Stuart came back laughing from his adventure.
The army hailed his reappearance with joy and cheers.
They had already split the air with shouts in honor of the cavalry, on that evening at Warrenton Springs, when Stuart charged through the ford.
“Hurrah for Stuart!” was now the exclamation everywhere. And let me add that the stout cavalier keenly enjoyed his popularity. He was brave and fond of glory—approbation delighted him. In his ears, praise, sympathy, admiration, sounded sweet.
General Lee continued to press forward, but the golden moment for intercepting Meade had fled.
He had not been cut off in Culpeper; he had not been cut off at Warrenton; he was not going to be cut off at Bristoe, near Manassas. Hill had been sent in that direction to intercept the enemy’s retreat, but on the afternoon succeeding the adventure of Stuart, an ugly blow was dealt him on the banks of Deep Run.
He came up with the enemy’s rear guard under their brave General Warren; assailed it in front of an embankment furiously, and suffered a heavy repulse.
General Cooke was shot down at the head of his men; the brigade was nearly cut to pieces; and Warren retreated across Deep Run, in grim triumph, carrying off several pieces of Hill’s artillery.
It was a grievous blow, and affected the brave Hill deeply. General Lee was no less melancholy; it is said that he was both gloomy and restive. It was reported, I know not upon what authority, that when he and General Hill were riding over the field, and Hill essayed to explain the unfortunate affair, the commander-in-chief shook his head, and said in grave tones:—
“Say no more, general—have these poor dead soldiers buried.”
From the hill above Bristoe, General Lee, accompanied by Stuart, looked out in the direction of Manassas. Not a blue coat was to be seen. Meade had made good his retreat. Everywhere he had eluded the blows of his great adversary—and in parting from him, finally, at Bristoe, had left blood in his foot-steps—the blood of some of Lee’s best soldiers.
It is said that General Meade made this retreat under protest—and that he was everywhere looking for a position to fight. A Northern correspondent described how, sitting with him by the camp-fire, General Meade had said:—
“It was like pulling out my eye-teeth not to have had a fight!”
Did he say that? Then he was out-generalled.
But he had succeeded in retreating safely. He was behind the works of Centreville: Lee had stopped the pursuit.
There was nothing more, indeed, to be done. Lee must retire, or attack the enemy behind their earth-works. That was not very promising, and he fell back toward his old camps, on the Rapidan.
Nothing prevented the cavalry, however, from “feeling” the enemy in their new position; and Stuart rapidly advanced to Bull Run, across which Fitz Lee drove the Federal horsemen.
A raid toward their rear, by Stuart, followed. He moved toward Groveton; deflected to the left, and crossed the Catharpin in a violent storm; advanced next day toward Frying-Pan; then striking the Second Corps of Meade, and throwing it into confusion, by producing the impression that his force was Lee’s whole army, he quietly retired by the way he had come.
His disappearance revealed all. The enemy perceived that the attack was only a “cavalry raid,” and were seized with immense indignation. A picked division was sent out in pursuit of the daring raiders—and this force of horsemen, about three thousand in number, hurried across Bull Run to punish Stuart.
They were commanded by the ardent General Kilpatrick:—what followed is known as the “Buckland Races.”
Such is a rapid summary of the cavalry operations succeeding the action of Bristoe.
Those readers who cry out for “movement! movement!” are respectfully requested to observe that I have passed over much ground, and many events in a few paragraphs:—and yet I might have dwelt on more than one scene which, possibly, might have interested the worthy reader.
There was the gallant figure of General Fitz Lee, at the head of his horsemen, advancing to charge what he supposed to be the enemy’s artillery near Bristoe, and singing as he went, in the gayest voice:—
There was the charge over the barricade near Yates’s Ford, where a strange figure mingled just at dusk with the staff, and when arrested as he was edging away in the dark, coolly announced that he belonged to the “First Maine Cavalry.”
There was the march toward Chantilly, amid the drenching storm, when Stuart rode along laughing and shouting his camp songs, with the rain descending in torrents from his heavy brown beard.
There was the splendid advance on the day succeeding, through the rich autumn forest, of all the colors of the rainbow.
