Soon after daylight, on the next morning, Stuart was up, and writing busily at his desk.
He was perfectly cool, as always, and his manner when I went in exhibited no sort of flurry. But the couriers going and coming with dispatches indicated clearly that “something was in the wind.”
I was seated by the fireplace when Stuart finished a dispatch and came toward me. The next moment he threw himself upon a chair, leaned his head upon my shoulder, and began to caress one of his dogs, who leaped into his lap.
“Well, Surry, old fellow, we are going to get into the saddle. Look out for your head!”
“Excellent advice,” I replied. “I recommend you to follow it.”
“You think I expose myself, do you?”
“In the most reckless manner.”
“For instance—come, an instance!” he laughed.
I saw Stuart was talking to rest himself.
“Well, at Mine Run, when you rode up to that fence lined with sharpshooters—and they fired on us at ten paces, nearly.”
“In fact, you might have shot a marble at them—but I am not afraid of any ball aimed at me."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
“Then you believe in chance, general?”
“There is no chance, Surry,” he said, gravely. “God rules over all things, and not a sparrow, we are told, can fall without his permission. How can I, or you, then?”
“You are right, general, and I have always been convinced of your religious faith.”
“I believe in God and our Saviour, with all my heart,” said Stuart, solemnly. “I may not show it, but I feel deeply.”
“On the contrary, you show it—to me at least—even in trifles,” I said, moved by his earnestness. “Do you remember the other day, when an officer uttered a sneer at the expense of a friend of his who had turned preacher? You replied that the calling of a minister was the noblest in which any human being could engage{1}—and I regretted at that moment, that the people who laugh at you, and charge you with vicious things, could not hear you.”
{Footnote 1: His words.}
Stuart shook his head, smiling with a sadness on his lips which I had never seen before.
“They would not believe me, my dear Surry; not one would give me credit for a good sentiment or a pure principle! Am I not a drunkard, because my face is burned red by the sun and the wind? And yet I never touched spirit in all my life! I do not know the taste of it!{1} Am I not given to women? And yet, God knows I am innocent,—that I recoil in disgust from the very thought! Am I not frivolous, trifling,—laughing at all things, reverencing nothing? And yet my laughter is only from high health and animal spirits. I am young and robust; it is natural to me to laugh, as it is to be pleased with bright faces and happy voices, with colors, and music, and approbation. I am not as religious as I ought to be, and wish, with all my heart, I had the deep and devout piety of that good man and great military genius,{2} Stonewall Jackson. I can lay no claim to it, you see, Surry; I am only a rough soldier, at my hard work. I am terribly busy, and my command takes every energy I possess; but I find time to read my Bible and to pray. I pray for pardon and forgiveness, and try to do my duty, and leave the rest to God. If God calls me—and He may call me very soon—I hope I will be ready, and be able to say, ‘Thy will be done.’ I expect to be killed in this war;{3}—Heaven knows, I would have my right hand chopped off at the wrist to stop it!{4}—but I do not shrink from the ordeal before me, and I am ready to lay down my life for my country."{5}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
{Footnote 2: His words.}
{Footnote 3: His words.}
{Footnote 4: His words.}
{Footnote 5: His words.}
Stuart paused, and leaned his arm upon the rude shelf above the fireplace, passing his hand over his forehead, as was habitual with him.
“A hard campaign is coming, Surry,” he said, at length, more cheerfully; “I intend to do my duty in it, and deserve the good opinion of the world, if I do not secure it. I have perilled my life many times, and shall not shrink from it in future. I am a Virginian, and I intend to live or die for Old Virginia! The tug is coming; the enemy are about to come over and ‘try again!’ But we will meet them, and fight them like men, Surry! Our army is small, but with strong hands and brave hearts much can be done. We must be up and doing, and do our duty to the handle.{1} For myself, I am going to fight whatever is before me,—to win victory, with God’s blessing, or die trying! Once more, Surry, remember that we are fighting for our old mother, and that Virginia expects every man to do his duty!”
{Footnote 1: His words.}
His face glowed as he spoke; in his dazzling blue eyes burned the fire of an unconquerable resolution, a courage that nothing seemed able to crush.
