On the bold face there was an expression of decided ill-humor. He hadjust received a dispatch, by courier, from General Lee.
That dispatch said, "Come, I need you urgently here," and the "here"in question, was Gettysburg, at least twenty miles distant. Now, withworn-out men and horses, twenty miles was a serious matter. Stuart'sbrows were knit, and he mused gloomily.
Suddenly he turned and addressed me.
"You were right, Surry," he said, "those guns were at Gettysburg. Thisdispatch, sent this morning, reports the enemy near there."
I bowed; Stuart reflected for some moments without speaking. Then hesuddenly said:--
"I wish you would go to General Lee, and say I am coming, Surry. How isyour horse?"
"Worn-out, general, but I can get another."
"Good; tell General Lee that I will move at once to Gettysburg, with allmy force, and as rapidly as possible!"
"I will lose no time, general."
And saluting, I went out.
From the captured horses I selected the best one I could find, andburying the spurs in his sides, set out through the black night.
XX.
THE HOUSE BETWEEN CARLISLE AND GETTYSBURG.
You know when you set out, the proverb says, but you know not when youwill arrive.
I left Carlisle, breasting the night, on the road to Gettysburg, littlethinking that a curious incident was to occur to me upon the way--anincident closely connected with the destinies of some personages whoplay prominent parts in this history.
I had ridden on for more than an hour, through the darkness, keepinga good look-out for the enemy, whose scouting parties of cavalry wereknown to be prowling around, when all at once, my horse, who was goingat full speed, struck his foot against a sharp point of rock, croppingout from the surface.
The animal stumbled, recovered himself, and went on as rapidly asbefore. A hundred yards further his speed relaxed; then he began to limppainfully; then in spite of every application of the spur I could notforce him out of a slow limping trot.
It was truly unfortunate. I was the bearer of an important message, andwas surrounded by enemies. The only chance was to pass through them,under shadow of the darkness; with light they would perceive me, and mycapture be certain.
A hundred yards further, and I found I must decide at once upon thecourse to pursue. My horse seemed about to fall. At every stroke of thespur he groaned piteously, and his limp had become a stagger.
I looked around through the trees, and at the distance of a quarter ofa mile I saw the glimmer of a light. To obtain another horse wasindispensable under the circumstances; and looking to see that myrevolver was loaded and capped, I forced my tottering animal toward themansion in which the light glimmered.
My design was simply to proceed thither, "impress" a fresh horse atthe pistol's muzzle; throw my saddle upon him; leave my own animal, andproceed on my way.
Pushing across the fields, and dismounting to let down the fences whichmy limping animal could not leap, I soon approached the light. It shonethrough the window of a house of some size, with ornamental groundsaround it, and apparently the abode of a man of means.
At fifty paces from it I dismounted and tethered my horse in the shadowof some trees. A brief reconnaissance under the circumstances wasadvisable; and approaching the mansion silently, without allowing mysabre to make any clatter, I gained the long portico in front, and wentto a window reaching down to the flooring of the verandah.
Through the half-closed venetians I could see into a large apartment,half library, half sitting-room, as the easy chairs, mantel ornaments,desks, and book-cases showed. On the centre-table burned a brilliantlamp--and by its light I witnessed a spectacle which made me draw backin the shadow of the shutter, and rivet my eyes on the interior.
Before me, in the illuminated apartment, I saw the woman whom Mohun hadcaptured on the Rappahannock; and beside her the personage with whom shehad escaped that morning in the wagon from Culpeper Court-House. I couldnot mistake him. The large, prominent nose, the cunning eyes, the doublechin, the fat person, and the chubby hands covered with pinchbeck rings,were still fresh in my memory.
The name of this personage had been revealed by Nighthawk. Swartz, thesecret agent, blockade-runner, and "best spy in the Federal army" wasbefore me.
A glance at the woman revealed no change in her appearance. Before mewas the same lithe and graceful figure, clad as before in a gray dress.I saw the same snow-white cheeks, red lips, and large eyes burning witha latent fire.
