Wretch!—I could cheerfully have strangled him!
An hour afterward I was at the camp of the Stuart horse artillery.
Five minutes after greeting Tom, who had sought Katy, at “Disaway’s”—been directed to the woods—and there speedily joined us—I left the young ones together, and made my way back to the mansion. There are few things, my dear reader, more disagreeable than—just when you are growing poetical—when blue eyes have excited your romantic feelings—when your heart has begun to glow—when you think “I am the cause of all this happiness, and gayety!”—there are few things I say—but why say it? In thirty seconds the rosy-faced youngster Tom, had driven the antique and battered Surry quite from the mind of the Bird of Beauty. That discomfited individual, therefore, took his way back sadly to Disaway’s, leaving the children his blessing; declined the cordial invitations to spend the night, mounted his horse, and rode to find Will Davenant, at the horse artillery.
Their camp was in the edge of a wood, near the banks of the Rowanty; and having exchanged greetings with my old comrades of the various batteries, and the gallant Colonel Chew, their chieftain, I repaired to Will Davenant’s head-quarters.
These consisted of a breadth of canvass, stretched beneath a tree in the field—in front of which burned a fire.
I had come to talk with Will, but our conversation was obliged to be deferred. The brave boys of the horse artillery, officers and men, gathered round to hear the news from Petersburg; and it was a rare pleasure to me to see again the old familiar faces. Around me, in light of the camp-fire, were grouped the tigers who had fought with Pelham, in the old battles of Stuart. Here were the heroes of a hundred combats; the men who had held their ground desperately in the most desperate encounters—the bulldogs who had showed their teeth and sprung to the death-grapple at Cold Harbor, Manassas, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Fleetwood, Gettysburg, in the Wilderness, at Trevillian’s, at Sappony, in a thousand bitter conflicts with the cavalry. Scarred faces, limping bodies, the one-armed, the one-legged,—these I saw around me; the frames slashed and mutilated, but the eyes flashing and full of fight, as in the days when Pelham thundered, loosing his war-hounds on the enemy. I had seen brave commands, in these long years of combat—had touched the hands of heroic men, whose souls fear never entered—but I never saw braver fighters than the horse artillery—soldiers more reckless than Pelham’s bloodhounds. They went to battle laughing. There was something of the tiger in them. They were of every nation nearly—Frenchmen, Irishmen, Italians,—but one sentiment seemed to inspire them—hatred of our friends over the way. From the moment in 1862, when at Barbee’s they raised the loud resounding Marseillaise, while fighting the enemy in front and rear, to this fall of 1864, when they had strewed a hundred battle-fields with dead men and horses, these “swarthy old hounds” of the horse artillery had vindicated their claims to the admiration of Stuart;—in the thunder of their guns, the dead chieftain had seemed still to hurl his defiance at the invaders of Virginia.
Looking around me, I missed many of the old faces, sleeping now beneath the sod. But Dominic, Antonio, and Rossini were still there—those members of the old “Napoleon Detachment” of Pelham’s old battery; there still was Guillemot, the erect, military-looking Frenchman,—Guillemot, with his hand raised to his cap, saluting me with the profoundest respect; these were the faces I had seen a hundred times, and never any thing but gay and full of fight.
Doubtless they remembered me, and thought of Stuart, as others had done, at seeing me. They gave me a soldier’s welcome; soon, from the group around the camp-fire rose a song. Another followed, then another, in the richest tenor; and the forests of Dinwiddie rang with the deep voices, rising clear and sonorous in the moonlight night.
They were old songs of Ashby and Stuart; unpublished ditties of the struggle, which the winds have borne away into the night of the past, and which now live only in memory. There was one of Ashby, commencing,—
which wound up with the words,—
The air was sad and plaintive. The song rose, and wailed, and died away like the sigh of the wind in the trees, the murmuring airs of evening in the brambles and thickets of the Rowanty. The singers had fought under Ashby, and in their rude and plaintive song they uttered their regrets.