Then the fight at Frying-Pan; arousing the hornets’ nest there, and the feat performed by Colonel Surry, in carrying off through the fire of the sharp-shooters, on the pommel of his saddle, a beautiful girl who declared that she was “not at all afraid!”
These and many other scenes come back to memory as I sit here at Eagle’s Nest. But were I to describe all I witnessed during the war, I should never cease writing. All these must be passed over—my canvas is limited, and I have so many figures to draw, so many pictures to paint, that every square inch is valuable.
That is the vice of “memoirs,” reader. The memory is an immense receptacle—it holds every thing, and often trifles take the prominent place, instead of great events. You are interested in those trifles, when they are part of your own experience; but perhaps, they bore your listener and make him yawn—a terrible catastrophe!
So I pass to some real and bona fide “events.” Sabres are going to clash now, and some figures whom the reader I hope has not forgotten are going to ride for the prize in the famous Buckland Races.
Stuart had fallen back, and had reached the vicinity of Buckland.
There was a bright light in his blue eyes, a meaning smile on his mustached lip, which in due time I was going to understand.
Kilpatrick was following him. From the rear guard came the crack of skirmishers. It seemed hard to understand, but the fact was perfectly evident, that Stuart was retreating.
I had fallen out of the column, and was riding with Tom Herbert. Have you forgotten that worthy, my dear reader? Has the roar of Gettysburg driven him quite from your memory? I hope not. I have not mentioned him for a long time, so many things have diverted me—but we had ridden together, slept together, fought together, and starved together! Tom had come to be one of my best friends, in fact, and his charming good humor beguiled many a weary march. To hear him laugh was real enjoyment; and when he would suddenly burst forth with,
the sternest faces relaxed, the sourest personages could not but laugh.
Brave and honest fop! Where are you to-day, mon garçon! I wish I could see you and hear you sing again!
But I am prosing. Riding beside Tom, I was looking down and thinking of a certain young lady, when an exclamation from my companion made me raise my head.
“By George! there’s the house, old fellow!”
“The house?”
“Of the famous supper.”
“So it is!”
“And my inamorata, Surry! I wonder if she is still there?”
“Inamorata? What is her other name?”
Tom laughed, and began to sing in his gayest voice,
“That is answer enough,” I said, laughing.
“Suppose we go and see if they are still alive,” Tom said, blushing; “ten minutes will take us to the house.”
In fact, I saw across the fields, embowered in foliage, the hospitable mansion in which we had eaten the famous supper, on the route to Pennsylvania.
“It is risky,” I said, hesitating.
“But pleasing,” retorted Tom, with a laugh.
And I saw, from his flushed face, that he had set his heart on the visit.
That conquered me. I never could refuse Tom Herbert any thing; and we were soon cantering toward the house.
Leaving our horses in a little grove, near the mansion, in order that they might not attract the attention of any of the enemy’s vedettes, we hastened up the steps.
As we reached the door, it opened, and Miss Katy Dare, the heroine of Tom’s dreams, very nearly precipitated herself into our arms.
“Oh, I am so glad to see you!” she exclaimed, with her auburn ringlets dancing, her eyes sparkling,—and taking care to look at me as she uttered the words.
Then a whole bevy of young ladies hastened out to welcome us.
Where had we been? Why were we going back? Could General Stuart intend to leave them in the Yankee lines again? Oh, no! he could not! He could not have the heart to! Was he coming to see them? Oh, the sight of gray uniforms was HEAVENLY!!!
And the young damsels positively overwhelmed me with exclamations and interrogatories. Eyes danced, lips smiled, cheeks glowed—they hung around me, and seemed wild with enthusiasm and delight.
Around me, I say—for Tom and Miss Katy had accidentally strolled into a conservatory near at hand. A glass door gave access to it, and they had “gone to examine the flowers,” the young ladies said, with rapturous smiles and little nods.
Meanwhile, “the wants of the soldiers” were by no means forgotten. Busy hands brought in china, silver, and snowy napkins. On the table the waiter was soon deposited, containing a splendid, miraculous array of edibles, and these were flanked by decanters containing excellent home-made wine.
This consumed half an hour—but at last the repast was ready, and one of the young ladies hastened toward the conservatory, uttering a discreet little “ahem!” which made her companions laugh.
