At daylight a long thunder came up from the woods of the Rappahannock. The greatest cavalry combat of the war had begun.
At that sound Stuart leaped to the saddle, and rode rapidly toward the front. Fifteen minutes afterward his head-quarters had vanished. On the green slope of Fleetwood not a tent was visible.
Is the reader familiar with the country along the Upper Rappahannock? If so, he will remember that the river is crossed in Culpeper by numerous fords. The principal—beginning on the left, that is to say, up the river—are Welford’s, Beverly’s, the Railroad bridge, and Kelly’s fords.
Stuart’s left, under William H.F. Lee, was opposite Welford’s; his centre, under Jones, opposite Beverly’s; his right, under Hampton, toward Kelly’s; and a force under Robertson was posted in the direction of Stevensburg, to guard the right flank. The whole amounted to about seven or eight thousand cavalry.
The Federal column which now advanced to attack it, is said to have embraced all the cavalry of General Hooker’s army; and must have numbered more than twelve thousand sabres.
Stuart rode on rapidly down Fleetwood Hill, and was soon opposite Beverly’s Ford where the enemy had crossed in force. General Jones was heavily engaged, and the Napoleons of the horse artillery were roaring steadily. Every moment the round shot crashed, or the shell tore through the woods about three hundred yards in front of the pieces where the dismounted cavalry of the enemy had effected a lodgment. They kept up a hot fire at the cannoneers, and the steady rattle of carbines further up the river told that Lee was also engaged.
In face of the bursting shell, the bluetirailleurscould not advance; and Stuart sent an order to Hampton to move in and attack on the right.
The troopers of the Gulf States advanced at the word; their dense column was seen slowly moving, with drawn sabre, across the plain; the moment of decisive struggle seemed rapidly approaching, when suddenly a heavy blow was struck at Stuart’s rear.
I had been directed by him to ascertain if “every thing had been sent off from Fleetwood,” and to see that no papers had been dropped there in the hurry of departure. Going back at a gallop I soon reached the hill, and rode over the ground recently occupied by the head-quarters. The spot seemed swept. Not a paper was visible. All that I could see was a withered bouquet dropped by some young officer of the staff—a relic, no doubt, of the last night’s ball at the village.
I had already turned to ride back to Stuart, when my attention was attracted by a column of cavalry advancing straight on Brandy—that is, upon Stuart’s rear. What force was that? Could it be the enemy? It was coming from the direction of Stevensburg; but how could it have passed our force there?
“Look!” I said to an officer of the horse artillery, one battery of which was left in reserve on the hill, “look! what column is that?”
“It must be Wickham’s,” was his reply.
“I am sure they are Yankees!”
“Impossible!” he exclaimed.
But our doubts were soon terminated. From the rapidly advancing column two guns shot out and unlimbered. Then two white puffs of smoke spouted from their muzzles, and the enemy’s shell burst directly in our faces.
The horse artillery returned the fire, and I hastened back with the intelligence to Stuart.
“It is only a squadron, I suppose,” he replied with great coolness. “Go back and get all the cavalry you can, and charge the guns and bag them!”{1}
{Footnote: His words}
It is impossible to imagine any thing calmer than the speaker’s voice. I knew, however, that the attack was more critical than he supposed; hastened back; came up with two regiments; and they ascended the hill at full gallop, leaping the ravines, and darting toward the crest.
Suddenly it blazed with staggering volleys. The Federal cavalry had rushed straight across the fields toward the hill—ascended its western slope as we ascended the eastern, and met us—coming on, in squadron front, they struck the Confederates advancing in column of fours, and in confusion from the rough ground—they recoiled—were thrown into disorder; and with loud cheers the enemy swarmed all over Fleetwood Hill.
The battle seemed lost. Stuart was cut off, and hemmed in between two powerful bodies of Federal cavalry, supported by infantry and artillery.
All that saved us at that moment, was the “do or die” fighting of the cavalry and horse artillery.
On the crest of Fleetwood took place a bitter and obstinate struggle. It was one of those fights of the giants, which once witnessed is never forgotten. The cannoneers of the horse artillery fought as savagely, hand to hand, as the regular cavalry; and the crest became the scene of a mad wrestle, rather of wild beasts than men.
