“Let me continue, I beg,” continued General Davenant, gloomily. “Your look of astonishment is quite natural; you feel the indignation of a gentleman at my words; but allow me to go on with my narrative.
“Poor George Conway was buried on the day after the discovery of his body, and an immense concourse accompanied him to his grave. The funeral procession was a mile long, for the notoriety attached to the event had drawn people from far and near; and when the body reached the grave-yard, the crowd nearly filled the small enclosure.
“I was present in my carriage with my wife, and my son Charles yonder, then a child in arms. You will understand, colonel, that I had not the heart to be absent. I had long ceased to feel a sentiment of any great regard for the Conways; but at the intelligence of George’s sudden death, all my old friendship had revived—the old kindly feeling came back; pity banished all enmity. I thought of his former love for me, and I determined to do all that remained in my power to show my sympathy—attend his funeral among those who mourned him.
“Well, the body was borne to the grave, the service read, and the remains of the unfortunate gentleman deposited in their last resting-place. Then the clods rattled on the coffin, the service ended, and George Conway had passed away from all eyes.
“I looked at his poor wife and brother with tears in my eyes. All my enmity was gone—my memory went back to the old scenes; at that instant I could have reached out my arms, and drawn the bereaved brother to my heart, mingling my tears with his own.
“All at once, however, I looked at Judge Conway with astonishment. I had expected to see him overwhelmed with grief—but as he now raised his head, and turned in the direction of the spot where I was standing, I saw that his features were convulsed with wrath. His cheeks were crimson, his teeth clenched, his eyes injected with blood. Suddenly these bloodshot eyes met my own—the cheeks a moment before so red, grew pale—and exclaiming, ‘It is you who murdered my brother!’ he threw himself upon me with the fury of a wild animal, and his fingers were nearly buried in my throat.
“The assault was so sudden and terrible that I staggered back, and nearly fell over the grave.
“Then regaining my self-possession, I caught Judge Conway by the throat in turn, hurled him from me, and stood confronting him, pale, panting, my throat bleeding—and resolved if he attacked me again to put him to death with the first weapon upon which I could lay my hand.
“He was, meanwhile, struggling in the hands of his friends, who, by main force, held him back.
“‘Let me go!’ he shouted, foaming at the mouth with rage—‘that man murdered my brother! I will take the law into my own hands! he shall not leave this spot alive! He dares to come here in the presence of the dead body of George Conway—and he is his murderer!’
“These words were rather howled than uttered. The speaker seemed to have lost his reason, from pure excess of rage. If his friends had not restrained him by main force, he would have thrown himself upon me a second time, when one of us would have lost his life, colonel, for I was now as violently enraged as himself.
“ThatIshould be thus publicly branded with the basest crime! that the representative of the old and honorable house of the Davenants, should be thus grossly insulted, his person assailed, his good name torn from him—that he should be denounced thus in the presence of all as a felon and murderer!
“‘You are insane, sir!’ I at length said, struggling to regain my coolness. ‘Your grief has affected your brain! I can pardon much in you today, sir, but beware how you again attempt to degrade me!’
“‘Hear him!’ was the hoarse and furious reply of Judge Conway; and reaching out his thin fingers, a habit he had caught from Mr. Randolph—he pointed at me where I stood.
“‘Hear him! He affects innocence! He is outraged! He is indignant! And yet he waylaid my brother, whom he has hated for twenty years—he waylaid him like an assassin, and murdered him! There is the proof!’
“And drawing from his pocket a knife, covered with clotted blood, he threw it upon the grave before all eyes.
“Good God! It was my own!”
“At the sight of that terrible object” continued General Davenant, “I staggered back, and nearly fell. I could not believe my eyes—never thought of denying the ownership of the fearful witness,—I could only gaze at it, with a wild horror creeping over me, and then all these terrible emotions were too much for me.
“I took two steps toward the grave, reached out with a shudder to grasp the knife whose clots of blood seemed to burn themselves into my brain—then vertigo seized me, and letting my head fall, I fainted.
“When I regained my senses, I was in my carriage, supported by the arms of my wife, and rolling up the avenue to my own house.
“Opposite me, in the carriage, little Charley, who, dimly realized apparently that some trouble had come to me, was crying bitterly, and a rough personage was endeavoring to quiet his sobbing.
