad.

If the reader will keep this in view, he will understand every movement of the great adversaries. Grant had vainly attempted to carry Lee’s works by assault, or surprise,--his only hope of success now was to gradually extend his lines toward the Southside road; seize upon that great war artery which supplied life-blood to Lee’s army; and thus compel the Confederate commander to retreat or starve in his trenches. One thing was plain--that when Grant reached the Southside railroad, Lee was lost, unless he could mass his army and cut his way through the forces opposed to him. And this fact was so obvious, the situation was so apparent--that from the moment when the Weldon road was seized upon by General Grant, that officer and his great adversary never removed their eyes from the real point of importance, the true key of the lock--namely the Southside railroad, on Lee’s right.

Elsewhere Grant attacked, but it was to cover some movement, still toward his left. He assaulted Lee’s works, north of the James--but it was south of the Appomattox that he was looking. The operations of the fall and winter, on the lines around Petersburg were a great series of marches and counter-marches to and fro, suddenly bursting into battles. Grant massed his army heavily in front of the works in Charles City opposite the left of Lee; attempted to draw in that direction his adversary’s main force; then suddenly the blue lines vanished; they were rushed by railroad toward Petersburg, and Grant hastened to thrust his columns still farther beyond Lee’s right, in order to turn it and seize the Southside road.

That was not the conception of a great soldier, it may be, reader; but it was ingenious. General Grant was not a man of great military brain--but he was patient, watchful, and persevering. To defeat Lee, what was wanted was genius, or obstinacy--Napoleon or Grant. In the long run, perseverance was going to achieve the results of genius. The tortoise was going to reach the same goal with the hare. It was a question of time--that was all.

So, throughout October, as throughout September, and August, and July, General Grant thundered everywhere along his forty miles of earth-works, but his object was to raise a smoke dense enough to hide the blue columns moving westward. “Hurrah! we have got Fort Harrison!” exclaimed his enthusiastic subordinates. Grant would much rather have heard, “We have got the White Oak road!” Fort Harrison was a strong out-post simply; the White Oak road was the postern door into the citadel.

Gradually moving thus, from the Jerusalem plank road to the Weldon railroad, from the Weldon railroad to the Squirrel Level road, from the Squirrel Level road toward the Boydton road, beyond which was the White Oak road, Grant came, toward the end of October, to the banks of the Rowanty. As this long blue serpent unfolded its coils and stretched its threatening head into the Dinwiddie woods, Lee had extended his right to confront it. The great opponents moved _pari passu_, each marching in face of each other. Like two trained and skillful swordsmen, they changed ground without moving their eyes from each others’ faces--the lunge was met by the parry; and this seemed destined to go on to infinity.

That was the unskilled opinion, however. The civilians thought that--Lee did not. It was plain that this must end somewhere. Lee’s line would not bear much further extension. It reached now from a point on the Williamsburg road, east of Richmond, to Burgess’s Mill, west of Petersburg. His forty thousand men were strung over forty miles. That made the line so thin that it would bear little more. Stretched a little farther still, and it would snap.

Lee called in vain for more men. The Government could not send them. He predicted the result of failure to receive them. They did not come.

And Grant continued to move on, and Lee continued to stretch his thin line, until it began to crack.

Such was the situation of affairs at the end of October--when Grant aimed a heavy blow to cut the line in pieces. The blue serpent raised its head, and sprung to strike.

XXVI.

THE HOUSE NEAR MONK’S NECK, AND ITS OWNER.

Such was the critical condition of affairs when I again set out to make my regular tour of inspection of the cavalry.

Crossing Hatcher’s Run at Burgess’s Mill, I turned to the left, and soon found myself riding on between the lofty walls of pine, through which the roads of Dinwiddie wind like a serpent.

When near Monk’s Neck, I determined to stop and feed my horse. I always carried, strapped behind my saddle, a small bag containing about a feed of corn for that purpose; and as I generally selected some wayside house where I could, myself, rest while my horse was feeding, I now looked about me to discover such.