The two were busily engaged, and it was not difficult to understandtheir occupation. The desks, drawers and chests of the apartment wereall open; and the female with rapid hands was transferring papers fromthem to Swartz, who methodically packed them in a leathern valise. Thesepapers were no doubt important, and the aim to remove them to some placeof safety beyond the reach of the Confederates.
I gazed for some moments, without moving, upon the spectacle of thesetwo night-birds at their work. The countenance of the lady was animated;her motions rapid; and from time to time she stopped to listen. Swartz,on the contrary, was the incarnation of phlegmatic coolness. His facewore an expression of entire equanimity; and he seemed to indulge nofears whatever of intruders.
All at once, however, I saw his eyes glitter as they fell upon a paperwhich she handed him to pack away with the rest. It was carefullyfolded, but one of the folds flew open as he received it, and his eyeswere suddenly fixed intently upon the sheet.
Then his head turned quickly, and he looked at his companion. She wasbending over a drawer, and did not observe that glance. Thereupon Swartzfolded up the paper, quietly put it in his pocket, and went on packingthe valise with his former coolness; only a slight color in his faceseemed to indicate concealed emotion.
As he pocketed the paper, his companion turned round. It was plain thatshe had not perceived the manoeuvre.
At the same moment I heard the sound of hoofs in rear of the house, andthe clatter of a sabre as a cavalier dismounted. A few indistinct words,apparently addressed to a servant or orderly, followed. Then the doorof the apartment opposite the front window was thrown open, and a manentered.
In the new-comer I recognized Mohun's adversary at Upperville--ColonelDarke, of the United States Cavalry.
XXI.
FALLEN.
Darke entered the apartment abruptly, but his appearance seemed tooccasion no surprise. The spy retained his coolness. The lady went onwith her work. You would have said that they had expected the officer,and recognized his step.
Their greeting was brief. Darke nodded in apparent approbation of thetask in which the man and woman were engaged, and folding his arms infront of the marble mantel, looked on in silence.
I gazed at him with interest, and more carefully than I had been ableto do during the fight at Upperville, when the smoke soon concealed him.Let me draw his outline. Of all the human beings whom I encounteredin the war, this one's character and career were perhaps the mostremarkable. Were I writing a romance, I should be tempted to call himthe real hero of this volume.
He was a man approaching middle age; low in stature, but broad,muscular, and powerful. He was clad in the full-dress uniform of acolonel of the United States Cavalry, wore boots reaching to the kneeand decorated with large spurs; and his arms were an immense sabre anda brace of revolvers in black leather holsters attached to his belt.His face was swarthy, swollen by excess in drink apparently, and halfcovered by a shaggy beard and mustache as black as night. The eyes weredeep-set, and wary: the poise of the head upon the shoulders, haughty;the expression of the entire countenance cold, phlegmatic, grim.
Such was this man, upon the surface. But there was something more abouthim which irresistibly attracted attention, and aroused speculation. Atthe first glance, you set him down as a common-place ruffian, theprey of every brutal passion. At the second glance, you began to doubtwhether he was a mere vulgar adventurer--you could see, at least, thatthis man was not of low birth. There was i
n his bearing an indefinablesomething which indicated that he had "seen better days." The surface ofthe fabric was foul and defiled, but the texture beneath was of velvet,not "hodden gray."
"That brute," I thought, "was once a gentleman, and crime or drink hasdestroyed him!"
Darke continued to gaze at Swartz and the gray woman as they plied theirbusy work; and once or twice be pointed to drawers which they had failedto open. These directions were promptly obeyed, and the work went on.The few words which the parties uttered came in an indistinct murmuronly through the window at which I was stationed.
Such was the scene within the mansion, upon which I gazed with strongcuriosity: suddenly the neigh of a horse was heard in a clump of woodsbeyond the front gate; and Darke quickly raised his head, and then cameout to the portico.