Then the music changed its character, and the stirring replaced the sad.
came in grand, uproarious strains; and this was succeeded by the jubilant—
At that song—and those words, “the thirteen bright stars round the Palmetto tree!”—you might have seen the eyes of the South Carolinians flash. Many other ditties followed, filling the moonlight night with song—“The Bonnie Blue Flag,” “Katy Wells,” and “The Louisiana Colors.” This last was never printed. Here are a few of the gay verses of the “Irish Lad from Dixie:”—
It was nearly midnight before the men separated, repairing to their tents. Their songs had charmed me, and made the long hours flit by like birds. Where are you, brave singers, in this year ‘68? I know not—you are all scattered. Your guns have ceased their thunder, your voices sound no more. But I think you sometimes remember, as you muse, in these dull years, those gay moonlight nights on the banks of the Rowanty.
These memories are beguiling, and while they possess me, my drama does not march.
But you have not been wearied, I hope, my dear reader, by this little pencil sketch of the brave horse artillerymen. I found myself among them; the moonlight shone; the voices sang; and I have paused to look and listen again in memory.
These scenes, however, can not possess for you, the attraction they do for me. To proceed with my narrative. I shall pass over my long conversation with Will Davenant, whose bed I shared. I had promised his father to reveal nothing of the events which I had so strangely discovered—and was then only able to give the young man vague assurances of a coming change for the better in his affair with Miss Conway. He thanked me, blushing, and trying to smile—and then we fell asleep beside each other.
Just at daylight I was suddenly aroused. The jarring notes of a bugle were ringing through the woods. I extended my arm in the darkness, and found that Will Davenant was not beside me.
What had happened? I rose quickly, and throwing my cape over my shoulders, went out of the tent.
The horse artillery was already hitched up, and in motion. The setting moon illumined the grim gun-barrels, caissons, and heavy horses, moving with rattling chains. Behind came the men on horseback, laughing and ready for combat.
As I was gazing at this warlike scene so suddenly evoked, Will Davenant rode up and pointed to my horse, which was ready saddled, and attached to a bough of the great tree.
“I thought I wouldn’t wake you, colonel,” he said, with a smile, “but let you sleep to the last moment. The enemy are advancing, and we are going to meet them.”
He had scarcely spoken, when a rapid firing was heard two or three miles in front, and a loud cheer rose from the artillerymen. In a moment the guns were rushing on at a gallop, and, as I rode beside them, I saw a crimson glare shoot up above the woods, in the direction of the Weldon railroad. The firing had meanwhile grown heavier, and the guns were rushed onward. Will Davenant’s whole appearance had completely changed. The youth, so retiring in camp, so cool in a hot fight, seemed burnt up with impatience, at the delay caused by the terrible roads. His voice had become hoarse and imperious; he was everywhere urging on the drivers; when the horses stalled in the fathomless mudholes, he would strike the animals, in a sort of rage, with the flat of his sabre, forcing them with a leap which made the traces crack, to drag the piece out of the hole, and onward. A glance told me, then, what was the secret of this mere boy’s splendid efficiency. Under the shy, blushing face, was the passion and will of the born soldier—the beardless boy had become the master mind, and drove on every thing by his stern will.
In spite of every exertion to overcome the obstacles in the roads, it was nearly sunrise before we reached open ground. Then we emerged upon the upland, near “Disaway’s,” and saw a picturesque spectacle. From the hill, we could make out every thing. A hot cavalry fight was going on beneath us. The enemy had evidently crossed the Rowanty lower down; and driving in the pickets, had passed forward to the railroad.
