Mohun; Or, the Last Days of Lee and His Paladins. / Final Memoirs of a Staff Officer Serving in Virginia. from the Mss. of Colonel Surry, of Eagle's Nest.

VI. — AN EDITORIAL IN THE EXAMINER.

On the following morning I opened the Examiner, and the first article which I saw was the following one, on

Admire that grim humor, reader—the firm stroke with which this Aristophanes of 1864 drew my friend, Mr. Blocque. See how he reproduced every trait, delineated the worthy in his exact colors, and, at the foot of the picture, wrote, as it were, “Here is going to be the founder of ‘one of the old families,’—one of the ornaments of the future, who will come out of the war rich, and be a costly vase, not a vessel of dishonor, as at present.”

Grim satirist! You saw far, and I think we want you to-day!

VII. — UNDER THE CROSSED SWORDS.

I had dined with Mr. Blocque; two days afterward I went to sup with Judge Conway.

Does the reader remember his appearance at Culpeper Court-House, on the night of the ball after the review in June, 1863? On that evening he had excited my astonishment by abruptly terminating the interview between his daughter and Captain Davenant; and I little supposed that I would ever penetrate the motive of that action, or become intimate with the performer.

Yet the chance of war had decreed that both events should occur. All will be, in due time, explained to the reader’s satisfaction; at present we will simply make the acquaintance of one of the most distinguished statesmen of the epoch.

My friendly relations with the judge came about in a very simple manner. He was an intimate associate of the gentleman at whose house I was staying; had taken great interest in my recovery after Yellow Tavern; and therefore had done me the honor to bestow his friendship upon me.

On the day to which we have now come, Judge Conway had made a speech of surpassing eloquence, in Congress, on the condition of the country, and I had listened, thrilling at the brave voice which rang out its sonorous, “All’s well!” amid the storm. I was now going to call on the statesman to express my admiration of his eloquent appeal, and converse upon the exciting topics of the hour.

I found him in a mansion not far from the splendid residence of Mr. Blocque. Here he occupied “apartments,” or rather a single room,—and, in 1864, my dear reader, that was a very common mode of living.

Like others, Judge Conway was too poor to occupy a whole house,—even too poor to board. He had a single apartment, containing a few chairs and a bed; was waited on by a maid; and, I think, prepared his own meals, which were plain to poverty.

He met me at the door of his bare and poor-looking apartment, extending his hand with the gracious and stately courtesy of the ancient régime. His figure was small, slight, and bent by age; his face, thin and pale; his hair nearly white, and falling in long curls upon his shoulders; under the gray brows sparkled keen, penetrating, but benignant eyes.

As I pressed the hand of my host, and looked around the poor apartment, I could not refrain from a sentiment of profound bitterness. Two days before I had dined at the table of a peddling blockade-runner, who ate canvass-backs, drank champagne, wore “fine linen,” and, dodging the conscript officers, revelled in luxury and plenty. And now here before me was a gentleman of ancient lineage, whose ancestors had been famous, who had himself played a great part in the history of the commonwealth,—and this gentleman was poor, lived in lodgings, had scarce a penny; he had been wealthy, and was still the owner of great possessions; but the bare land was all that was left him for support. He had been surrounded with luxury, but had sacrificed all to the cause. He had had two gallant sons, but they had fallen at the first Manassas—their crossed swords were above his poor bare mantel-piece.

From the splendid table of the sneaking blockade-runner, I had come to the poverty-stricken apartment of this great statesman and high-bred gentleman. “Oh, Juvenal!” I muttered, “it is your satires, not the bucolics of Virgil, that suit this epoch!”

The old statesman pointed, with all the grace of a nobleman, to a bare rocking-chair, and received my congratulations upon his speech with modest simplicity.

“I am glad that my views are honored by your good opinion, colonel,” he said, “and that you approve of the tone of them. I am naturally given to invective—a habit derived from my friend, the late Mr. Randolph; but the country wants encouragement.”

“And yet not to satirize is so hard, my dear sir!”

“Very hard.”

“Think of the army depleted—the soldiers starving—the finances in ruin, and entire destruction threatening us!”

The old statesman was silent. A moment afterward he raised his head, and with his thin finger pointed to the crossed swords above his mantelpiece.

