Mohun; Or, the Last Days of Lee and His Paladins Part 79

I had come to talk with Will, but our conversation was obliged to be deferred. The brave boys of the horse artillery, officers and men, gathered round to hear the news from Petersburg; and it was a rare pleasure to me to see again the old familiar faces. Around me, in light of the camp-fire, were grouped the tigers who had fought with Pelham, in the old battles of Stuart. Here were the heroes of a hundred combats; the men who had held their ground desperately in the most desperate encounters--the bulldogs who had showed their teeth and sprung to the death-grapple at Cold Harbor, Mana.s.sas, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Fleetwood, Gettysburg, in the Wilderness, at Trevillian's, at Sappony, in a thousand bitter conflicts with the cavalry. Scarred faces, limping bodies, the one-armed, the one-legged,--these I saw around me; the frames slashed and mutilated, but the eyes flashing and full of fight, as in the days when Pelham thundered, loosing his war-hounds on the enemy. I had seen brave commands, in these long years of combat--had touched the hands of heroic men, whose souls fear never entered--but I never saw braver fighters than the horse artillery--soldiers more reckless than Pelham's bloodhounds. They went to battle laughing. There was something of the tiger in them. They were of every nation nearly--Frenchmen, Irishmen, Italians,--but one sentiment seemed to inspire them--hatred of our friends over the way. From the moment in 1862, when at Barbee's they raised the loud resounding _Ma.r.s.eillaise_, while fighting the enemy in front and rear, to this fall of 1864, when they had strewed a hundred battle-fields with dead men and horses, these "swarthy old hounds" of the horse artillery had vindicated their claims to the admiration of Stuart;--in the thunder of their guns, the dead chieftain had seemed still to hurl his defiance at the invaders of Virginia.

Looking around me, I missed many of the old faces, sleeping now beneath the sod. But Dominic, Antonio, and Rossini were still there--those members of the old "Napoleon Detachment" of Pelham's old battery; there still was Guillemot, the erect, military-looking Frenchman,--Guillemot, with his hand raised to his cap, saluting me with the profoundest respect; these were the faces I had seen a hundred times, and never any thing but gay and full of fight.

Doubtless they remembered me, and thought of Stuart, as others had done, at seeing me. They gave me a soldier's welcome; soon, from the group around the camp-fire rose a song. Another followed, then another, in the richest tenor; and the forests of Dinwiddie rang with the deep voices, rising clear and sonorous in the moonlight night.

They were old songs of Ashby and Stuart; unpublished ditties of the struggle, which the winds have borne away into the night of the past, and which now live only in memory. There was one of Ashby, commencing,--

"See him enter on the valley,"

which wound up with the words,--

"And they cried, 'O G.o.d they've shot him!

Ashby is no more!'

Strike, freemen, for your country, Sheathe your swords no more!

While remains in arms a Yankee On Virginia's sh.o.r.e!"

The air was sad and plaintive. The song rose, and wailed, and died away like the sigh of the wind in the trees, the murmuring airs of evening in the brambles and thickets of the Rowanty. The singers had fought under Ashby, and in their rude and plaintive song they uttered their regrets.

Then the music changed its character, and the stirring replaced the sad.

"If you want to have a good time, J'ine the cavalry!"

came in grand, uproarious strains; and this was succeeded by the jubilant--

"Farewell, forever to the star-spangled banner, No longer shall she wave o'er the land of the free; But we'll unfurl to the broad breeze of heaven, The thirteen bright stars round the Palmetto tree!"

At that song--and those words, "the thirteen bright stars round the Palmetto tree!"--you might have seen the eyes of the South Carolinians flash. Many other ditties followed, filling the moonlight night with song--"The Bonnie Blue Flag," "Katy Wells," and "The Louisiana Colors."

This last was never printed. Here are a few of the gay verses of the "Irish Lad from Dixie:"--

"My sweetheart's name is Kathleen, For her I'll do or die; She has a striped straw mattress, A shanty, pig, and sty.

Her cheeks are bright and beautiful, Her hair is dark and curly, She sent me with the secesh boys To fight with General Early.

"She made our flag with her own hands, My Kathleen fair and clever, And twined its staff with shamrock green, Old Ireland's pride forever!

She gave it into our trust, Among our weeping mothers;-- 'Remember, Irish men!' she said, 'You bear the Red Cross colors!'

"She told me I must never run; The Rebel boys were brothers;-- To stand forever by our flag, The Louisiana colors!

And then she said, 'If you desert, You'll go to the Old Baily!'

Says I, 'My love, when I can't shoot, I'll use my old shillalah!'

"And many a b.l.o.o.d.y charge we made, Nor mind the battle's blaze; G.o.d gave to us a hero bold, Our bonny Harry Hays!

And on the heights of Gettysburg, At twilight first was seen, The stars of Louisiana bright, And Katy's shamrock green.

"And oh! if I get home again, I swear I'll never leave her; I hope the straw mattress will keep, The pig won't have the fever!