All at once the form of Davenant appeared amid the smoke. He had come rapidly from the front, and now threw himself into the combat like the bloodhound to which Stuart had compared him. His sad smile had disappeared; his cheeks were flushed; his eyes fiery;—leaping from his horse, he seized the sponge-staff of a gun, from which all the cannoneers had been driven, and ramming home a charge of canister, directed the gun upon a column of the enemy.
Before he could fire, a Federal cavalryman rode at him, and cut furiously at his bare head, with the full weight of his sabre.
Davenant did not try to draw his sword—the attempt would have been useless. In his hand he had a weapon; and with a swing of the rammer he swept the cavalryman from the saddle.{1} He fell headlong, covered with blood; and Davenant aimed and fired the charge of canister—leaped upon his horse—and drawing his sword, plunged into the melee, his head bare, his eyes flaming, his voice rising loud and inspiring, above the combat.
{Footnote 1: Fact.}
It was a stubborn, a superb struggle. Three times the enemy’s guns were charged and captured; three times the Confederates were furiously charged in turn, and the pieces recaptured by the enemy.{1} A final charge of the gray cavalry carried all before it. The Federal artillery was seized upon, and their cavalry driven back—but at that moment a heavier force still was seen advancing upon Stuart from the direction of Kelly’s ford.
{Footnote 1: Fact.}
It was a splendid spectacle. They came on in solid column, and rapidly formed line of battle on the slope of Fleetwood, with drawn sabres, and flags floating. As they moved they seemed to shake the very ground. I had never before seen so great a force of cavalry drawn up—and the critical moment of the battle had plainly come.
At that instant the great field presented a remarkable appearance. Cavalry were charging in every direction, and it was hard to tell friend from foe. Stuart was fighting, so to say, from the centre outwards. The enemy were in his front, in his rear, and on both his flanks. If they closed in, apparently, he would be crushed as in a vice. The iron hand would strangle him.
That moment tested the nerves. Stuart’s “heart of oak” bore the strain. He was aroused, stung, his cheeks burned, his eyes flamed—but the man was sufficient for the work. I looked closely at him. “Do or die” was plain on his face. From that instant I never had any doubts about Stuart.
He rushed two pieces of artillery to a knoll in front of the line of Federal horsemen. A moment afterward two reports were heard, and two shell burst precisely in the middle of the line, making a wide gap in it, and checking the charge which had begun.{1}
{Footnote 1: Fact.}
All at once I saw a column of cavalry coming up from the river, and turning to Stuart, said:—
“General, what cavalry is that?”
“Hampton’s!” Stuart exclaimed. “Bring it up like lightning!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
I set out at full gallop, and soon reached the column. At the head of it rode Young, thebeau sabreurof Georgia, erect, gallant, with his brave eye and smile.
I pointed out the enemy and gave the order.
“All right!” exclaimed Young, and, turning to his men, he whirled his sabre around his head and shouted,
“Forward!”
The column thundered on, and as it passed I recognized Mohun, his flashing eye and burnished sabre gleaming from the dust-cloud.
In five minutes they were in front of the enemy—the men wheeled and faced the Federal line.
“Charge!” rose from a hundred lips. Spurs were buried in the hot flanks; the mass was hurled at the enemy; and clashing like thunder, sword against sword, swept every thing before it. Not a single shot was fired—the sabre only was used. The enemy were broken to pieces—what I saw was a wild mêlée of whirling swords, flying horses, men cloven to the chin, while others were seen throwing themselves from the saddle, and raising their hands to escape the keen swordsmen slashing at them.{1}
{Footnote 1: Fact.}
The great force of the enemy sweeping down on Stuart’s flank was thus routed. The spectacle which followed was ludicrous as well as exciting. The enemy fled in disorder. Never before had I seen the nails in the hind shoes of hundreds of horses—myriads of horses’ tails streaming like meteors as they ran!
The force disappeared in the woods, hotly pursued by their foes. The dust followed them in a great cloud—from that cloud arose yells and cheers—cannon thundered; carbines rattled;—but that sound receded more and more rapidly toward the river.
On our left the brave William H.F. Lee had been as successful. He had charged and repulsed the enemy, falling wounded at the head of his men. They had not again advanced upon him. Near the Barbour House he presented an unbroken front to them.
Stuart held with his cavalry, indeed, the whole Fleetwood range. The long thunder of his artillery said to the enemy,
“Come on!”
They did not come. They went back. Their cavalry had crossed the river to ascertain the meaning of the great review. They had discovered nothing, after heavy loss. The ground was strewed with their dead and dying—they retired, shattered and bleeding.