“The personage in question was a constable. When I fainted at the grave, my friends had caught me in their arms—protested with burning indignation that the charge against me was a base calumny—and the magistrate who was summoned by Judge Conway to arrest me, had declined to do more than direct a constable to escort me home, and see that I did not attempt to escape.
“That was kind. I was a murderer, and my proper place a jail. Why shouldIbe more favored than some poor common man charged with that crime? Had such a person been confronted with such a charge, supported by such damning evidence as the bloody knife, would any ceremony have been observed? ‘To jail!’ all would have cried, ‘No bail for the murderer!’ And why should the rich Mr. Davenant be treated with more consideration?
“On the day after my arrest—I spare you all the harrowing scenes, my poor wife’s agony, and every thing, colonel—on the day after, I got into my carriage, and went and demanded to be confined in jail. It was the first time a Davenant had ever beenin jail—but I went thither without hesitation, if not without a shudder. No sooner had I taken this step than the whole country seemed to have left their homes to visit me in my prison. On the evening of the scene at the grave, twenty persons had called at the ‘Pines,’ to express their sympathy and indignation at the charge against me. Now, when the iron door of the law had closed upon me, and I was a real prisoner, the visitors came in throngs without number. One and all, they treated the charge as the mere result of Judge Conway’s fury—some laughed at, others denounced it as an attempt to entrap and destroy me—all were certain that an investigation would at once demonstrate my innocence, and restore me to liberty and honor.
“Alas! I could only thank my friends, and reply that I hoped that such would be the result. But when they had left me alone, I fell into fits of the deepest dejection.
“What proofs could I give that I was innocent? There was a terrible array of circumstances, on the contrary, to support the hypothesis of my guilt—much more than I have mentioned, colonel. I had visited the courthouse on the same day with poor George Conway, and for the first time in twenty years had exchanged words with him. And the words were unfriendly. We had both been in the clerk’s office of the county, when that gentleman asked me some common-place question—in what year such a person had died, and his will had been recorded, I think. I replied, mentioning a year. The clerk shook his head, declaring that it must have been later, and appealed to poor George Conway, who agreed with him, adding, ‘Mr. Davenant is certainly in the wrong.’ I was much annoyed that day—made some curt reply—poor George made a similar rejoinder, and some harsh, almost insulting words, passed between us. The affair went no further, however. I left the clerk’s office, and having attended to the business which brought me, left the court-house about dusk. As I mounted my horse, I saw poor George Conway riding out of the place. I followed slowly, not wishing to come up with him, turning into a by-road which led toward my own house—and knew nothing of the murder until it was bruited abroad on the next day.
“That is much like the special pleading of a criminal—is it not, colonel? If I had really murdered the poor man, would not this be my method of explaining every thing? You see, I do not deny what several witnesses could prove; the fact that I quarreled with Conway, came to high words, uttered insults, exhibited anger, followed him from the court-house at dusk—I acknowledge all that, but add, that I struck into a by-road and went home! That sounds suspicious, I assure you, even to myself, to-day. Imagine the effect it promised to have then, when I was a man charged with murder—who would naturally try to frame such a statement as would clear him—and when a large portion of the community were excited and indignant at the murder.
“Such had been the truly unfortunate scene in the clerk’s office,—the fatality which made me follow the man going to his death, and my known enmity of long standing, supported the hypothesis of my guilt. There was another, and even more fatal circumstance still,—the discovery of the knife with which George Conway had been slain. That knife was my own; it was one of peculiar shape, with a handle of tortoise-shell, and I had often used it in presence of my friends and others. A dozen persons could make oath to it as my property; but it was not needed; the scene at the grave made that useless. I evidently did not deny the ownership of the weapon which had been used in the commission of the murder. At the very sight of it, on the contrary, in the hands of the brother of my victim, I had turned pale and fainted!
“This was the condition of things when the special term of the court, held expressly to try me, commenced at Dinwiddie.”
“A great crowd assembled on the day of the trial. Judge Conway had vacated the bench, as personally interested, and the judge from a neighboring circuit had taken his place.
“Below the seat of the judge sat the jury. Outside the railing, the spectators were crowded so closely that it was with difficulty the sheriff made a passage for my entrance.