The guns were rushed toward the spot, unlimbered on a rising ground, and their thunder rose suddenly above the forests. Shell after shell burst amid the enemy, breaking their ranks, and driving them back—and by the time I had galloped through a belt of woods to the scene of the fight, they lost heart, retreated rapidly, and disappeared, driven across the Rowanty again, with the Confederates pursuing them so hotly, that many of the gray cavalry punched them in the back with their empty carbines.{1}
{Footnote 1: Fact.}
Their object in crossing had been to burn a small mill; and in this they had succeeded, after which they retired as soon as possible to their “own side.” Some queer scenes had accompanied this “tremendous military movement.” In a house near the mill, resided some ladies; and we found them justly indignant at the course of the enemy. The Federal officers—general officers—had ordered the house-furniture to be piled up, the carriage to be drawn into the pile, and then shavings were heaped around, and the whole set on fire, amid shouts, cheers, and firing. The lady of the mansion remonstrated bitterly, but received little satisfaction.
“I have no time to listen to women!”{1} said the Federal general, rudely.
{Footnote 1: His words.}
“It is not time that you want, sir!” returned the lady, with great hauteur, “it is politeness!”{1}
{Footnote 1: Her words.}
This greatly enraged the person whom she addressed, and he became furious, when the lady added that all the horses had been sent away. At that moment an officer near him said:—
“General if you are going to burn the premises, you had better commence, as the rebs are pursuing us.”
“Order it to be done at once!” was the gruff reply.
And the mill was fired, in the midst of a great uproar, with which mingled shouts of, “The Rebels are coming! The Rebels are coming!”
Soon they came, a hot fight followed, and during this fight a young woman watched it, holding her little brother by the hand near the burning mill. I had afterward the honor of making her acquaintance, and she told me that throughout the firing she found herself repeating over and over, unconsciously, the lines of the song,—
{Footnote 1: Fact.}
The enemy had thus effected their object, and retreated hotly pursued. I followed toward the lower Rowanty, and had the pleasure of seeing them hurried over. So ended this immense military movement.
I was about to turn my horse and ride back from the stream, across which the enemy had disappeared, when all at once Mohun, who had led the pursuit, rode up to me, and we exchanged a cordial greeting.
“Well, this little affair is over, my dear Surry,” he said; “have you any thing to occupy you for two or three hours?”
“Nothing; entirely at your service, Mohun.”
“Well, I wish you to accompany me on a private expedition. Will you follow me blindfold?”
“Confidingly.”
And I rode on beside Mohun, who had struck into a path along the banks of the Rowanty, leading back in the direction of Halifax bridge.
As we rode on, I looked attentively at him. I scarcely recognized, in the personage beside me, the Mohun of the past. His gloom so profound on that night when I parted with him, after the expedition to the lonely house beyond Monk’s Neck, had entirely disappeared; and I saw in him as few traces of the days on the Rappahannock, in Pennsylvania, and the Wilderness. These progressive steps in the development of Mohun’s character may be indicated by styling them the first, second, and third phases of the individual. He had entered now upon the third phase, and I compared him, curiously with his former self.
On the Rappahannock, when I saw him first, Mohun had been cynical, bitter, full of gloomy misanthropy. Something seemed to have hardened him, and made him hate his species. In the bloom of early manhood, when his life was yet in the flower, and should have prompted him to all kind and sweet emotions, he was a stranger to all—to charity, good-will, friendship, all that makes life endurable. The tree was young and lusty; the spring was not over; freshness and verdure should have clothed it; and yet it appeared to have been blasted. What had dried up its sap, I asked myself—withering and destroying it? What thunder-bolt had struck this sturdy young oak? I could not answer—but from the first moment of our acquaintance, Mohun became for me a problem.
Then the second phase presented itself. When I met him in the Wilderness, in May, 1864, a great change had come over him. He was no longer bitter and cynical. The cloud had plainly swept away, leaving the skies of his life brighter. Gayety had succeeded gloom. The rollicking enjoyment of the true cavalryman had replaced the recklessness of the man-hater. Again I looked at him with attention—for his courage had made me admire him, and his hidden grief had aroused my sympathy. A great weight had plainly been lifted from his shoulders; he breathed freer; the sap long dried up had begun to flow again; and the buds told that the leaves of youth and hope were about to reappear. What was the meaning of that?