“I try to bear and forbear since I lost my poor boys,” he said. “They died for their country—I ought to live for it, and do what I can in my sphere—to suppress my bitterness, and try to utter words of good cheer. But we are discussing gloomy topics. Let us come to more cheerful matters. I am in very good spirits to-day. My daughters have come to make me a visit,” and the old face glowed with smiles; its expression was quite charming.

“I see you do not appreciate that great treat, my dear colonel,” he added, smiling. “You are yet unmarried, though I rejoice to hear you are soon to be united to a daughter of my old friend, Colonel Beverly, of “The Oaks.” Some day I hope you will know the great charm of paternity. This morning I was lonely—this evening I am no longer so. Georgia and Virginia have come up from my house, “Five Forks,” escorted by my faithful old Juba, and they burst in upon me like the sunshine!”

The words had scarcely been uttered when a tap came at the door; a voice said, “May we come in, papa?” and a moment afterward the door opened, and admitted Miss Georgia Conway and her sister Virginia.

Miss Georgia was the same tall and superb beauty, with the dark hair and eyes; Miss Virginia the same winning little blonde, with the blue eyes, and the smiles which made her lips resemble rose-buds. The young ladies were clad in poor, faded-looking calicoes, and the slippers on the small feet, peeping from their skirts, were full of holes. Such was the appearance presented in that summer of 1864, my dear reader, by two of the most elegant and “aristocratic” young ladies of Virginia!

But you did not look at the calicoes, and soon forgot the holes in the shoes. My bow was such as I should have bestowed on two princesses, and the young ladies received it with a grace and courtesy which were charming.

In ten minutes we were all talking like old friends, and the young ladies were making tea.

This was soon ready; some bread, without butter, was placed upon the little table; and the meal was the most cheerful and happy imaginable. “Oh, my dear Mr. Blocque!” I could not help saying to myself, “keep your champagne, and canvass-backs, and every luxury, and welcome! I like dry bread and tea, with this company, better!”

I have not room to repeat the charming words, mingled with laughter, of the young women, on that evening. Their presence was truly like sunshine, and you could see the reflection of it upon the old statesman’s countenance.

Only once that countenance was overshadowed. I had uttered the name of Willie Davenant, by accident; and then all at once remembering the scene at Culpeper Court-House, had looked quietly at Judge Conway and Miss Virginia. A deep frown was on his face—that of the young girl was crimson with blushes, and two tears came to her eyes, as she caught her father’s glance of displeasure.

I hastened to change the topic—to banish the dangerous subject; and in a few moments everybody was smiling once more. Miss Georgia, in her stately and amusing way, was relating their experiences from a scouting party of the enemy, at “Five Forks.”

“I heard something of this from old Juba,” said the Judge; “you do not mention your deliverer, however.”

“Our deliverer, papa?”

“General Mohun.”

Miss Georgia unmistakably blushed in her turn.

“Oh, I forgot!” she said, carelessly, “General Mohun did drive them off. Did I not mention it?—I should have done so before finishing, papa.”

As she spoke, the young lady happened to catch my eye. I was laughing quietly. Thereupon her head rose in a stately way—a decided pout succeeded—finally, she burst into laughter.

The puzzled expression of the old Judge completed the comedy of the occasion—we all laughed in a perfectly absurd and foolish way—and the rest of the evening passed in the most cheerful manner imaginable.

When I bade my friends good evening, I knew something I had not known before:—namely, that Mohun the woman-hater, had renewed his “friendly relations” with Miss Georgia Conway, at her home in Dinwiddie.

Exchanging a pressure of the hand with my host and his charming daughters, I bade them good evening, and returned homeward. As I went along, I thought of the happy circle I had left; and again I could not refrain from drawing the comparison between Judge Conway and Mr. Blocque.

At the fine house of the blockade-runner—champagne, rich viands, wax-lights, gold and silver, and profuse luxury.

At the poor lodgings of the great statesman,—a cup of tea and cold bread; stately courtesy from my host, charming smiles from his beautiful daughters, clad in calico, with worn-out shoes—and above the simple happy group, the crossed swords of the brave youths who had fallen at Manassas!

VIII. — MR. X——-.

It was past ten in the evening when I left Judge Conway. But I felt no disposition to retire; and determined to pay a visit to a singular character of my acquaintance.

The name of this gentleman was Mr. X——-.