“To one resolution I had adhered in spite of the remonstrances of all my friends,—to employ no counsel. In this determination nothing could shake me. A disdainful pride sustained me, mingled with bitter obstinacy. If I, the representative of one of the oldest and most honorable families in the county of Dinwiddie was to be branded as a murderer,—if my past life, my family and personal character, did not refute the charge,—if I was to be dragged to death on suspicion, gibbeted as a murderer, because some felon had stolen my pocket-knife, and committed a crime with it,—then I would go to my death unmoved. I would disdain to frame explanations; let the law murdermeif it would; no glib counsel should save my life by technicalities; I would be vindicated by God and my past life, or would die.
“Such was my state of mind, and such the origin of my refusal to employ counsel. When the court now assigned me counsel, I rose and forbade them to appear for me. In the midst of a stormy scene, and with the prosecuting attorney sitting dumb in his chair, resolved to take no part in the trial, the witnesses appeared upon the stand, and, rather by sufferance than the judge’s consent, the jury proceeded to interrogate them.
“The circumstances which I have detailed to you were all proved in the clearest manner; the altercation in the clerk’s office on the day of the murder; my long enmity against him, dating back more than twenty years; the fact that I had followed him out of the village just at dusk on the fatal night; and the discovery of my knife in the tall grass by the roadside near the body.
“I had summoned no witnesses, but some appeared of their own accord, and gave important testimony. Many neighbors testified that my enmity toward George Conway had almost entirely disappeared in the lapse of years, and that I had spoken of him, upon more than one occasion, with great kindness. The clerk of the county described the scene in his office, stating that the affair had appeared to him a mere interchange of curt words, without exhibition of the least malice on my part. The most important witness, however, was a poor man, living in the neighborhood, who made oath that he had been riding toward the court-house on the evening of the murder; had passed Mr. Conway, and, riding on farther, came in sight of me, and he had, before reaching me, seen me turn into the by-road which led toward my own residence. I could not have committed the murder, he added, for Mr. Conway had time to pass the spot where his body was found before I could have ridden back to the highroad and caught up with him.
“Unfortunately, the witness who gave this testimony bore a very indifferent character, and I could see that more than one of the jurors suspected that he was perjuring himself.
“Another ugly-looking circumstance also intervened to neutralize the favorable impression thus made. From the irregular mode of proceeding, the fatal knife had not been exhibited in court. Suddenly, a juror called for it, and it could nowhere be found! The sheriff swore that he had left it in the clerk’s office, where he supposed it to be entirely safe. Upon searching for it, however, in the drawer where he had deposited it, the weapon was missing.
“When that fact was stated, I saw a curious expression pass over the faces of more than one of the jury. They evidently suspected foul play.
“‘Was the door of the office locked?’ asked one of them.
“‘Yes, sir,’ was the reply.
“‘Were the windows secured?’
“‘By shutters with bolts.’
“‘Are all the bolts on the windows of this building firm?’
“‘I think so, sir.’
“‘There is one, that is not!’ said the juror.
“And he pointed to a long iron bolt on one of the windows, which bore evident traces of having been rent from its socket.
“The sheriff looked in amazement in the direction indicated.
“‘You are right, sir!’ he said; ‘some one has entered the court-house by breaking open the shutter, and stolen that knife from the clerk’s office, which is never locked.’
“A meaning silence followed the words. It was not difficult to understand it. The jury looked at each other, and in their glances I could read this—‘Mr. Davenant is on trial for his life. He or his friends suborn testimony to prove an alibi on the night of the murder, and not content with that, they hire a burglar to enter the court-house and steal the knife which proves his connection with the deed—that it may not appear in evidence against him.’
“The evidence closed. I had not uttered a word. I had sworn in my heart that I would not stir a finger in the matter—but now, stung beyond endurance, I rose and addressed the jury in impassioned words. ‘Their verdict,’ I told them, ‘was of little importance if I was to lose the respect of my fellow-citizens. I had made no effort to shape their decision, but now on the brink, it might be of a felon’s grave, I would utter my dying words. I would confine myself to protesting before God, and on my honor, that I had long since forgiven George Conway the wrongs done me—that the scene on the day of his murder was the result of momentary irritability, caused by business annoyances, and not malice—that I had forgotten it in an hour—returned directly to my own house—and only heard of the murder on the day after its commission. As to the knife—I had been suspected if not charged with having had the weapon stolen. Well! my answer to that was to declare that, to the best of my knowledge and belief,the murder was committed with my own knife!More than that. A witness had sworn that he saw me turn into the road to my own residence, at such a distance behind George Conway that I could not have rejoined him before he had passed the fatal spot. The witness was mistaken. There was time.By riding across the angle through the thicket, I could easily have rejoined him!
