University of Virginia Library

3. III.

Here the writer had intended to terminate his sketch—attaching
to it the title, “Paroled in Articulo Mortis.” But in so
determining he did not take into consideration the curious
faculty of memory—that faculty which slumbers, and seems
dead often, but none the less lives; which, once set in motion,
travels far. Two or three recollections of that period,
and allied to the subject, have come back—among them the
attack on Aldie; the ovation which awaited us at Middleburg;
and the curious manner in which the heavy silver
watch and chain of the wounded officer—taken from his

body by an officer of the staff—was afterwards restored to his
family.

A word of each incident in its turn.

The force at Mountsville was one of the antennœ of that dan
gerous foe, General Bayard. Touched, it recoiled—but behind
it were the veritable claws. At Aldie, Bayard was posted with
artillery, and a cavalry force which we estimated from the
accounts of prisoners—some seventy in number—at about 5000.

Stuart had only the brigade of Fitz Lee, about 1000 men, but
once in motion the “Flower of Cavaliers” always followed the
Scriptural precept to forget those things which were behind, and
press on to those which were before. His column, therefore,
moved on steadily; and before I had finished paroling Captain
Gove, was nearly out of sight.

Nothing now detained me, and pushing on at full gallop, I
came up with Stuart on the high hill west of Aldie. All along
the road were dead and wounded men—one of the former was
lying in a pool of blood pierced through from breast to back
by a sabre thrust.

Fifty yards further, the long column was stationary on the road
which wound up the hill—stationary, but agitated, restless. From
the front came carbine shots.

On the summit of the hill, relieved against the sky, was the
form of Stuart, with floating plume, drawn sword, and animated
gesture. His horse was rearing; his sabre, as he whirled it
around his head, flashed like lightning in the October sun. No
officer was with him—he had distanced all. I never saw him
more impatient.

“Go to the head of the column, and make it charge!” was his
order—an order so unlike this preux chevalier, who generally
took the front himself, that I would not record it, did I not recall
the exact words—“tell them to charge right in!”

A storm of bullets hissed around the speaker; his horse was
dancing the polka on his hind feet.

Before I had reached the head of the column, going at a run,
Stuart was there too. Then the cause of the halt was seen. The
enemy had dismounted a double line of marksmen—if they were

not infantry—and those adventurous cavaliers who had pushed
on into the hornets' hive, Aldie, had fallen back, pursued by
balls. At the same moment the Federal artillery was seen coming
into position at a rapid gallop on the opposite hill.

Stuart threw one fiery glance in that direction, flashed a
second towards the front, and said briefly:

“Tell Wickham to form on the hill, and bring up Pelham at a
gallop!”

The order was delivered to Wickham; then I went to hurry
Pelham. I found him advancing, alone, at a walk, riding a
huge artillery horse, his kness drawn up by the short stirrups.

“The pieces are coming at a gallop,” was his smiling answer;
“anything going on?”

“The General is going to fall back to the hill, and needs the
guns.”

“All right; they'll be there.”

And soon the roll of wheels, and the heavy beat of artillery
horses' hoofs, was heard. A cloud of dust rose behind. The
pieces approached at a gallop, and ascending the hill, came
into position, flanked by cavalry. Then they opened, and at
the third shot the Federal artillery changed its position. I
always thought they must have known when Pelham was
opposed to them. In the Southern army there was no greater
artillerist than this boy.

Stuart was now upon the hill, where he had drawn up his line
to meet Bayard's charge. He had scarcely made his dispositions,
however, when a mounted man approached him at full
gallop, from the side of Mountsville, that is to say, his rear, and
delivered a message.

The face of the General flushed, and he threw a rapid glance
in that direction. He had received intelligence that a heavy
force of the enemy was closing in upon his rear from the side of
Leesburgh. With Bayard's 5000 in front, and that column in
rear, the little brigade seemed to be caught in a veritable hornets'
nest.

But to extricate himself without difficulty from every species
of “tight place,” seemed to be a peculiar faculty of Stuarts.