Stuart’s loss was also great—even his staff was not spared. One of my brother staff officers was killed, another wounded, a third captured.
But Stuart had won the greatest cavalry fight of the war.
In a room of the “Barbour House” on Fleetwood Hill, Stuart was writing a dispatch to General Lee.
It was nearly sunset, and the red light was streaming through the windows. On the floor lay a number of wounded men, groaning piteously. Busily attending to their wants were two young girls—the daughters of Judge Conway, whom I had seen on the night of the ball.
The young ladies, I afterward discovered, had been on a visit to the family occupying the Barbour House; had courageously remained during the whole of the battle—and they were now busily attending to the wants of the wounded.
I was gazing at the eldest—the superb beauty with the disdainful eyes, who had held that wit-combat with her circle of admirers—when Stuart finished his dispatches, and turned around.
“Any reports?” he said briefly to a member of his staff.
“None, general—except that Colonel Mohun is reported killed.”
“Mohun! It is impossible! He drove the enemy, and was unhurt. I would not swap him for a hundred, nor a thousand of the enemy!”
“Thank you, general!” said a sonorous voice behind us.
And Mohun entered, making the military salute as he did so.
In his bearing I could discern the same cool pride, mingled with satire. There was only one change in him. He was paler than ever, and I could see that his right shoulder was bloody.
As he entered, Miss Georgia Conway, who was bending over a wounded soldier, raised her head and looked at him. Mohun’s eye met her own, and he bowed ceremoniously, taking no further notice of her.
At this exhibition of careless indifference I could see Miss Conway’s face flush. An expression of freezing hauteur came to the beautiful lips; and the disdainful glance indicated that heramour proprewas deeply wounded.
She turned her back upon him abruptly—but as Mohun had already turned his, the movement failed in its object. The officer was looking at Stuart, who had grasped his hand. He winced as the general pressed it, and turned paler, but said nothing.
“Then you are not dead, Mohun!” exclaimed Stuart, laughing.
“Not in the least, general, I am happy to inform you,” replied Mohun.
“I am truly glad to hear it! What news?”
“Our party is all over. We followed them up until they recrossed the river—and I owed them this little piece of politeness for I recognized an old acquaintance in the commander of the squadron.”
“An acquaintance?”
“A certain Colonel Darke—a charming person, general.” And Mohun laughed.
“I recognized him yonder when we charged on the hill, and, at first, he followed his men when they broke. As I got close to him, however, in the woods, he recognized me in turn, and we crossed swords. He is brave—no man braver; and he did his utmost to put an end to me. I had somewhat similar views myself in reference to my friend, the colonel, but his men interposed and prevented my carrying them out. They were all around me, slashing away. I was nearly cut out of the saddle—I was carried away from my friend in the mêlée—and the unkindest cut of all was his parting compliment as he retreated through the river.”
“What was that, Mohun?”
“A bullet from his pistol, which grazed my shoulder. A mere scratch, but provoking. I saw him grin as he fired.”
“An old friend on the Yankee side? Well, that happens,” said Stuart—
“Frequently, general,” said Mohun; “and this one wasverydear, indeed—most tenderly attached to me, I assure you. My affection for him is of the same endearing nature: and we only crossed sabres in jest—a mere fencing bout for amusement. We would not hurt each other for worlds!”
And Mohun’s mustache curled with laughter. There was something restless and sinister in it.
Suddenly his face grew paler, and his eyes were half closed.
“Well, Mohun,” said Stuart, who was not looking at him; “I am going to send you across the river on a reconnaissance to-night.”
“All right, general.”
And the officer made the military salute. As he did so, he staggered, and Stuart raised his eyes.
“You are wounded!” he exclaimed.
“A trifle,” laughed Mohun.
But as he spoke, his frame tottered; his face assumed the hue of a corpse; and he would have fallen, had not Miss Georgia Conway started up unconsciously from the wounded man whom she was attending to, and supported the officer in her arms.
Mohun opened his eyes, and a grim smile came to his pale face.
“A pretty tableau!” I heard him murmur; “it would do to put in a romance. A cup of tea—or a pistol—that would finish—”
As he uttered these singular words, the blood gushed from his wounded shoulder, his eyes closed, and, his head falling on the bosom of the young girl, he fainted.