Now the third phase of the man had come to excite in me more surprise and interest than the former ones. This time the change was complete. Mohun seemed no longer himself. Was the man riding beside me the old Mohun of 1863? Where was the gloomy misanthropy—where the rollicking humor? They had quite disappeared. Mohun’s glance was gentle and his countenance filled with a charming modesty and sweetness. His voice, once so cold, and then so hilarious, had grown calm, low, measured, almost soft. His smile was exquisitely cordial; his glance full of earnestness and sweetness. The heaven-born spirit of kindness—that balm for all the wounds of human existence—shone in his eyes, on his lips, in every accent of his voice.
Colonel Mohun had been reckless, defiant, unhappy, or wildly gay. General Mohun was calm, quietly happy it seemed. You would have said of him, formerly, “This is a man who fights from hatred of his enemies, or the exuberant life in him.” Now you would have said, “This is a patriot who fights from principle, and is worthy to die in a great cause.”
What had worked this change? I asked myself once more. Was it love? Or was it the conviction which the Almighty sends to the most hardened, that life is not made to indulge hatred, but to love and perform our duty in?
I knew not; but there was the phenomenon before me. Mohun was certainly a new man, and looked on life and the world around him with a gentleness and kindness of which I had believed him incapable.
“I am going to take you to see a somewhat singular character,” he said.
“Who is he?”
“It is a woman.”
“Ah!”
“And a very strange one, I promise you, my dear Surry.”
“Lead on, I’ll follow thee!”
“Good! and I declare to you, I think Shakespeare would have examined this human being with attention.”
“She is a phenomenon, then?”
“Yes.”
“A witch?”
“No, an epileptic; at least I think so.”
“Indeed! And where does she live?”
“On the Halifax road, some miles from the Rowanty.”
“In the lines of the enemy, then?”
“Something like it.”
“Humph!”
“Don’t disturb yourself about that, Surry. I have sent out a scouting party who are clearing the country. Their pickets are back to Reams’s by this time, and there is little danger.”
“At all events, we’ll share any, Mohun. Forward!”
And we pushed on to the Halifax bridge, where, as Mohun expected, there was no Federal picket.
The bridge—a long rough affair—had been half destroyed by General Hampton; but we forded near it, pushed our horses through the swamp, amid the heavy tree trunks, felled to form an abatis, and gaining the opposite bank of the Rowanty, rode on rapidly in the direction of Petersburg, that is to say, toward the rear of the Federal army.
Half an hour’s ride through the swampy low grounds rising to gentle uplands, and beneath the festoons of the great vines trailing from tree to tree, brought us in front of a small house, half buried in a clump of bushes, like a hare’s nest amid brambles.
“We have arrived!” said Mohun, leading the way to the cabin, which we soon reached.
Throwing his bridle over a bough near the low fence, Mohun approached the door on foot, I following, and when close to the door, he gave a low knock.
“Come in!” said a cheerful and smiling voice.
And Mohun opened the door, through which we passed into a small and very neat apartment containing a table, some chairs, a wide fireplace, in which some sticks were burning, a number of cheap engravings of religious scenes, framed and hanging on the wall, and a low bed, upon which lay a woman fully dressed.
