University of Virginia Library

V.
A DESERTER.

1. I.

Of all human faculties, surely the most curious is the memory.
Capricious, whimsical, illogical, acting ever in accordance with
its own wild will, it loses so many “important events” to retain
the veriest trifles in its deathless clutch! Ask a soldier who
has fought all day long in some world-losing battle, what he remembers
most vividly, and he will tell you that he has well-nigh
forgotten the most desperate charges, but recalls with perfect
distinctness the joy he experienced in swallowing a mouthful of
water from the canteen on the body of a dead enemy.

A trifling incident of the second battle of Manassas remains
in my memory more vividly than the hardest fighting of the
whole day, and I never recall the incident in question without
thinking, too, of De Quincey's singular paper, “A Vision of
Sudden Death.” The reader is probably familiar with the article
to which I refer—a very curious one, and not the least admirable
of those strange leaves, full of thought and fancy, which
the “Opium Eater” scattered among the readers of the last
generation. He was riding on the roof of a stage-coach, when
the vehicle commenced the descent of a very steep hill. Soon
it began moving with mad velocity, the horses became unmanageable,
and it was obvious that if it came in collision with
anything, either it or the object which it struck would be
dashed in pieces. All at once, there appeared in front, on the

narrow road, a light carriage, in which were seated a young man
and a girl. They either did not realize their danger, or were
powerless to avoid it; and on swept the heavy stage, with its
load of passengers, its piled-up baggage, and its maddened
horses—rushing straight down on the frail vehicle with which it
soon came in collision. It was at the moment when the light
little affair was dashed to pieces, the stage rolling with a wild
crash over the boy and girl, that De Quincey saw in their awestruck
faces that singular expression which he has described by
the phrase, “A Vision of Sudden Death.”

It requires some courage to intrude upon the literary domain
of that great master, the “Opium Eater,” and the comparison
will prove dangerous; but a reader here and there may be interested
in a vision of sudden death which I myself once saw in a
human eye. On the occasion in question, a young, weak-minded,
and timid person was instantaneously confronted, without
premonition or suspicion of his danger, with the abrupt
prospect of an ignominious death; and I think the great English
writer would have considered my incident more stirring than
his own.

It was on the morning of August 31, 1862, on the Warrenton
road, in a little skirt of pines, near Cub Run bridge, between
Manassas and Centreville. General Pope, who previously had
“only seen the backs of his enemies,” had been cut to pieces.
The battle-ground which had witnessed the defeat of Scott and
McDowell on the 21st of July, 1861, had now again been swept by
the bloody besom of war; and the Federal forces were once more
in full retreat upon Washington. The infantry of the Southern
army were starved, broken down, utterly exhausted, when they
went into that battle, but they carried everything before them;
and the enemy had disappeared, thundering with their artillery
to cover their retreat. The rest of the work must be done by
the cavalry; and to the work in question the great cavalier
Stuart addressed himself with the energy, dash, and vigour of his
character. The scene, as we went on, was curious. Pushing
across the battle-field—we had slept at “Fairview,” the Conrad
House on the maps—we saw upon every side the reeking traces

of the bloody conflict; and as the column went on across Bull
Run, following the enemy on their main line of retreat over the
road from Stonebridge to Centreville, the evidences of “demoralization”
and defeat crowded still more vividly upon the eye.
Guns, haversacks, oil-cloths, knapsacks, abandoned cannon and
broken-down wagons and ambulances,—all the debris of an
army, defeated and hastening to find shelter behind its works—
attracted the attention now, as in July, 1861, when the first “On
to Richmond” was so unfortunate. Prisoners were picked up
on all sides as the cavalry pushed on; their horses, if they were
mounted, were taken possession of; their sabres, guns, and pistols
appropriated with the ease and rapidity of long practice;
and the prisoners were sent in long strings under one or two
mounted men, as a guard, to the rear.

As we approached Cub Run bridge, over which the rear-guard
of the Federal army had just retired, we found by the roadside
a small wooden house used as a temporary hospital. It was full
of dead and wounded; and I remember that the “Hospital steward”
who attended the Federal wounded was an imposing personage.
Portly, bland, “dignified,” elegantly dressed, he was as
splendid as a major-general; nay, far more so than any gray
major-general of the present writer's acquaintance. Our tall and
finely-clad friend yielded up his surplus ambulances with grace
ful ease, asked for further orders; and when soon his own friends
from across Cub Run began to shell the place, philosophically
took his stand behind the frail mansion and “awaited further
developments” with the air of a man who was resigned to the
fortunes of war. Philosophic steward of the portly person! if
you see this page it will bring back to you that lively scene when
the present writer conversed with you and found you so composed
and “equal to the occasion,” even amid the shell and
bullets!

