Mohun, or, The Last Days of Lee by John Esten Cooke
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John Esten Cooke >> Mohun, or, The Last Days of Lee
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38 Produced by Eric Eldred, Marvin A. Hodges
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
MOHUN
OR,
THE LAST DAYS OF LEE AND HIS PALADINS.
FINAL MEMOIRS
OF A
STAFF OFFICER SERVING IN VIRGINIA.
FROM THE MSS. OF
COLONEL SURRY, OF EAGLE'S NEST.
BY
JOHN ESTEN COOKE
AUTHOR OF "SURRY OF EAGLE'S NEST."
_Nec aspera terrent._
PROLOGUE.
On the wall over the mantel-piece, here in my quiet study at
Eagle's-Nest, are two crossed swords. One is a battered old sabre worn
at Gettysburg, and Appomattox; the other, a Federal officer's dress
sword captured in 1863.
It was a mere fancy to place them there, as it was a whim to hang upon
that nail yonder, the uniform coat with its stars and braid, which
Stuart wore on his famous ride around McClellan in 1862. Under the
swords hang portraits of Lee, Jackson, and Stuart. Jackson wears his
old coat, and his brow is raised as though he were looking out from
beneath his yellow old cadet cap. Stuart is seated, grasping his sabre,
with his plumed hat resting on his knee. His huge beard flows on his
breast, his eyes are clear and penetrating, and beneath the picture I
have placed a slip cut from one of his letters to me, and containing
the words, "Yours to count on, J.E.B. Stuart." Lastly, the gray
commander-in-chief looks with a grave smile over his shoulder, the eyes
fixed upon that excellent engraving of the "Good Old Rebel," a private
of the Army of Northern Virginia, seated on a log, after the war, and
reflecting with knit brows on the past and the present.
From this sketch of my surroundings, worthy reader, you will perceive,
that I amuse myself by recalling the old times when the Grays and Blues
were opposed to each other. Those two swords crossed--those pictures of
Lee, Jackson, Stuart, and the "Old Rebel"--you are certain to think
that the possessor of them is unreconstructed (terrible word!) and
still a rebel!
But is it wrong to remember the past? I think of it without bitterness.
God decreed it--God the all-wise, the all-merciful--for his own
purpose. I do not indulge any repinings, or reflect with rancor upon
the issue of the struggle. I prefer recalling the stirring adventure,
the brave voices, the gallant faces: even in that tremendous drama of
1864-5, I can find something besides blood and tears: even here and
there some sunshine!
In this last series of my memoirs I shall deal chiefly with that
immense campaign. In the first series which, I trust the reader of
these pages will have perused, I followed Jackson through his hard
battles to the fatal field of Chancellorsville. In this volume I shall
beg the reader first to go with Stuart from the great review of his
cavalry, in June, 1863, to the dark morning of May 11, 1864, at Yellow
Tavern. Then the last days will follow.
I open the drama with that fine cavalry review in June, 1863, on the
Plains of Culpeper.
It is a pleasure to return to it--for Gettysburg blackened the sunshine
soon. The column thundered by; the gay bugles rang; the great
banner floated. Where is that pageant to-day? Where the old moons of
Villon? Alas! the strong hours work their will. June, 1863, is long
dead. The cavalry horses, if they came back from the wars, are
ploughing. The rusty sabres stick fast in the battered old scabbards.
The old saddles are shabby--and our friends take them away from us. The
old buttons are tarnished, and an order forbids our wearing them. The
brass bands clash no more; and the bugles are silent. Where are the
drums and the bugles? Do they beat the long roll at the approach of
phantom foes, or sound the cavalry charge in another world? They are
silent to-day, and have long disappeared; but I think I hear them still
in my dreams!
It is in June, 1863, therefore, worthy reader, that I open my volume.
Up to that time I had gone with Jackson's "foot cavalry," marching
slowly and steadily to battle. Now, I was to follow the gay and
adventurous career of the Virginia Rupert--Stuart, the Knight of the
Black Plume! If you are willing to accompany me, I promise to show you
some animated scenes. You will hear Stuart laugh as he leads the
charge, or jest with his staff, or sing his gay cavalry songs. But,
alas! we shall not go far with him; and when he leaves us a sort of
shadow will fall upon the landscape. From that May, 1864, laughter will
seldom be heard. The light which shines on the great picture will be
red and baleful. Blood will gush on desperate fields--men will fall
like dry leaves in the winds of autumn.
The crimson torrent will sweep away a whole generation almost--and the
Red Cross flag will go down in blood.
The current of events will drag us to Petersburg, and those last months
which witnessed the final wrestle in this war of the giants.