“‘And now, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘I have done. I have left you no ground to charge me with suborning testimony—with having the evidence of my crime stolen—with plotting in darkness, to hide my crime and blind your eyes in determining my guilt or innocence. That knife was mine, I repeat. It was possible for me to rejoin Mr. Conway, and do him to death by a blow with it. Now, retire, gentlemen! Bring in your verdict! Thank God! no taint of real dishonor will rest upon a Davenant, and I can appear before my Maker as I stand here to-day—innocent!’
“Ten minutes afterward the jury had retired, with every mark of agitation upon their faces. The great concourse of spectators seemed moved almost beyond control.
“Suddenly the crowd opened, I saw my wife hastening through the space thus made—a living wall on each side—and in an instant she had thrown herself into my arms, with a low cry which brought tears to the roughest faces of the auditory. I placed my arm around her, remonstrated with her for this ill-advised proceeding, and was trying to soothe her, when she hastily gave me a letter. A strange man had brought it an hour before, she said—it was marked ‘In haste—this will save Mr. Davenant’s life.’ She had mounted her riding horse, and brought it at full speed in person, without waiting to question the stranger, who had at once disappeared.
“I opened the letter—glanced at its contents—at the same instant the jury made their appearance—and the clerk said:—
“‘Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?’
“‘We have, sir,’ said the foreman.
“‘What is it?’
“‘Not guilty!’
“The court-house rang with applause. The crowd rushed toward me to shake me by the hand and congratulate me. Suddenly, in the midst of the tumult, I heard the furious words:—
“‘Murderer! you have escaped, but I brand you before God and man as the murderer of my brother!’
“It was Judge Conway, who, mounted upon a bench, with glaring eyes, foaming lips, teeth clenched, in a wild fury, shook his arm at me, and denounced me as a convict before God, if not before man.”
General Davenant was silent for a moment. The deep voice, so long resounding in my ears, made the silence oppressive.
“Now you know, my dear colonel,” he suddenly added, “why my son can not form an alliance with a daughter of Judge Conway.”
I bowed my head. The whole mystery was patent before me.
“The family opposition is mutual,” said General Davenant, with a proud smile; “he objects because he believes that I murdered his brother—and I object because he believes it! He insulted me, outraged me—at the grave, in the court-house, in public, as in private; and I could not think of beseeching his honor to give his consent to the marriage of his daughter with the son of an ‘escaped murderer.’”
The old soldier uttered these words with gloomy bitterness; but in a moment he had regained his coolness.
“That was the end of the affair,” he said. “I went home, accompanied by acortégeof friends who seemed never weary of congratulating me; and on the next day, I wrote a mortal defiance to Judge Conway, which I placed in the hands of a friend to convey to him. An hour afterward, I had mounted my horse, ridden rapidly, caught up with this friend on his way to Five Forks, and had taken from him the challenge, which I tore to pieces. You will probably comprehend the motive which compelled me to do this. It was not repugnance to the modern form of single combat, I am sorry to say. Old as I was, I had still the ancient hallucination on that subject. I did not then know that duels were mere comedies—child’s play; that one infantry skirmish results in the shedding of more blood than all the affairs of a generation. The motive that induced me to withdraw my challenge, was one which you will probably understand. The pale face of the dead George Conway had risen up before me—I knew his brother’s deep love for him—that he regarded me as the dead man’s murderer; and I no longer writhed under that public insult in the court-house, or, at least controlled myself. ‘Let him go on his way, poor, stricken heart!’ I said with deep pity; ‘I forgive him, and will not avenge that affront to me!’