But I am expending too much attention upon my friend the
surgeon, who “held the position” there with such philosophic
coolness. The cavalry, headed by General Stuart, pushed on,
and we were now nearly at Cub Run bridge. The main body
of the enemy had reached Centreville during the preceding

night, and we could see their white tents in the distance;
but a strong rear-guard of cavalry and artillery had been left
near the bridge, and as we now advanced, mounted skirmishers
from the Federal side forded the stream, and very gallantly came
to meet us. On our side, sharpshooters were promptly deployed
—then came the bang of carbines—then Stuart's Horse Artillery
galloped up, under Pelham, and a “rear-guard affair” began.
Stuart formed his column for a charge, and had just begun to
move, when the Federal skirmishers were seen retiring; a dense
smoke rose from Cub Run bridge, and suddenly the enemy's
artillery on a knoll beyond opened their grim mouths. The first
shot they fired was admirable. It fell plump into a squadron
of cavalry—between the files as they were ranged side by side
in column of twos—and although it burst into a hundred pieces,
did not wound man or horse. The Horse Artillery under Pelham
replied to the fire of the opposing guns; an animated artillery
duel commenced, and the ordinary routine began.

2. II.

There is a French proverb which declares that although you
may know when you set out on a journey, you do not know
when you will arrive. Those who journey through the fine land
of memory are, of all travellers, the most ignorant upon that
score, and are apt to become the most unconscionable vagarists.
Memory refuses to recall one scene or incident without recalling
also a hundred others which preceded or followed it. “You
people,” said John Randolph to a gentleman of an extensive
clan, with which the eccentric orator was always at war, “you
people all take up each other's quarrels. You are worse than a
pile of fish-hooks. If I try to grasp one, I raise the whole
bunch.” To end my preface, and come to my little incident. I
was sitting on my horse near General Stuart, who had put in the
skirmishers, and was now superintending the fire of his artillery,
when a cavalry-man rode up and reported that they had just
captured a deserter.

“Where is he?” was Stuart's brief interrogatory.

“Coming yonder, General.”

“How do you know he is a deserter?”

“One of my company knew him when he joined our army.”

“Where is he from?”

“—county.”

And the man mentioned the name of a county of Western
Virginia.

“What is his name?”

“M—.”

(I suppress the full name. Some mother's or sister's heart
might be wounded.)

“Bring him up,” said Stuart coldly, with a lowering, glance
from the blue eyes under the brown hat and black feather. As
he spoke, two or three mounted men rode up with the prisoner.

I can see him at this moment with the mind's eye, as I saw
him then with the material eye. He was a young man, apparently
eighteen or nineteen years of age, and wore the blue uniform,
tipped with red, of a private in the United States Artillery.
The singular fact was that he appeared completely at his ease.
He seemed to be wholly unconscious of the critical position
which he occupied; and as he approached, I observed that he
returned the dark glance of Stuart with the air of a man who
says, “What do you find in my appearance to make you fix your
eyes upon me so intently!” In another moment he was in
Stuart's presence, and calmly, quietly, without the faintest exhibition
of embarrassment, or any emotion whatever, waited to be
addressed.

Stuart's words were curtest of the curt.

“Is this the man?” he said.

“Yes, General,” replied one of the escort.

“You say he is a deserter?”

“Yes, sir; I knew him in—county, when he joined Captain—'s
company; and there is no sort of doubt about it,
General, as he acknowledges that he is the same person.”

“Acknowledges it!”

“Yes, sir; acknowledges that he is M—, from that county;
and that after joining the South he deserted.”

Stuart flashed a quick glance at the prisoner, and seemed at a
loss to understand what fatuity had induced him to testify against
himself—thereby sealing his fate. His gaze—clear, fiery, menacing—was
returned by the youth with apathetic calmness. Not
a muscle of his countenance moved, and I now had an opportunity
to look at him more attentively. He was even younger
than I at first thought him—indeed, a mere boy. His complexion
was fair; his hair flaxen and curling; his eyes blue,
mild, and as soft in their expression as a girl's. Their expression,
as they met the lowering glances of Stuart, was almost
confiding. I could not suppress a sigh—so painful was the
thought that this youth would probably be lying soon with a
bullet through his heart.

