Mohun; Or, the Last Days of Lee and His Paladins.
John Esten Cooke
Produced by Eric Eldred, Marvin A. Hodges and the OnlineDistributed 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 atEagle's-Nest, are two crossed swords. One is a battered old sabre wornat Gettysburg, and Appomattox; the other, a Federal officer's dresssword captured in 1863.
It was a mere fancy to place them there, as it was a whim to hang uponthat nail yonder, the uniform coat with its stars and braid, whichStuart wore on his famous ride around McClellan in 1862. Under theswords hang portraits of Lee, Jackson, and Stuart. Jackson wears his oldcoat, and his brow is raised as though he were looking out from beneathhis yellow old cadet cap. Stuart is seated, grasping his sabre, with hisplumed hat resting on his knee. His huge beard flows on his breast, hiseyes are clear and penetrating, and beneath the picture I have placed aslip cut from one of his letters to me, and containing the words, "Yoursto count on, J.E.B. Stuart." Lastly, the gray commander-in-chief lookswith a grave smile over his shoulder, the eyes fixed upon that excellentengraving of the "Good Old Rebel," a private of the Army of NorthernVirginia, seated on a log, after the war, and reflecting with knit browson 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 Blueswere opposed to each other. Those two swords crossed--those pictures ofLee, Jackson, Stuart, and the "Old Rebel"--you are certain to think thatthe possessor of them is unreconstructed (terrible word!) and still arebel!
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 issueof the struggle. I prefer recalling the stirring adventure, the bravevoices, the gallant faces: even in that tremendous drama of 1864-5, Ican find something besides blood and tears: even here and there somesunshine!
In this last series of my memoirs I shall deal chiefly with that immensecampaign. In the first series which, I trust the reader of these pageswill have perused, I followed Jackson through his hard battles to thefatal field of Chancellorsville. In this volume I shall beg the readerfirst 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 thelast days will follow.
I open the drama with that fine cavalry review in June, 1863, on thePlains of Culpeper.
It is a pleasure to return to it--for Gettysburg blackened the sunshinesoon. The column thundered by; the gay bugles rang; the great bannerfloated. Where is that pageant to-day? Where the old moons of Villon?Alas! the strong hours work their will. June, 1863, is long dead. Thecavalry horses, if they came back from the wars, are ploughing. Therusty sabres stick fast in the battered old scabbards. The old saddlesare shabby--and our friends take them away from us. The old buttons aretarnished, and an order forbids our wearing them. The brass bands clashno 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 thecavalry charge in another world? They are silent to-day, and have longdisappeared; but I think I hear them still in my dreams!
It is in June, 1863, therefore, worthy reader, that I open my volume. Upto that time I had gone with Jackson's "foot cavalry," marching slowlyand steadily to battle. Now, I was to follow the gay and adventurouscareer of the Virginia Rupert--Stuart, the Knight of the Black Plume!If you are willing to accompany me, I promise to show you some animatedscenes. You will hear Stuart laugh as he leads the charge, or jest withhis staff, or sing his gay cavalry songs. But, alas! we shall not gofar with him; and when he leaves us a sort of shadow will fall upon thelandscape. From that May, 1864, laughter will seldom be heard. The lightwhich shines on the great picture will be red and baleful. Blood willgush on desperate fields--men will fall like dry leaves in the winds ofautumn.
The crimson torrent will sweep away a whole generation almost--and theRed Cross flag will go down in blood.
The current of events will drag us to Petersburg, and those last monthswhich witnessed the final wrestle in this war of the giants.
Let us bask in the sunshine, before breasting the storm. The pages ofblood and mourning will soon be opened--meanwhile we will laugh.
In this June, 1863, faces smile still, and cheers resound. Bugles areringing, 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 tocommence his march toward Gettysburg.
Those of my readers who were fortunate enough to be present, will notforget that scene. They will remember the martial form of Stuart at thehead of his _sabreurs_; how the columns of horsemen thundered by thegreat flag; how the multitude cheered, brightest eyes shone, the merrybands clashed, the gay bugles rang; how the horse artillery roared asit was charged in mimic battle--while Lee, the gray old soldier, withserene 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 upbeautiful faces, and flashed from scarfs, and waving handkerchiefs, rosycheeks, and glossy ringlets. All was life, and joy, and splendor. Foronce war seemed turned to carnival; and flowers wreathed the keen edgeof the sword.
