Chapter XXII: Book V: The Dead Go Fast (2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where have you been, Ashe?”

“To Sussex, colonel, on a foraging expedition.”

“For the general?”

“And some of the staff, colonel.”

Ashe smiled; we rode on together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X.

AEGRI SOMNIA.--MARCH, 1865.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XI.

I VISIT GENERAL FITZHUGH LEE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Done for!” said one.

“Captured!” laughed another.

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

“Well, where is the place of meeting--where are the terms being arranged?” I said.

“At a place called Disaways, on the lower Rowanty!”

“Good! I know the road there,” I said.

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

XII.

BY A FIRE IN THE WOODS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“Why should it not be?”

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

“Ah, what do you refer to?”

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

“Is it possible he has it! Do you know that?”

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

“Perfectly. I visited her with Mohun.”

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

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, he returned, colonel, but Amanda could tell him nothing--which you no doubt have heard.”

“Yes, from him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She is safe enough, colonel, and I don’t think she will trouble us soon.”

“I am glad of it. I think her the more dangerous of _the two_.”

“And I agree with you.”

“When did you see Darke, last?”

“I have not met him for three months.”

“He can not be dead?”

“He may be wounded.”

“And Mohun--is he at his head-quarters?”

Nighthawk smiled.

“He is at Five Forks, to-day, colonel.”

“And Willie Davenant?”

“In Richmond, on business at the war department.”

“Humph! So I shall see neither--but another time.”

And mounting my horse, I added:--

“Good luck, Nighthawk.”

“Thank you, colonel--the same to you.”

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

XIII.

DRINKING TEA UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

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

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

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

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

Hitherto some angel had watched over me, and Disaways had been unvisited by the enemy’s scouting parties, without so much as a vedette at the Halifax bridge, within half a mile. I had sat by the fire, eaten countless suppers, laughed and conversed with my good friends, slept soundly in a _real bed_, and gone on my way in the morning rejoicing.

I had thus always escaped surprise. No enemy ever annoyed me. It was the old adage, however, of the pitcher that went to the well so often!--but let me go on with my narrative.

As my horse uttered his shrill neigh now, ringing through the March evening, the door opened and Katy ran out to greet me. She had never looked more beautiful, and I recall still, as though I had seen it yesterday, the charming smile on her red lips. The wind blew back her ringlets till they resembled golden ripples--the rosy cheeks were flushed--there madam! (I say this to some one who is leaning over my shoulder, and laughing) don’t begrudge me these smiling memories! Katy was only my little niece as it were--she is married and far away now. Nay, Surry ought to love and be grateful to the little lady who took such good care, in those grim days, of--your husband, madam!

Behind Katy appeared the faces of the excellent family, who cordially greeted me. Behind all appeared the blushing but dandified Tom Herbert.

“Ah! there is a straggler!” I said. “Why don’t you send him back to his command, ladies? Every man should be at his post in this trying moment!”

“Oh, bother, my dear Surry! what a tongue you have!” exclaimed Tom.

“I see General Fitz was right, or his staff rather, in what they told me, Tom.”

“What did they tell you, my dear boy?”

“That you were demoralized and captured!”

Sweet smile on the faces of the family at these words!

“That you had acknowledged your weakness, seen that further resistance was hopeless, and were already negotiating a surrender to the enemy. Well, Tom, what are the terms? Are they arranged?”

Suddenly I felt my hair pulled by an enemy from behind; and looking round I saw Miss Katy passing by, with an immense appearance of innocence. Her face was blushing; her lips emitted a low laugh; and seeing that no one was looking at her, she raised her finger in silent menace at me.

This caused a diversion, and Tom was enabled to rally his forces.

“My dear Surry,” he said, smiling, with his delightfully foppish air, “it always charms me to meet you, for you are always sparkling, brilliant, full of wit; which reminds me of the good old days with Stuart! You have only one fault, my boy, you think yourself a philosopher. Don’t do that, I beg, Surry!--But what’s the news from Petersburg?”

I acquiesced in the change of topic, and gave Tom the news; but I was looking at Katy.