A kinder-hearted person than General Stuart never lived; but
in all that appertained to his profession and duty as a soldier, he
was inexorable. Desertion, in his estimation, was one of the
deadliest crimes of which a human being could be guilty; and
his course was plain—his resolution immovable.

“What is your name?” said the General coldly, with a lowering
brow.

“M—, sir,” was the response, in a mild and pleasing voice,
in which it was impossible to discern the least trace of emotion.

“Where are you from?”

“I belonged to the battery that was firing at you, over yonder,
sir.”

The voice had not changed. A calmer tone I never heard.

“Where were you born?” continued Stuart, as coldly as
before.

“In—, Virginia, sir.”

“Did you belong to the Southern army at any time?”

“Yes, sir.”

The coolness of the speaker was incredible. Stuart could
only look at him for a moment in silence, so astonishing was
this equanimity at a time when his life and death were in the
balance. Not a tone of the voice, a movement of the muscles,

or a tremor of the lip indicated consciousness of his danger.
The eye never quailed, the colour in his cheek never faded.
The prisoner acknowledged that he was a deserter from the
Southern army with the simplicity, candour, and calmness of
one who saw in that fact nothing extraordinary, or calculated in
any manner to affect his destiny unpleasantly. Stuart's eye
flashed; he could not understand such apathy; but in war there
is little time to investigate psychological phenomena.

“So you were in our ranks, and you went over to the enemy?”
he said with a sort of growl.

“Yes, sir,” was the calm reply.

“You were a private in that battery yonder?”

“Yes, sir.”

Stuart turned to an officer, and pointing to a tall pine near,
said in brief tones:

“Hang him on that tree!”

It was then that a change—sudden, awful, horrible—came
over the face of the prisoner; at that moment I read in the distended
eyeballs the “vision of sudden death.” The youth became
ghastly pale; and the eyes, before so vacant and apathetic,
were all at once injected with blood, and full of piteous
fright. I saw in an instant that the boy had not for a single
moment realized the terrible danger of his position; and that
the words “Hang him on that tree!” had burst upon him with
the sudden and appalling force of a thunderbolt. I have seen
human countenances express every phase of agony; seen the
writhing of the mortally wounded as their life-blood welled out,
and the horror of the death-struggle fixed on the cold upturned
faces of the dead; but never have I witnessed an expression
more terrible and agonizing than that which passed over the
face of the boy-deserter, as he thus heard his sentence. He had
evidently regarded himself as a mere prisoner of war; and now
he was condemned to death! He had looked forward, doubtless,
to mere imprisonment at Richmond until regularly exchanged,
when “hang him on that tree!” burst upon his ears
like the voice of some avenging Nemesis.

Terrible, piteous, sickening, was the expression of the boy's

face. He seemed to feel already the rope around his neck; he
choked; when he spoke his voice sounded like the death rattle.
An instant of horror-struck silence; a gasp or two as if the
words were trying to force their way against some obstacle in his
throat; then the sound came. His tones were not loud, impassioned,
energetic, not even animated. A sick terror seemed to
have frozen him; when he spoke it was in a sort of moan.

“I didn't know,” he muttered in low, husky tones. “I never
meant—when I went over to Maryland—to fight against the
South. They made me; I had nothing to eat—I told them I
was a Southerner—and so help me God I never fired a shot. I
was with the wagons. Oh! General, spare me; I never—”

There the voice died out; and as pale as a corpse, trembling
in every limb—a spectacle of helpless terror which no words
can describe, the boy awaited his doom.

Stuart had listened in silence, his gaze riveted upon the
speaker; his hand grasping his heavy beard; motionless amid
the shell which were bursting around him. For an instant he
seemed to hesitate—life and death were poised in the balances.
Then with a cold look at the trembling deserter, he said to the
men:

“Take him back to General Lee, and report the circumstances.”

With these words he turned and galloped off; the deserter
was saved, at least for the moment.

I do not know his ultimate fate; but if he saw General Lee in
person, and told his tale, I think he was spared. That great and
merciful spirit inflicted the death-penalty only when he could not
avoid it.

Since that day I have never seen the face of the boy—nor
even expect to see it. But I shall never forget that “vision of
sudden death” in his distended eyes, as Stuart's cold voice
ordered, “Hang him on that tree.”