In an instant I was at Mohun's side.
"You are going to charge!" I said.
"And die, Surry! A gentleman gives his word but once!"
And, following Mordaunt with long leaps, Mohun and his horsemen burstupon the enemy.
Then was presented a spectacle which made the two armies hold theirbreath.
The column of cavalry under Mordaunt and Mohun, had struck the Federalline of battle.
For an instant, you could see little, hear little, in the smoke anduproar. A furious volley unhorsed at least half of the charging column,and the rest were seen striking with their sabres at the blue infantry,who stabbed with their bayonets at the rearing horses.
Then a thundering shout rose. The smoke was swept away by the wind, andmade all clear.
Mordaunt had cut his way through, and was seen to disappear with a dozenfollowers.
Mohun, shot through the breast, and streaming with blood, had fallenfrom the saddle, his foot had caught in the stirrup, and he was draggedby his frightened animal toward the Confederate lines.
The horse came on at a headlong gallop, but suddenly a cavalier came upwith him, seized the bridle, and threw him violently on his haunches.
The new-comer was Nighthawk.
Leaping to the ground, he seized the body of Mohun in his arms,extricated his foot from the stirrup, and remounted his own horse, withthe form of his master still clasped to his breast.
Then, plunging the spurs into his animal, he turned to fly. But his lasthour had come.
A bullet, fired at fifty paces, penetrated his back, and the bloodspouted. He fell from the flying animal to the earth, but his arms stillclasped the body of Mohun, whose head lay upon his breast.
A loud cheer rose, and the blue line rushed straight upon him.Nighthawk's head rose, and he gazed at them with flashing eyes--then helooked at Mohun and groaned.
Summoning his last remains of strength, he drew from his breast a penciland a piece of paper, wrote some words upon the paper, and affixed it toMohun's breast.
This seemed to exhaust him. He had scarcely finished, when his headsank, his shoulders drooped, and falling forward on the breast of Mohun,he expired.
An hour afterward, all was still. On the summit of the Court-House hilla blue column was stationary, waving a large white flag.
General Lee had surrendered.
XXIX.
THE SURRENDER.
Lee had surrendered the army of Northern Virginia.
Ask old soldiers of that army to describe their feelings at theannouncement, reader. They will tell you that they can not; and I willnot attempt to record my own.
It was, truly, the bitterness of death that we tasted at ten o'clockon the morning of that ninth of April, 1865, at Appomattox Court-House.Gray-haired soldiers cried like children. It was hard to say whetherthey would have preferred, at that moment, to return to their familiesor to throw themselves upon the bayonets of the enemy, and die.
In that hour of their agony they were not insulted, however. Thedeportment of the enemy was chivalric and courteous. No bands played; nocheers were heard; and General Grant was the first to salute profoundlyhis gray-haired adversary, who came, with a single officer, to arrange,in a house near the field, the terms of surrender.
They are known. On the tenth they were carried out.
The men stacked the old muskets, which they had carried in a hundredfights, surrendered the bullet-torn colors, which had waved overvictorious fields, and silently returned, like mourners, to theirdesolate homes.
Two days after the surrender, Mohun was still alive.
Three months afterward, the welcome intelligence reached me that he wasrapidly recovering.
He had made a narrow escape. Ten minutes after the death of the faithfulNighthawk, the Federal line had swept over him; and such was the agonyof his wound, that he exclaimed to one of the enemy:--
"Take your pistol, and shoot me!"
The man cocked his weapon, and aimed at his heart. Then he turned themuzzle aside, and uncocking the pistol, replaced it in its holster.
"No," he said, "Johnny Reb, you might get well!"
[Footnote: These details are all real.]
And glancing at the paper on Mohun's breast, he passed on, muttering--
"It's a general!"
The paper saved Mohun's life. An acquaintance in the Federal army sawit, and speedily had him cared for. An hour afterward his friends wereinformed of his whereabouts. I hastened to the house to which hehad been borne. Bending over him, the beautiful Georgia was sobbinghopelessly, and dropping tears upon the paper, which contained thewords--
_"This is the body of General Mohun, C.S.A."_
The army had surrendered; the flag was lowered: with a singular feelingof bewilderment, and a "lost" feeling that is indescribable, I set out,followed by my servant, for Eagle's Nest.