Fleetwood was the first gun of the great campaign which culminated on the heights of Gettysburg. A week afterward, Lee’s columns were in motion toward Pennsylvania.
Was that invasion the dictate of his own judgment? History will answer. What is certain is, that the country, like the army, shouted “Forward!” The people were ablaze with wild enthusiasm; the soldiers flushed with the pride of their great victories of Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville. The authorities at Richmond shared the excitement, and the commissary-general, with unwonted humor, or in sober earnest, indorsed, it is said, upon a requisition for supplies: “If General Lee wishes rations, let him seek them in Pennsylvania.”
I doubt if the great commander shared the general agitation. I think he aimed to draw Hooker out of Virginia, leaving the rest to Providence. So he moved toward the Potomac.
The world had called Lee cautious. After this invasion, that charge was not repeated. From first to last audacity seemed the sentiment inspiring him.
With Hooker on the Rappahannock, threatening Richmond, Lee thrust his advance force under Ewell through the Blue Ridge toward Maryland; pushed Longstreet up to Culpeper to support him, and kept only A.P. Hill at Fredericksburg to bar the road to the Confederate capital.
Hooker wished to advance upon it, but President Lincoln forbade him. The dispatch was a queer official document.
“In case you find Lee coming to the north of the Rappahannock,” Lincoln wrote, “I would by no means cross to the south of it. I would not take any risk of being entangled upon the river,like an ox jumped half over a fence, and liable to be torn by dogs, front and rear, without a fair chance to gore one way or kick the other.”
Ludicrous perhaps, but to the point; the “Rail-Splitter” was not always dignified, but often judicious. Chancellorsville had been defeat—Lee’s assault, foreboded thus by Lincoln, would be death.
Hooker fell back, therefore, in the direction of Washington. Lee had foreseen that fact, and had given himself small anxiety. His three corps were already in full motion toward the Potomac; and suddenly the thunder of artillery came on the winds of the mountains.
Ewell, the head of the Southern spear, was driving at Milroy, holding Winchester. The struggle was brief. General Milroy had put the iron heel on the poor valley; had oppressed the unfortunate people beyond the power of words—and suddenly the hand of Fate clutched and shook him to death. Ewell stormed his “Star Fort” near Winchester, with the bayonet; drove him to headlong flight; got in rear of him, capturing nearly all his command; and poor Milroy scarce managed to escape, with a small body-guard, beyond the Potomac.
“In my opinion Milroy’s men will fight betterunder a soldier!”
It was his commanding officer, Hooker, who wrote those words a few days afterward. From the hands of his own general came that unkindest cut!
Exit Milroy, thus amid hisses and laughter—the hornet’s nest at Winchester was swept away—and Ewell headed straight for Pennsylvania.
Longstreet came up rapidly to fill the gap in the line—Hill followed Longstreet—and then the world beheld the singular spectacle of an army extended in a long skirmish line over a hundred miles, with another army massed not daring to assail it.
Hooker did not see his “opening;” but Lincoln did. One of his dispatches has been quoted—here is another as amusing and as judicious.
“If the head of Lee’s army is at Martinsburg,” Lincoln wrote Hooker, “and the tail of it on the Plank road, between Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville,the animal must be very slim somewhere—could you not break him?”
But Hooker could not. He did not even try. Lee’s movements seemed to paralyze him—his chief of staff wrote:—
“We cannot go boggling round, until we know what we are going after.”
“Boggling round” exactly described the movements of Hooker. He was still in a grand fog, and knew nothing of his adversary’s intent, when a terrific cry arose among the well-to-do farmers of Pennsylvania. The wolf had appeared in the fold. Ewell was rapidly advancing upon Harrisburg.
Behind came the veteran corps of Hill and Longstreet. The gorges of the Blue Ridge were alive with bristling bayonets. Then the waters of the Potomac splashed around the waists of the infantry and the wheels of the artillery carriages. Soon the fields of Maryland and Pennsylvania were alive with “rebels,” come, doubtless, to avenge the outrages of Pope and Milroy. Throughout those commonwealths—through Philadelphia, New York, and Boston—rang the cry, “Lee is coming!”
To return to the cavalry. The horsemen of Stuart were going to move in an eccentric orbit. These are mymemoirs, reader, not a history of the war; I describe only what I saw, and am going to ask you now, to “follow the feather” of Stuart.
