Such was the beautiful landscape which greeted our eyes: such the spotto which the winds of war had wafted us. Good old "Bower," and gooddays there! How well I remember you! After the long, hard march, and theincessant fighting, it was charming to settle down for a brief space inthis paradise--to listen idly to the murmur of the Opequon, or the voiceof the summer winds amid the foliage of the century oaks!
The great tree on the grassy knoll, under which Stuart erected his owntent, is called "Stuart's Oak" to this day. No axe will ever harm it, Ihope; gold could not purchase it; for tender hearts cherish the gnarledtrunk and huge boughs, as a souvenir of the great soldier whom itsheltered in that summer of 1863.
So we were anchored for a little space, and enjoyed keenly the repose ofthis summer nook on the Opequon. Soon the bugle would sound again, andnew storms would buffet us; meanwhile, we laughed and sang, snatchingthe bloom of the peaceful hours, inhaling the odors, listening to thebirds, and idly dreaming.
For myself, I had more dreams than the rest of the gray people there!The Bower was not a strange place to me. My brethren of the staffused to laugh, and say that, wherever we went, in Virginia, I foundkins-people. I found near and dear ones at the old house on the Opequon;and a hundred spots which recalled my lost youth. Every object carriedme back to the days that are dead. The blue hills, the stream, the greatoaks, and the hall smiled on me. How familiar the portraits, and widefireplaces, and deers' antlers. The pictures of hawking scenes, withladies and gentlemen in the queerest costumes; the engravings of famousrace-horses, hanging between guns, bird-bags and fishing-rods in thewide hall--these were not mere dead objects, but old and long-lovedacquaintances. I had known them in my childhood; looked withdelight upon them in my boyhood; now they seemed to salute me,murmuring--"Welcome! you remember us!"
Thus the hall, the grounds, the pictures, the most trifling objectbrought back to me, in that summer of 1863, a hundred memories of theyears that had flown. Years of childhood and youth, of mirth and joy,such as we felt before war had come to harass us; when I swam in theOpequon, or roamed the hills, looking into bright eyes, where life wasso fresh and so young. The "dew was on the blossom" then, the flower inthe bud. Now the bloom had passed away, and the dew dried up in the hotwar-atmosphere. It was a worn and weary soldier who came back to thescenes of his youth.
Suddenly, as I mused thus, dreaming idly under the great oak whichsheltered me, I heard a voice from Stuart's tent, sending its sonorousmusic on the air. It was the great cavalier singing lustily--
"The dew is on the blossom!"
At all hours of the day you could hear that gay voice. Stuart'sheadquarters were full of the most mirthful sounds and sights. The knollwas alive with picturesque forms. The horses, tethered to the boughs,champed their bits and pawed impatiently. The bright saddle-blanketsshone under the saddles covered with gay decorations. Young officerswith clanking sabres and rattling spurs moved to and fro. In front ofthe head-quarters tent the red battle-flag caught the sunshine in itsdazzling folds.
Suddenly, a new charm is added to the picturesque scene. Maiden figuresadvance over the grassy lawn; bright eyes glimmer; glossy ringlets arelifted by the fingers of the wind; tinkling laughter is heard;--and overall rings the wild sonorous music of the bugle!
The days pass rapidly thus. The nights bring merriment, not sleep. Thegeneral goes with his staff to the hospitable mansion, and soon thegreat drawing-room is full of music and laughter. The song, the dance,the rattling banjo follow. The long hours flit by like a flock of summerbirds, and Sweeney, our old friend Sweeney, is the king of the revel.
For Sweeney rattles as before on his banjo; and the "Old Gray Horse"flourishes still in imperishable youth! It is the same old Sweeney,with his mild and deferential courtesy, his obliging smile, hisunapproachable skill in "picking on the string." Listen! his voice ringsagain as in the days of '61 and '62. He is singing still "Oh JohnnyBooker, help this nigger!" "Stephen, come back, come back, Stephen!""Out of the window I did sail!" "Sweet Evelina," and the grand,magnificent epic which advises you to "Jine the Cavalry!"