Let us bask in the sunshine, before breasting the storm. The pages of
blood and mourning will soon be opened--meanwhile we will laugh.
In this June, 1863, faces smile still, and cheers resound. Bugles are
ringing, swords clashing, cannon thundering.
Lee's old army is full of ardor, and seventy thousand men shout!
"Pennsylvania! Pennsylvania!"
MOHUN;
OR,
THE LAST DAYS OF LEE AND HIS PALADINS.
BOOK I.
GETTYSBURG.
I.
THE CAVALRY REVIEW.
On a beautiful day of June, 1863, the plains of Culpeper, in Virginia,
were the scene of an imposing pageant.
Stuart's cavalry was passing in review before Lee, who was about to
commence his march toward Gettysburg.
Those of my readers who were fortunate enough to be present, will not
forget that scene. They will remember the martial form of Stuart at the
head of his _sabreurs_; how the columns of horsemen thundered by the
great flag; how the multitude cheered, brightest eyes shone, the merry
bands clashed, the gay bugles rang; how the horse artillery roared as
it was charged in mimic battle--while Lee, the gray old soldier, with
serene carriage, sat his horse and looked on.
Never had the fields of Culpeper witnessed a spectacle more
magnificent. The sunshine darted in lightnings from the long line of
sabres, lit up beautiful faces, and flashed from scarfs, and waving
handkerchiefs, rosy cheeks, and glossy ringlets. All was life, and joy,
and splendor. For once war seemed turned to carnival; and flowers
wreathed the keen edge of the sword.
Among the illustrious figures gazed at by the crowd, two were the
observed of all the observers--those of Lee and Stuart.
Lee sat his powerful horse, with its plain soldierly equipments,
beneath the large flag. He was clad in a gray uniform, almost without
mark of rank. Cavalry boots reached nearly to his knees; as usual he
wore no sword; over his broad brow drooped a plain brown felt hat,
without tassel or decoration. Beneath, you saw a pair of frank and
benignant, but penetrating eyes, ruddy cheeks, and an iron gray
mustache and beard, both cut close. In the poise of the stately head,
as in the whole carriage of his person, there was something calm,
august and imposing. This man, it was plain, was not only great, but
good;--the true type of the race of gentlemen of other times.
Stuart, the chief of cavalry of the army, was altogether different in
appearance. Young, ardent, full of life and abandon, he was the true
reproduction of Rupert, said to be his ancestor. The dark cavalry
feather; the lofty forehead, and dazzling blue eyes; his little
"fighting jacket," as he called it, bright with braid and buttons, made
a picture. His boots reached to the knee; a yellow silk sash was about
his waist; his spurs, of solid gold, were the present of some ladies of
Maryland; and with saber at tierce point, extended over his horse's
head, he led the charge with his staff, in front of the column, and
laughing, as though the notes of the bugle drove him forward.
In every movement of that stalwart figure, as in the glance of the blue
eyes, and the laughter curling the huge mustache, could be read youth
and joy, and a courage which nothing could bend. He was called a "boy"
by some, as Coriolanus was before him. But his Federal adversaries did
not laugh at him; they had felt his blows too often. Nor did the
soldiers of the army. He had breasted bullets in front of infantry, as
well as the sabre in front of cavalry. The civilians might laugh at
him--the old soldiers found no fault in him for humming his songs in
battle. They knew the man, and felt that he was a good soldier, as well
as a great general. He would have made an excellent private, and did
not feel "above" being one. Never was human being braver, if he did
laugh and sing. Was he not brave? Answer, old sabreurs, whom he led in
a hundred charges! old followers of Jackson, with whom he went over the
breastworks at Chancellorsville!
Some readers may regard this picture of Stuart as overdrawn; but it is
the simple truth of that brave soul. He had his faults; he loved
praise, even flattery, and was sometimes irascible--but I have never
known a human being more pure, generous and brave.
At sunset the review was over. The long columns of cavalry moved slowly
back to their camps. The horse artillery followed; the infantry who had
witnessed the ceremony sought their bivouacs in the woods; and the
crowd, on foot, on horseback, or in carriages, returned toward the
Court-House, whose spires were visible across the fields.
Stuart had approached the flag-staff and, doffing his plumed hat, had
saluted Lee, who saluted in return, and complimented the review. After
a few moments' conversation, they had then saluted a second time. Lee,
followed by his staff, rode toward his quarters; and Stuart set out to
return to his own.
We had ridden about half a mile, when Stuart turned his head and called
me. I rode to his side.
"I wish you would ride down toward Beverly's Ford, Surry," he said,
"and tell Mordaunt to keep a bright lookout to-night. They must have
heard our artillery on the other side of the river, and may want to
find out what it means."