Looking back now to the days spent in Richmond, in that curious summer of ‘64, I recall, among the representative personages whom I encountered, no individual more remarkable than the Honorable Mr. X——-. You are acquainted with him, my dear reader, either personally or by reputation, for he was a prominent official of the Confederate Government, and, before the war, had been famous in the councils of “the nation.”

He resided at this time in a small house, on a street near the capitol. You gained access to his apartment after night—if you knew the way—by a winding path, through shrubbery, to the back door of the mansion. When you entered, you found yourself in presence of a tall, powerful, gray-haired and very courteous personage, who sat in a huge arm-chair, near a table littered with papers, and smoked, meditatively, a cigar, the flavor of which indicated its excellent quality.

I enjoyed the intimacy of Mr. X——- in spite of the difference of our ages and positions. He had been the friend of my father, and, in my turn, did me the honor to bestow his friendship upon me. On this evening I was seized with the fancy to visit him—and passing through the grounds of the capitol, where the bronze Washington and his great companions looked silently out into the moonlight, reached the small house, followed the path through the shrubbery, and opening the door in the rear, found myself suddenly enveloped in a cloud of cigar smoke, through which loomed the portly figure of Mr. X——-.

He was seated, as usual, in his large arm-chair, by the table, covered with papers; and a small bell near his hand seemed placed there for the convenience of summoning an attendant, without the trouble of rising. Near the bell lay a package of foreign-looking documents. Near the documents lay a pile of telegraphic dispatches. In the appearance and surroundings of this man you read “Power.”

Mr. X——- received me with easy cordiality.

“Glad to see you, my dear colonel,” he said, rising and shaking my hand; then sinking back in his chair, “take a cigar, and tell me the news.” I sat down,—having declined the proffered cigar.

“The news!” I said, laughing; “I ought to ask that of you.”

“Ah! you think I am well-informed?”

I pointed to the dispatches. Mr. X——- shrugged his shoulders.

“Papers from England and France—they are not going to recognize us.

“And those telegrams—nothing. We get little that is worth attention, except a line now and then, signed ‘R.E. Lee.’”

“Well, there is that signature,” I said, pointing to an open paper.

“It is a private letter to me—but do you wish to see a line which I have just received? It is interesting, I assure you.”

And he handed me a paper.

It was a telegram announcing the fall of Atlanta!

“Good heavens!” I said, “is it possible? Then there is nothing to stop Sherman.”

“Nothing whatever,” said Mr. X——-, coolly.

“What will be the consequence?”

“The Confederacy will be cut in two. Sherman will be at Savannah before Grant reaches the Southside road—or as soon, at least.”

“You think Grant will reach that?”

“Yes, by April; and then—you know what!”

“But Lee will protect it.”

Mr. X——- shrugged his shoulders.

“Shall I tell you a secret?”

I listened.

“Lee’s force is less than 50,000—next spring it will not number 40,000. Grant’s will be at least four times that.”

“Why can not our army be re-enforced?”

Mr. X——- helped himself to a fresh cigar.

“The people are tired, and the conscript officers are playing a farce,” he said. “The commissary department gives the army a quarter of a pound of rancid meat. That even often fails, for the quartermaster’s department does not supply it. The result is—no conscripts, and a thousand desertions. The soldiers are starving; their wives and children are writing them letters that drive them mad—the end is not far off; and when Grant reaches the Southside road we are gone.”

Mr. X——- smoked his cigar with extreme calmness as he spoke.

“But one thing remains,” I said.

“What is that?”

“Lee will retreat from Virginia.”

Mr. X——- shook his head.

“He will not.”

“Why not?”

“He will be prevented from doing so.”

“Under any circumstances?”

“Until too late, at least.”

“And the result?”

“Surrender—though he said to me the other day, when he came to see me here, ‘For myself, I intend to die sword in hand.’”

I could not refrain from a sentiment of profound gloom, as I listened to these sombre predictions. It seemed incredible that they could be well founded, but I had more than once had an opportunity to remark the extraordinary prescience of the remarkable man with whom I conversed.

“You draw a black picture of the future,” I said. “And the South seems moving to and fro, on the crust of a volcano.”

“No metaphor could be more just.”

“And what will be the result of the war?”

“That is easy to reply to. Political slavery, negro suffrage, and the bayonet, until the new leaven works.”

“The new leaven?”

“The conviction that democratic government is a failure.”

“And then—?”