My search was speedily rewarded. Three hundred yards from the road, in a clump of stunted trees, I saw a small house, which I soon reached. The surroundings of the establishment were poor and mean beyond expression. Through the open door I could see that the interior was even more poverty-stricken than the outside.

As I dismounted, a man came to this door. Are you fond of natural history, reader; and have you ever amused yourself by instituting comparisons between certain human beings and certain animals--beasts, birds, or fishes? I have seen men who resembled horses, owls, hawks, sheep,--and geese. This one resembled the bird called the penguin. Read the description of the penguins: “Their feet are placed more posteriorly than in any other birds, and only afford them support by resting on the tarsus, which is enlarged, like the sole of the foot of a quadruped. The wings are very small, and are furnished with rudiments of feathers only, resembling scales. Their bodies are covered with oblong feathers, harsh to the touch, and closely applied over each other. * * * * * Their motions are slow and awkward, and from the form of their wings, they can not fly.”

The individual before me recalled the penguin--except that he was excessively lean instead of fat. The feet accorded with the above description; the arms were short, and hung like wings; the coat of the worthy was a ragged “cut-away,” which ended in a point behind, like the tail of a bird; and the movements of the individual were “slow and awkward” to a degree which forbade the supposition that, under any circumstances, he could be induced to fly. Add a long, crane-like neck, two bleared eyes, a mouth stretching from ear to ear, and a nose like the bill of a duck. You will then have before you the gentleman who bore, as I soon discovered, the classic name of Mr. Alibi.

When the worthy, who had flapped his arms, by way of greeting, and shown me into his mansion, informed me that such was his name, I knew that the house at which I now found myself was the place of meeting agreed upon between Nighthawk and Swartz, at their interview in Richmond. Here, also, the man and woman, rescued by Swartz on the Nottoway, had been left, on his way to Petersburg, as the spy had informed us in the Wilderness.

“Well, general,” croaked Mr. Alibi, with a smile, and in a nasal voice, “wha--a--t’s the news?”

“I am only a lieutenant-colonel, Mr. Alibi.”

“Well, colonel, any thing stirring?”

“Nothing, I think. Any news with you, Mr. Alibi? I have heard of you from a friend of yours.”

“Eh! And who mout that be, colonel?”

“Mr. Nighthawk. Have you seen him lately?”

“Na--a--a--w,” said Mr. Alibi, with a prolonged drawl through his nose, and flapping his arms in an uncouth fashion, “I ain’t seen him for a long spell now.”

“Nor Swartz, either?”

Mr. Alibi looked keenly at me.

“Na--a--a--w, nor him nuther, leftenant-colonel.”

“Leave out the ‘leftenant,’ my dear Mr. Alibi; and call me ‘colonel’--it is shorter,” I said, laughing, as I looked at the queer figure. “And so you have not seen Swartz lately? He made an appointment to meet Nighthawk here.”

“Made an app’intment, did he, leftenant--least ways, colonel?”

“Yes.”

“With Mr. Nighthawk?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I reckon they are both dead, or they’d ‘a’ kept their app’intment.”

“Nighthawk dead!”

“He must be, sartain.”

“You are mistaken, friend Alibi,” said a voice behind him.

And Nighthawk, in person, entered the house.

XXVII.

STARVATION.

Nighthawk had appeared, as was his wont, as if he had risen from the earth.

But this circumstance disappeared from my mind at once. I was looking at his face. It had completely lost its benignant expression; was pale, and bore marks of great fatigue. Something of the old clerical benignity came to the eyes as he greeted me cordially; but sitting down in the nearest chair, as though completely wearied out, he became as dispirited as before.

“And what mout be the matter with you, Mr. Nighthawk?” said Mr. Alibi: “you look ‘s if the night hags had been a-riding of you with spurs on.”

And Mr. Alibi flapped his wings, stretched out his neck, and seemed about to cackle.