She was apparently about thirty-five, and her appearance was exceedingly curious. Her figure was slender and of medium height; her complexion that of a Moorish or oriental woman, rather than that of the quadroon, which she appeared to be; her hair black, waving, and abundant; her eyes as dark and sparkling as burnished ebony; and her teeth of dazzling whiteness. Her dress was neat, and of bright colors. Around her neck she wore a very odd necklace, which seemed made of carved bone; and her slender fingers were decorated with a number of rings.{1}
{Footnote 1: “I have endeavored to give an exact description of this singular woman.” Colonel Surry said to me when he read this passage to me: “She will probably be remembered by numbers of persons in both the Federal and Confederate armies. These will tell you that I describe her accurately, using her real name, and will recall the strange prediction which she made, and which I repeat. Was she an epileptic? I do not know. I have certainly never encountered a more curious character!”—EDITOR.}
Such was the personage who greeted us, in a voice of great calmness and sweetness, as we entered. She did not rise from the bed upon which she was lying; but her cordial smile clearly indicated that this did not arise from discourtesy.
“Take seats, gentlemen,” she said, “and please excuse me from getting up. I am a little poorly to-day.”
“Stay where you are, Amanda,” said Mohun, “and do not disturb yourself.”
She looked at him with her dark eyes, and said, in her gentle, friendly voice:—
“You know me, I see, General Mohun.”
“And you me, I see, Amanda.”
“I never saw you before, sir, but—am I mistaken?”
“Not in the least. How did you know me?”
The singular Amanda smiled.
“I have seen you often, sir.”
“Ah—in your visions?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Or, perhaps, Nighthawk described me. You know Mr. Nighthawk!”
“Oh, yes, sir. I hope he is well. He has often been here; he may have told me what you were like, sir, and then I saw you to know you afterward.”
I looked at the speaker attentively. Was she an impostor? It was impossible to think so. There was absolutely no evidence whatever that she was acting a part—rather every thing to forbid the supposition, as she thus readily acquiesced in Mohun’s simple explanation.
For some moments Mohun remained silent. Then he said:—
“Those visions which you have are very strange. Is it possible that you really see things before they come to pass—or are you only amusing yourself, and others, by saying so? I see no especial harm in the matter, if you are jesting; but tell me, for my own satisfaction and that of my friend, if you really see things.”
Amanda smiled with untroubled sweetness.
“I am in earnest, sir,” she said, “and I would not jest with you and Colonel Surry.”
I listened in astonishment.
“Ah! you know me, too, Amanda!”
“Yes, sir—or I think I do. I think you are Colonel Surry, sir.”
“How do you know that?”
“I have seen you, too, sir?” was the smiling reply.
I sat down, leaned my head upon my hand, and gazed at this incomprehensible being. Was she really a witch? I do not believe in witches, and at once rejected that theory. If not an impostor, then, only one other theory remained—that Nighthawk had described my person to her, in the same manner that he had Mohun’s, and the woman might thus believe that she had seen me, as well as my companion, in her “visions.”
To her last words, however, I made no reply, and Mohun renewed the colloquy, as before.
“Then you are really in earnest, Amanda, and actually see, in vision, what is coming to pass?” he said.
“I think I do, sir.”
“Do you have the visions often?”
“I did once, sir, but they now seldomer come.”
“What produces them?”
“I think it is any excitement, sir. They tell me that I lay on my bed moaning, and moving my arms about,—and when I wake, after these attacks, I remember seeing the visions.”
“I hear that you predicted General Hunter’s attack on Lexington last June.”
“Yes, sir, I told a lady what I saw, some months before it came to pass.”
“What did you see? Will you repeat it for us?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I remember all, and will tell you about it, as it seems to interest you. I saw a town, on the other side of the mountain, which they afterward told me was called Lexington—but I did not know its name then—and a great army of men in blue dresses came marching in, shouting and cheering. The next thing I saw was a large building on fire, and through the windows I saw books burning, with some curious-looking things, of which I do not know the names.”
“The Military Institute, with the books and scientific apparatus,” said Mohun, calmly.
“Was it, sir? I did not know.”
“What did you see afterward, Amanda?”
“Another house burning, sir; the Federal people gave the ladies ten minutes to leave it, and then set it on fire.”
Mohun glanced at me.
“That is strange,” he said; “do you know the name of the family?”
“No, sir.”