“Such is my history, colonel. It is sad, you see. I have related it to explain what has come to your knowledge—the bitter hostility which Judge Conway indulges toward me, and his frowns at the very name of Davenant. These events occurred more than ten years ago. During all that time, he has been laboring under the belief that I am really guilty of his brother’s blood. See where my ‘high pride’ has conducted me,” said General Davenant, with a smile of inexpressible melancholy and bitterness. “I was proud and disdainful on the day of my trial—I would not use the common weapons of defence—I risked my life by refusing counsel, and acknowledging the ownership of that knife. Pride, hauteur, a sort of disdain at refuting a charge of base dishonor—that was my sentiment then, and I remain as haughty to-day! I am a Davenant—I was found ‘not guilty’—why go and tell Judge Conway the contents of that letter received in the court-house?”
“The contents of the letter, general?”
“Yes, colonel.”
“What did it contain?—I beg you to tell me!”
“The confession of the murderer of George Conway!”
General Davenant had scarcely uttered the words which I have just recorded, when rapid firing was heard in the woods, a quarter of a mile from his head-quarters; and a moment afterward a courier came at a gallop, bearing a dispatch.
“My horse!” came in the brief tone of command.
And General Davenant tore open the dispatch, which he read attentively.
“The enemy are advancing to attack me,” he said; “this note was written ten minutes since. The attack has commenced. Will you go and see it, colonel?”
“Willingly.”
General Davenant ordered another horse, as my own was useless; we mounted and rode at full speed through the woods; in five minutes we were at the scene of action.
A heavy assault was in progress. The enemy had massed a large force in front of the hastily erected earth-works, and were endeavoring, by a determined charge, to carry them.
General Davenant was everywhere amid the fight, the guiding and directing head, and beside him I saw distinctly in the starlight, the brave figure of little Charley, who had started from his couch, buckled on a huge sword, and was now galloping to and fro, cheering on the men as gallantly as his father. It was an inspiring sight to see that child in his little braided jacket, with his jaunty cap balanced gallantly on his auburn curls—to see his rosy cheeks, his smiling lips, and his small hand flourishing that tremendous sabre, as he galloped gaily amid the fire.
“And yet,” I said, “there are those who will not believe inblood—or race!”
Fill the space which that dash occupies, my dear reader, with an abrupt “duck” of the head, as a bullet went through my hat!
The charge was repulsed in twenty minutes; but the firing continued throughout the night. When it ceased, toward daybreak, and I rode back with General Davenant and Charley, who was as gay as a lark, and entertained me with reminiscences of Gettysburg, I was completely broken down with fatigue. Throwing myself upon a bed, in General Davenant’s tent, I fell asleep.
When I opened my eyes the sun was high in the heavens. I looked around for the general, he was invisible.
I rose, and at the door of the tent met Charley, with bright eyes, and cheeks like roses.
“The general has gone to corps head-quarters, colonel, and told me to present you his compliments, and beg that you will remain to breakfast.”
After which formal and somewhat pompous sentence the youthful Charley drew near, slapped me in a friendly way upon the back, and exclaimed, with dancing eyes:—
“I say, colonel! wasn’t that a jolly old he-fight we had last night?”
My reply was a laugh, and a glance of admiration at the gay boy.
I declined the invitation of General Davenant, as I had to return. My horse was brought, and I found his foot much easier. In half an hour I was on the road to Petersburg.
Once back at the “Cedars,” I reflected deeply upon the history which I had heard from the lips of General Davenant.
I shall refrain, however, from recording these reflections. If the reader will cast his eyes back over the pages of these memoirs, he will perceive that I have confined myself generally to the simple narration of events—seldom pausing to offer my own comments upon the scenes passing before me. Were I to do so, what an enormous volume I should write, and how the reader would be bored! Now, to bore a reader, is, in my eyes, one of the greatest crimes of which an author can be guilty. It is the unpardonable sin, indeed, in a writer. For which reason, and acting upon the theory that a drama ought to explain itself and be its own commentator, I spare the worthy reader of these pages all those reflections which I indulged in, after hearing General Davenant’s singular narrative.
“Pride! pride!” I muttered, rising at the end of an hour. “I think I can understand that—exceptional as is this instance; but I wish I had heard who was the ‘real murderer’ of George Conway!”
Having thus dismissed the subject, I set about drawing up my official report, and this charmingly common-place employment soon banished from my mind every more inviting subject!