Stuart was promptly in the saddle, and when Lee began to move, advanced north of the Rappahannock, drawing a cordon of cavalry across the roads above Middleburg, to guard the approaches to the mountain.
The result was that the infantry defiled through the Blue Ridge without Hooker’s knowledge. He knew that something was going on, but there his information terminated. The troopers of Stuart kept watch over fifteen miles of front, and through this wall of sabres the Federal eye could not pierce.
Stuart is regarded by many as only a brave “raider.” It was on occasions like this, however, that he performed his greatest services. Everywhere he confronted the enemy in stubborn battle; and the work was hard. It was fighting, fighting, fighting—now, as in 1862, when he covered Lee’s retreat after Sharpsburg. Day and night the cavalry had no rest. The crack of carbines, the clash of sabres, and the roar of cannon were incessant. It was a war of giants which Fauquier and Loudoun saw in those days—and not until the rear of Lee’s column had nearly reached the Potomac, did General Hooker by a desperate effort succeed in driving Stuart back.
In these pages I must leave that obstinate struggle undescribed. It was full of romantic scenes, and illustrated by daring courage: but all is lost to view in the lurid smoke of Gettysburg.
With one scene in the hurrying drama I shall pass to greater events.
But first, I beg to introduce to the reader a very singular personage, who is destined to play an important part in the history I am writing.
It was the night of the 20th of June, 1863. Stuart’s head-quarters had been established in a house on the roadside above Middleburg.
We had been fighting all day; had returned only at nightfall: and I was exchanging a few words with Stuart, before following the staff to rest, when all at once a third personage, who seemed to have arisen from the floor, stood before us.
His presence was so sudden and unexpected that I started. Then I looked at him, curiously.
He was a man of about forty, thin, wiry, and with a nose resembling the beak of a bird of prey. His eyes, half buried under bushy eyebrows, twinkled like two stars. His mouth was large and smiling; his expression exceedingly benignant. From the face I passed to the costume. The worthy was clad in severe black, with a clerical white cravat: wore a black beaver hat of the “stove-pipe” order; and presented the appearance of a pious and peaceable civilian—almost that of a clergyman, smiling benignantly upon all around him.
Stuart uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.
“Ah! Nighthawk, here you are!” he said.
And turning to me he introduced the new comer as “Mr. Nighthawk, one of my ‘private friends,’ and true as steel.”
Mr. Nighthawk bowed with an air of smiling respect—of benignant sweetness.
“I am glad to know you, colonel, and hope I may have an opportunity of being of service to you some day,” he said.
The voice was low, soft, and accorded with the mild expression of the countenance.
“Well, what news, Nighthawk?” asked Stuart; “experience tells me that you have something of importance to communicate?”
“Ah, general!”
“Yes. You pass in the cavalry by the name of the ‘man before the battle,’ for you always turn up then.”
Mr. Nighthawk smiled.
“I try to give you information, general; and perhaps I have some news. But first of my visits to Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Washington, where I saw many of our friends.”
And in his low, quiet voice Mr. Nighthawk, who had taken a seat and smoothed down his white cravat, proceeded to speak of his travels and what he had seen.
The narrative astounded me. He spoke without reserve, for General Stuart had informed him that he might do so before me; and I was startled to find the number of private friends the South had in the North. Mr. Nighthawk was evidentlyau faitat his trade. He had a perfect understanding plainly with persons of the highest political position; and Stuart listened with the greatest interest to the speaker, whose low voice never rose above the half-whisper by which I had been impressed on his first opening his lips.
“So the summing up of all this,” said Stuart, “that our friends are not too hopeful?”
“They are not, general.”
“They say Lee must win a great victory on the soil of Pennsylvania?”
“Yes, general. Without it there is no hope of peace, they declare.”
“Well, I think they are right; and that we shall gain the victory.”
Mr. Nighthawk made no reply; and Stuart reflected for some moments without speaking. Then rousing himself:—
“I forgot,” he said. “You have not given me your special information, Nighthawk.”
The worthy smiled.
“You know I am the ‘man before the battle,’ general?”
“Yes, go on, Nighthawk.”
“I have just left General Hooker’s head-quarters.”
“Where are they?”
“Beyond Centreville.”
“You saw him?”
“I conversed with him.”
“Ah!”
“An hour, general, as the Rev. Mr. Ward, from Massachusett, of the ‘Grand Union Sanitary Commission’.”
And Mr. Nighthawk smiled.
