When early next morning the carriage with Burr and Cinda stopped at the door she hugged her father hard; she kissed him, bade him not worry, and went swiftly down the steps to join them. Burr’s pass and the deference that she and Cinda commanded easily overcame any obstacles General Winder’s men might have put in their way. The all-day journey to Gordonsville seemed to her interminable; for Longstreet’s brigades were hurrying to join Jackson there, so the cars were crammed with troops and the roads she saw from the windows were full of regiments on the march, and of crawling wagons and great guns.
“Burr,” she said once, “I didn’t know an army was all spraddled out like this. I thought an army was soldiers in nice straight lines like the drills at the Fair Grounds.”
Burr laughed. “No, this is what an army looks like, Anne; men and wagons and guns and ambulances scattered for miles. The army that wins battles is the one that gets them un-scattered, gets them all together at the right time.”
They talked together in the easy forgetfulness of youth, till Anne saw Cinda’s still eyes and remembered their errand, and fell silent. But Cinda, as though she guessed Anne’s thought, became thereafter so valiantly merry that when at last they reached Gordonsville and left the train, Anne squeezed her arm and whispered that she was wonderful.
Burr had left his horse at High Fields, the Forgy home, halfway between Gordonsville and Louisa Court House; and there they were made as welcome as old friends. Mrs. Forgy said General Lee’s headquarters were at Orange Court House. Pope’s army was concentrated between the Rapidan and the Rappahannock, thirty miles or so northeastward. Stuart had ridden off along the plank road toward Chancellorsville a week ago; but she did not know where he was now.
Burr decided to leave Anne and Cinda here while he went on to find Fitz Lee’s brigade. The wait for his return seemed a long one, though on Sunday Major Forgy rode down from Orange Court House with half a dozen brother officers for dinner, and Anne was radiant under their gentle gallantries. Not till late Sunday evening did Burr return, and Faunt came with him. Burr had found General Fitz Lee close by, at Louisa Court House; but he was to move tomorrow through Verdiersville toward Raccoon Ford.
“And if we join him there tomorrow night, he’s sure he can arrange something,” he promised.
Mrs. Forgy would have put her carriage at their service, but at Burr’s suggestion they had brought their habits and were prepared to ride; and Faunt and Burr thought this the wiser plan.
“The carriage will make you keep to the roads,” Faunt explained. “Mounted, you can go where you choose.” Cinda reminded him that they each had a trunk, and he said the trunks might follow in a farm cart. “But the less you take with you the better,” he warned them. “You’ll be able to buy anything you need, even in Alexandria. Better leave here whatever you can manage without.”
“Not even Anne’s little trunk?” Cinda urged. Burr said the trunk could be packed on a mule, and eventually, with some contriving, they managed to cram indispensables into it and into saddlebags. Their hoops would be secured behind their saddles.
That night they made their preparations, and at first sun next morning they set out. Anne, when Faunt joined them, had felt faintly guilty, because it was to make sure she should not see Uncle Faunt for a while that her father had consented to her coming. To appease her own conscience she assumed toward him a mature and aloof dignity; but she was a little hurt to find that on the road he seemed to avoid her, riding most often with Cinda while Burr kept her company.
They went through Louisa, and Anne thought it was a charming little town, the old court house with its small flanking buildings, the comfortable brick houses. Beyond, their road followed gently rolling high ground where they had to pass Fitz Lee’s plodding wagon trains; and from an occasional rise they could see through summer haze the bold mass of the Blue Ridge that seemed very far away. “But on a clear day you’d think it wasn’t five miles off,” Burr assured her. The way swung more northerly, through a region of small farms and tumble-down houses; and to Anne’s question Burr explained that the more extensive and substantial places lay to the west, near Boswell Tavern and Gordonsville and Orange. The road began to cross a succession of ridges and deep valleys in which ran bold bright streams, and once she saw what Burr said was an iron furnace a little above the ford they passed. The creeks were headwaters of the North Anna river; one of them, a fair twenty feet wide, was the river itself. The deep valleys were cool and pleasant, and from each ridge they saw the distant mountains marching with them miles away.