Among the illustrious figures gazed at by the crowd, two were theobserved of all the observers--those of Lee and Stuart.
Lee sat his powerful horse, with its plain soldierly equipments, beneaththe large flag. He was clad in a gray uniform, almost without mark ofrank. Cavalry boots reached nearly to his knees; as usual he wore nosword; over his broad brow drooped a plain brown felt hat, withouttassel or decoration. Beneath, you saw a pair of frank and benignant,but penetrating eyes, ruddy cheeks, and an iron gray mustache andbeard, both cut close. In the poise of the stately head, as in the wholecarriage of his person, there was something calm, august and imposing.This man, it was plain, was not only great, but good;--the true type ofthe race of gentlemen of other times.
Stuart, the chief of cavalry of the army, was altogether different inappearance. Young, ardent, full of life and abandon, he was the truereproduction of Rupert, said to be his ancestor. The dark cavalryfeather; the lofty forehead, and dazzling blue eyes; his little"fighting jacket," as he called it, bright with braid and buttons, madea picture. His boots reached to the knee; a yellow silk sash was abouthis waist; his spurs, of solid gold, were the present of some ladiesof Maryland; and with saber at tierce point, extended over his horse'shead, he led the charge with his staff, in front of the column, andlaughing, as though the notes of the bugle drove him forward.
In every movement of that stalwart figure, as in the glance of the blueeyes, and the laughter curling the huge mustache, could be read youthand joy, and a courage which nothing could bend. He was called a "boy"by some, a
s Coriolanus was before him. But his Federal adversariesdid not laugh at him; they had felt his blows too often. Nor did thesoldiers of the army. He had breasted bullets in front of infantry,as well as the sabre in front of cavalry. The civilians might laugh athim--the old soldiers found no fault in him for humming his songs inbattle. They knew the man, and felt that he was a good soldier, as wellas a great general. He would have made an excellent private, and did notfeel "above" being one. Never was human being braver, if he did laughand sing. Was he not brave? Answer, old sabreurs, whom he led in ahundred charges! old followers of Jackson, with whom he went over thebreastworks at Chancellorsville!
Some readers may regard this picture of Stuart as overdrawn; but it isthe simple truth of that brave soul. He had his faults; he loved praise,even flattery, and was sometimes irascible--but I have never known ahuman being more pure, generous and brave.
At sunset the review was over. The long columns of cavalry moved slowlyback to their camps. The horse artillery followed; the infantry whohad witnessed the ceremony sought their bivouacs in the woods; andthe crowd, on foot, on horseback, or in carriages, returned toward theCourt-House, whose spires were visible across the fields.
Stuart had approached the flag-staff and, doffing his plumed hat, hadsaluted Lee, who saluted in return, and complimented the review. Aftera few moments' conversation, they had then saluted a second time. Lee,followed by his staff, rode toward his quarters; and Stuart set out toreturn to his own.
We had ridden about half a mile, when Stuart turned his head and calledme. I rode to his side.
"I wish you would ride down toward Beverly's Ford, Surry," he said, "andtell Mordaunt to keep a bright lookout to-night. They must have heardour artillery on the other side of the river, and may want to find outwhat 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 theRappahannock.
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 mymemoirs, I indulge the vanity of supposing that he will like to beinformed how I became a member of General Stuart's staff.
When oaks crash down they are apt to prostrate the saplings growingaround them. Jackson was a very tall oak, and I a very humble sapling.When the great trunk fell, the mere twig disappeared. I had servedwith Jackson from the beginning of the war; that king of battle dead atChancellorsville, I had found myself without a commander, and withouta home. I was not only called upon in that May of 1863, to mourn theillustrious soldier, who had done me the honor to call me his friend; Ihad also to look around me for some other general; some other positionin the army.
I was revolving this important subject in my mind, when I received anote 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 atStuart's head-quarters, near Culpeper Court-House.
When I entered his tent, or rather breadth of canvas, stretched beneatha 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 faceflush.
"You remind me of Jackson," he said, retaining my hand and gazingfixedly at me.