I was the possessor of a paper, which I still keep as a strangememorial.
"The bearer," ran this paper, "a paroled prisoner of the army ofNorthern Virginia, has permission to go to his home, and there remainundisturbed--with two horses!"
At the top of this document, was, "Appomattox Court-House, Va., April,10, 1865." On the left-hand side was, "Paroled Prisoner's Pass."
So, with his pass, the paroled prisoner passed slowly across Virginia tohis home.
Oh! that Virginia of 1865--that desolate, dreary land! Oh! thosepoor, sad soldiers returning to their homes! Everywhere burned houses,unfenced fields, ruined homesteads! On all sides, the desolation of thetorch and the sword! The "poor paroled prisoners," going home wearily inthat dark April, felt a pang which only a very bitter foe will laugh at.
But all was not taken. Honor was left us--and the angels of home! As thesorrowful survivors of the great army came back, as they reached theirold homes, dragging their weary feet after them, or urging on theirjaded horses, suddenly the sunshine burst forth for them, and lit uptheir rags with a sort of glory. The wife, the mother, and the littlechild rushed to them. Hearts beat fast, as the gray uniforms wereclasped in a long embrace. Those angels of home loved the poor prisonersbetter in their dark days than in their bright. The fond eyes meltedto tears, the white arms held them close; and the old soldiers, who hadonly laughed at the roar of the enemy's guns, dropped tears on the facesof their wives and little children!
EPILOGUE.
In the autumn of last year, 1867, I set out on horseback from "Eagle'sNest," and following the route west by Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville,Germanna Ford, Culpeper, and Orleans, reached "The Oaks" in Fauquier.
I needed the sunshine and bright faces of the old homestead, afterthat journey; for at every step had sprung up some gloomy or excitingrecollection.
It was a veritable journey through the world of memory.
Fredericksburg! Chancellorsville! the Wilderness! the plains ofCulpeper!--as I rode on amid these historic scenes, a thousand memoriescame to knock at the door of my heart. Some were gay, if many weresorrowful--laughter mingled with the sighs. But to return to the pastis nearly always sad. As I rode through the waste land now, it was withdrooping head. All the old days came back again, the cannon sent theirlong dull thunder through the forests; again the gray and blue linesclosed in, and hurled together; again Jackson in his old dingy coat,Stuart with his floating plume, Pelham, Farley, all whom I had known,loved, and still mourned, rose before me--a line of august phantomsfading away into the night of the past.
Once more I looked upon Pelham, holding in his arms the bleeding form ofJean--passing "Camp-no-camp," only a desolate and dreary field now, allthe laughing faces and brave forms of Stuart and his men returned--inthe Wilderness I saw Jackson fight and fall; saw him borne through themoonlight; heard his sighs and his last greeting with Stuart. A stepfarther, I passed the lonely old house in the Wilderness, and all thestrange and sombre scenes there surged up from the shadows of the past.Mordaunt, Achmed, Fenwick, Violet Grafton!--all reappeared, playing overagain their fierce tragedy; and to this was added the fiercer
drama ofMay, 1864, when General Grant invented the "Unseen Death."
Thus the journey which I made through the bare and deserted fields, orthe mournful thickets, was not gay; and these were only a part of thepanorama which passed before me. Looking toward the south, I saw asclearly with the eyes of the memory, the banks of the Po, the swamps ofthe Chickahominy, the trenches at Petersburg, the woods of Dinwiddie,Five Forks, Highbridge--Appomattox Court-House! Nearer was YellowTavern, where Stuart had fallen. Not a foot of this soil of Old Virginiabut seemed to have been the scene of some fierce battle, some sombretragedy!
"Well, well," I sighed, as I rode on toward the Oaks, "all that isburied in the past, and it is useless to think of it. I am only a poorparoled prisoner, wearing arms no more--let me forget the red cross flagwhich used to float so proudly here, and bow my head to the will of theSupreme Ruler of all worlds."