Hagan listens to him yonder with a twinkle of the eye--Hagan theblack-bearded giant, the brave whose voice resembles thunder, thedevotee and factotum of Stuart, whom he loves. And Sweeney rattles on.You laugh loud as you listen. The banjo laughs louder than all, and thegreat apartment is full of uproar, and mirth, and dance.
Then the couples sink back exhausted; a deep silence follows; Sweeneyhas made you laugh, and is now going to make you sigh. Listen! You canscarcely believe that the singer is the same person who has just beenrattling through the "Old Gray Horse." Sweeney is no longer mirthful;his voice sighs instead of laughing. He is singing his tender andexquisite "Faded Flowers." He is telling you in tones as soft as thesigh of the wind in the great oaks, how
"The cold, chilly winds of December, Stole my flowers, my companions from me!"
Alas! the cold, chilly winds of the coming winter will blow over thegrave of the prince of musicians! Sweeney, the pride and charm of thecavalry head-quarters, is going to pass away, and leave his comrades andhis banjo forever!
You would say that the future throws its shadow on the present.Sweeney's tones are so sweet and sorrowful, that many eyes growmoist--like Rubini, he "has tears in his voice." The melting strainsascend and sigh through the old hall. When they die away like a windin the distance, the company remain silent, plunged in sad and dreamyrevery.
Suddenly Stuart starts up and exclaims:--
"Stop that, Sweeney! you will make everybody die of the blues. Sing the'Old Gray Horse' again, or 'Jine the Cavalry!'"
Sweeney smiles and obeys. Then, the gay song ended, he commences a reel.The banjo laughs; his flying fingers race over the strings; youths andmaidens whirl from end to end of the great room--on the walls the "oldpeople" in ruffles and short-waisted dresses, look down smiling on theirlittle descendants!
O gay summer nights on the banks of the Opequon! you have flown, butlinger still in memory!
In the autumn of 1867, I revisited the old hall where those summer daysof 1863 had passed in mirth and enjoyment; and then I wandered away tothe grassy knoll where "Stuart's oak" still stands. The sight of thegreat tree brought back a whole world of memories. Seated on one of itshuge roots, beneath the dome of foliage just touched by the finger ofautumn, I seemed to see all the past rise up again and move before me,with its gallant figures, its bright scenes, and brighter eyes. Alas!those days were dust, and Stuart sang and laughed no more. The grasswas green again, and the birds were singing; but no martial forms movedthere, no battle-flag rippled, no voice was heard. Stuart was dead;--hissword rusting under the dry leaves of Hollywood, and his battle-flag wasfurled forever.
That hour under the old oak, in the autumn of 1867, was one of thesaddest that I have ever spent.
The hall was there as before; the clouds floated, the stream murmured,the wind sighed in the great tree, as when Stuart's tent shone under it.But the splendor had vanished, the laughter was hushed--it was a companyof ghosts that gathered around me, and their faint voices sounded fromanother world!
II.
BACK TO THE RAPIDAN.
But this is a book of incident, worthy reader. We have little time formusing recollections. The halts are brief; the bugle is sounding tohorse; events drag us, and we are again in the saddle.
Those gay hours on the Opequon were too agreeable to last. The old hallwas a sort of oasis in the desert of war only. We paused for an instant;rested under the green trees; heard the murmur of the waters--thenthe caravan moved, breasting the arid wastes once more, and the comingsimoom.
Stuart's head-quarters disappeared--we bade our kind friendsgood-bye--and, mounting, set out for the Lowland, whither Lee's columnwas then marching.
The short lull had been succeeded by new activity. Meade was advancingalong the east slope of the Blue Ridge to cut Lee off from Richmond.But the adventure succeeded no better now than in 1862. Meade failed, asMcClellan had failed before him.
Such had been the result of the great campaign, in its merely militaryaspect.