Years have passed since then, a thousand scenes have swept before me; but still I see the stalwart cavalier, with his proud forehead raised, and hear his sonorous voice exclaim:—
“Virginia expects every man to do his duty!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
This conversation took place at an early hour of the morning. Two hours afterward, I was in the saddle and riding toward Chancellorsville, with the double object of inspecting the pickets and taking Mohun his commission.
I have described in my former Memoirs that melancholy country of the Wilderness; its unending thickets; its roads, narrow and deserted, which seem to wind on forever; the desolate fields, here and there covered with stunted bushes; the owls flapping their dusky wings; the whip-poor-will, crying in the jungle; and the moccasin gliding stealthily amid the ooze, covered with its green scum.
Strange and sombre country! lugubrious shades where death lurked! Already two great armies had clutched there in May, 1863. Now, in May, ‘64, the tangled thicket was again to thunder; men were going to grapple here in a mad wrestle even more desperate than the former!
Two roads stretch from Orange Court-House to Chancellorsville—the old turnpike, and the plank road—running through Verdiersville.
I took the latter, followed the interminable wooden pathway through the thicket, and toward evening came to the point where the Ely’s Ford road comes in near Chancellorsville. Here, surrounded by the rotting weapons, bones and skulls of the great battle already fought, I found Mohun ready for the battle that was coming.
He commanded the regiment on picket opposite Ely’s Ford; and was pointed out to me at three hundred yards from an old torn down house which still remains there, I fancy.
Mohun had dismounted, and, leaning against the trunk of a tree, was smoking a cigar. He was much thinner and paler than when I had last seen him; but his eye was brilliant and piercing, his carriage erect and proud. In his fine new uniform, replacing that left at Fort Delaware, and his brown hat, decorated with a black feather, he was the model of a cavalier, ready at a moment’s warning to meet the enemy.
We exchanged a close grasp of the hand. Something in this man had attracted me, and from acquaintances we had become friends, though Mohun had never given me his confidence.
I informed him of Nighthawk’s visit and narrative, congratulated him on his escape, and then presented him with his appointment to the grade of brigadier-general.
“Hurrah for Stuart! He is a man to count on!” exclaimed Mohun, “and here inclosed is the order for me to take command of four regiments!”
“I congratulate you, Mohun.”
“I hope to do good work with them, my dear Surry—and I think they are just in time.”
With which words Mohun put the paper in his pocket.
“You know the latest intelligence?” he said.
“Yes; but do not let us talk of it. Tell me something about yourself—but first listen to a little narrative from me.”
And I described the visit which I had made with Tom Herbert to the house near Buckland; the scene between Darke and his companion; and, to keep back nothing, repeated the substance of their conversation.
Mohun knit his brows; then burst into a laugh.
“Well!” he said, “so those two amiable characters are still bent on making mince-meat of me, are they? Did you ever hear any thing like it? They are perfect tigers, thirsting for blood!”
“Nothing more nor less,” I said; “the whole thing is like a romance.”
“Is it not?”
“A perfect labyrinth.”
“The very word!”
“And I have not a trace of a key.”
Mohun looked at me for some moments in silence. He was evidently hesitating; and letting his eyes fall, played with the hilt of his sword.
Then he suddenly looked up.
“I have a confidence to make you, Surry,” he said, “and would like to make it this very day. But I cannot. You have no doubt divined that Colonel Darke is my bitter enemy—that his companion is no less, even more, bitter—and some day I will tell you what all that means. My life has been a strange one. As was said of Randolph of Roanoke’s, ‘the fictions of romance cannot surpass it.’ These two persons alluded to it—I understand more than you possibly can—but I do not understand the allusions made to General Davenant. I am not the suitor of his daughter—or of any one. I am not in love—I do not intend to be—to be frank with you, friend, I have little confidence in women—and you no doubt comprehend that this strange one whom you have thrice met, on the Rappahannock, in Pennsylvania, and near Buckland, is the cause.”
“She seems to be a perfect viper.”
“Is she not? You would say so, more than ever, if I told you what took place at Warrenton.”
And again Mohun’s brows were knit together. Then his bitter expression changed to laughter.
“What took place at Warrenton!” I said, looking at him intently.