In an instant Tom made his appearance with a decided color in his cheeks; and Miss Katy—well, Miss Katy’s face was the color of a peony, or a carnation.
Shall I reveal to you, gentle reader, what Tom told me long afterward? He had advanced and been repulsed—had attacked and been “scattered.” Pardon the slang of the army, and admire the expeditious operations of the gentlemen of the cavalry!
Tom was blushing, but laughing too. He was game, if he was unfortunate. He did not even decline the material enjoyment of lunch, and having led in the young Miss Katy, with a charmingly foppish air, took his seat at the table, which promised so much pleasure of another description.
The fates frowned on us. Tom was unlucky that day, and I was drawn into the vortex of bad fortune.
Suddenly a clatter of hoofs came from the grass plat in front of the house; the rattle of sabres from a company of cavalry followed; and the young ladies had just time to thrust us into the conservatory, when the door opened, and an officer in blue uniform, accompanied by a lady, entered the apartment.
I recognized the new-comers at a glance. They were Darke, and the gray woman.
There was no mistaking that powerful figure, of low stature, but herculean proportions; that gloomy and phlegmatic face, half-covered with the black beard; and the eye glancing warily, but with a reckless fire in them, from beneath the heavy eye-brows.
The woman wore an elegant gray riding habit—gray seemed a favorite with her. Her cheeks were as white as ever, and her lips as red. Her bearing was perfectly composed, and she advanced, with the long riding skirt thrown over her arm, walking with exquisite grace.
All this I could easily see. The glass door of the conservatory had been left ajar in the hurry of our retreat, and from behind the lemon-trees and flower-bushes, we could see into the apartment without difficulty.
There was evidently little danger of our discovery. The new-comers had plainly entered the house with no design to search it. Darke advanced into the apartment; made the ladies a bow, which more than ever convinced me that he had been familiar with good society; and requested food for the lady. She had tasted none for many hours, and was faint. He would not ask it for himself, inasmuch as he was an enemy.
He bowed again as he spoke, and was silent.
The young ladies had listened coldly. As he finished, they pointed to the waiter, and without speaking, they left the apartment.
Darke was left alone with the woman in gray. She seemed to have regarded ceremony as unnecessary. Going to the table, she had already helped herself, and for some moments devoured, rather than ate, the food before her.
Then she rose, and went and took her seat in a rocking-chair near the fire. Darke remained erect, gazing at her, in silence.
The lady rocked to and fro, pushed back her dark hair with the snowy hand, and looking at her companion, began to laugh.
“You are not hungry?” she said.
“No,” was his reply.
“And to think that a romantic young creature like myself should be!”
“It was natural. I hoped that you would have given up this fancy of accompanying me. You can not stand the fatigue.”
“I can stand it easily,” she said. “When we have a cherished object, weariness does not count.”
“A cherished object! What is yours?”
“Sit down, and I will tell you. I am tired. You can rejoin the column in ten minutes.”
“So be it,” said Darke, gloomily.
And he sat down near her.
“You wish to be informed of my object in going with you everywhere,” she said. And her voice which had at first been gay and careless, assumed a mocking accent, making the nerves tingle. “I can explain in a very few words my romantic desire. I wish to see him fall.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Darke, coldly; “you mean—”
“That man—yes. You promised to kill him, when you next met. Did you not promise me that?”
Darke looked at the speaker with grim admiration.
“You are a singular woman,” he said; “you never forget a wrong. And yet the wrong, people might say, was committed by you—not him.”
“Do you say that?” exclaimed the woman with sudden venom in her voice.
“I say nothing, madam,” was the gloomy reply. “I only declare that you hate much more strongly than I do. I hate him—and hate him honestly. But I would not take him at disadvantage. You would strike him, wherever you met him—in the dark—in the back—I think you would dance the war-dance around him, when he was dying!”
And Darke uttered a short jarring laugh.
“You are right,” said the woman, coolly. “I wish to see that man die—I expected you to kill him on that night in Pennsylvania. You promised to do it;—redeem your promise!”
“I will try to do so, madam,” said Darke, coolly.
“And I wish to be present on the occasion.”
Darke laughed as before.
“That doubtless has prevented you from having our good friend Mohun—well—assassinated!”
The woman was silent for a moment. Then she said:—-
“No, I have tried that.”
