Chapter XXI: Book V: The Dead Go Fast (1)

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 capítol, 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.