“Exactly, my dear friend—it was a real comedy. Only a poignard played a prominent part in the affair, and you know poignards belong exclusively to tragedy.”
Mohun uttered these words with his old reckless satire. A sort of grim and biting humor was plain in his accents.
“A poniard—a tragedy—tell me about it, Mohun,” I said.
He hesitated a moment. “Well, I will do so,” he said, at length. “It will amuse you, my guest, while dinner is getting ready.”
“I am listening.”
“Well, to go back. You remember my fight with Colonel Darke near Buckland?”
“Certainly; and I was sure that you had killed each other.”
“You were mistaken. He is not dead, and you see I am not. He was wounded in the throat, but my sabre missed the artery, and he was taken to a house near at hand, and thence to hospital, where he recovered. My own wound was a bullet through the chest; and this gave me so much agony that I could not be carried in my ambulance farther than Warrenton, where I was left with some friends who took good care of me. Meanwhile, General Meade had again advanced and occupied the place—I was discovered, and removed as soon as possible to the Federal hospital, where they could have me under guard. Faith! they are smart people—our friends the Yankees! They are convinced that ‘every little helps,’ and they had no idea of allowing that tremendous Southern paladin, Colonel Mohun, to escape! So I was sent to hospital. The removal caused a return of fever—I was within an inch of the grave—and this brings me to the circumstance that I wish to relate for your amusement.
“For some days after my removal to the Federal hospital, I was delirious, but am now convinced that much which I then took for the wanderings of a fevered brain, was real.
“I used to lie awake a great deal, and one gloomy night I saw, or dreamed I saw, as I then supposed, that woman enter my ward, in company with the surgeon. She bent over me, glared upon me with those dark eyes, which you no doubt remember, and then drawing back said to the surgeon:—
“‘Will he live?’
“‘Impossible to say, madam,’ was the reply. ‘The ball passed through his breast, and although these wounds are almost always mortal, men do now and then recover from them.’
“‘Will this one?’
“‘I cannot tell you, madam, his constitution seems powerful.’
“I saw her turn as he spoke, and fix those glaring eyes on me again. They were enough to burn a hole in you, Surry, and made me feel for some weapon. But there was none—and the scene here terminated—both retired. The next night, however, it was renewed. This time the surgeon felt my pulse, touched my forehead, placed his ear to my breast to listen to the action of the heart, and rising up said, in reply to madam’s earnest glance of inquiry:—
“‘Yes, I am sure he will live. You can give yourself no further anxiety about your cousin, madam.’
“Her cousin! That was not bad, you see. She had gained access, as I ascertained from some words of their conversation, by representing herself as my cousin. I was a member of her family who had ‘gone astray’ and embraced the cause of the rebellion, but was still dear to her! Womanly heart! clinging affection! not even the sin of the prodigal cousin could sever the tender chord of her love! I had wandered from the right path—fed on husks with the Confederate swine; but I was wounded—had come back; should the fatted calf remain unbutchered, and the loving welcome be withheld?
“‘You can give yourself no further uneasiness about your cousin, madam!’
“Such was the assurance of the surgeon, and he turned away to other patients, of whom there were, however, very few in the hospital, and none near me. As he turned his back, madam looked at me. Her face was really diabolical, and I thought at the moment that she was a nightmare—that I dreamed her! Closing my eyes to shut out the vision, I kept them thus shut for some moments. When I reopened them she was gone.
“Well, the surgeon’s predictions did not seem likely to be verified. My fever returned. Throughout the succeeding day I turned and tossed on my couch; as night came, I had some hideous dreams. A storm was raging without, and the rain falling in torrents. The building trembled, the windows rattled—it was a night of nights for some devil’s work; and I remember laughing in my fever, and muttering, ‘Now is the time for delirium, bad dreams, and ugly shapes, to flock around me!’
“I fell into a doze at last, and had, as I thought, a decidedly bad dream—for I felt certain that I was dreaming, and that what I witnessed was the sport of my fancy. What I saw, or seemed to see, was this: the door opened slowly—a head was thrust in, and remained motionless for an instant; then the head moved, a body followed; madam, the lady of the dark eyes, glided stealthily toward my cot. It was enough to make one shudder, Surry, to have seen the stealthy movement of that phantom. I gazed at it through my half-closed eyelids—saw the midnight eyes burning in the white face half covered by a shawl thrown over the head—and, under that covering, the right hand of the phantom grasped something which I could not make out.