For then, you know, I'll marry Kate, And never think of others.

Hurrah, then, for the shamrock green, And the Louisiana colors!"

It was nearly midnight before the men separated, repairing to their tents. Their songs had charmed me, and made the long hours flit by like birds. Where are you, brave singers, in this year '68? I know not--you are all scattered. Your guns have ceased their thunder, your voices sound no more. But I think you sometimes remember, as you muse, in these dull years, those gay moonlight nights on the banks of the Rowanty.

VIII.

"CHARGE! STUART! PAY OFF ASHBY'S SCORE!"

These memories are beguiling, and while they possess me, my drama does not march.

But you have not been wearied, I hope, my dear reader, by this little pencil sketch of the brave horse artillerymen. I found myself among them; the moonlight shone; the voices sang; and I have paused to look and listen again in memory.

These scenes, however, can not possess for you, the attraction they do for me. To proceed with my narrative. I shall pa.s.s over my long conversation with Will Davenant, whose bed I shared. I had promised his father to reveal nothing of the events which I had so strangely discovered--and was then only able to give the young man vague a.s.surances of a coming change for the better in his affair with Miss Conway. He thanked me, blushing, and trying to smile--and then we fell asleep beside each other.

Just at daylight I was suddenly aroused. The jarring notes of a bugle were ringing through the woods. I extended my arm in the darkness, and found that Will Davenant was not beside me.

What had happened? I rose quickly, and throwing my cape over my shoulders, went out of the tent.

The horse artillery was already hitched up, and in motion. The setting moon illumined the grim gun-barrels, caissons, and heavy horses, moving with rattling chains. Behind came the men on horseback, laughing and ready for combat.

As I was gazing at this warlike scene so suddenly evoked, Will Davenant rode up and pointed to my horse, which was ready saddled, and attached to a bough of the great tree.

"I thought I wouldn't wake you, colonel," he said, with a smile, "but let you sleep to the last moment. The enemy are advancing, and we are going to meet them."

He had scarcely spoken, when a rapid firing was heard two or three miles in front, and a loud cheer rose from the artillerymen. In a moment the guns were rushing on at a gallop, and, as I rode beside them, I saw a crimson glare shoot up above the woods, in the direction of the Weldon railroad. The firing had meanwhile grown heavier, and the guns were rushed onward. Will Davenant's whole appearance had completely changed. The youth, so retiring in camp, so cool in a hot fight, seemed burnt up with impatience, at the delay caused by the terrible roads. His voice had become hoa.r.s.e and imperious; he was everywhere urging on the drivers; when the horses stalled in the fathomless mudholes, he would strike the animals, in a sort of rage, with the flat of his sabre, forcing them with a leap which made the traces crack, to drag the piece out of the hole, and onward. A glance told me, then, what was the secret of this mere boy's splendid efficiency. Under the shy, blushing face, was the pa.s.sion and will of the born soldier--the beardless boy had become the master mind, and drove on every thing by his stern will.

In spite of every exertion to overcome the obstacles in the roads, it was nearly sunrise before we reached open ground. Then we emerged upon the upland, near "Disaway's," and saw a picturesque spectacle. From the hill, we could make out every thing. A hot cavalry fight was going on beneath us. The enemy had evidently crossed the Rowanty lower down; and driving in the pickets, had pa.s.sed forward to the railroad.

The guns were rushed toward the spot, unlimbered on a rising ground, and their thunder rose suddenly above the forests. Sh.e.l.l after sh.e.l.l burst amid the enemy, breaking their ranks, and driving them back--and by the time I had galloped through a belt of woods to the scene of the fight, they lost heart, retreated rapidly, and disappeared, driven across the Rowanty again, with the Confederates pursuing them so hotly, that many of the gray cavalry punched them in the back with their empty carbines.[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

Their object in crossing had been to burn a small mill; and in this they had succeeded, after which they retired as soon as possible to their "own side." Some queer scenes had accompanied this "tremendous military movement." In a house near the mill, resided some ladies; and we found them justly indignant at the course of the enemy. The Federal officers--general officers--had ordered the house-furniture to be piled up, the carriage to be drawn into the pile, and then shavings were heaped around, and the whole set on fire, amid shouts, cheers, and firing. The lady of the mansion remonstrated bitterly, but received little satisfaction.

"I have no time to listen to women!"[1] said the Federal general, rudely.

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"It is not _time_ that you want, sir!" returned the lady, with great hauteur, "it is _politeness_!"[1]

[Footnote 1: Her words.]

This greatly enraged the person whom she addressed, and he became furious, when the lady added that all the horses had been sent away. At that moment an officer near him said:--

"General if you are going to burn the premises, you had better commence, as the rebs are pursuing us."

"Order it to be done at once!" was the gruff reply.

And the mill was fired, in the midst of a great uproar, with which mingled shouts of, "The Rebels are coming! The Rebels are coming!"