He passed within three feet of me, but did not perceive me, as I wasconcealed by one of the open venetians. Then he paused and listened. Thewind sighed in the foliage, and a distant watch-dog was barking--thatwas all. No other noise disturbed the silence of the July night.
Darke remained upon the portico for some moments, listening attentively.Then turned and re-entered the house. Through the window, I could seehim make his appearance again in the illuminated apartment. In responseto the glances of inquiry from his companions he made a gesture only,but that said plainly:--
"Nothing is stirring. You can go on with your work."
In this, however, he was mistaken. Darke had scarcely re-entered theapartment, when I discerned the hoof-strokes of horses beyond thefront gate--then the animals were heard leaping the low fence--a momentafterward two figures came on at full gallop, threw themselves from thesaddle, and rapidly approached the house.
The rattle of a sabre which one of them wore attracted Darke'sattention. He reached the door of the room at a single bound--but at thesame instant the new comers rushed by me, and burst in.
As they passed I recognized them. One was Mohun, the other Nighthawk.
XXII.
DARKE AND MOHUN.
What followed was instantaneous.
The adversaries were face to face, and each drew his pistol and fired atthe same moment.
Neither was struck: they drew their swords; and, through the cloud ofsmoke filling the apartment, I could see Darke and Mohun close in, in ahand to hand encounter.
They were both excellent swordsmen, and the struggle was passionate andterrible. Mohun's movements were those of the tiger springing uponhis prey; but Darke met the attack with a coolness and phlegm whichindicated unshrinking nerve; his expression seemed, even, to indicatethat crossing swords with his adversary gave the swarthy giant extremepleasure. His face glowed, and a flash darted from beneath the shaggyeyebrows. I could see him smile; but the smile was strange.
From the adversaries my glance passed quickly to the gray woman. Shewas leaning against the wall, and exhibited no emotion whatever; butthe lurid blaze in the great dark eyes, as she looked at Mohun, clearlyindicated that a storm was raging in her bosom. Opposite the woman stoodNighthawk--motionless, but grasping a pistol. As to Swartz, that worthyhad profited by an open window near, and had glided through it anddisappeared.
To return to the combatants. The passionate encounter absorbed all myattention. Mohun and Darke were cutting at each other furiously. Theyseemed equally matched, and the result was doubtful. One thing onlyseemed certain--that in a few minutes one of the adversaries would bedead.
Such was the situation of affairs when shots were heard without, theclash of sabres followed, and the door behind Darke was burst openviolently by his orderly, who rushed in, exclaiming:--
"Look out, colonel! The enemy are on you!"
As he uttered these words, the man drew a revolver and aimed at Mohun'sbreast.
Before he could fire, however, an explosion was heard, and I saw theman suddenly drop his weapon, which went off as it escaped from hisnerveless grasp. Then he threw up his hands, reeled, took two uncertainsteps backward, and fell at full length on the floor. Nighthawk had shothim through the heart.
All this had taken place in far less time than it has taken to write it.I had made violent efforts to break through the window; and finding thisimpossible, now ran to the door and burst into the apartment.
The singular scene was to have as singular a denouement.
Darke evidently realized the great danger which he ran, for the housewas now surrounded, nearly, and his capture was imminent.
From the black eyes shot a glare of defiance, and advancing upon Mohun,he delivered a blow at him which nearly shattered his opponent's sword.Mohun struck in turn, aiming a furious cut at Darke; but as he did so,he stumbled over the dead orderly, and nearly fell. For the moment hewas at Darke's mercy.
I rushed forward, sword in hand, to ward off the mortal stroke whichI was certain his adversary would deliver, but my intervention wasuseless.
Darke recoiled from his stumbling adversary, instead of striking at him.I could scarcely believe my own eyes, but the fact was unmistakable.
Then the Federal colonel looked around, and his eye fell upon the woman.
"Kill him!" she said, coldly. "Do not mind me!--only kill him!"