“In three quick steps it was beside me. I say it, for the figure resembled that of a ghost, or some horrible thing. From the eyes two flames seemed to dart, the lips opened, and I heard, in a low mutter:—
“‘Ah! he is going to recover, then!’
“As the words left the phantom’s lips, it reached my cot at a bound; something gleamed aloft, and I started back only in time to avoid the sharp point of a poniard, which grazed my head and nearly buried itself in the pillow on which I lay.
“Well, I started up and endeavored to seize my assailant; but she suddenly broke away from me, still clutching her weapon. Her clothing was torn from her person—she recoiled toward the door—and I leaped from my couch to rush after and arrest her. I had not the strength to do so, however. I had scarcely taken three steps when I began to stagger.
“‘Murderess!’ I exclaimed, extending my arms to arrest her flight.
“It was useless. A few feet further I reeled—my head seemed turning round—and again shouting ‘Murderess!’ I fell at full length on the floor, at the moment when the woman disappeared.
“That was curious, was it not? It would have been a tragical dream—it was more tragical in being no dream at all, but a reality. What had taken place was simple, and easy to understand. That woman had come thither, on this stormy night, to murder me; and she had very nearly succeeded. Had she found me asleep, I should never have waked. Fortunately, I was awake. Some noise frightened her, and she disappeared. A moment afterward one of the nurses came, and finally the surgeon.
“When I told him what had taken place, he laughed.
“‘Well, colonel, go back to bed,’ he said, ‘such dreams retard your recovery more than every thing else.’
“I obeyed, without taking the trouble to contradict him. My breast was bleeding again, and I did not get over the excitement for some days. The phantom did not return. I slowly recovered, and was taken in due time to Fort Delaware—the rest you know.
“I forgot to tell you one thing. The surgeon almost persuaded me that I had been the victim of nightmare. Unfortunately, however, for the theory of the worthy, I found a deep hole in my pillow, where the poniard had entered.
“So you see it was madam, and not her ghost, who had done me the honor of a visit, Surry.”
An hour afterward I had dined with Mohun at his head-quarters, in the woods; mounted our horses; and were making our way toward the Rapidan to inspect the pickets.
This consumed two hours. We found nothing stirring. As sunset approached, we retraced our steps toward Chancellorsville. I had accepted Mohun’s invitation to spend the night with him.
As I rode on, the country seemed strangely familiar. All at once I recognized here a tree, there a stump—we were passing over the road which I had followed first in April, 1861, and again in August, 1862, when I came so unexpectedly upon Fenwick, and heard his singular revelation.
We had been speaking of Mordaunt, to whose brigade Mohun’s regiment belonged, and the young officer had grown enthusiastic, extolling Mordaunt as ‘one of the greatest soldiers of the army, under whom it was an honor to serve.’
“Well,” I said, “there is a spot near here which he knows well, and where a strange scene passed on a night of May, 1863.”
“Ah! you know the country, then?” said Mohun.
“Perfectly well.”
“What are you looking at?”
“That hill yonder, shut in by a thicket. There is a house there.”
And I spurred on, followed by Mohun. In five minutes we reached the brush-fence; our horses easily cleared it, and we rode up the hill toward the desolate-looking mansion.
I surveyed it intently. It was unchanged, save that the porch seemed rotting away, and the window-shutters about to fall—that on the window to the right hung by a single hinge. It was the one through which I had looked in August, 1862. There was the same door through which I had burst in upon Fenwick and his companion.
I dismounted, threw my bridle over a stunted shrub, and approached the house. Suddenly I stopped.
At ten paces from me, in a little group of cedars, a man was kneeling on a grave, covered with tangled grass. At the rattle of my sabre he rose, turned round—it was Mordaunt.
In a moment we had exchanged a pressure of the hand; and then turning to the grave:—
“That is the last resting-place of poor Achmed,” he said; adding, in his deep, grave voice:—
“You know how he loved me, Surry.”
“And how you loved him, Mordaunt. I can understand your presence at his grave, my dear friend.”
Mordaunt sighed, then saluted Mohun, who approached.