“Of course I urged active movements, and General Hooker became quite animated.”
“He agreed with your views then?” said Stuart, laughing.
“Perfectly, general.”
“And he intends—”
“There is the important thing. While we were conversing, General Hooker was called for a moment out of his tent, and by accident, my eyes fell upon an order which lay upon his desk.”
“An order?”
“For two divisions of cavalry, one of infantry, and a full complement of artillery, to advance and drive you back to the mountain.”
“Ah! you saw that order?”
“I did, general; it was just ready to be sent.”
“What day did it fix?”
“To-morrow, general.”
“Ah, indeed! Two divisions of infantry and one of cavalry?”
Mr. Nighthawk inclined in assent.
“When did you leave Hooker’s head-quarters?”
“This afternoon.”
“And you came through the lines to-night?”
“Yes, general, in the usual way, by passing through the pickets. I was on foot and nothing was easier.”
Stuart knit his brows and reflected. Then he called to the orderly.
“Wake the adjutant-general, and have three couriers ready at once!”
Mr. Nighthawk arose.
“By-the-by, general,” he said, “I saw Swartz, whom I have mentioned to you.”
“Yes; the best spy, you say, in the Federal army.”
“I think he is, general. He is a wonderful man. He recently played a trick upon you.”
“Uponme?”
“At least he bore off a prisoner from you. It was a lady, captured by Colonel Mohun, one night on the Rappahannock.”
“Ah! Is it possible! So Swartz was the old countryman, driving the wagon that morning.”
“So he informed me, general.”
“You are friends, then?”
“Close friends.”
And Mr. Nighthawk smiled.
“We have an agreement—but that would not interest you, general. That was really Swartz, and the old woman was the prisoner.”
“Well,” said Stuart, “that was a bold stroke, but the lady was handsome enough to make friends. There is something between herself and Colonel Mohun, is there not?”
Mr. Nighthawk glanced quickly at the face of the general. His eyes resembled steel points, but the piercing glance at once sank.
“Something between them, general? What could have made you think that? But here is Major McClellan. I will not detain you, general; I will come back at daylight to receive your orders.”
With these words, Mr. Nighthawk distributed a benignant smile, bowed in a friendly manner, and disappeared, it was difficult to say how, from the apartment. I had turned my eyes from him but an instant; when I again looked he was gone.
“And now to work!” exclaimed Stuart. “We are going to fight tomorrow, Surry, since the ‘man before the battle’ has made his appearance!”
At daybreak, Stuart was going at full gallop to the front.
A rapid fire of skirmishers, mingled with the dull roar of cannon, indicated that Nighthawk had not been deceived.
All at once the sharp-shooters were seen falling back from the woods.
“Bring me a piece of artillery!” exclaimed Stuart, darting to the front.
But the attack of the enemy swept all before it. Stuart was driven back, and was returning doggedly, when the gun for which he had sent, galloped up, and unlimbered in the road.
It was too late. Suddenly a solid shot screamed above us; the gun was hurled from its carriage, and rolled shattered and useless in the wood; the horses were seen rearing wild with terror, and trying to kick out of the harness.
Suddenly one of them leaped into the air and fell, torn in two by a second round shot.
“Quick work!” said Stuart, grimly.
And turning round to me, he said, pointing to a hill in rear—
“Post three pieces on that hill to rake all the roads.”
The order, like the former, came too late, however. The enemy advanced in overpowering force—drove Stuart back beyond his head-quarters, where they captured the military satchel of the present writer—and still rushing forward, like a hurricane, compelled the Confederate cavalry to retire behind Goose Creek. On the high ground there, Stuart posted his artillery; opened a rapid fire; and before this storm of shell the Federal forces paused.
The spectacle at that moment was picturesque and imposing. The enemy’s force was evidently large. Long columns of cavalry, heavy masses of infantry and artillery at every opening, right, left, and centre, showed that the task of driving back Stuart was not regarded as very easy. The sunshine darted from bayonet and sabre all along the great line of battle—and from the heavy smoke, tinged with flame, came the Federal shell. With their infantry, cavalry, and artillery, they seemed determined to put an end to us. Stuart galloped to his guns, pouring a steady fire from the lofty hill. Captain Davenant directed it in person, and he was evidently in his right element. All his sadness had disappeared. A cool and resolute smile lit up his features.
“All right, Davenant! Hold your ground!” exclaimed Stuart.