Lee had invaded the North, delivered battle on the territory of theenemy, suffered a repulse, retired, and was again occupying nearly thesame ground which he had occupied before the advance. Moving backwardand forward on the great chessboard of war, the two adversaries seemedto have gained or lost nothing. The one was not flushed with victory;the other was not prostrated by defeat. Each went into camp, ceasedactive operations, and prepared for the new conflict which was to takeplace before the end of the year.
I shall record some incidents of that rapid and shifting campaign,beginning and ending in the month of October; then I pass on to the moreimportant and exciting pages of my memoirs: the mighty struggle betweenLee and Grant.
To return for a moment to the cavalry. It held the front along theRapidan and Robertson rivers, from Madison Court-House on the left, toChancellorsville on the right. Stuart kept his lynx-eye on all the fordsof the two rivers, having his head-quarters in the forks of the streamsnot far from their junction.
I should like to speak of the charming hours spent at the hospitablemansion near which head-quarters had been established. The sun shonebright, at the house on the grassy hill, but not so bright as the eyeswhich gave us friendly welcome. Years have passed since that time--allthings have changed--but neither time or the new scenes will banish fromsome hearts the memory of that beautiful face, and the music of thatvoice! We salute to-day as we saluted in the past--health and happinessattend the fair face and the kindly heart!
I saw much of Mohun in those days, and became in course of time almosthis intimate friend. He exhibited still a marked reserve on the subjectof his past life: but I thought I could see that the ice was melting.Day by day he grew gayer--gradually his cynicism seemed leaving him.Who was this singular man, and what was his past history? I oftenasked myself these questions--he persisted in giving me no clue to thesecret--but I felt a presentiment that some day I should "pluck out theheart of his mystery."
So much, in passing, for my relations with Mohun. We had begun to befriends, and the chance of war was going to throw us together often. Ihad caught one or two glimpses of a past full of "strange matters"--inthe hours that were coming I was to have every mystery revealed.
Meanwhile Lee was resting, but preparing for another blow. His army wasin the highest spirits. The camps buzzed, and laughed, and were fullof mirth. Gettysburg was forgotten, or if remembered, it only served toinflame the troops, and inspire them with a passionate desire to "tryagain." In the blaze of a new victory, the old defeat would disappear.
Such was the condition of things in the army of Northern Virginia in thefirst days of October, 1863.
III.
THE OPENING OF THE HUNT.
It soon became obvious that Lee had resolved to strike a blow at hisadversary.
How to do so with advantage seemed a hard problem. Between the opponentslay the Rapidan, which would be an ugly obstacle in the path of an armyretreating after defeat--and the same considerations which deterredGeneral Meade from attacking Lee, operated to prevent a like movement onthe part of his adversary.
Thus an advance of the Southern army on the enemy's front was far toohazardous to be thought of--and the only course left was to assail theirflank. This could either be done by crossing lower down, and cutting theenemy off from the Rappahannock, or crossing higher up, and cutting himoff from Manassas. Lee determined on the latter--and in a bright morningearly in October the great movement began.
Leaving Fitz Lee's cavalry and a small force of infantry in the workson the Rapidan fronting the enemy, General Lee put his columns in motionfor the upper fords.
The men hailed the movement with cheers of delight. As they wound along,with glittering bayonets, through the hills and across the river, youcould easily see that the old army of Northern Virginia was still infull feather--that Gettysburg had not shaken it--and that Lee couldcount on it for new campaigns and harder combats than any in the past.
The head of the column was directed toward Madison Court-House, whichwould enable Lee either to advance directly upon the enemy's flankby the Sperryville road, or continue his flank movement, pass theRappahannock, and cut off his opponent from Washington.
The advance was an inspiring spectacle. The weather was magnificent,and the crimson foliage of the wood rivalled the tints of the redbattle-flags, fluttering above the long glittering hedge of bayonets.
Stuart's cavalry had moved out on the right flank to protect the columnfrom the observation of the enemy. The campaign of October, 1863, hadopened.