It was nearly ten days after this my first ride into the wilds of Dinwiddie, before I again set out to look after the cavalry. The end of October was approaching. Grant had continued to hammer away along his immense line of earth-works; and day by day, step by step, he had gone on extending his left in the direction of the Southside railroad.
If the reader will keep this in view, he will understand every movement of the great adversaries. Grant had vainly attempted to carry Lee’s works by assault, or surprise,—his only hope of success now was to gradually extend his lines toward the Southside road; seize upon that great war artery which supplied life-blood to Lee’s army; and thus compel the Confederate commander to retreat or starve in his trenches. One thing was plain—that when Grant reached the Southside railroad, Lee was lost, unless he could mass his army and cut his way through the forces opposed to him. And this fact was so obvious, the situation was so apparent—that from the moment when the Weldon road was seized upon by General Grant, that officer and his great adversary never removed their eyes from the real point of importance, the true key of the lock—namely the Southside railroad, on Lee’s right.
Elsewhere Grant attacked, but it was to cover some movement, still toward his left. He assaulted Lee’s works, north of the James—but it was south of the Appomattox that he was looking. The operations of the fall and winter, on the lines around Petersburg were a great series of marches and counter-marches to and fro, suddenly bursting into battles. Grant massed his army heavily in front of the works in Charles City opposite the left of Lee; attempted to draw in that direction his adversary’s main force; then suddenly the blue lines vanished; they were rushed by railroad toward Petersburg, and Grant hastened to thrust his columns still farther beyond Lee’s right, in order to turn it and seize the Southside road.
That was not the conception of a great soldier, it may be, reader; but it was ingenious. General Grant was not a man of great military brain—but he was patient, watchful, and persevering. To defeat Lee, what was wanted was genius, or obstinacy—Napoleon or Grant. In the long run, perseverance was going to achieve the results of genius. The tortoise was going to reach the same goal with the hare. It was a question of time—that was all.
So, throughout October, as throughout September, and August, and July, General Grant thundered everywhere along his forty miles of earth-works, but his object was to raise a smoke dense enough to hide the blue columns moving westward. “Hurrah! we have got Fort Harrison!” exclaimed his enthusiastic subordinates. Grant would much rather have heard, “We have got the White Oak road!” Fort Harrison was a strong out-post simply; the White Oak road was the postern door into the citadel.
Gradually moving thus, from the Jerusalem plank road to the Weldon railroad, from the Weldon railroad to the Squirrel Level road, from the Squirrel Level road toward the Boydton road, beyond which was the White Oak road, Grant came, toward the end of October, to the banks of the Rowanty. As this long blue serpent unfolded its coils and stretched its threatening head into the Dinwiddie woods, Lee had extended his right to confront it. The great opponents movedpari passu, each marching in face of each other. Like two trained and skillful swordsmen, they changed ground without moving their eyes from each others’ faces—the lunge was met by the parry; and this seemed destined to go on to infinity.
That was the unskilled opinion, however. The civilians thought that—Lee did not. It was plain that this must end somewhere. Lee’s line would not bear much further extension. It reached now from a point on the Williamsburg road, east of Richmond, to Burgess’s Mill, west of Petersburg. His forty thousand men were strung over forty miles. That made the line so thin that it would bear little more. Stretched a little farther still, and it would snap.
Lee called in vain for more men. The Government could not send them. He predicted the result of failure to receive them. They did not come.
And Grant continued to move on, and Lee continued to stretch his thin line, until it began to crack.
Such was the situation of affairs at the end of October—when Grant aimed a heavy blow to cut the line in pieces. The blue serpent raised its head, and sprung to strike.
Such was the critical condition of affairs when I again set out to make my regular tour of inspection of the cavalry.
Crossing Hatcher’s Run at Burgess’s Mill, I turned to the left, and soon found myself riding on between the lofty walls of pine, through which the roads of Dinwiddie wind like a serpent.
When near Monk’s Neck, I determined to stop and feed my horse. I always carried, strapped behind my saddle, a small bag containing about a feed of corn for that purpose; and as I generally selected some wayside house where I could, myself, rest while my horse was feeding, I now looked about me to discover such.
My search was speedily rewarded. Three hundred yards from the road, in a clump of stunted trees, I saw a small house, which I soon reached. The surroundings of the establishment were poor and mean beyond expression. Through the open door I could see that the interior was even more poverty-stricken than the outside.