I saluted, and turned my horse. Stuart cantered on singing.
In a few minutes he was out of sight, and I was riding toward the
Rappahannock.
II.
HOW I BECAME A MEMBER OF GENERAL STUART'S STAFF.
If the reader has done me the honor to peruse the first volume of my
memoirs, I indulge the vanity of supposing that he will like to be
informed how I became a member of General Stuart's staff.
When oaks crash down they are apt to prostrate the saplings growing
around them. Jackson was a very tall oak, and I a very humble sapling.
When the great trunk fell, the mere twig disappeared. I had served with
Jackson from the beginning of the war; that king of battle dead at
Chancellorsville, I had found myself without a commander, and without a
home. I was not only called upon in that May of 1863, to mourn the
illustrious soldier, who had done me the honor to call me his friend; I
had also to look around me for some other general; some other position
in the army.
I was revolving this important subject in my mind, when I received a
note from General J.E.B. Stuart, Jackson's friend and brother in arms.
"Come and see me," said this note. Forty-eight hours afterward I was at
Stuart's head-quarters, near Culpeper Court-House.
When I entered his tent, or rather breadth of canvas, stretched beneath
a great oak, Stuart rose from the red blanket upon which he was lying,
and held out his hand. As he gazed at me in silence I could see his
face flush.
"You remind me of Jackson," he said, retaining my hand and gazing
fixedly at me.
I bowed my head, making no other reply; for the sight of Stuart brought
back to me also many memories; the scouting of the Valley, the hard
combats of the Lowland, Cold Harbor, Manassas, Sharpsburg,
Fredericksburg, and that last greeting between Jackson and the great
commander of the cavalry, on the weird moonlight night at
Chancellorsville.
Stuart continued to gaze at me, and I could see his eyes slowly fill
with tears.
"It is a national calamity!" he murmured. "Jackson's loss is
irreparable!"[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
He remained for a moment gazing into my face, then passing his hand
over his forehead, he banished by a great effort these depressing
memories. His bold features resumed their habitual cheerfulness.
Our dialogue was brief, and came rapidly to the point.
"Have you been assigned to duty yet, my dear Surry?"
"I have not, general."
"Would you like to come with me?"
"More than with any general in the army, since Jackson's death. You
know I am sincere in saying that."
"Thanks--then the matter can be very soon arranged, I think. I want
another inspector-general, and want _you_."
With these words Stuart seated himself at his desk, wrote a note,
which, he dispatched by a courier to army head-quarters; and then
throwing aside business, he began laughing and talking.
For once the supply of red tape in Richmond seemed temporarily
exhausted. Stuart was Lee's right hand, and when he made a request, the
War Office deigned to listen. Four days afterward, I was seated under
the canvas of a staff tent, when Stuart hastened up with boyish ardor,
holding a paper.
"Here you are, old Surry,"--when he used the prefix "old" to any one's
name, he was always excellently well disposed toward them,--"the
Richmond people are prompt this time. Here is your assignment--send for
Sweeney and his banjo! He shall play 'Jine the Cavalry!' in honor of
the occasion, Surry!"
You see now, my dear reader, how it happened that in June, 1863, Stuart
beckoned to me, and gave me an order to transmit to General Mordaunt.
III.
BLUE AND GRAY PHANTOMS.
As I rode toward the Rappahannock to deliver Stuart's order to General
Mordaunt, the wide landscape was suddenly lit up by a crimson glare. I
looked over my shoulder. The sun was poised upon the western woods, and
resembled a huge bloodshot eye. Above it extended a long black cloud,
like an eyebrow--and from the cloud issued low thunder.
When a storm is coming, the civilian seeks shelter; but the soldier
carrying an order, wraps his cape around him, and rides on. I went on
past Brandy and Fleetwood Hill, descended toward the river, entered a
great belt of woods--then night and storm descended simultaneously. An
artillery duel seemed going on in the clouds; the flickering lightnings
amid the branches resembled serpents of fire: the wind rolled through
the black wood, tearing off boughs in its passage.
I pushed my horse to full speed to emerge from this scene of crashing
limbs and tottering trunks. I had just passed a little stream, when
from a by-road on my left came the trample of hoofs. It is good to be
on the watch in the cavalry, and I wheeled to the right,
listening--when all at once a brilliant flash of lightning showed me,
within fifty paces, a column of _blue_ cavalry.
"Halt!" rang out from the column, and a pistol-shot followed.
I did not halt. Capture was becoming a hideous affair in June, 1863. I
passed across the head of the column at full speed, followed by
bullets; struck into a bridle-path on the right, and pushed ahead,
hotly pursued.