I bowed my head, making no other reply; for the sight of Stuart broughtback to me also many memories; the scouting of the Valley, thehard combats of the Lowland, Cold Harbor, Manassas, Sharpsburg,Fredericksburg, and that last greeting between Jackson and thegreat commander of the cavalry, on the weird moonlight night atChancellorsville.
Stuart continued to gaze at me, and I could see his eyes slowly fillwith tears.
"It is a national calamity!" he murmured. "Jackson's loss isirreparable!"[1]
[Footnote 1: His words.]
He remained for a moment gazing into my face, then passing his hand overhis 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 knowI am sincere in saying that."
"Thanks--then the matter can be very soon arranged, I think. I wantanother 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 throwingaside business, he began laughing and talking.
For once the supply of red tape in Richmond seemed temporarilyexhausted. Stuart was Lee's right hand, and when he made a request, theWar Office deigned to listen. Four days afterward, I was seated underthe 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 anyone's name, he was always excellently well disposed toward them,--"theRichmond people are prompt this time. Here is your assignment--send forSweeney and his banjo! He shall play 'Jine the Cavalry!' in honor of theoccasion, Surry!"
You see now, my dear reader, how it happened that in June, 1863, Stuartbeckoned 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 GeneralMordaunt, the wide landscape was suddenly lit up by a crimson glare. Ilooked over my shoulder. The sun was poised upon the western woods, andresembled 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 soldiercarrying an order, wraps his cape around him, and rides on. I went onpast Brandy and Fleetwood Hill, descended toward the river, entered agreat belt of woods--then night and storm descended simultaneously. Anartillery duel seemed going on in the clouds; the flickering lightningsamid the branches resembled serpents of fire: the wind rolled throughthe black wood, tearing off boughs in its passage.
I pushed my horse to full speed to emerge from this scene of crashinglimbs and tottering trunks. I had just passed a little stream, when froma by-road on my left came the trample of hoofs. It is good to be on thewatch in the cavalry, and I wheeled to the right, listening--when allat once a brilliant flash of lightning showed me, within fifty paces, acolumn 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. Ipassed 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 meto halt, when suddenly a sonorous "Halt!" resounded fifty yards in frontof me; and a moment afterward, a carbine ball passed through my ridingcape.
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 inthe darkness.
"Halt, or you are dead!" came in the same commanding voice.
Another flash of lightning showed me a squadron of _gray_ cavalry: attheir head rode a cavalier, well mounted; it was his horse against whichI had struck, and he held a cocked pistol to my breast.
The lightning left nothing in doubt. Gray and blue quickly recognizedeach other. The blue cavalry had drawn rein, and, at that moment, theleader of the grays shouted--"Charge!" A rush of hoofs, and then a quickclash of sabres followed. The adversaries had hurled together. The woodsuddenly became the scene of a violent combat.
It was a rough affair. For ten minutes the result was doubtful. TheFederal cavalry were apparently commanded by an officer of excellentnerve, and he fought his men obstinately. For nearly a quarter of anhour the wood was full of sabre-strokes, carbine-shots, and yells, whichmingled with the roll of the storm. Then the fight ended
.
My friend of the cocked pistol threw himself, sabre in hand, upon theFederal front, and it shook, and gave back, and retreated. The weightof the onset seemed to sweep it, inch by inch, away. The blue squadronfinally broke, and scattered in every direction. The grays pressed onwith loud cheers, firing as they did so:--five minutes afterward, thestorm-lashed wood had swallowed pursuers and pursued.
The whole had disappeared like phantom horsemen in the direction of theRappahannock.
IV.
MOHUN AND HIS PRISONER.
Half an hour afterward, the storm had spent its fury, and I was standingby a bivouac fire on the banks of the Rappahannock, conversing with theofficer 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 hatwith a black feather, and the uniform of a colonel of cavalry. Thefeatures were regular and might have been called handsome; the eyes,hair, mustache, and imperial--he wore no beard--coal black; thecomplexion so pale that the effect was startling. More curious than allelse, however, was the officer's expression. In the lips and eyescould be read something bitterly cynical, mingled with a profound andapparently ineradicable melancholy. After looking at my new acquaintancefor an instant, I said to myself: "This man has either suffered somegreat grief, or committed some great crime."
His bearing was cold, but courteous.