More than ever before I admired that little “bird of beauty,” flitting about with charming grace, and an irresistible business air, to get me my supper, for the rest had just finished. This privilege she always claimed when I came to Disaways; fighting furiously, if the excellent lady of the manor attempted to supplant her. Looking at her, as she ran about now, engaged in her most admirable occupation, I thought her lovelier than ever before--certainly than when talking in the woods with Tom! You see she was getting my supper, reader!--and it seemed to be a labor of love. The little fairy ran on her tiptoes from sideboard to table; spread a snowy napkin, and placed a gilt china plate upon it; made tea; covered the table with edibles; and placed beside my plate a great goblet of yellow cream, of the consistency of syrup. Then she poured out my tea, set my chair to the table, and came with courtesy and laughing ceremony, to offer me her arm, and lead me to my seat.

Men are weak, worthy reader, and the most “romantic and poetical” of us all, have much of the animal in us. That is a mortifying confession. I was terribly hungry, and at that moment I think my attention was more closely riveted on the table, than even upon Miss Katy with her roses and ringlets.

I therefore unbuckled my sabre, placed the little hand on my arm, and was about to proceed toward the table, when a shot, accompanied by a shout, was heard from the direction of the Rowanty.

I went and buckled on my sword again. Then seeing Tom rise quickly--to get his horse ready, he said--I requested him to have my own resaddled, and returned to the table.

I had just raised the cup of tea to my lips, amid warnings from the family, to take care or I would be captured, when a cavalryman galloped up the hill, and stopped in front of the door.

“Look out, the Yankees are coming!” he cried.

I glanced through the window, and recognized a man of Mohun’s command, who also recognized me.

“How near are they?” I said, attempting to swallow the burning tea.

“Not a quarter of a mile off, colonel!”

“That will give me time,” I said.

And I applied myself again to the tea, which this time I poured out into the saucer, in order to cool it.

“Look out, colonel!” cried the man.

“Where are they?”

“At the gate.”

I finished the tea, and the goblet of cream just as the man shouted:--

“Here they are, right on you, colonel!”

And I heard the sound of a galloping horse, accompanied by shots at the retreating cavalryman.

I went quickly to the window. A column of Federal cavalry was rapidly ascending the hill. By the last beams of day I recognized Darke at the head of the column; and by his side rode Mr. Alibi. I thought I could see that Darke was thin and very pale, but was not certain. The light was faint, and I had only one glance--discretion suggested a quick retreat.

I just grazed capture--passing through the door, in rear of the mansion, at the very moment when a number of the enemy, who had hastily dismounted, rushed in at the front door.

Tom was mounted, and holding my horse, which the good boy had saddled with his own hands. I leaped to saddle, and had scarcely done so, when a pistol bullet whizzed by my head. It had crashed through a pane of the window from within--and a loud shout followed. We had been perceived.

Under these circumstances, my dear reader, we always ran in the late war. Some persons considered it disgraceful to run or dodge, but they were civilians.

“Don’t run until you are obliged to, but then run like the ----!” said a hard-fighting general.

And one day when a lady was telling General R.E. Lee, how a friend of hers had dodged once, the general turned to the laughing officer, and said in his deep voice, “That’s right captain, dodge all you can!”

I have often dodged, and more than once have--withdrawn rapidly. On this occasion, Tom and I thought that retreat was the wisest course. In a moment we had disappeared in the woods, followed by pistol shots and some of the enemy.

They did not pursue us far. The Federal cavalry did not like the Virginia woods.

In ten minutes their shots were no longer heard; their shouts died away; and returning on our steps, we came once more in sight of Disaways and reconnoitred.

The enemy were not visible, and riding up, we dismounted and entered.[1]

[Footnote 1: “I have taken up too much space with this trifle,” said Colonel Surry when I read this, “but that hot tea was a real cup of tea! I was really burned nearly to death, in attempting to swallow it! The dialogue with my friend, the cavalryman, was real; and it is just these trifles which cling to the memory, obscuring the ‘greater events!’”]

XIV.

MR. ALIBI.

The enemy had eaten up my supper! A glance at the table told the whole tragic history;--but the unnerved family were scarce in a condition to think of my misfortune.

The enemy had staid for a few moments only, but in that time the family had gathered important information of their intentions. They were going to surprise and attack General Fitz Lee that night; and had not so much as halted, as they passed the house, to gain a by-road beyond. They were commanded, the men said, by a General Darke, and guided by a man living near Monk’s Neck, whose name was Alibi.

This information of the enemy’s design banished all other thoughts from my mind and Tom’s. We ran to our horses--and I think I heard something like a kiss, in the shadow of the porch, as Tom and Katy parted.