“Ah!—recently?”
“Yes.”
“By what means—who was your agent?”
“Swartz.”
Darke waited, listening.
“He has three times waylaid him behind the rebel lines, and fired on him as he was riding at night through the woods,” added the woman.
“Bah!” said Darke; “Swartz told you that?”
“He has done so.”
“Hatred blinds you; I do not believe that story. But I design nothing of that description against Colonel Mohun. I will fight him wherever I meet him in battle—kill him, if I can—but no assassination.”
A mocking smile came to the woman’s lips.
“You seem to dislike the idea of—assassination,” she said.
Darke uttered a sound resembling the growl of a wild animal, and a moment after, seizing the decanter, he dashed some of its contents into a glass, and raised it to his lips.
“Cursed stuff!” he suddenly exclaimed, setting the glass down violently. “I want drink—real drink—to-day!”
The woman looked at him curiously, and said quietly:—
“What is the matter?”
Her companion’s brows were knit until the shaggy masses united over the gloomy eyes. Beneath burned a lurid fire.
“I have seen him again—General Davenant,” he said, in a low voice; “it is the second time.”
As he uttered these words, Darke seemed the prey of some singular emotion.
“It was at Gettysburg first,” he continued. “He was leading the charge, on the third day, against Cemetery Heights. I was there by accident. They were repulsed. When he rode back, he was carrying a bleeding boy in his arms through the smoke. I recognized his tall form and gray hair; and heard his voice in the midst of the cannon, as he cheered on his men.”
The speaker’s face had flushed. His breast rose and fell.
“That was the first time,” he said. “The second was the other day when he was riding among the enemy’s guns near Bristoe—I made him out with my glasses.”
Darke bent down, and gazed at the floor in silence. The fire in the dark eyes had deepened. His heavy under lip was caught in the large, sharp teeth.
All at once a ringing laugh disturbed the silence. There was a mocking intonation in it which was unmistakable.
“General Davenant!” exclaimed the woman. “Well, who is General Davenant?”
Darke looked at the mocking speaker sidewise.
“Who is General Davenant?” he said. “Is it necessary that I enlighten you, madam? He is my bugbear—my death’s head! The sight of him poisons my life, and something gnaws at me, driving me nearly mad! To see that man chills me, like the hand of death!”
The woman looked at him and then began to laugh.
“You do unbend your noble strength, my lord!” she said, “to think so brainsickly of things!” throwing into the word, “brainsickly,” exaggerated stage-rant.
“One would say,” she continued, “that the brave Colonel Darke had the blues to-day! Take care how you meet Colonel Mohun in this mood! The result might be unfortunate.”
Darke made no reply for some moments. He was gazing with knit brows upon the floor. Then he raised his head.
“You return to the subject of your friend,” he said, coldly.
“Yes. The subject is agreeable.”
“Well, I can give you intelligence of him—unless Swartz has anticipated me.”
“What intelligence?”
“Your friend Mohun is in love—again!”
The woman’s face flushed suddenly.
“With whom?” she said.
“Ah! there is the curious part of the affair, madam!” returned Darke.
And in a low tone he added:—
“The name of the young lady is—Georgia Conway.”
The woman half rose from her chair, with flashing eyes, and said:—
“Who told you that?”
Darke smiled. There was something lugubrious in that chilly mirth.
“An emissary on whom I can rely, brought me the intelligence,” he said, “Colonel Mohun was wounded in the battle of Fleetwood, and entering a house where she was nursing the wounded, fainted, and was caught in her arms. From that moment the affair began. She nursed him, and he was soon healed. I had myself inflicted the wound with a pistol ball—but the hurt was trifling. He got well in a few days—and was ready to meet me again at Upperville—but in those few days the young lady and himself became enamored of each other. She is proud, they say, and had always laughed at love—he too is a woman-hater—no doubt from some old affair, madam!—but both the young people suddenly changed their views. Colonel Mohun became devoted; the young woman forgot her sarcasm. My emissary saw them riding out more than once near Culpeper Court-House; and since the return of the army, they have been billing and cooing like two doves, quite love sick! That’s agreeable, is it not, madam?”
And Darke uttered a singular laugh. As for the woman she had grown so pale, I thought she would faint.