So I went on, and in due time reached the Oaks, in Fauquier.
You recall the good old homestead, do you not, my dear reader? I shouldbe sorry to have you forget the spot where I have been so happy. It wasto this honest old mansion that I was conducted in April, 1861, whenstruck from my horse by a falling limb in the storm-lashed wood, Isaw come to my succor the dearest person in the world. She awaited menow--having a month before left Eagle's Nest, to pay a visit to herfamily--and again, as in the spring of '63, she came to meet me as Iascended the hill--only we met now as bridegroom and bride!
This May of my life had brought back the sunshine, even after that blackday of 1865. Two white arms had met the poor paroled prisoner, on hisreturn to Eagle's Nest--a pair of violet eyes had filled with happytears--and the red lips, smiling with exquisite emotion, murmured "Allis well, since you have come back to me!"
It was this beautiful head which the sunshine of that autumn of 1867revealed to me, on the lawn of the good old chateau of the mountains!And behind, came all my good friends of the Oaks--the kind lady of themanor, the old colonel, and Charley and Annie, who were there too! Withhis long gray hair, and eyes that still flashed, Colonel Beverly cameto meet me--brave and smiling in 1867 as he had been in 1861. Then, withAnnie's arm around me--that little sister had grown astonishingly!--Iwent in and was at home.
At home! You must be a soldier to know what that simple word means,reader! You must sleep under a tree, carry your effects behind yoursaddle, lie down in bivouac in strange countries, and feel the longingof the heart for the dear faces, the old scenes.
"Tell my mother that I die in a foreign land!" murmured my poor dearTazewell Patton, at Gettysburg. I have often thought of those words; andthey express much I think. Oh! for home! for a glimpse, if no more, ofthe fond faces, as life goes! You may be the bravest of the brave, asmy dear Tazewell was; but 'tis home where the heart is, and you sigh forthe dear old land!
The Oaks was like home to me, for the somebody with violet eyes, andchestnut hair, was here to greet me.
The sun is setting, and we wander in the fields touched by the dreamyautumn.
"Look," says the somebody who holds my hand, and smiles, "there is therock where we stopped in the autumn of 1862, and where you behaved withso little propriety, you remember, sir!"
"I remember the rock but not the absence of propriety. What were a man'sarms made for but to clasp the woman he loves!"
"Stop, sir! People would think we were two foolish young lovers."
"Young lovers are not foolish, madam. They are extremely intelligent."
Madam laughs.
"Yonder is the primrose from which I plucked the bud," she says.
"That sent me through Stuart's head-quarters in April, 1863?" I say.
"Yes; you have not forgotten it I hope."
"Almost; Stay! I think it meant 'Come,'--did it not?--And you sent it tome!"
Madam pouts beautifully.
"You have 'almost forgotten' it! Have you, indeed, sir?"
"These trifles will escape us."
May loses all her smiles, and her head sinks.
I begin to laugh, taking an old porte-monnaie from my pocket. Thereis very little money in it, but a number of worn papers, my parole andothers. I take one and open it. It contains a faded primrose.
"Look!" I say, with a smile, "it said 'Come,' once, and it brings meback again to the dearest girl in the world!"
A tear falls from the violet eyes upon the faded flower, but through thetears burst a smile!
They are curious, these earthly angels--are they not, my dear reader?They are romantic and sentimental to the last, and this old soldieradmires them!
So, conversing of a thousand things, we return to the Oaks wanderinglike boy and girl through the "happy autumn fields." May Surry flitsthrough the old doorway and disappears.
As she goes the sun sinks behind the forest. But it will rise, as shewill, to-morrow!
The smiling Colonel Beverly meets me on the threshold, with a note inhis hand.
"A servant has just brought this," he says, "it is from your friend,Mordaunt."
I opened the note and read the following words:--
"_My dear Surry_:--
"I send this note to await your appearance at the Oaks. Come and see me.Some old friends will give you a cordial greeting, in addition to
"Your comrade,
"Mordaunt."