“I will do so, general.”
“Can you keep them from crossing?”
“I can try, general.”
A whirlwind of shell screamed around the two speakers. For the hundredth time I witnessed that entire indifference to danger which was a trait of Stuart. The fire at this moment was so terrible that I heard an officer say:—
“General Stuart seems trying to get himself and everybody killed.”
Nothing more inspiring, however, can be imagined than his appearance at that moment. His horse, wild with terror, reared, darted, and attempted to unseat his rider. Stuart paid no attention to him. He had no eyes or thought for any thing but the enemy. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes flamed—he resembled a veritable king of battle.
From Stuart my glances passed to Davenant. His coolness impressed me deeply. While giving an order, a shell burst right in his face, enveloping horse and rider in a cloud of smoke—but when the smoke drifted away, he was sitting his horse unmoved, and giving the order as quietly as before.
I have not invented this picture, reader, or fancied this character. I had the honor to enjoy the friendship of the brave boy I describe. He was remarkable, in an epoch crowded with remarkable characters.
Stuart held his ground for an hour on the high hills of Goose Creek, but it then became plain that he was going to be driven back. The enemy had felt him, and discovered that the game was in their own hands. Now they rushed on his right, left and centre, at the same moment—cavalry, infantry, and artillery rolling on like a torrent—crossed the stream, charged the hill—in a moment a bitter and savage combat commenced for the possession of the crest.
Stuart rushed toward the guns. As he reached them a cannon ball carried off the head of a cannoneer, and his horse reared with fright, nearly trampling on the headless trunk which spouted blood. Davenant had coolly drawn his sabre, but had given no order to retire.
“Move back the guns!” exclaimed Stuart.
“Is it necessary, general?” asked Davenant.
“Yes, they will be captured in five minutes!”
“It is a pity we can not remain, general. This is an excellent position.”
And he gave the order to limber up. The operation was performed amid a hurricane of bullets, striking down the cannoneers.
Suddenly a column of Federal cavalry charged straight at the guns. Davenant met them with his mounted men, armed with sabres, and a stubborn combat followed. It was a hilt to hilt affair, and Davenant was in the midst of it shouting:—
“You are fighting for your guns, boys! You promised to die by your guns!”
The men answered with fierce shouts, and met the enemy with savage resolution. Meanwhile, the guns had rushed at a gallop down the western slope; a regiment came to Davenant’s assistance; the fight grew desperate, but was of no avail.
In fifteen minutes we were driven.
Driven! Do you know what that means, reader? Ask old soldiers if it is pleasant. They will growl in reply!
We were forced back, step by step, with the enemy at our very heels. At our backs came on the huge column, yelling and firing, mad with triumph. Stuart the valiant, the obstinate, the unshrinking was driven!
We were forced back to Upperville, and there things looked stormy. On the other roads, Stuart’s right and left were rapidly retiring. His centre at Upperville seemed devoted to destruction.
The enemy came on like a whirlwind, with a roaring shout. As far as the eye could see, the great fields were dark with them. Their horse artillery advanced at a gallop, unlimbered, and tore the retreating columns with shot and shell.
I was ten yards from Stuart, just at the edge of the town, when a picked body of Federal horsemen darted straight upon him.
They had evidently recognized him by his major-general’s uniform and splendid feather. Bullets hissed around him; blows were struck at him; and for an instant I saw him in the midst of a wild huddle of enemies, defending himself with his revolver only.
In an instant he would have been killed or captured, with his staff and body-guard, when a resounding shout was heard.
I glanced over my shoulder, and saw the cavaliers of Hampton coming on with drawn sabre.
Then a splendid spectacle was presented—that of Wade Hampton in one of his great moments. This stalwart cavalier was leading his men, and in an instant they had struck the enemy with a noise like thunder.
Suddenly a cavalier on a black horse rushed by like the wild huntsman, and I recognized Mohun; who, spurring his animal to headlong speed, drove straight at the leader of the Federal cavalry, almost in contact with us.
Through a rift in the smoke I caught a glimpse of Mohun’s opponent. He was a man of low stature, but broad, heavy, and powerful. He came to meet his adversary with the bridle of his horse resting on the animal’s neck, while both hands clutched a heavy broad-sword, raised over his right shoulder.
I could only see that the two opponents hurled together like knights tilting; their swords gleamed; they closed in, body to body; then the smoke wrapped them. It was impossible to see more.