We galloped into the woods, following a course parallel to that taken by the enemy’s cavalry, and keeping as close to it as was safe.

“A sudden parting between yourself and Katy, Tom!” I said, as we galloped on. “A touching spectacle! When will you be married?”

“In a week or two--to answer seriously, old fellow,” responded Tom.

“Is it possible!”

“Even so, my boy.”

“Here, at Disaways?”

“No, in Richmond. Katy’s family are refugees there, now; and I was going to escort her to Petersburg to-morrow, but for these rascals--and I will do it, yet.”

“Good! I hope the way will be clear then! Let us go on. There is no time to lose in order to warn General Fitz!”

We pushed on, following bridle-paths, and making toward Dinwiddie Court-House. Half an hour thus passed, and we were near the Roney’s Bridge road, when, suddenly, the whole forest on our right blazed with shots. Loud shouts accompanied the firing. The woods crackled as horsemen rushed through them. An obstinate fight was going on in the darkness, between the Federal and Confederate cavalry.

Plainly, the Confederates had not been surprised, and the dash and vim with which they met the Federal onset, seemed to dishearten their enemies. For fifteen minutes the combat continued with great fury, amid the pines; the air was filled with quick spirts of flame, with the clash of sabres, with loud cheers and cries; then the wave of Federal horsemen surged back toward the Rowanty; the Confederates pressed them, with cheer; and the affair terminated in a headlong pursuit.

Tom and myself had gotten into the _mêlée_ early in the action, and my feather had been cut out of my hat by a sabre stroke which a big blue worthy aimed at me. This was my only accident, however. In fifteen minutes I had the pleasure of seeing our friends run.

I followed with the rest, for about a mile. Then I drew rein, and turned back--my horse was completely exhausted. I slowly returned toward Dinwiddie Court-House; hesitated for a moment whether I would lodge at the tavern; shook my head in a manner not complimentary to the hostelry; and set out to spend the night at “Five Forks.”

I did not know, until some days afterward, that a serious accident had happened to the worthy Mr. Alibi, guide and friend of General Darke.

He had been struck by a bullet in the fight; had flapped his wings; cackled; tumbled from his horse; and expired.

Nighthawk’s visit thus went for nothing.

Mr. Alibi was dead.

XV.

FROM FIVE FORKS TO PETERSBURG.

I shall not dwell upon the evening and night spent at “Five Forks”--upon whose threshold I was met and cordially greeted by the gray-haired Judge Conway.

In the great drawing-room I found the young ladies, who hastened to procure me supper; and I still remember that waiter of every species of edibles,--that smiling landscape above which rose the spire-like neck of a decanter! These incessant “bills of fare” will, I fear, revolt some readers! But these are my memoirs; and _memoirs_ mean recollections. I have forgotten a dozen battles, but still remember that decanter-phenomenon in March, 1865. I spent the evening in cordial converse with the excellent Judge Conway and his daughters, and on the next morning set out on my return to Petersburg. Mohun had not been visible. At the first sound of the firing, he had mounted his horse and departed at a gallop.

So much for my visit to Five Forks. I pass thus rapidly over it, with real regret--lamenting the want of space which compels me to do so.

Do you love the queenly rose, and the modest lily of the valley, reader? I could have shown you those flowers, in Georgia and Virginia Conway. They were exquisitely cordial and high-bred--as was their gray-haired father. They spoke, and moved, and looked, as only the high-bred can. Pardon that obsolete word, “high-bred,” so insulting in the present epoch! I am only jesting when I seem to intimate that I considered the stately old judge better than the black servant who waited upon me at supper!

Of Mohun and Will Davenant, I had said nothing, in conversing with the smiling young ladies. But I think Miss Georgia, stately and imposing as she was, looked at me with a peculiar smile, which said, “You are _his_ friend, and cannot be a mere ordinary acquaintance to _me_!”

And here I ought to inform the reader, that since that first visit of mine to Five Forks, affairs had marched with the young lady and her friend. Mohun and Miss Georgia were about to be married, and I was to be the first groomsman. The woman-hating Benedict of the banks of the Rappahannock had completely succumbed, and the satirical Beatrice had also lost all her wit. It died away in sighs, and gave place to reveries--those reveries which come to maidens when they are about to embark on the untried seas of matrimony.

