University of Virginia Library

4. IV.

So, between mirth and pathos—between the rattling guitar
and the bloody coat of the dead boy—the ladies were fairly conquered.
When Stuart gallantly accompanied them to the door,
and bowed as they retired, the elderly lady smiled, and I think
the younger gave him a glance full of thanks and admiration.

But stern duty required still that the fair fugitives should be
further cabined and confined. Stuart could not release them;
he must send them to Centreville, by standing order from General
Johnston, and thither they were accordingly dispatched on
the next morning after breakfast. The General had at his headquarters—procured
where, I know not—an old carriage. To
this two horses were harnessed; a son of Erin from the couriers

was detailed as a driver, and the General requested me to accompany
the ladies and conduct them to General Johnston.

Then he exhibited his gallantry after the military fashion.
The ladies had entered the carriage; the pretty blushing face of
the young damsel of seventeen was seen at the window, her
little white hand hung out of the carriage. Stuart took it and
pressed it warmly to his lips—a slight exclamation, a hand withdrawn
hastily, and a little laugh, as the young lady's face disappeared—and
the carriage moved on. I mounted and got
ready to follow; but first I turned to Stuart, who was standing
with the bright December sunshine on his laughing face, looking
after the carriage.

“General,” I said, “will you answer me one or two questions
before I leave you?”

“Well, ask them—I'll try.”

“Why did you put yourself out so much, when you were so
busy last night, and get up that frolie?”

“Don't you understand?” was his laughing reply. “When
those ladies arrived they were mad enough with me to bite my
head off, and I determined to put them in good humour before
they left me. Well, I have done it; they are my good friends
at this moment.”

“You are right; now for my other question. I saw you kiss
that pretty little hand of the young lady as it lay in the carriage
window; why didn't you kiss that of the elder, too?”

Stuart approached my horse, and leaning his arm upon the
mane, said in low tones, as though he was afraid of being overheard:

“Would you like me to tell you?”

“Yes,” was my reply.

“The old lady's hand had a glove upon it!” was his confidential
whisper; and this was followed by a real explosion, in
which the gay cavalier seemed to find vent for all the pent-up
laughter which had been struggling in him since the preceding
evening.

I accompanied the ladies to Centreville, and they did not
utter a single unfriendly word upon the way in relation to Stuart.

Indeed, the young lady seemed altogether charmed with
the whole adventure, and appeared to have warmly welcomed
the incident which gave her a sight of that black plume, those
brilliant, laughing eyes. If this page should meet her eye, will
she pardon me if I say: “Fair flower of seventeen, you may
have drawn your hand away that day, and thought the kiss
imprinted on it a liberty; but do not regret it now, for those
lips belonged to the `flower of cavaliers,' and to-day they are
cold in death!”

I have made this little sketch of Stuart at “Camp Qui Vive”
for those who like the undress picture of a famous man, rather
than the historic bust—cold, still, and lifeless. Have you not
seen, reader, there upon the outpost as you followed me, the gay
face of Stuart; heard his laughter as he called for the “Mocking
Bird;” and listened to his sad tones as he pointed to the
bloody coat, and told of the brave boys shot on picket? If you
cannot see those figures and hear the accents, it is the fault of
the writer, and perhaps his merriment is not gay. Always those
long-dead scenes came to him with a sort of dreamy sadness—
the mirth is mournful, and the laughter dies away.

No more at “Camp Qui Vive.” or any other camp, will the
laugh of Stuart ring out joyous and free. He is gone—but lives
still here upon the soil of Virginia, and will live for ever!