“It was Governor Letcher’s. Well, what next?”
“Then they went in a great crowd, and broke open another building—a large house, sir—and took every thing. Among the things they took was a statue, which they did not break up, but carried away with them.”
“Washington’s statue!” murmured Mohun; and, turning to me, he added:—
“This is curious, is it not, Surry?”
I nodded.
“Very curious.”
I confess I believed that the strange woman was trifling with us, and had simply made up this story after the event. Mohun saw my incredulity, and said, in a low tone:—
“You do not believe in this?”
“No,” I returned, in the same tone.
“And yet one thing is remarkable.”
“What?”
“That a lady of the highest character assured me, the other day, that all this was related to her before Hunter even entered the Valley."{1}
{Footnote 1: Fact.}
And turning to Amanda, he said:—
“When did you see these things?”
“I think it was in March, sir.”
The words were uttered in the simplest manner possible. The strange woman smiled as sweetly as she spoke, and seemed as far from being guilty of a deliberate imposture as before.
“And you saw the fight at Reams’s, too?”
“Yes, sir; I saw it two months before it took place. There was a man killed running through the yard of a house, and they told me, afterward, he was found dead there.”
“Have you had any visions, since?”
“Only one, sir.”
“Lately?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you see?”
“It was not much, sir. I saw the Federal people on horses, watering their horses in a large river somewhere west of here, and the vision said the war would be over about next March.”
Mohun smiled.
“Which side will be successful, Amanda?”
“The vision did not say, sir."{1}
{Footnote 1: Colonel Surry assured me that he had scrupulously searched his memory to recall the exact words of this singular woman: and that he had given the precise substance of her statements; often, the exact words.—ED.}
Mohun, who had taken his seat on a rude settee, leaned his elbow on his knee, and for some moments gazed into the fire.
“I have asked you some questions, Amanda,” he said at length, “relating to public events. I now come to some private matters—those which brought me hither—in which your singular visions may probably assist me. Are you willing to help me?”
“Yes, indeed, sir, if I can,” was the reply.
Mohun fixed his mild, and yet penetrating glance upon the singular woman, who sustained it, however, with no change in her calm and smiling expression.
“You know Nighthawk?”
“Oh, yes, sir. He has been here often.”
“And Swartz?”
“Very well, sir—I have known him many years.”
“Have you seen him, lately?”
“No, sir; not for some weeks.”
“Ah! You saw him some weeks since?”
“Yes, sir.”
“At this house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know what has become of him?”
“No, sir; but I suppose he is off somewhere.”
“He is dead!”
Her head rose slightly, but the smile was unchanged.
“You don’t tell me, sir!”
“Yes, murdered; perhaps you know his murderer?”
“Who was it, sir?”
“Colonel Darke.”
“Oh, I know him. He has been here, lately. Poor Mr. Swartz! And so they murdered him! I am sorry for him.”
Mohun’s glance became more penetrating.
“You say that Colonel Darke has been here lately?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was the occasion of his visit?”
“I don’t know, sir; unless it was to hear me tell my visions.”
“You never knew him before?”
Amanda hesitated.
“Yes, sir,” she said at length.
“When, and how?”
“It was many years ago, sir;—I do not like to speak of these things. He is a terrible man, they say.”
“You can speak to me, Amanda. I will repeat nothing; nor will Colonel Surry.”
The singular woman looked from Mohun to me, evidently hesitating. Then she seemed suddenly to make up her mind, and said, with her eternal smile:—
“I will tell you, then, sir. I can read faces, and I know neither you nor Colonel Surry will get me into trouble.”
“I will not—on my honor.”
“Nor I,” I said.
“That is enough, gentlemen; and now I will tell you what you wish to know, General Mohun.”