It was to be one of the briefest, but most adventurous movements of thewar. Deciding little, it was yet rich in incident and dramatic scenes.A brilliant comedy, as it were--just tinged with tragedy--was thatrapid and shifting _raid_ of Lee's whole army, on Meade. Blood, jests,laughter, mourning--these were strangely mingled, in the cavalrymovements at least: and to these I proceed.
From the heights, whence you see only the "great events," the movementsof armies, and the decisive battles, let us now descend into thelowland, good reader. I will lay before you some incidents, not to befound in the "official reports;" and I promise to carry you on rapidly!
IV.
THE GAME A-FOOT.
It was a magnificent morning of October,
Stuart leaped to saddle, and, preceded by his red flag rippling gaylyin the wind, set out from his head-quarters in the direction of themountains.
He was entering on his last great cavalry campaign--and it was to be oneof his most successful and splendid.
The great soldier, as he advanced that morning, was the beau ideal of acavalier. His black plume floated proudly; his sabre rattled; his eyesdanced with joy; his huge mustache curled with laughter; his voice wasgay, sonorous, full of enjoyment of life, health, the grand autumn, andthe adventurous and splendid scenes which his imagination painted. Onhis brow he seemed already to feel the breath of victory.
It was rather an immense war-machine, than a man which I looked aton that morning of October, 1863. Grand physical health, a perfectlyfearless soul, the keenest thirst for action, a stubborn dash whichnothing could break down--all this could be seen in the face and form ofStuart, as he advanced to take command of his column that day.
On the next morning at daylight he had struck the enemy.
Their outposts of cavalry, supported by infantry, were at ThoroughfareMountain, a small range above the little village of James City. HereStuart came suddenly upon them, and drove in their pickets:--a momentafterward he was galloping forward with the gayety of a huntsman after afox.
A courier came to meet him from the advance guard, riding at fullgallop.
"Well!" said Stuart.
"A regiment of infantry, general."
"Where?"
"Yonder in the gap."
And he pointed to a gorge in the little mountain before us.
Stuart wheeled and beckoned to Gordon, the brave North Carolinian,who had made the stubborn charge at Barbee's, in 1862, when Pelham wasattacked, front and rear, by the Federal cavalry.
"We have flushed a regiment of infantry, Gordon. Can you break them?"
"I think I can, general."
The handsome face of the soldier glowed--his bright eyes flashed.
"All right. Get ready, then, to attack in front. I will take Young, andstrike them at the same moment on the right flank!"
With which words Stuart went at a gallop and joined Young.
That gay and gallant Georgian was at the head of his column; in hissparkling eyes, and the smile which showed the white teeth under theblack mustache, I saw the same expression of reckless courage which Ihad noticed on the day of Fleetwo
od, when the young Georgian broke thecolumn on the hill.
Stuart explained his design in three words:--
"Are you ready?"
"All ready, general!"
And Young's sabre flashed from the scabbard.
At the same instant the crash of carbines in front, indicated Gordon'scharge.
Young darted to the head of his column.
"Charge!" he shouted.
And leading the column, he descended like a thunderbolt on the enemy'sflank.
As he did so, Gordon's men rushed with wild cheers into the gorge.Shouts, carbine-shots, musket-shots, yells resounded. In five minutesthe Federal infantry, some three hundred in number, were scattered inheadlong flight, leaving the ground strewed with new muskets, whosebarrels shone like burnished silver.
"Good!" Stuart exclaimed, as long lines of prisoners appeared, going tothe rear, "a fair beginning, at least!"
And he rode on rapidly.
V.
THE CHASE.
The cavalry pressed forward without halting and reached the hills aboveJames City--a magniloquent name, but the "city" was a small affair--amere village nestling down amid an amphitheatre of hills.
On the opposite range we saw the enemy's cavalry drawn up; and, as weafterward learned, commanded by General Kilpatrick.
Mohun; Or, the Last Days of Lee and His Paladins. Page 10