“An emperor, or dictator—call him what you will. The main fact is, that he will rule the country by the bayonet—North and South impartially.”

Mr. X——- lit a fresh cigar.

“Things are going on straight to that,” he said. “The future is perfectly plain to me, for I read it in the light of history. These events are going to follow step by step. Lee is brave—no man is braver; a great leader. I think him one of the first captains of the world. But in spite of his courage and skill—in spite of the heroism of his army—in spite of the high character and pure motives of the president—we are going to fail. Then the rest will follow—negro suffrage and the bayonet. Then the third era will begin—the disgust of the white man at the equality of the negro; his distrust of a government which makes such a farce possible; consequent revulsion against democracy; a tendency toward monarchy; a king, emperor or dictator, who will restore order out of the chaos of misrule and madness. England is rushing toward a democracy, America is hastening to become an empire. For my own part I think I prefer the imperial to the popular idea—Imperator to Demos. It is a matter of taste, however.”

And Mr. X——- turned his head, calling out, calmly,

“Come in!”

The door opened and a stranger glided into the apartment. He was clad in a blue Federal uniform, half-concealed by a brown linen overall. His face was almost covered by a red beard; his lips by a mustache of the same color; and his eyes disappeared behind huge green goggles.

“Come in,” repeated Mr. X——-, who seemed to recognize the intruder; “what news?”

The personage glanced quickly at me.

“Speak before him,” said Mr. X——-, “he is a friend.”

“I am very well acquainted with Colonel Surry,” said the other, smiling, “and have the honor to number him, I hope, among my own friends.”

With which words, the new-comer quietly removed his red beard, took off his green spectacles, and I saw before me no less a personage than Mr. Nighthawk!

IX. — “SEND ME A COPY.—IN CANADA!”

Nothing was more surprising in this singular man than these sudden appearances at places and times when you least expected him.

I had parted with him in Spottsylvania, on the night when he “deserted” from the enemy, and rode into our lines; and he was then the secret agent of General Stuart. Now, he reappeared in the city of Richmond, with an excellent understanding, it was evident, between himself and Mr. X——-!

Our greeting was cordial, and indeed I never had classed Nighthawk among professional spies. General Stuart assured me one day, that he invariably refused all reward; and his profound, almost romantic devotion to Mohun, had deeply impressed me. Love of country and watchful care of the young cavalier, whose past life was as mysterious as his own, seemed the controlling sentiments of Nighthawk; and he always presented himself to me rather in the light of a political conspirator, than as a “spy.”

His first words now indicated that he was a secret agent of the Government. He seemed to have been everywhere, and gained access to everybody; and once more, as in June, 1863, when he appeared at Stuart’s head-quarters, near Middleburg, he astonished me by the accuracy and extent of his information. Political and military secrets of the highest importance, and calling for urgent action on the part of the Government, were detailed by Nighthawk, in his calm and benignant voice; he gave us an account of a long interview which he had had at City Point, with General Grant; and wound up as usual by announcing an impending battle—a movement of the enemy, which duly took place as he announced.

Mr. X——- listened with close attention, asking few questions.

When Nighthawk had made his report, the statesman looked at his watch, said, sotto voce, “Midnight—too late,” and added aloud:—

“Come back at ten to-morrow morning, my friend; your information is highly interesting and important.”

Nighthawk rose, and I did likewise, declining the courteous request of Mr. X——- to prolong my visit. He held the door open with great politeness and said, smiling:—

“I need not say, my dear colonel, that the views I have expressed this evening are confidential—for the present, at least.”

“Assuredly,” I replied, with a bow and a smile.

“Hereafter you are at liberty to repeat them, if you wish, only I beg you will ascribe them to Mr. X——-, an unknown quantity. If you write a book, and put me in it, send me a copy—in Canada!”

A moment afterward I was wending my way through the shrubbery, thinking of the curious personage I had left.

At the gate Nighthawk awaited me, and I scarcely recognized him. He had resumed his red beard, and green glasses.

“I am glad to see you again, colonel,” he said benignantly; “I heard that you were in the city and called at your lodgings, but found you absent.”

“You wished to see me particularly, then, Nighthawk.”

“Yes, and to-night, colonel.”

“Ah!”

“I know you are a friend of General Mohun’s.”

“A very sincere friend.”