I had intended visiting Mordaunt in a day or two after my arrival. Onthe very next morning I mounted my horse, and set out for the house inthe mountain, anxious to ascertain who the "old friends" were, to whomhe alluded.
In an hour I had come within sight of Mordaunt's mansion. Passingthrough the great gate, I rode on between the two rows of magnificenttrees; approached the low mansion with its extensive wings, overshadowedby the huge black oaks; dismounted; raised the heavy bronze knocker,carved like the frowning mask of the old tragedians; and letting it fallsent a peal of low thunder through the mansion.
Mordaunt appeared in a few moments; and behind him came dear VioletGrafton, as I will still call her, smiling. Mordaunt's face glowedwith pleasure, and the grasp of his strong hand was like a vice. Hewas unchanged, except that he wore a suit of plain gray cloth. Hisstatuesque head, with the long black beard and mustache, the sparklingeyes, and cheeks tanned by exposure to the sun and wind, rose as proudlyas on that morning in 1865, when he had charged and cut through theenemy at Appomattox.
Violet was Violet still! The beautiful tranquil face still smiled withits calm sweetness; the lips had still that expression of infantileinnocence. The blue eyes still looked forth from the shower of goldenringlets which had struck me when I first met her in the lonely house inthe Wilderness, in the gay month of April, 1861.
I had shaken hands with Mordaunt, but I advanced and "saluted" madam,and the cheek was suddenly filled with exquisite roses.
"For old times' sake, madam!"
"Which are the best of all possible times, Surry!" said Mordaunt,laughing.
And he led the way into the great apartment, hung round with portraits,where we had supped on the night of Pelham's hard fight at Barbee's,after Sharpsburg.
"You remember this room, do you not, my dear Surry?" said Mordaunt. "Itescaped during the war; though you see that my poor little grandmother,the child of sixteen there, with the curls and laces, received asabre thrust in the neck. But you are looking round for the friends Ipromised. They were here a moment since, and only retired to give you asurprise.
"See! here they are!"
The door opened, and I saw enter--Mohun and Landon!
In an instant I had grasped the hands of these dear friends; andthey had explained their presence. Mohun had come to make a visit toMordaunt, and had prolonged his stay in order to meet me. Then Mordaunthad written to Landon, at "Bizarre," just over the mountain, to comeand complete the party--he had promptly arrived--and I found myself inpresence of three old comrades, any one of whom it would have been arare pleasure to have met.
Mohun and Landon were as unchanged as Mordaunt. I saw the same proud andloyal faces, listened to the same frank brave voices,
touched the samefirm hands. They no longer wore uniforms--that was the whole difference.Under the black coats beat the same hearts which had throbbed beneaththe gray.
I spent the whole day with Mordaunt, After dinner he led the way intothe room on the right of the entrance--that singular apartment intowhich I had been shown by accident on my first visit to him, and whereafterward I witnessed the test of poor Achmed's love. The apartmentwas unchanged. The floor was still covered with the rich furs oflions, tigers, and leopards--the agate eyes still glared at me, andthe grinning teeth seemed to utter growls or snarls. On the walls I sawstill the large collection of books in every language--the hunting andbattle pictures which I had before so greatly admired--the strange arrayof outlandish arms--and over the mantel-piece still hung the portrait ofViolet Grafton.
Seated in front of a cheerful blaze, we smoked and talked--Mordaunt,Mohun, Landon, and myself--until the shades of evening drew on.
Landon told me of his life at "Bizarre," near the little village ofMillwood, through which we had marched that night to bury his dead atthe old chapel, and where he had surrendered in April, 1865. Arden andAnnie lived near him, and were happy: and if I would come to "Bizarre,"he would show me the young lady whom I had carried off, that night, fromthe chapel graveyard, on the croup of my saddle!
Landon laughed. His face was charming; it was easy to see that he washappy. To understand how that expression contrasted with his formerappearance, the worthy reader must peruse my episodical memoir, _Hilt toHilt_.
Mohun; Or, the Last Days of Lee and His Paladins. Page 52