As I dismounted, a man came to this door. Are you fond of natural history, reader; and have you ever amused yourself by instituting comparisons between certain human beings and certain animals—beasts, birds, or fishes? I have seen men who resembled horses, owls, hawks, sheep,—and geese. This one resembled the bird called the penguin. Read the description of the penguins: “Their feet are placed more posteriorly than in any other birds, and only afford them support by resting on the tarsus, which is enlarged, like the sole of the foot of a quadruped. The wings are very small, and are furnished with rudiments of feathers only, resembling scales. Their bodies are covered with oblong feathers, harsh to the touch, and closely applied over each other. * * * * * Their motions are slow and awkward, and from the form of their wings, they can not fly.”
The individual before me recalled the penguin—except that he was excessively lean instead of fat. The feet accorded with the above description; the arms were short, and hung like wings; the coat of the worthy was a ragged “cut-away,” which ended in a point behind, like the tail of a bird; and the movements of the individual were “slow and awkward” to a degree which forbade the supposition that, under any circumstances, he could be induced to fly. Add a long, crane-like neck, two bleared eyes, a mouth stretching from ear to ear, and a nose like the bill of a duck. You will then have before you the gentleman who bore, as I soon discovered, the classic name of Mr. Alibi.
When the worthy, who had flapped his arms, by way of greeting, and shown me into his mansion, informed me that such was his name, I knew that the house at which I now found myself was the place of meeting agreed upon between Nighthawk and Swartz, at their interview in Richmond. Here, also, the man and woman, rescued by Swartz on the Nottoway, had been left, on his way to Petersburg, as the spy had informed us in the Wilderness.
“Well, general,” croaked Mr. Alibi, with a smile, and in a nasal voice, “wha—a—t’s the news?”
“I am only a lieutenant-colonel, Mr. Alibi.”
“Well, colonel, any thing stirring?”
“Nothing, I think. Any news with you, Mr. Alibi? I have heard of you from a friend of yours.”
“Eh! And who mout that be, colonel?”
“Mr. Nighthawk. Have you seen him lately?”
“Na—a—a—w,” said Mr. Alibi, with a prolonged drawl through his nose, and flapping his arms in an uncouth fashion, “I ain’t seen him for a long spell now.”
“Nor Swartz, either?”
Mr. Alibi looked keenly at me.
“Na—a—a—w, nor him nuther, leftenant-colonel.”
“Leave out the ‘leftenant,’ my dear Mr. Alibi; and call me ‘colonel’—it is shorter,” I said, laughing, as I looked at the queer figure. “And so you have not seen Swartz lately? He made an appointment to meet Nighthawk here.”
“Made an app’intment, did he, leftenant—least ways, colonel?”
“Yes.”
“With Mr. Nighthawk?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I reckon they are both dead, or they’d ‘a’ kept their app’intment.”
“Nighthawk dead!”
“He must be, sartain.”
“You are mistaken, friend Alibi,” said a voice behind him.
And Nighthawk, in person, entered the house.
Nighthawk had appeared, as was his wont, as if he had risen from the earth.
But this circumstance disappeared from my mind at once. I was looking at his face. It had completely lost its benignant expression; was pale, and bore marks of great fatigue. Something of the old clerical benignity came to the eyes as he greeted me cordially; but sitting down in the nearest chair, as though completely wearied out, he became as dispirited as before.
“And what mout be the matter with you, Mr. Nighthawk?” said Mr. Alibi: “you look ‘s if the night hags had been a-riding of you with spurs on.”
And Mr. Alibi flapped his wings, stretched out his neck, and seemed about to cackle.
“I am tired, Alibi,” said Nighthawk, briefly, “go to the spring and get me some fresh water. You needn’t come back in a hurry, as I wish to talk with Colonel Surry.”
And Mr. Nighthawk rose, and carelessly sat down near the window, through which he could reconnoitre.
The object of this movement was soon evident. Mr. Alibi took a bucket, and went out as though to seek the spring. When he had gone a few paces, however, he turned to the right and disappeared behind the house, toward the opposite window, which was open.
Nighthawk rose, went to the door, and caught Mr. Alibi eavesdropping—the result of which was that the penguin hastily moved off, muttering. In a minute he had shambled along and disappeared.