He gave an order to Wickham; the cavalry moved slowly back,
with the enemy's shell bursting above them. Pelham limbered
up coolly; the column headed to the left; a friendly by-road,
grassy, skirted with trees and upperceived by the enemy, presented
itself; and in fifteen minutes the whole Southern force was
out of Bayard's clutch, moving steadily across to Middleburg.
Stuart was out of the trap.

At Middleburg, that charming little town, dropped amid the
smiling fields of Loudoun, the General and his followers were
received in a manner which I wish I could describe; but it was
indescribable. The whole hamlet seemed to have been attacked
by a sudden fit of joyous insanity. Men, women, and children,
ran from the houses, shouting, laughing, cheering—crazy, it
appeared, for joy, at sight of the gray horsemen. Six hours
before they were in the “enemy's country,” and the streets had
been traversed by long columns of blue cavalry. Now the
same streets resounded to the hoofstrokes of Stuart's men, clad
in no precise uniform, it might be—real nondescripts—but certainly
there was not a single “blue-bird” among them, unless
he was a prisoner.

It was this spectacle of gray nondescripts which aroused the
general enthusiasm. As Stuart advanced, superb and smiling,
with his brilliant blue eyes, his ebon plume, his crimson scard,
and his rattling sabre, in front of his men, the town, as I have
said, grew wild. His hand was grasped by twenty persons;
bright eyes greeted him; beautiful lips saluted him. Believe
me, reader, it was something to be a soldier of the C. S. A.,
when the name of that soldier was Stuart, Jackson, Gordon, or
Rodes. Fair hands covered them with flowers, cut off their
coat-buttons, and caressed the necks of the horses which they
rode. Better still than that, pure hearts offered prayers for
them; when they fell, the brightest eyes were wet with tears.

Most striking of all scenes of that pageant of rejoicing at
Middleburg, was the ovation in front of a school of young girls.
The house had poured out, as from a cornucopia, a great crowd
of damsels, resembling, in their variegated dresses, a veritable
collection of roses, tulips, and carnations. They were ready

there, these living flowers, to greet their favourite, when he appeared;
and no sooner did his column come in sight in the suburbs
than a wind seemed to agitate the roses, tulips, and carnations;
a murmur rose—“He is coming!”

Then at sight of the floating plume the tempest of welcome
culminated. Beautiful eyes flashed, fair cheeks flushed, red lips
were wreathed with smiles; on every side were heard from the
young maidens, fairly dancing for joy, exclamations of rapturous
delight.

As he came opposite the spot Stuart halted, and taking his
hat off, saluted profoundly. But that was not enough. They
had not assembled there to receive a mere bow. In an instant
his hand was seized; he was submerged in the wave of flowers;
for once, the cavalier who had often said to me, “I never mean
to surrender,” was fairly captured. Nor did he seem to regret
it. He returned good for evil, and appeared to be actuated by
the precept which commands us to love our enemies. Those
enemies pressed around him; overwhelmed him with their
thanks; grasped his hands, and allowed the brave soldier's lip,
as he bent from the saddle, to touch the fresh roses of their
cheeks.

Do you blame them? I do not. Do you say that they were
too “forward?” Believe me, your judgment is harsh. This
soldier was a pure-hearted Christian gentleman, who had fought
for those children, and meant to die for them soon. Was it
wrong to greet him thus, as he passed, amid the storm? and does
any young lady, who kissed him, regret it? Do-not be afraid,
mademoiselle, should you read this page. The lip which
touched your cheek that day never trembled when its owner
was fighting, or going to fall, for you. That hand which you
pressed was a brave and honest Virginian's. That heart which
your greeting made beat faster and more proudly, was one
which never shrank before the sternest tests of manhood; for it
beat in the breast of the greatest and noblest of our Southern
cavaliers!

When Stuart lay down in his bivouac that might, wrapping
his red blanket around him by the glimmering camp fire, I

think he must have fallen asleep with a smile on his lips, and
that the hand of night led him to the land of Pleasant Dreams!