They had followed me nearly half a mile, firing on me, and ordering me
to halt, when suddenly a sonorous "Halt!" resounded fifty yards in
front of me; and a moment afterward, a carbine ball passed through my
riding cape.
I drove on at full speed, convinced that these in front were friends;
and the chest of my horse struck violently against that of another in
the darkness.
"Halt, or you are dead!" came in the same commanding voice.
Another flash of lightning showed me a squadron of _gray_ cavalry: at
their head rode a cavalier, well mounted; it was his horse against
which I had struck, and he held a cocked pistol to my breast.
The lightning left nothing in doubt. Gray and blue quickly recognized
each other. The blue cavalry had drawn rein, and, at that moment, the
leader of the grays shouted--"Charge!" A rush of hoofs, and then a
quick clash of sabres followed. The adversaries had hurled together.
The wood suddenly became the scene of a violent combat.
It was a rough affair. For ten minutes the result was doubtful. The
Federal cavalry were apparently commanded by an officer of excellent
nerve, and he fought his men obstinately. For nearly a quarter of an
hour the wood was full of sabre-strokes, carbine-shots, and yells,
which mingled with the roll of the storm. Then the fight ended.
My friend of the cocked pistol threw himself, sabre in hand, upon the
Federal front, and it shook, and gave back, and retreated. The weight
of the onset seemed to sweep it, inch by inch, away. The blue squadron
finally broke, and scattered in every direction. The grays pressed on
with loud cheers, firing as they did so:--five minutes afterward, the
storm-lashed wood had swallowed pursuers and pursued.
The whole had disappeared like phantom horsemen in the direction of the
Rappahannock.
IV.
MOHUN AND HIS PRISONER.
Half an hour afterward, the storm had spent its fury, and I was
standing by a bivouac fire on the banks of the Rappahannock, conversing
with the officer against whom I had driven my horse in the darkness.
Mounted upon a powerful gray, he had led the attack with a sort of
fury, and I now looked at him with some curiosity.
He was a man of about thirty, of gaunt face and figure, wearing a hat
with a black feather, and the uniform of a colonel of cavalry. The
features were regular and might have been called handsome; the eyes,
hair, mustache, and imperial--he wore no beard--coal black; the
complexion so pale that the effect was startling. More curious than all
else, however, was the officer's expression. In the lips and eyes could
be read something bitterly cynical, mingled with a profound and
apparently ineradicable melancholy. After looking at my new
acquaintance for an instant, I said to myself: "This man has either
suffered some great grief, or committed some great crime."
His bearing was cold, but courteous.
"I recognized you as soon as I saw you, colonel," he said, in response
to my salute. "You probably do not know me, however, as I have just
been transferred from the Army of the West. Colonel Mohun, at your
service."
I exchanged a pressure of the hand with Colonel Mohun, or, speaking
more correctly, I grasped his. It did not return the pressure. I then
thanked him for his timely appearance, and he bowed coldly.
"It was lucky that my scout led me in this direction," he said, "that
party is whipped back over the river, and will give us no more trouble
to-night--the woods are full of their dead and wounded."
As he spoke he took a cigar case from his pocket, and presented it.
"Will you smoke, sir?" he said.
I bowed and selected a cigar. Colonel Mohun imitated me, and was about
to commence smoking, when two or three cavalry men were seen
approaching through the gloom, apparently escorting some one.
As they drew nearer the figures became plainer in the firelight. The
cavalry men had in charge a female prisoner.
She was a woman of petite figure, clad in a handsome gray riding-habit,
and mounted upon a superb horse, with rich equipments, apparently
belonging to a Federal officer of high rank. From the horse, I glanced
at the prisoner's face. It was a strange countenance. She was about
twenty-five--her complexion was dead white, except the lips which were
as red as carnations; her eyes were large and brilliant, her hair dark
and worn plain under a small riding-hat. In one delicately gauntleted
hand she held the rein of her horse--with the other, which was
ungloved, she raised a lace handkerchief to her lips. On the finger
sparkled a diamond.
There was something strange in the expression of this woman. She looked
"dangerous" in spite of her calmness.
She sat gazing at some one behind me, with the handkerchief still
raised to her lips. Then she took it away, and I could see a smile upon
them.
What was the origin of that smile, and at whom was she looking? I
turned, and found myself face to face with Colonel Mohun. His
appearance almost frightened me. His countenance wore the hue of a
corpse, his whole frame shook with quick shudders, and his eyes were
distended until the black pupils shone in the centres of two white
circles.