As she spoke she closed her eyes, and seemed for some moments to be reflecting. Then opening them again, she gazed, with her calm smile, at Mohun, and said:—
“It was many years ago, sir, when I first saw Colonel Darke, who then went by another name. I was living in this same house, when late one evening a light carriage stopped before the door, and a gentleman got out of it, and came in. He said he was travelling with his wife, who had been taken sick, and would I give them shelter until morning, when she would be able to go on? I was a poor woman, sir, as I am now, and hoped to be paid. I would have given the poor sick lady shelter all the same, though—and I told him he could come in, and sleep in this room, and I would go into that closet-like place behind you, sir. Well, he thanked me, and went back to the carriage, where a lady sat. He took her in his arms and brought her along to the house, when I saw that she was a very beautiful young lady, but quite pale. Well, sir, she came in and sat down in that chair you are now sitting in, and after awhile, said she was better. The gentleman had gone out and put away his horse, and when he came back I had supper ready, and every thing comfortable.”
“What was the appearance of the lady?” said Mohun, over whose brow a contraction passed.
“She was small and dark, sir; but had the finest eyes I ever saw.”
“The same,” said Mohun, in a low tone. “Well?”
“They stayed all night, sir. Next morning they paid me,—though it was little—and went on toward the south.”
“They seemed poor?”
“Yes, sir. The lady’s dress was cheap and faded—and the gentleman’s threadbare.”
“What names did they give?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, sir.”
Mohun’s brow again contracted.
“Well, go on,” he said, “or rather, go back, Amanda. You say that they remained with you until the morning. Did you not hear some of their conversation—gain some knowledge of whence they came, whither they were going, and what was the object of their journey?”
The woman hesitated, glancing at Mohun. Then she smiled, and shook her head.
“You will get me into trouble, sir,” she said.
“I will not, upon my honor. You have told me enough to enable me to do so, however—why not tell me all? You say you slept in that closet there—so you must have heard them converse. I am entitled to know all—tell me what they said.”
And taking from his purse a piece of gold, Mohun placed it in the hand extended upon the bed. The hand closed upon it—clutched it. The eye of the woman glittered, and I saw that she had determined to speak.
“It was not much, sir,” she said. “I did listen, and heard many things, but they would not interest you.”
“On the contrary, they will interest me much.”
“It was a sort of quarrel I overheard, sir. Mr. Mortimer was blaming his wife for something, and said she had brought him to misery. She replied in the same way, and said that it was a strange thing in him to talk to her so, when she had broken every law of God and man, to marry the—”
“The—?” Mohun repeated, bending forward.
“The murderer of her father, she said, sir,” returned Amanda.
Mohun started, and looked with a strange expression at me.
“You understand!” he said, in a low tone, “is the thing credible?”
“Let us hear more,” I said, gloomy in spite of myself.
“Go on,” Mohun said, turning more calmly toward the woman; “that was the reply of the lady, then—that she had broken all the laws of God and man by marrying the murderer of her father. Did she utter the name of her father?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was it?”
“A Mr. George Conway,” replied Amanda, who seemed to feel that she had gone too far to conceal any thing.
“And the reason for this marriage?” said Mohun, in a low tone; “did she explain, or say any thing which explained to you, how such a union had ever taken place?”
“Yes, sir. They said so many things to each other, that I came to know all. The young lady was a daughter of a Mr. George Conway, and when she was a girl, had fallen in love with some worthless young man, who had persuaded her to elope with him and get married. He soon deserted her, when she fell in with this Mr. Mortimer and married him.”
“Did she know that he was her father’s murderer?”
“No, sir—not until after their marriage, I gathered.”
“Then,” said Mohun, who had suppressed all indications of emotion, and was listening coolly; “then it seems to me that she was wrong in taking shame to herself—or claiming credit—for the marriage.”
“Yes, sir,” returned Amanda, “and he told her as much.”
“So they had something like a quarrel?”