“This spot,” he said, “is well known to Colonel Surry and myself, Mohun.”
Then turning to me, he added:—
“I found a melancholy spectacle awaiting me here.”
“Other than Achmed’s grave?”
“Yes; come, and I will show you.”
And he led the way into the house. As I entered the squalid and miserable mansion, the sight which greeted me made me recoil.
On a wretched bed lay the corpse of a woman; and at a glance, I recognized the woman Parkins, who had played so tragic a part in the history of Mordaunt. The face was hideously attenuated; the eyes were open and staring; the lower jaw had fallen. In the rigid and bony hand was a dry and musty crust of bread.
“She must have starved to death here,” said Mordaunt, gazing at the corpse. And, approaching it, he took the crust from the fingers. As he did so, the teeth seemed grinning at him.
“Poor creature!” he said; “this crust was probably all that remained to her of the price of her many crimes! I pardon her, and will have her buried!”
As Mordaunt turned away, I saw him look at the floor.
“There is Achmed’s blood,” he said, pointing to a stain on the plank; “and the other is the blood of Fenwick, who was buried near his victim.”
“I remember,” I murmured. And letting my chin fall upon my breast, I returned in thought to the strange scene which the spot recalled so vividly.
“There is but one other actor in that drama of whom I know nothing, Mordaunt!”
“You mean—”
“Violet Grafton.”
Mordaunt raised his head quickly. His eyes glowed with a serene sweetness.
“She is my wife,” he said; “the joy and sunlight of my life! I no longer read Les Misérables, and sneer at my species—I no longer scowl, Surry, and try to rush against the bullet that is to end me. God has rescued a lost life in sending me one of his angels; and it was she who made me promise to come hither and pray on the grave of our dear Achmed!”
Mordaunt turned toward the door as he spoke, and inviting me to ride with him, left the mansion. As I had agreed to stay with Mohun, I was obliged to decline.
Five minutes afterward he had mounted, and with a salute, the tall form disappeared in the forest.
We set out in turn, and were soon at Mohun’s bivouac.
I shared Mohun’s blankets, and was waked by the sun shining in my face.
My companion had disappeared, but I had scarcely risen when he was seen approaching at full gallop.
Throwing himself from his horse, he grasped my hand, his face beaming.
“All right, Surry!” he exclaimed; “I have seen Mordaunt; my command is all arranged; I have four superb regiments; and they are already in the saddle.”
“I congratulate you, my dear general! Make good use of them—and I think you are going to have the opportunity at once.”
“You are right—the enemy’s cavalry are drawn up on the north bank of the river.”
“Any firing in front?”
“They are feeling at all the fords.”
“Are you going there?”
“At once.”
“I will go with you.”
And I mounted my horse which stood saddled near by.
Swallowing some mouthfuls of bread and beef as we rode on, we soon reached Mohun’s command. It consisted of four regiments, drawn up in column, ready to move—and at sight of the young sabreur, the men raised a shout.
Mohun saluted with drawn sabre, and galloped to the front.
A moment afterward the bugle sounded, and the column advanced toward the Rapidan, within a mile of which it halted—Mohun and myself riding forward to reconnoitre at Germanna Ford, directly in our front.
The pickets were engaged, firing at each other across the river. On the northern bank were seen long columns of Federal cavalry, drawn up as though about to cross.
I rode with Mohun to the summit of the lofty hill near the ford, and here, seated on his horse beneath a tree, we found Mordaunt. It was hard to realize that, on the evening before, I had seen this stern and martial figure, kneeling in prayer upon a grave—had heard the brief deep voice grow musical when he spoke of his wife. But habit is every thing. On the field, Mordaunt was the soldier, and nothing but the soldier.
“You see,” he said, “the game is about to open,” pointing to the Federal cavalry. “You remember this spot, and that hill yonder, I think.”
“Yes,” I replied, “and your charge there when we captured their artillery in August, ‘62.”
As he spoke, a dull firing, which we had heard for some moments from the direction of Ely’s Ford, grew more rapid. Five minutes afterward, an officer was seen approaching from the side of the firing, at full speed.
When he was within a hundred yards, I recognized Harry Mordaunt. He was unchanged; his eyes still sparkled, his plume floated, his lips were smiling.