When the wagon trains were behind them they had a free road, since Fitz Lee’s main body was well ahead; and they took an easy gait staying far enough behind the cavalry that the dust the column raised had time to settle. On one height where there was a church on their right, a large house a little off the road on the left promised hospitality; and they were cordially received and rested and went on. A high cone-shaped hill, still well ahead and a little to the left of their course, seemed to spy upon their approach. “It keeps peeking at us over the tree tops,” Anne said laughingly. “Like some old maid peeping out of her window around the blind.”
Burr smiled. “That’s Clark’s Mountain,” he said. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if someone were watching us. General Jackson probably has a signal station there.” The lofty hill had at first seemed far away; but it came nearer, and as they approached its shape seemed to change. No longer a cone, it became a ridge, highest in the center, tapering off to lower ground at either end.
At the crossing of the plank road, a cavalry patrol to which Burr spoke said Stuart had been close to capture that morning near Verdiers ville, when a force of Union cavalry surprised him and a few members of his staff at dawn before their horses were bridled.
“General Stuart had to jump his horse over the fence,” Burr reported, when he came back to them. “He lost his hat and cloak. That fine hat of his is his pride.”
“Don’t we all know it!” Cinda agreed, her tone sharp. “Whenever he comes to church, he makes a point of arriving ten minutes late and marching down the aisle to a front seat and swinging that plumed hat against his knees! I’m glad he’s lost it!”
Burr smiled. “He’s getting a lot of quizzing about it today. He’ll be at Raccoon Ford by the time we get there.”
Well before sunset, they arrived at General Stuart’s headquarters; and he lodged them that night in the farm house on whose veranda he himself would sleep. Anne, though she had seen him riding at the head of his men like a figure out of dreams, had never met him face to face. His great red-brown beard and his huge mustache made him seem enormously full of dignity; but she saw the twinkle in his eyes when he bowed over her hand, the teasing smile with which he said they were his prisoners.
“Pass you through the lines?” he protested, when he heard their desire. “Hardly! If you’re the loyal hearts you pretend to be, we’ll never willingly lose you; and if you’re disloyal, you’d tell all our secrets to General Pope!”
Anne looked uncertainly at Cinda; but Cinda gave him a dry answer. “You’ll find you’ve caught a tartar, General! You’ll presently be ready to take any risk to be rid of us.”
“Threats?” He frowned elaborately. “I assure you, I’m never afraid —of ladies.”
“But when you see the Yankees,” she reminded him, “you run so fast you lose your hat.”
For an instant in his flashing eye Anne caught a glimpse of the warrior; but then he smiled again. “That debt, Madame,” he assured her, “I shall collect one day from General Pope.”
Supper was a laughing time, with Anne and Cinda the belles of the occasion and a dozen young officers paying them many compliments. General Stuart turned to a desk and began to write one letter after another, but half his attention was still with them; for presently, without turning, he shouted: “Bob!” On that signal three Negroes appeared: a sleek mulatto with a guitar, and two others inky black. Bob, the mulatto, strummed and sang Listen to the Mocking Bird, and
one of the others began to whistle an accompaniment, embroidering the air with so many lively flourishes that Anne thought even a mocking bird would have been abashed by the superior excellence of this performance. The whistling Negro seemed to fill the room with bird notes, and Stuart even while he wrote joined in the singing; and at last he called: “Bob, let’s have a breakdown!” The mulatto abandoned his guitar for rattling bones, the whistler set the tune, and the third Negro, while Stuart and the other gentlemen kept time with clapping hands, danced heel and toe, faster and faster, his steps an infinite variety, his eyes rolling, sweat beginning to glisten upon his black face, till Anne thought he must collapse in helpless exhaustion. He finished his dance with a bound that took him through the door, and the others vanished with him.