“Not exactly a quarrel, sir. He seemed to love her with all his heart—more than she loved him. They went on talking, and laying plans to make money in some way. I remember he said to her, ‘You are sick, and need every luxury—I would rather die than see you deprived of them—I would cheat or rob to supply you every thing—and we must think of some means, honest or dishonest, to get the money we want. I do not care for myself, but you are all that I have left in the world.’ That is what he said, sir.”
And Amanda was silent.
“Then they fell asleep?” asked Mohun.
“Yes, sir; and on the next morning he took her in his arms again, and carried her to the carriage, and they left me.”
Mohun leaned his chin upon his hand, knit his brows, and reflected. The singular narrative plunged me too into a reverie. This man, Darke, was a veritable gulf of mystery—his life full of hidden and inexplicable things. The son of General Davenant, he had murdered his father’s foe; permitted that father to be tried for the crime, and to remain under suspicion; disappeared, changed his name, encountered the daughter of his victim, married her, had those mysterious dealings with Mohun, disappeared a second time, changed his name a second time, and now had once more made his appearance near the scene of his first crime, to murder Swartz, capture his father and brother, and complete his tragic record by fighting under the enemy’s flag against his country and his family!
There was something diabolical in that career; in this man’s life “deep under deep” met the eye. And yet he was not entirely bad. On that night in Pennsylvania, he had refused to strike Mohun at a disadvantage—and had borne off the gray woman at the peril of death or capture. He had released his captured father and brother, bowing his head before them. He had confessed the murder of George Conway, over his own signature, to save this father. The woman who was his accomplice, he seemed to love more than his own life. Such were the extraordinary contrasts in a character, which, at first sight, seemed entirely devilish; and I reflected with absorbing interest upon the singular phenomenon.
I was aroused by the voice of Mohun. He had never appeared more calm: in his deep tones I could discern no emotion whatever.
“That is a singular story,” he said, “and your friend, Colonel Darke, is a curious personage. But let us come back to events more recent—to the visits of Swartz.”
“Yes, sir,” said Amanda, smiling.
“But, first, let me ask—did Colonel Darke recognize you?”
“You mean know me? Oh, yes, sir.”
“And did he speak of his former visit—with his wife?”
“No, sir.”
“And you—?”
Amanda smiled.
“I made out I didn’t remember him, sir; I was afraid he would think I had overheard that talk with his wife.”
“So he simply called as if to see you as a curiosity?”
“Yes, sir—and staid only a few minutes.”
“But you know or rather knew poor Swartz better?”
“I knew him well, sir.”
“He often stopped here?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mohun looked at the woman keenly, and said:—
“I wish you, now, to answer plainly the question which I am about to ask. I come hither as a friend—I am sent by your friend Mr. Nighthawk. Listen and answer honestly—Do you know any thing of a paper which Swartz had in his possession—an important paper which he was guarding from Colonel Darke?”
“I do not, sir,” said Amanda, with her eternal smile.
“For that paper I will pay a thousand dollars in gold. Where is it?”
The woman’s eyes glittered, then she shook her head.
“On my salvation I do not know, sir.”
“Can you discover?”
Again the shake of the head.
“How can I, sir?”
Mohun’s head sank. A bitter sigh issued from his lips—almost a groan.
“Listen!” he said, almost fiercely, but with a singular smile, “you have visions—you see things! I do not believe in your visions—they seem folly—but only see where that paper is to be discovered, and I will believe! nay more, I will pay you the sum which I mentioned this moment.”
I looked at the woman to witness the result of this decisive test of her sincerity. “If she believes in her own visions, she will be elated,” I said, “if she is an impostor, she will be cast down.”
She smiled radiantly!
“I will try, sir!” she said.
Mohun gazed at her strangely.
“When shall I come to hear the result?”
“In ten days from this time, sir.”
“In ten days? So be it.”
And rising, Mohun bade the singular personage farewell, and went toward his horse.
I followed, and we rode back, rapidly, in dead silence, toward the Rowanty.