He greeted me warmly, and then turned to General Mordaunt, and reported the enemy attempting to cross at Ely’s.
“I will go, then; will you ride with me, Surry? Keep a good look out here, Mohun.”
I accepted Mordaunt’s invitation, and in a moment we were galloping, accompanied by Harry, toward Ely’s.
“Glad to see you again, colonel!” exclaimed the young man, in his gay voice, “you remind me of old times, and a young lady was speaking of you lately.”
“A certain Miss Fitzhugh, I will wager!”
“There’s no such person, colonel.”
“Ah! you are married!”
“Last spring; but I might as well be single! That’s the worst of this foolishness,—I wish they would stop it! I don’t mind hard tack, or fighting, or sleeping in the rain; what I do mind is never being able to go home! I wish old Grant would go home and see his wife, and let me go and see mine! We could then come back, and blaze away at each other with some satisfaction!”
Harry was chattering all the way, and I encouraged him to talk; his gay voice was delightful. We talked of a thousand things, but they interested me more than they would interest the reader, and I pass on to matters more important.
Pushing rapidly toward Ely’s, we soon arrived, and found the enemy making a heavy demonstration there. It lasted throughout the day, and I remained to witness the result. At sunset, however, the firing stopped, and, declining Mordaunt’s invitation to share the blankets of his bivouac, I set out on my way back to Orange.
Night came almost before I was aware of it, and found me following the Brock road to get on the Orange plank road.
Do you know the Brock road, reader? and have you ever ridden over it on a lowering night? If so, you have experienced a peculiar sensation. It is impossible to imagine any thing more lugubrious than these strange thickets. In their depths the owl hoots, and the whippoorwill cries; the stunted trees, with their gnarled branches, are like fiends reaching out spectral arms to seize the wayfarer by the hair. Desolation reigns there, and you unconsciously place your hand on your pistol as you ride along, to be ready for some mysterious and unseen enemy.
At least, I did so on that night. I had now penetrated some distance, and had come near the lonely house where so many singular events had occurred.
I turned my head and glanced over my shoulder, when, to my surprise, I saw a light glimmering through the window. What was its origin? The house was certainly uninhabited, even by the dead—for Mordaunt had informed me that a detail had, that morning, buried the corpse.
There was but one means of solving the mystery, and I leaped the fence, riding straight toward the house; soon reaching it, I dismounted and threw open the door.
What should greet my eyes, but the respectable figure of Mr. Nighthawk, seated before a cheerful blaze, and calmly smoking his pipe!
As I entered, Mr. Nighthawk rose politely, without exhibiting the least mark of astonishment.
“Good evening, colonel,” he said, smiling, “I am glad to see you.”
“And I, never more surprised to see any one than you, here, Nighthawk!”
“Why so, colonel?”
I could not help laughing at his air of mild inquiry.
“Did I not leave you at our head-quarters?”
“That was two days ago, colonel.”
“And this is your residence, perhaps?”
“I have no residence, colonel; but am here, temporarily, on a little matter of business.”
“Ah! a matter of business!”
“I think it might be called so, colonel.”
“Which it would be indiscreet to reveal to me, however. That is a pity, for I am terribly curious, my dear Nighthawk!”
Nighthawk looked at me benignly, with a philanthropic smile.
“I have not the least objection to informing you, colonel. You are a gentleman of discretion, and have another claim on my respect.”
“What is that?”
“You are a friend of Colonel Mohun’s.”
“A very warm one.”
“Then you can command me; and I will tell you at once that I am awaiting the advance of General Grant.”
“Ah! Now I begin to understand.”
“I was sure you would at the first word I uttered, colonel. General Grant will cross the Rapidan to-night—by to-morrow evening his whole force will probably be over—and I expect to procure some important information before I return to General Stuart. To you I am Mr. Nighthawk, an humble friend of the cause, employed in secret business,—to General Grant I shall be an honest farmer, of Union opinions, who has suffered from the depredations of his troops, and goes to head-quarters for redress. You see they have already stripped me of every thing,” continued Mr. Nighthawk, waving his arm and smiling; “not a cow, a hog, a mule, or a mouthful of food has been left me. They have destroyed the very furniture of my modest dwelling, and I am cast, a mere pauper, on the cold charities of the world!”