There were other songs thereafter, led by a man named Sweeney with a banjo; and they all sang together, Stuart and his men, Anne and Cinda. They sang The Dew is on the Blossom and Evelyn and Stuart’s ear caught Anne’s sweet tones and he invited her to sing for them. Lorena, he suggested. She protested that Lorena was a man’s song, for a man to sing; and he said they would all sing it with her. So she began, but as she sang he signalled the others one by one to silence, so that at last she sang alone.
It matters little now, Lorena,
The past is the eternal past,
Our heads will soon lie low, Lorena,
Life’s tide is ebbing out so fast;
But there’s a future. Oh! Thank God!
Of life this is so small a part
’Tis dust to dust beneath the sod,
But there, up there, ’tis heart to heart.
When she finished there was a moment’s silence, and no one smiled till Cinda said briskly: “Well, I should think in plain politeness someone should ask me to sing.” So they laughed, and General Stuart said she must and she asked:
“Do you know The Four Marys, General?” He did not; and she said: “It’s an old Scotch song my mother used to sing when we were babies.” Anne met Faunt’s eyes across the room. Burr was not in the company tonight, was with his own men; but Faunt was attached to Stuart’s headquarters as an aide and scout. “She still sings it, sometimes,” Cinda told them; and she began, so softly as to impose a silent listening upon them all, and Stuart came near her to hear every word while Sweeney with the lightest touch woke faint chords from his banjo.
Yest’re’en there were four Marys,
This nicht there’ll be but three.
There was Mary Seaton, and Mary Beaton,
And Mary Carmichael and me.
The song ran its wistful course; and when it was done, in the moment’s hush, Cinda bade them all good night. In their room Anne said happily: “Oh wasn’t that fun, Aunt Cinda! And I loved it when you sang.” She laughed. “I declare, if war’s like this I think I like it.” And then in quick regret. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Please.”
Cinda touched her hand. “There, darling. It was fun, even for me; but I hope we can go on tomorrow.”
Stuart left them next day, moving his headquarters nearer the Ford; but they waited where they were. “We’ll follow along when the way is clear for us,” Faunt promised, and early Wednesday morning they set out. Faunt was detailed by Stuart, and Burr by Fitz Lee, to see them safely on their way; and since the horses lent them by Mrs. Forgy had been sent back, they were offered an ambulance for transportation. But they both preferred to ride, if mounts could be provided; so new horses were found.
Stuart, Burr said, had crossed the Ford and would push on toward Stevensburg and Brandy Station. They might find roads less crowded if they flanked his march. So after they crossed the Rapidan, their horses splashing through the wide shallows, they turned aside; but they encountered columns of infantry on the move and Burr and Faunt agreed they should rejoin Stuart.
“It’s hard to overtake and pass infantry,” Burr explained. “Even on horseback! Of course if you meet them they’ll make room; but when you’re overtaking them, they don’t hear you coming, and you have to keep shouting to them to clear the road, and they pretend not to hear and make it as hard for you as they can. They don’t like the cavalry anyway.”
So they took lanes and byroads, with the mass of Pony Mountain on their right; and they crossed an easy, well-farmed plain. The mountains to the west were in clear fine view today, and nearer, lesser hills bounded the gently rolling valley. They heard presently the distant spatter of pistol shots and the heavier sound of guns as Stuart somewhere north of them herded the Yankee cavalry back across the Rappahannock; and when they came opposite the bold northern end of Pony Mountain, Faunt and Burr agreed they might turn east to Stevensburg. Stuart’s patrols would be between them and the Rappahannock, and Jackson’s men at Culpeper were filling all the roads that way.
They lodged at Stevensburg that night and next morning rode on toward Brandy Station, and Burr made Anne look back to see Clark’s Mountain still watching them around the northern shoulder of Pony Mountain. Leaving Brandy, they followed a slowly ascending byway over rolling hillocks, and kept to the road behind Yew Hills and heard the muffled sounds of the fight at Beverly’s Ford beyond those wooded heights; and Anne felt herself part of mysterious events, tremendous and dramatic. Burr and Faunt were forever looking that way, listening always to the sound of distant skirmishing; and once Cinda spoke to Burr, said gently:
“I’m sorry we’re keeping you out of all that, Burr. Sorry for your sake. I know you wish you were in it.”