"No!" growled Darke. And seizing the woman in his arms:--
"They shall not take you prisoner!" he said.
And the swarthy Hercules passed through the door in rear at a singlebound, bearing off the woman like a feather.
A moment afterward the hoof-strokes of a horse were heard.
Darke had disappeared with the gray woman.
I turned to look at Mohun. He was standing perfectly motionless, andlooking after Darke with a strange expression of gloom and astonishment.
"You are unhurt!" I said.
He turned quickly, and held out his hand.
"Slightly wounded--but I am not thinking of that."
"Of what, then?"
"I remember only one thing--that this man might have buried his sword inmy heart, and did not."
An hour afterward the skirmish was over; I had explained my presence atthe house to Mohun, parted with him, promising to see him soon again;and, mounted upon a fresh animal which Mohun presented to me from amongthose captured, was once more on my way to Gettysburg.
It was hard to realize that the scenes of the night were actualoccurrences. They were more like dreams than realities.
XXIII.
GETTYSBURG.
I came in sight of Gettysburg at sunrise.
Gettysburg!--name instinct with so many tears, with so much mourning,with those sobs which tear their way from the human heart as the lavamakes its way from the womb of the volcano!
There are words in the world's history whose very sound is like a sighor a groan; places which are branded "accursed" by the moaning lipsof mothers, wives, sisters, and orphans. Shadowy figures, gigantic anddraped in mourning, seem to hover above these spots: skeleton arms withbony fingers point to the soil beneath, crowded with graves: from theeyes, dim and hollow, glare unutterable things: and the grin of thefleshless lips is the gibbering mirth of the corpse torn from itscerements, and erect, as though the last trump had sounded, and the deadhad arisen. No fresh flowers bloom in these dreary spots; no merry birdstwitter there; no streamlets lapse sweetly with musical murmurs beneaththe waterflags or the drooping boughs of trees. See! the blighted andwithered plants are like the deadly nightshade--true flowers of war,blooming, or trying to bloom, on graves! Hear the voices of the fewbirds--they are sad and discordant! See the trees--they are gnarled,spectral, and torn by cannon-balls. Listen! The stream yonder is notlimpid and mirthful like other streams. You would say that it is sighingas it steals away, soiled and ashamed. The images it has mirrored arouseits horror and make it sad. The serene surface has not given back thebright forms of children, laughing and gathering the summer flowers onits banks. As it sneaks like a culprit through the scarred fieldsof battle, it washes bare the bones of the dead in crumblinguniforms--bringing, stark and staring, to the upper air once more, theblanched skel
eton and the grinning skull.
Names of woe, at whose utterance the heart shudders, the blood curdles!Accursed localities where the traveller draws back, turning away inhorror! All the world is dotted with them; everywhere they make thesunlight black. Among them, none is gloomier, or instinct with a morenameless horror, than the once insignificant village of Gettysburg.
I reached it on the morning of July 2, 1863.
The immense drama was in full progress. The adversaries had clashedtogether. Riding across the extensive fields north of the town, I sawthe traces of the combat of the preceding day--and among the dying Iremember still a poor Federal soldier, who looked at me with his stonyand half-glazed eye as I passed; he was an enemy, but he was dying and Ipitied him.
A few words will describe the situation of affairs at that moment.
Lee had pressed on northward through the valley of the Cumberland, whennews came that General Meade, who had succeeded Hooker, was advancing todeliver battle to the invaders.
At that intelligence Lee arrested his march. Meade menaced hiscommunications, and it was necessary to check him. Hill's corps was,therefore, sent across the South Mountain, toward Gettysburg; Ewell,who had reached York, was ordered back; and Lee made his preparations tofight his adversary as soon as he appeared.
The columns encountered each other in the neighborhood of Gettysburg--agreat centre toward which a number of roads converge, like the spokes ofa wheel toward the hub.
The head of Hill's column struck the head of Reynolds's--then thethunder began.
Mohun; Or, the Last Days of Lee and His Paladins. Page 7