“Do you understand, madam?” continued Darke. “Colonel Mohun is in love again; and the name of his friend is—Georgia Conway!”
The woman was silent; but I saw that she was gnawing her nails.
“My budget is not exhausted, madam,” continued Darke. “The young lady has a sister; her name is Virginia. She too has a love affair with a young officer of the artillery. His name is William Davenant!”
And the speaker clutched the arm of a chair so violently that the wood cracked in his powerful grasp.
“That is all!” he added. “The Mohuns, Davenants and Conways, are about to intermarry, you see! Their blood is going to mingle, their hands to clasp, in spite of the gulf of fire that divides their people! All is forgotten, or they care nothing. They are yonder, billing, and cooing, and kissing! the tender hearts are throbbing—all the world is bright to them—while I am here, and you, tearing our hearts out in despair!”
Darke stopped, uttering a sound between a curse and a groan. The woman had listened with a bitter smile. As he finished, she rose and approached him. Her eyes burned in the pale face like coals of fire.
“There is a better thing than despair!” she said.
“What?”
“Vengeance!”
And grasping his arm almost violently:—
“That man is yonder!” she said, pointing with the other hand toward Warrenton, “Go and meet him, and kill him, and end all this at once! Remember the banks of the Nottaway!—That sword thrust—that grave! Remember, he hates you with a deadly hatred—has wounded you, laughed at you,—driven you back, when you met him, like a hound under the lash! Remember me!—your oath! Break that oath and I will go and kill him myself!”
As she uttered these words a cannon shot thundered across the woods.
“Listen!” the woman exclaimed.
Darke rose suddenly to his feet.
“You are right!” he said, gloomily. “You keep me to the work. I do not hate him as you do—but he is an enemy, and I will kill him. Why do I yield to you, and obey you thus? What makes me love you, I wonder!”
Suddenly a second gun roared from beyond Buckland.
“We will talk of that afterward,” said the woman, with flushed cheeks; “think of one thing only now—that he is yonder.”
“Good!” said Darke, “and I hope that in an hour one of us will be dead, I care not which—come, madam—but you must not expose yourself!”
“What am I!”
“All I have left!” he said.
And with a gloomy look he rushed from the house, followed by the gray woman.
In a moment the voice of Darke was heard, ordering “to horse!” a clatter of sabres followed; and the company of cavalry sat out at full gallop toward the firing.
At their head I saw Darke’s burly figure. The woman, escorted by an orderly, rode toward the rear.
In a few minutes the company of cavalry had entered a belt of woods and disappeared.
We had hastened into the apartment—Tom and myself, and looked now toward the highway. It was dark with a long column of Federal cavalry which seemed to be in great agitation.
The column, as well as I could make out, numbered at least a division. Neither the head nor the tail of the blue serpent was visible—only the main body, with its drawn sabres glittering like silver scales in the sun.
I hesitated not many seconds. Something was evidently going on, and our present whereabouts dangerous.
With a hasty salute to the young ladies who had hurried in, I made a sign to Tom, and ran to my horse.
My companion did not join me for at least five minutes. Impatience began to master me, when he appeared, laughing, and flourishing a knot of red ribbon, which I had observed in Miss Katy’s hair.
With a bound he was in the saddle—I saw him turn and make a gay salute toward the ladies on the steps, and then we set out at full speed across the fields to rejoin Stuart.
He was evidently engaged with the enemy. From the front came quick carbine shots and shouts. From the woods, on the left flank and in rear of the enemy, was heard the rapid thunder of cannon.
Suddenly every thing flashed upon me. I remembered Stuart’s significant smile; the absence of Fitz Lee; a trap had evidently been laid, and General Kilpatrick had fallen into it.
I was not deceived. The gallant Fitz Lee had suggested the ruse. He was to move toward Auburn, while Stuart retreated upon Warrenton, pursued by Kilpatrick. Then Fitz Lee was to attack the enemy in flank and rear, from the direction of Auburn—his cannon would be the signal for Stuart to turn. General Kilpatrick, thus assailed in front, flank and rear, sauve qui pent would, probably, be the order of the day with him.
Every thing turned out exactly as it had been arranged. Stuart retired steadily on Warrenton. When the Federal rear approached Buckland, Fitz Lee came in on their left flank, and then Stuart turned like a tiger, and bore down on the head of their column.