“It’s all right, Mama.”
Anne asked: “What’s happening, Burr? Can you tell?”
“We’re feeling for their flank, trying to get around it,” he explained. “If we can do that, we might hit the railroad behind them, cut their line of supplies.” He added: “They captured some of General Stuart’s dispatches at Verdiersville, so Pope knows we hoped to trap him between the Rapidan and the Rappahannock. So he’s retreating along the railroad, and we’re trying to slow him down so he’ll have to fight.”
During these long daylight hours in the saddle Anne watched Faunt, wondering and wondering. Her father was right. There was surely a change in him. Yet she thought it a good change. He seemed younger, stronger, more alive. He had used to shave his cheeks, but he was letting all his beard grow now; yet that did not account for the difference. Once or twice when the chance of the road left him beside her, almost timidly she asked him questions. “Uncle Faunt, why are so many of these country roads like ditches or creek beds, sunk below the level of the fields? Sometimes I can hardly see out.”
“I’ve never thought,” he said. “I suppose it’s because every rain really turns the roads into ditches, especially if they’re on a slope; and the water washes the dirt away, and nobody troubles to haul it back again.”
She nodded, seeing the logic of the suggestion. “It really is only on the hills that they’re sunk down,” she agreed. “And they’re sort of built up, at the bottom of the hills, where the road levels off.”
He did not comment, but she led him into talk, trying to understand why her father doubted him. “Are you always with General Stuart, Uncle Faunt?”
“Why, often, yes,” he said. “I usually report to him.”
“What do you report?”
“Some of us serve as scouts, Anne.”
“What is that?” she persisted. “What do you do?”
“Oh, we work by ones and twos, slipping through the lines, dodging the Yankee pickets, hiding near their camps, trying to find out what they’re up to.” Under her prompting, he told her more and more of his duty. “Why, we work as we can. We usually keep hidden in the daytime, sleep in the woods somewhere, travel at night when we’re not so apt to run into an enemy picket. Their fires show us where they are, so we can slip around them.” And he explained: “It’s important to keep the Yankees from knowing we’re near them, so we try not to leave a trail. If we have to cross a muddy road, we dismount and back our horses across, and walk backward ourselves. When we find an enemy encampment we crawl
up as close as we can and find out how many there are and where they come from and where they’re going to, and take word back to the General.”
“You like it, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. It’s like playing a game—hide-and-seek, or Indians, or something like that. I like being cleverer than the Yankees. And it’s interesting to know what’s happening, or what’s going to happen. The men in the ranks never know.”
She said innocently, “I’m glad you don’t have to do any fighting.”
He laughed, and something in that laughter frightened her. “No, fighting isn’t our job,” he agreed. “We don’t fight unless we must. Our task is to hurt the Yankees all we can—and not let them hurt us.”
There were pleasant houses north of Brandy and beyond, and at one of these they were made welcome for the night; and when next morning they rode on, almost at once another man joined them. He was sandy-haired, with curiously steady eyes and a forward thrust of his head, and Uncle Faunt introduced him as Mr. Mosby. Anne guessed that he brought some message from General Stuart; for after he had spoken apart to Faunt and Burr they quickened their pace, riding on more rapidly. There was today no whisper of battle in the air, no faintest pinpricks of sound from distant guns. Their road that for a while had run among tilled fields dipped into tangled woodland. After the wide openness of the gently rolling levels from the Rapidan north, to plunge into this forest maze where the eye could see no farther than the next turning was oppressive and smothering. Anne was glad they rode more rapidly, eager to burst out of this blind meandering into open land again.
They pushed on and came down through the forest to a narrow stream. Burr said this was the Rappahannock, Waterloo Bridge, and Cinda asked:
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