Suddenly his teeth clinched audibly; he passed his hand over his
forehead streaming with cold sweat; and said in a low voice:
"Then you are not dead, madam?"
"No, sir," the prisoner replied tranquilly.
Mohun gazed at her with a long, fixed look. As he did so his features
gradually resumed the cold and cynical expression which I had first
observed in them.
"This meeting is singular," he said.
A satirical smile passed over the lips of the prisoner.
"Our last interview was very different, was it not, sir?" she said.
"The Nottoway was higher than the Rappahannock is to-night, and you did
not expect to meet me again--so soon!"
Mohun continued to gaze at her with the same fixed look.
"No, madam," he said.
"You recall that agreeable evening, do you not, sir?"
Mohun coolly inclined his head.
"And you have not seen me since?"
"Never, madam."
"You are mistaken!"
"Is it possible that I could have forgotten so pleasing a circumstance,
madam?"
"Yes!"
"Where and when have I seen you since that time?"
"Everywhere, and at all times!--awake and asleep, day and night!"
Mohun shuddered.
"True," he said, with a bitter smile.
"You remember, then! I am not wrong!" exclaimed the prisoner, gazing
intently at him.
Mohun raised his head, and I could see the old cynical expression upon
his lips.
"Certainly I remember, madam," he said. "Do you think it possible for
any one to forget your charming ladyship? And could any thing be more
delightful than this interview between two old friends? But let us
reserve these sweet confidences, these gushing emotions! One thing only
is wanting, to perfect the happiness of this moment; the presence this
evening of _your dear brother_!--but he is doubtless detained
elsewhere!"
Mohun's expression was singular as he uttered these words. The prisoner
looked at him as he was speaking with an indescribable smile. I can
only compare it to that of the swordsman about to deliver a mortal
lunge.
"My brother," she said, in accents as soft as a flute; "detained
elsewhere, do you say, sir? You are mistaken in supposing so. He
commanded the cavalry with which you were fighting to-night!"
At these words, uttered in a strange, mocking voice, I saw Mohun start
as if a rattlesnake had bitten his heel. With all his self-possession
he could not restrain this exhibition of emotion.
"Impossible! You are deceiving me--"
The prisoner interrupted him with a gay laugh.
"So you do not believe me," she said; "you think, my dear sir, that
everybody is dead but yourself! Dismiss that idea from your mind! _I_
am not dead, since we have the pleasure of again meeting in the flesh.
_He_ is not dead! No! it was Colonel Mortimer Darke whom you fought
to-night. This is his horse which I borrowed to take a short ride. I have
been captured, but _he_ is neither dead nor captured, and you will
doubtless receive some friendly message from him soon."
Under the mocking accents and the satirical glance, it was easy to read
profound hatred. The speaker could not hide that. At that moment she
resembled a tigress about to spring.
Mohun had listened with absorbing attention as his companion spoke;
but, as on the first occasion, he speedily suppressed his agitation.
His face was now as cold and unmoved as though moulded of bronze.
"So be it, madam," he said; "I will respond as I best can to such
message as he may send me. For yourself, you know me well, and, I am
glad to see, indulge no apprehensions. The past is dead; let it sleep.
You think this interview is painful to me. You deceive yourself, madam;
I would not exchange it for all the wealth of two hemispheres."
And calling an officer, he said:--
"You will conduct this lady to General Stuart, reporting the
circumstances attending her capture."
Mohun made a ceremonious bow to the prisoner as he spoke, saluted me in
the same manner, and mounting his horse, rode back at the head of his
column.
The prisoner, escorted by the young officer, and still riding her fine
horse, had already disappeared in the darkness.
V.
STUART.
An hour afterward, I had delivered my message to Mordaunt, and was
returning by the road over Fleetwood Hill, thinking of the singular
dialogue between Mohun and the gray woman.
What had these worthies meant by their mysterious allusions? How had
Mohun found himself face to face on this stormy night, with two human
beings whom he thought dead?
These questions puzzled me for half an hour; then I gave up the
mystery, laughing. An hour afterward I had passed through Culpeper
Court-House, crossed the fields, and had reached General Stuart's
headquarters.
Stuart's tent, or rather the strip of canvas which he called one, was
pitched beneath a great oak on a wooded knoll about a mile south of the
little village. Above it drooped the masses of fresh June foliage;
around, were grouped the white canvas "flies" of the staff; in a glade
close by gleamed the tents d'abri of the couriers. Horses, tethered to
the trees, champed their corn in the shadow; in the calm, summer night,
the battle-flag drooped and clung to its staff. Before the tent of
Stuart, a man on guard, with drawn sabre, paced to and fro with
measured steps.
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