That gun we had heard was the signal of Fitz Lee’s attack. Those carbine shots came from Stuart as his men charged.
We had set out at full speed to rejoin Stuart, as I have said; but he saved Tom and myself the trouble of riding very far. He came to meet us, at full gallop, with drawn sabre, driving the Federal troopers in disorder before him.
The affair that succeeded was one of the most animated of the war.
The enemy were completely dumbfoundered, but a part of Kilpatrick’s force made a hard fight. Sabres clashed, carbines cracked, Fitz Lee’s artillery roared—the fields and woods around Buckland were full of tumult and conflict.
In ten minutes we had caught up with Stuart. He was leading his column in person. At the head of the front regiment rode Mohun, with drawn sabre, and pressing his magnificent gray to headlong speed. In his eye was the splendid joy of combat; his cheeks glowed; his laughing lips revealed the white teeth under the black mustache. It was difficult to recognize in this gay cavalier, the pale, bitter and melancholy cynic of the previous June.
“Look, Surry!” exclaimed Mohun, “we are driving our friend Kilpatrick! Stuart is down on him like a lion!”
“You are driving a personal friend of yours, besides!” I said. “Yonder he is—Colonel Darke!”
Mohun’s smile disappeared suddenly. He looked at Darke, whose burly figure was seen at the head of the charging column; and that glance was troubled and doubtful.
“I am sorry to meet him,” he said, in a low tone.
“Why?”
“He would not strike me yonder, in Pennsylvania, when I was in his power.”
“But he has sworn to kill you to-day!” I exclaimed. “I have just heard him swear that! Look out, Mohun! here they are!”
In an instant the two columns had clashed together, like thunder. What followed was a fierce and confused struggle—sabres clashing, carbines banging, men shouting, groaning, and falling from their horses, which trampled over the dead and wounded alike.
I was close beside Mohun as he closed in with Darke. The latter had plainly resolved on his enemy’s destruction; and in an instant the two men were cutting furiously at each other with their sabres. They were body to body—their faces flamed—it was rather a wrestle on horseback, than a sword fight.
Suddenly Mohun delivered a blow which fell upon his opponent’s sword hand, nearly cutting through the fingers. Darke’s arm instinctively fell, and he was at his adversary’s mercy.
Instead of plunging his sword into Darke’s breast, however, as he might have done, Mohun let its point fall, and said:—
“Take your life! Now I am even with you, sir!”
Darke recoiled, and a furious flash darted from his eyes. Then his left hand went to his hilt; he drew a pistol; and spurring close up to Mohun, placed the weapon on his enemy’s breast, and fired.
The bullet passed through Mohun’s breast, but at the same instant Darke uttered a fierce cry. Mohun had driven his sword’s point through the Federal officer’s throat—the blood spouted around the blade—a moment afterward the two adversaries had clutched, dragged each other from their rearing horses, and were tearing each other with hands and teeth on the ground, wet with their blood.
One of Mohun’s men leaped from horseback and tore them apart.
“A sword! give me a sword,” exclaimed Mohun, hoarsely.
And rising to his feet, he clutched at an imaginary weapon,—his lips foamed with blood,—and reeling, he fell at full length on the body of his adversary, who was bathed in blood, and seemed to be dying.
What is here described, all took place in a few minutes. In that time the enemy’s column had been broken, and hurled back. Suddenly the wild Southern cheer rang above the woods. Stuart and Fitz Lee had united their forces; in one solid column they pressed the flying enemy, banging and thundering on their rear with carbines and cannon.
Kilpatrick was defeated; his column in hopeless rout.
“Stuart boasts of having driven me from Culpeper;” he is reported to have said just before the fight, “and now I am going to drive him.”
But Stuart was not driven. On the contrary, he drove Kilpatrick. Some of the enemy’s column did not stop, it is said, before they reached the banks of the Potomac.
Such was the dramatic termination of the last great cavalry campaign of Stuart.
The affair came to be known as “The Buckland Races,” and Stuart’s old sabreurs still laugh as they recall the comedy.
The campaign of October, 1863, was over. Lee was behind the Rapidan.
In December General Meade struck a blow, in turn, at his adversary.