But I linger at Five Forks when great events are on the march. Bidding my hospitable host and his charming daughters good morning, I mounted my horse and set out over the White Oak road toward Petersburg. As I approached the Rowanty, I saw that the new defenses erected by Lee, were continuous and powerful. Long tiers of breastworks, and redoubts crowning every eminence, showed very plainly the great importance which Lee attached to holding the position.

In fact, this was the key to the Southside road. Here was to take place the last great struggle.

I rode on, in deep thought, but soon my reverie was banished. Just as I reached the hill above Burgess’s, who should I see coming from the direction of the Court-House--but Tom Herbert and Katy Dare!

Katy Dare, on a little pony, with a riding skirt reaching nearly to the ground!--with her trim little figure clearly outlined by the fabric--with a jaunty little riding hat balanced lightly upon her ringlets--with her cheeks full of roses, her lips full of smiles, her eyes dancing like two blue waves, which the wind agitates!

Don’t find fault with her, Mrs. Grundy, for having Tom only as an escort. Those were stern and troubled times; our poor girls were compelled often to banish ceremony. Katy had only this means to get back to her family, and went with Tom as with her brother.

She held out both hands to me, her eyes dancing. Three years have passed since then, but if I were a painter, I could make her portrait, reproducing every detail! Nothing has escaped my memory; I still hear her voice; the sun of 1868, not of 1865, seems to shine on the rosy cheeks framed by masses of golden ringlets!

I would like to record our talk as we rode on toward Petersburg--describe that ride--a charming episode, flashing like a gleam of sunlight, amid the dark days, when the black clouds had covered the whole landscape. In this volume there is so much gloom! Suffering and death have met us so often! Can you wonder, my dear reader, that the historian of such an epoch longs to escape, when he can, from the gloom of the tragedy, and paint those scenes of comedy which occasionally broke the monotonous drama? To write this book is not agreeable to me. I wear out a part of my life in composing it. To sum up, in cold historic generalities that great epoch would be little--but to enter again into the hot atmosphere; to live once more that life of the past; to feel the gloom, the suspense, the despair of 1865 again--believe me, that is no trifle! It wears away the nerves, and tears the heart. The cheek becomes pale as the MS. grows! The sunshine is yonder, but you do not see it. The past banishes the present. Across the tranquil landscape of March, 1868, jars the cannon, and rushes the storm wind of March, 1865!

The cloud was black above, therefore, but Katy Dare made the world bright with her own sunshine, that day. All the way to Petersburg, she ran on in the most charming prattle. The winding Boydton road, like the banks of the lower Rowanty, was made vocal with her songs--the “Bird of Beauty” and the whole repertoire. Nor was Tom Herbert backward in encouraging his companion’s mirth. Tom was the soul of joy. He sang “Katy! Katy! don’t marry any other!” with an unction which spoke in his quick color, and “melting glances” as in the tones of his laughing voice. Riding along the famous highway, upon which only a solitary cavalryman or a wagon occasionally appeared, the little maiden and her lover made the pine-woods ring with their songs, their jests, and their laughter!

It is good to be young and to love. Is there any thing more charming? For my part I think that the curly head holds the most wisdom! Tell me which was the happier--the gray-haired general yonder, oppressed by care, or the laughing youth and maiden? It is true there is something nobler, however, than youth, and joy, and love. It is to know that you are doing your duty--to bear up, like Atlas, a whole world upon your shoulders--to feel that, if you fall, the whole world will shake--and that history will place your name beside that of Washington!

As the sun began to decline, we rode into Petersburg, and bidding Katy and Tom adieu, I returned to my Cedars.

I had taken my last ride in the “low grounds” of the county of Dinwiddie; I was never more to see Disaways, unless something carries me thither in the future. To those hours spent in the old mansion, and with my comrades, near it, I look back now with delight. Days and nights on the Rowanty! how you come back to me in dreams! Happy hours at Disaways, with the cavalry, with the horse artillery! you live still in my memory, and you will live there always! Katy Dare runs to greet me again as in the past--again her blue eyes dance, and the happy winds are blowing her bright curls into ripples! She smiles upon me still--as in that “winter of discontent.” Her cheerful voice again sounds. Her small hands are held out to me. All things go--nothing lingers--but those days on the Rowanty, amid the sunset gilded pines, come back with all their tints, and are fadeless in my memory.

Going back thus in thought, to that winter of 1864, I recall the friendly faces of Katy, and all my old comrades--I hear their laughter again, touch their brave hands once more, and salute them, wishing them long life and happiness.