“Well, I think we will be able to do him a very great service by attending to a little matter in which he is interested, colonel. Are you disengaged, and willing to accompany me?”

X. — THE WAY THE MONEY WENT.

I looked intently at Nighthawk. He was evidently very much in earnest.

“I am entirely disengaged, and perfectly willing to accompany you,” I said; “but where?”

Nighthawk smiled.

“You know I am a mysterious person, colonel, both by character and profession. I fear the habit is growing on me, in spite of every exertion I make. I predict I will end by burning my coat, for fear it will tell some of my secrets.”

“Well,” I said with a smile, “keep your secret then, and lead the way. I am ready to go far to oblige Mohun in any thing.”

“I thank you, colonel, from my heart. You have only to follow me.”

And Nighthawk set out at a rapid pace, through the grounds of the capitol, toward the lower part of the city.

There was something as singular about the walk of my companion, as about his appearance. He went at a great pace, but his progress was entirely noiseless. You would have said that he was skimming along upon invisible wings.

In an incredibly short time we had reached a street below the capitol, and my companion, who had walked straight on without turning his head to the right or the left, all at once paused before a tall and dingy-looking house, which would have appeared completely uninhabited, except for a bright red light which shone through a circular opening in the door.

At this door Nighthawk gave a single tap. The glass covering the circular space glided back, and a face reconnoitred. My companion uttered two words; and the door opened, giving access to a stairs, which we ascended, the janitor having already disappeared.

At the head of the stairs was a door which Nighthawk opened, and we found ourselves in an apartment where a dozen persons were playing faro.

Upon these Nighthawk threw a rapid glance—some one whom he appeared to be seeking, was evidently not among the players.

Another moment he returned through the door, I following, and we ascended a second flight of stairs, at the top of which was a second door. Here another janitor barred the way, but my companion again uttered some low words,—the door opened; a magnificently lit apartment, with a buffet of liquors, and every edible, presented itself before us; and in the midst of a dozen personages, who were playing furiously, I recognized—Mr. Blocque, Mr. Croker, Mr. Torpedo, and Colonel Desperade.

For some moments I stood watching the spectacle, and it very considerably enlarged my experience. Before me I saw prominent politicians, officers of high rank, employees of government holding responsible positions, all gambling with an ardor that amounted to fury. One gentleman in uniform—apparently of the quartermaster’s department—held in his hand a huge package of Confederate notes, of the denominations, of $100 and $500, and this worthy staked, twice, the pretty little amount of $10,000 upon a card, and each time lost.

The play so absorbed the soldiers, lawgivers, and law-administrators, that our presence was unperceived. My friend, Mr. Blocque, did not turn his head; Mr. Croker, Mr. Torpedo, and Colonel Desperade, were red in the face and oblivious.

After that evening I knew where some of the public money went.

As I was looking at the strange scene of reckless excitement, one of the players, a portly individual with black mustache, rich dark curls, gold spectacles, and wearing a fine suit of broadcloth—rose and looked toward us. Nighthawk was already gazing at him; and suddenly I saw their glances cross like steel rapiers. They had evidently recognized each other; and going up to the gentleman of the spectacles, Nighthawk said a few words in a low voice, which I did not distinguish.

“With pleasure, my dear friend,” said the portly gentleman, “but you are sure you are not provided with a detective of General Winder’s?”

“Can you believe such a thing?” returned Nighthawk, reproachfully.

“I thought it possible you might have one waiting below; but if you give me your word, Nighthawk—”

And without further objection the worthy followed Nighthawk and myself down the stairs.

As we approached the outer door, the invisible janitor opened it; we issued forth into the street; and the portly gentleman, fixing a keen look upon me in the clear moonlight, said:—

“I believe we have had the pleasure of meeting before, colonel.”

“I am ashamed to say I do not remember where, sir,” I said.

“My memory is better, colonel; we met last May, in a house in the Wilderness, near Chancellorsville.”

“Is it possible that you are—”

“Swartz, very much at your service. It is wonderful what a difference is made by a wig and spectacles!”

As he spoke, he gracefully removed his black wig and the gold spectacles. In the man with gray hair, small eyes, and double chin, I recognized the spy of the Wilderness.

XI. — THE PASS.

Replacing his wig and spectacles, Mr. Swartz smiled in a good-humored manner, and said:—

“May I ask to what I am indebted for this visit?”