Shall we glance, in passing, at that affair of Mine Run? I saw a spectacle there—and a sad one, too—which I am tempted to describe, though aware it has little to do with my narrative. I have left Colonels Mohun and Darke in a bloody embrace yonder near Buckland. I ought to relate at length how they were not dead, and how they in due time recovered, but for the moment I think of a fine sight, and a weeping face, which I saw in the woods below Verdiersville.
Let us ride thither, reader, it will not take long.
In December, then, General Meade crossed the lower Rapidan, and advanced to assail General Lee in his works above.
A fiasco followed. Meade marched toward Verdiersville; found his adversary behind earth-works, near that place; reconnoitered them, felt them, moved backward and forward before them—and then, one morning, before General Lee was aware of the fact, quietly disappeared, returning to the north bank of the Rapidan.
You see I have no battles to describe on this occasion, reader. We had some hard fighting in the cavalry, but I shall not dwell upon that. It is some handsome fire-necklaces, and a talk with an old woman, which I shall speak of.
The fire-necklaces were manufactured by General Meade’s troops, just before their retreat. The men had fallen into line at the word; moved silently toward the Rapidan, and had not taken the trouble, in leaving the rebel woods, to extinguish their bivouac fires, amid the thickets, carpeted with leaves. The result was a splendid spectacle. The fires had gradually burned outward, devouring the carpet of dry leaves. Great circles of flame were seen everywhere in the woods, and these dazzling fire-necklaces grew larger and larger, twined together, became entangled, twisted about, sparkled, crackled,—of all the sights I ever saw I think this was the most curious!
From time to time the flames crawled along and reached the foot of some tall tree, festooned with dry vines. Then the vine would catch; the flame would dart through the festoons; climb the trunk; stream from the summit,—and above the blazing rings, twisting in endless convolutions, would roar a mighty tongue of flame, crimson, baleful, and menacing.
It was a new “torch of war,” invented by General Meade.
Such was the picturesque spectacle which rose a moment ago to my memory.
Now for the sad scene which I witnessed, as I rode back with Stuart.
Passing a small house, a poor woman came out, and with eyes full of tears, exclaimed, addressing Stuart:—
“Oh, child! stop a minute! Are they coming back? They have took every thing I had—they are not coming back!”{1}
{Footnote 1: Her words.}
Stuart stopped. He was riding at the head of his staff, preceded by his battle-flag. Not a trace of amusement was seen on his features, as he heard himself addressed in that phrase, “Oh, child!”
“Have they treated you so badly?” he said, in his grave, kind voice.
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the poor woman, weeping bitterly, “they have took every hog, cow, and ear of corn I have, and every thing from my daughter; she is a widow, and lives near us. These are her children, my grandchildren, come to get out of the way."{1}
{Footnote 1: Her words.}
And she pointed to two or three little girls, with frightened faces, and eyes wet with tears.
Stuart seemed deeply affected. Under that stout heart, which never shrunk, was a wealth of sweetness and kindness.
“Well, they are not coming back, my good woman,” he said, in a voice of deep feeling. “You need not be afraid—they are gone now.”
The poor woman clasped her hands.
“Oh! do you believe that, child!”{1} she said; “do you believe they’ll never come back?”
{Footnote 1: Her words.}
“I hope not, at least,” Stuart replied, in a low tone.
“She clasped her hands, and for the third time addressing him as ‘child,’ sobbed:—
“Oh! if they will only never come back!”
That scene affected me deeply. The poor woman’s tears brought something into my throat which seemed to choke me. This time the Northern soldiers had been impartial in their marauding. They had not only destroyed the property, and carried off the slaves of the wealthy proprietors, the “bloated aristocrats;” they had taken the bread out of the mouths of the widow and the fatherless—leaving them bare and starving in that bleak December of ‘63.
War conducted in that manner is barbarous—is it not, reader? The cry of that widow and her children must have gone up to Heaven.
Stuart returned to his bivouac in the pine wood near Verdiersville, where he had slept without tents, by his camp-fire, all these freezing nights. Then the army began to move; soon it resumed its former position; the cavalry was sent to watch the fords of the Rapidan; and Stuart returned to his own head-quarters near Orange Court-House, gayly singing, as he had left them to advance and meet the enemy.