No sooner had his figure vanished than Nighthawk turned hastily toward me.
“Will you go with me to-night, colonel, on an expedition I intend to make?” he said.
“An expedition, Nighthawk?”
“A work of mercy, colonel; let us talk quickly. That man, Alibi, is a spy—for both sides—and I wish to arrange every thing before he returns.”
“Explain, Nighthawk.”
“I will, colonel. Do you remember that night in Richmond, when Swartz made an appointment to meet me at a house near Monk’s Neck?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, this is the house,—and I expected important results from that meeting. Unfortunately, I was prevented, by some pickets who arrested me, from reaching this spot on the appointed day. I was here two days afterward, however—asked for Swartz—he had not been here—and as that was the most unaccountable thing in the world to me, I set out to find him.”
“In the enemy’s lines?”
“Yes, colonel. I had no doubt I would come across him somewhere. So I went through the country behind the Federal lines; looked everywhere for my man, have been looking ever since I left you—and at last have found him.”
“Where?”
“In the upper room of a deserted house, not three miles from this place, within the enemy’s picket line.”
“The upper room of a deserted house?”
‘“Confined—put to starve there, colonel! The work of Darke, and that she-devil who goes about with him, I am willing to swear, colonel!”
“Good heavens! Is it possible?” I said, “Swartz is shut up and left to starve?”
“Exactly, colonel—and here is how I know it. I was coming back, worn out by my long search after Swartz, when in passing this house, I came suddenly upon a picket of about fifty men. To avoid being seen, I ran, being on foot, and got behind the house. I had no sooner done so, than I heard groans from the upper part of it—and as the house was entirely uninhabited, these sounds excited my curiosity—not to say astonishment. Well, I determined to, find the origin of them. I crawled through a broken window—reached the second floor by a dusty staircase, and went straight toward a door, behind which I heard the groaning. It was heavily locked, and I could not even shake it. Then I ran to the partition between the room and the passage—found it made of boards, between the cracks of which I could see—and looking in, I saw Swartz! He was sitting on an old broken chair, beside a table with three legs, and his hand was buried in his hair, as if he was trying to tear it out.
“When I called to him, he started, and his groans stopped. He turned his head. No sooner had he recognized me than he cried out with joy; and for some moments he could say nothing but ‘Save me! save me! Nighthawk! They are starving me to death!’
“I will not lengthen out my story, colonel. I see Alibi coming back. I had scarcely exchanged ten words with Swartz, when I heard the gallop of a horse, and running to the window, sawthat womanget off. A second’s reflection told me that she was coming into the house; I knew that, if discovered, I would be shot or taken prisoner—and I decided on my course in a minute. I said to Swartz, ‘wait a few hours—I will go and bring you help.’ I glided through a back window, dropped to the ground, ran into the bushes—and here I am, colonel, waiting for night to come, to return and rescue Swartz.”
“Can you do so?”
“With one companion—to look out while I pick the lock.”
“Good—I’ll go with you; and provide for contingencies, too.”
I had seen a cavalryman passing along the road in front of the house, and as Mr. Alibi came in at the same moment, I sent him to hail the wayfarer, and bring him to the house. As soon as Mr. Alibi had left us on his errand, I tore a sheet from my note-book, obtained from Nighthawk an exact description of the locality where Swartz was confined, and writing a note to Mohun, informed him of our intention. If he could send a squadron of cavalry to drive in the picket near the house, it would insure the success of our design, I added.
As I finished this note, Mr. Alibi appeared with the cavalryman. He proved to belong to Mohun’s command. I entrusted the note to him, cautioning him that it was important, and must reach Mohun promptly—then I looked at my watch.
It was four o’clock. Already the sun was declining toward the wooded horizon; I looked toward it, and then at Nighthawk, who nodded.
“In an hour, colonel,” he said, “and as I am broken down, I will sleep.”
With these words, Nighthawk leaned back in his split-bottom chair, covered his face with his handkerchief, and in ten seconds his long, quiet breathing showed plainly that he was asleep.
“A cur’ous man, leftenant-colonel! a cur’ous man is Mr. Nighthawk!” said Mr. Alibi.
And he flapped his arms, and wriggled about in a manner so extraordinary that he looked more like a penguin than ever.