Nighthawk replied even more blandly:—

“I wish to have a conversation with you, my dear Swartz, before arresting you.”

“Ah! you intend to arrest me!”

“Unless you make it unnecessary.”

“How?”

“By producing the paper which we spoke of in the Wilderness,” said Nighthawk, briefly.

Swartz shook his head.

“That is not in my power, my friend. I did not bring it with me.”

“Will you think me very impolite if I say I do not believe you, my dear Swartz?”

Swartz smiled.

“Well, that would be speaking without ceremony, my friend—but I assure you I am unable to do as you desire.”

“Aha! you repeat that curious statement, my dear Swartz! Well, oblige me by accompanying me to the provost-marshal’s.”

“You arrest me?”

“Precisely.”

“As a spy?”

“Why not?”

“It is impossible, Nighthawk!”

“You resist?”

“I might do so.”

And, opening his coat, Mr. Swartz exhibited a bowie-knife and revolver.

“I show you these little toys,” said he, laughing good-humoredly, “to let you see, my friend, that I might oppose your project—and you know I am not backward in using them on occasion. But I make a difference. You are not a common police-officer or detective, Nighthawk—you are a friend and comrade, and I am going to prove that I appreciate your feelings, and respect your wishes.”

Nighthawk fixed his eyes on the speaker and listened.

“You are a friend of General Mohun’s,” said Mr. Swartz, with bland good humor; “you wish to secure a certain document in which he is interested; you fancy I have that document here in the city of Richmond; and your object, very naturally, is to force me to surrender it. Well, I do not object to doing so—for a consideration. I fully intend to produce it, when my terms are accepted. I would have stated them to you in the Wilderness, but you were unable to meet me—or to General Mohun, but his violence defeated every thing. You meet me now, and without discussion, demand the paper. I reply, that I have not brought it with me, but three days from this time will meet you at a spot agreed on, with the document, for which you will return me—my consideration.”

Nighthawk shook his head.

“Unfortunately, my dear Swartz, experience tells me that the present is always the best time for business—that ‘a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’”

Mr. Swartz smiled sweetly.

“And I am the bird in your hand?”

“Something like it.”

“I am a spy?”

“Don’t use hard names, my friend.”

“By no means, my dear Nighthawk, and if I have hurt your feelings, I deeply regret it. But I am speaking to the point. You regard me as a Federal spy, lurking in Richmond—you penetrate my disguise, and are going to arrest me, and search my lodgings for that paper.”

“The necessity is painful,” said Nighthawk.

“It is useless, my friend.”

“I will try it.”

Swartz smiled, and drew a paper from his pocket, which he unfolded.

“You are then determined to arrest your old comrade, Nighthawk.”

“Yes, my dear Swartz.”

“As a spy?”

“Exactly.”

“In spite of this?”

And Mr. Swartz held out the paper.

“Do me the favor to read this, colonel, and then oblige me by returning it.”

I took the paper, and easily read it by moonlight. It contained the following words:—

“The bearer is employed on secret service, by the Confederate Government, and will not be molested.”

The paper was signed by a personage of high position in the government, and was stamped with the seal of the department over which he presided. There could be no doubt of the genuineness of the paper. The worthy Mr. Swartz loomed up before me in the novel and unexpected light of a Confederate emissary!

I read the paper aloud to Nighthawk, and pointed to the official signature and seal.

Nighthawk uttered a groan, and his chin sank upon his breast.

That spectacle seemed to excite the sympathy of his friend.

“There, my dear Nighthawk,” said Mr. Swartz, in a feeling tone, “don’t take the blow too much to heart. I have beaten you, this game, and your hands are tied at present. But I swear that I will meet you, and produce that paper.”

“When?” murmured Nighthawk.

“In three days from this time.”

“Where?”

“At the house of our friend Alibi, near Monk’s Neck, in Dinwiddie.”

“On your word?”

“On the word of Swartz!”

“That is enough, my dear Swartz; I will be at Alibi’s, when we will come to terms. And now, pardon this visit, which has put you to so much inconvenience. I was merely jesting, my dear friend, when I spoke of arresting you. Arrest you! Nothing could induce me to think of so unfriendly a proceeding. And now, good night, my dear friend. I will return with you, colonel.”

With which words Nighthawk saluted his “friend,” and we returned toward the upper part of the city.

Such were the scenes of a night in the summer of 1864.