3. III.
I have spoken of his modest, almost shy demeanour. All
this disappeared in action. His coolness remained unaffected,
but he evidently felt himself in his proper element, and entitled
to direct others. At such moments his suggestions were boldly
made, and not seldom resulted in the rout of the enemy. The
cavalry once in motion, the quiet, modest gentleman was metamorphosed
into the fiery partisan. He would lead a charge
with the reckless daring of Murat, and cheer on the men, with
contagious ardour, amid the most furious storm of balls.
His disregard of personal exposure was supreme, and the idea
that he was surrounded by peril never occurred to him. He
has repeatedly told the present writer, with that simplicity and
sincerity which produce conviction, that in action he was wholly
unconscious of the balls and shells flying and bursting around
him—that his interest in the general result was so strong as to
cause him to lose sight of them. Those who knew him did not
venture to doubt the assertion.
He delighted in the wild charge, the clash of meeting squadrons,
and the roar of artillery. All these martial sights and
sounds ministered to the passionate ardour of that temperament
which made him most at home where balls were whistling,
and the air oppressive with the odour of battle. But, I think,
he even preferred the life of the scout—the long and noiseless
hunt for his foe—the exercise of those faculties, by
means of which an enemy is surprised and destroyed—the single
combat with sabre and pistol, often far off in the silence of
the woods, where a dead body half concealed amid the grass is
all that remains to tell the tale of some hand-to-hand encounter.
The number of such contests through which Farley had passed
would seem incredible to those who did not know him, and thus
comprehend how the naked truth of his career beggared romance.
He rarely spoke of these affairs, and never, unless to certain
persons, and under pecnliar circumstances. He had a great
horror of appearing to boast of his own exploits, and so greatly
feared securing the reputation of colouring his adventures that he
seldom alluded to them, even. Fortunately for his memory,
many persons witnessed his most desperate encounters, and still
live to testify to the reckless daring of the young partisan.
With these his eventful career will long remain the subject of
fireside tales; and in the coming days of peace, when years
have silvered the hair of his contemporaries, old men will tell
their grand-children of his strange adventures and those noble
traits which made his name so famous.
To the world at large, he will always thus appear—as the
daring partisan and adventurous scout—as one who risked his
life in a hundred hot encounters, and in all those bloody scenes
never quailed or shrank before a foe, however powerful or dangerous.
But to those who lived with him—heard his low,
friendly voice, and saw every day his bright kindly smile—he
appears in a different character. To such the loss we have sustained
is deeper—it seems irreparable. It was the good fortune
of the writer of these lines to thus see the brave young man—
to be beside him in the field; and, at home, to share his confidence
and friendship. Riding through the summer forests, or
wandering on across the fields of broom-straw, near Fredericksburg—better
still, beside the good log-fire of winter—we talked
of a thousand things, and I saw what a wealth of kindness, chivelry,
and honour he possessed—how beautifully the elements
were mixed in his character. Brave and true—simple and
kind—he passed away; and among those eminent natures
which the writer encountered in the late struggle, few are remembered
with such admiration and affection as this noble son
of Carolina.
The best conclusion of this brief and inadequate sketch will
be the meution made of the brave partisan in General Stuart's
report of the battle of Fleetwood. It is as follows:
“Captain W. D. Farley, of South Carolina, a volunteer aide
on my staff, was mortally wounded by the same shell which
wounded Colonel Butler, and displayed even in death, the same
loftiness of bering and fortitude which characterized him
through life. He had served, without emolument, long, faithfully,
and always with distinction. No nobler champion has
fallen. May his spirit abide with us.”
