3. III.
Behold the scene now, reader, as I looked at it, on that evening
of December in 1861. We are in a bleak room, with no
furniture but a desk, a chair, and a camp couch. At the desk
sits Stuart, writing away with immense rapidity, and stopping
now and then to hum a song. On the couch, near the fire, are
the ladies—the younger smiling, the elder frowning. Around
stand the staff, and at the door are the laughing faces of couriers,
who look on and listen. In front of them stand the sable musicians,
and the great performer of the breakdown—ebon-hued,
dilapidated in costume, awaiting orders, and approaching the performance
with serious and unmistakable satisfaction.
Stuart calls out from his desk, without turning his head, and
the process of charming away the evil spirit commences. The
guitar is played by the General's body-servant Bob, a young
mulatto of dandified appearance—the air, indeed, of a lady-killer—and
an obvious confidence in his own abilities to delight,
if not instruct and improve, his audience. Bob laboriously tunes
his instrument; gazes thoughtfully at the ceiling, as he absently
“picks upon the string;” and then commences singing the
popular air, “Listen to the Mocking-Bird.” He is accompanied
in the chorus by the sable ventriloquist, who imitates all the
feathered tribe in his throat; and lo! as you listen, the room
seems full of mocking-birds; the air is alive with the gay carol
of robins, larks, jay-birds, orioles; the eyes of the ventriloquist
roll rapturously like balls of snow against a wall of charcoal,
and the guitar keeps up its harmonious accompaniment.
The young lady listens and her eyes dance. Her cheeks grow
more rosy, her smiles brighter; even her elderly companion relaxes
somewhat from her rigidly hostile expression, and pays
attention to the music. The “Mocking-Bird” ends, and is succeeded
by the plaintive “Alabama! Alabama!”—the guitar
still thrumming, the ventriloquist still accompanying the music
with his bird-notes. Other songs succeed, and then General
Stuart turns round with a laugh and calls for a breakdown.
Thereupon the dilapidated African, who has up to this time remained
motionless, advances into the arena, dropping his hat
first at the door. Bob strikes up a jig upon his guitar, the ventriloquist
claps, and the great performer of the breakdown
commences his evolutions, first upon the heel-tap, then upon the
toe. His anties are grand and indescribable. He leaps, he
whirls, he twists and untwists his legs until the crowd at the
door grows wild with admiration. The guitar continues to roar
and Stuart's laughter mingles with it; the ventriloquist not only
claps with ardour, but also imitates his favourite songsters. The
dancer's eyes roll gorgeously, his steps grow more rapid, he executes
unheard of figures. Finally a frenzy seems to seize him;
the mirth grows fast and furious; the young lady laughs outright
and seems about to clap her hands. Even the elder relaxes
into an unmistakable smile; and as the dancer disappears with a
bound through the door, the guitar stops playing, and Stuart's
laughter rings out gay and jovial, the grim lips open and she says:
“You rebels do seem to enjoy yourselves!”
These were the exact words of the lady, reader, and I think I
can recall a few words of General Stuart, too. He had been
busily engaged with his official papers all this time, at his desk—
for he never permitted pleasure to interfere with business—and
the gay scene going on in the apartment did not seem to disturb
him in the least degree. Indeed, upon this, as upon many other
occasions, I could see that music of any description aroused his
mind, and was an assistance to him—the banjo, singing, anything—and
by its aid now he had hurried through his work.
Thereupon he rose, and approached the ladies, with gay smiles
and inquiries, if they were amused:
“They had heard his musicians; would the ladies now like
to see something which might interest them?”
Irresistible appeal to that sentiment which is said to be the
weakness of the fair sex—curiosity!
“They would like very much to see what the General spoke
of;” and thereupon Stuart pointed to a coat and waistcoat hanging
upon a nail on the wall over their heads. The clothes were
torn by a bullet and bloody.
The young lady looked, and her smiles all disappeared.
“What is that, General?” said the elder.
“It is the coat and waistcoat of a poor boy of my command,
madam,” replied Stuart, “who was shot and killed on picket the
other day—young Chichester, from just below Fairfax Court-House.
He was a brave fellow, and I am keeping these clothes
to send to his mother.”
“Poor boy!” from the young lady; and from the elder a
look of unmistakable sympathy.
Stuart then gave an account of the fight; and his voice, as he
spoke of the death of the boy, was no longer gay—it was serious,
feeling, and had in it something delightfully kind and
sweet. Under that gay exterior of the young cavalier there was
a warm and earnest heart—as beneath the stern eye of the man
was all the tenderness of a woman. It was plain to me on that
evening, and plainer afterwards when a thorough acquaintance
with the great leader made me fully cognizant of his real character.
There was something more charming even than the
gaiety of Stuart—it was the low, sad tone in which he spoke of
some dead friend, the tear in the bright blue eye which dimmed
its fire at the thought of some face that was gone.