Mr. Nighthawk had ceased smiling, and looked grave; while it was I who burst into laughter. His eyes were raised toward heaven, with an expression of meek resignation; he spread out both hands with the eloquence of Mr. Pecksniff; and presented the appearance of a virtuous citizen accepting meekly the most trying misfortunes.
When I had ceased laughing, I said:—
“I congratulate you on your histrionic abilities, Nighthawk. They deserve to be crowned with success. But how did you discover this house?”
“I was acquainted with its former owner, Mrs. Parkins. She was a sister of a friend of mine, whom I think you have seen, colonel.”
“What friend?”
“His name is Swartz, colonel.”
“Not the Federal spy?”
“The same, colonel.”
“Whom we saw last in the house between Carlisle and Gettysburg?”
“I saw him the other day,” returned Mr. Nighthawk, smiling sweetly.
“Is it possible!”
“Near Culpeper Court-House, colonel. And, to let you into a little secret, I expect to see him to-night.”
I looked at the speaker with bewilderment.
“That man will be here!”
“If he keeps his appointment, colonel.”
“You have an appointment?”
“Yes, colonel.”
“In this house?”
“To-night.”
“With what object, in heaven’s name!”
Nighthawk hesitated for some moments before replying.
“The fact is, colonel,” he said, “that I inadvertently mentioned my appointment with Swartz without reflecting how singular it must appear to you, unless I gave you some explanation. But I am quite at my ease with you—you are a friend of Colonel Mohun’s—and I will explain, as much of my business as propriety will permit. To be brief, I am anxious to procure a certain document in Swartz’s possession.”
“A certain document?” I said, looking intently at the speaker.
“Exactly, colonel.”
“Which Swartz has?”
“Precisely, colonel.”
“And which he stole from the papers of Colonel Darke on the night of Mohun’s combat with Darke, in the house near Carlisle?”
Mr. Nighthawk looked keenly at me, in turn.
“Ah! you know that!” he said, quickly.
“I saw him steal it, through the window, while the woman’s back was turned.”
“I am deeply indebted to you, colonel,” said Mr. Nighthawk, gravely, “for informing me of this fact, which, I assure you, is important. Swartz swore to me that he had the paper, and had procured it in that manner, but I doubted seriously whether he was not deceiving me. He is a very consummate rascal, knows the value of that document, and my appointment with him to-night is with an eye to its purchase from him.”
“Do you think he will come?”
“I think so. He would sell his soul for gold.”
“And that woman? he seems to be her friend.”
“He would sell her for silver!”
After uttering which bon mot, Mr. Nighthawk smiled.
This man puzzled me beyond expression. His stealthy movements were strange enough—it was singular to meet him in this lonely house—but more singular still was the business which had brought him. What was that paper? Why did Nighthawk wish to secure it? I gave up the inquiry in despair.
“Well,” I said, “I will not remain longer; I might scare off your friend, and to eaves-drop is out of the question, even if you were willing that I should be present.”
“In fact, colonel, I shall probably discuss some very private matters with my friend Swartz, so that—”
“You prefer I should go.”
Mr. Nighthawk smiled; he was too polite to say “yes.”
“You are not afraid to meet your friend in this lonely place?” I said, rising.
“Not at all, colonel.”
“You are armed?”
Mr. Nighthawk opened his coat, and showed me a brace of revolvers.
“I have these; but they are unnecessary, colonel.”
“Unnecessary?”
“I have an understanding with Swartz, and he with me.”
“What is that?”
“That we shall not employ the carnal weapon; only destroy each other by superior generalship.”
“You speak in enigmas, Nighthawk!”
“And yet, my meaning is very simple. If I can have Swartz arrested and hung, or he me, it is all fair. But we have agreed not to fight.”
“So, if you caught him to-night, you could have him hung as a spy?”
“Yes, colonel; but nothing would induce me to betray him.”
“Ah!”
“I have given him my parol, that he shall have safe conduct!”
I laughed, bade Nighthawk good-bye, and left him smiling as I had found him. In ten minutes I was again on the Brock road, riding on through the darkness, between the impenetrable thickets.