University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Toward the latter end of the month of October,
1849, about the hour of noon, a horseman was seen
ascending a narrow valley at the eastern foot of the
Blue Ridge. His road nearly followed the course of
a small stream, which, issuing from a deep gorge of
the mountain, winds its way between lofty hills, and
terminates its brief and brawling course in one of
the larger tributaries of the Dan. A glance of the eye
took in the whole of the little settlement that lined
its banks, and measured the resources of its inhabitants.
The different tenements were so near to each
other as to allow but a small patch of arable land to
each. Of manufactures there was no appearance,
save only a rude shed at the entrance of the valley,

on the door of which the oft repeated brand of the
horse-shoe gave token of a smithy. There too the
rivulet, increased by the innumerable springs which
afforded to every habitation the unappreciated, but
inappreciable luxury of water, cold, clear and sparkling,
had gathered strength enough to turn a tiny mill.
Of trade there could be none. The bleak and rugged
barrier, which closed the scene on the west, and
the narrow road, fading to a foot-path, gave assurance
to the traveller that he had here reached the ne
plus ultra of social life in that direction.

Indeed, the appearance of discomfort and poverty
in every dwelling well accorded with the scanty territory
belonging to each. The walls and chimneys of
unhewn logs, the roofs of loose boards laid on long
rib-poles, that projected from the gables, and held
down by similar poles placed above them, together
with the smoked and sooty appearance of the whole,
betokened an abundance of timber, but a dearth of
every thing else. Contiguous to each was a sort of
rude garden, denominated, in the ruder language of
the country, a “truck-patch.” Beyond this lay a
small field, a part of which had produced a crop of
oats, while on the remainder the Indian corn still
hung on the stalk, waiting to be gathered. Add to
this a small meadow, and the reader will have an
outline equally descriptive of each of the little farms
which, for the distance of three miles, bordered the
stream.

But, though the valley thus bore the marks of a
crowded population, a deep stillness pervaded it.
The visible signs of life were few. Of sounds there
were none. A solitary youngster, male or female,
alone was seen loitering about every door. These,
as the traveller passed along, would skulk from observation,
and then steal out, and, mounting a fence,
indulge their curiosity, at safe distances, by looking
after him.

At length he heard a sound of voices, and then a
shrill whistle, and all was still. Immediately, some
half a dozen men, leaping a fence, ranged themselves
across the road and faced him. He observed that
each, as he touched the ground, laid hold of a rifle
that leaned against the enclosure, and this circumstance
drew his attention to twenty or more of these
formidable weapons, ranged along in the same position.
The first impulse of the traveller was to draw
a pistol; but seeing that the men, as they posted
themselves, rested their guns upon the ground and
leaned upon them, he quietly withdrew his hand from
his holster. It was plain that no violence was intended,
and that this movement was nothing but a
measure of precaution, such as the unsettled condition
of the country required. He therefore advanced
steadily but slowly, and, on reaching the party, reined
in his horse, and silently invited the intended parley.

The men, though somewhat variously attired, were
all chiefly clad in half-dressed buck-skin. They

seemed to have been engaged in gathering corn in
the adjoining field. Their companions, who still continued
the same occupation, seemed numerous enough
(including women and boys, of both of which there
was a full proportion,) to have secured the little crop
in a few hours. Indeed, it would seem that the whole
working population of the neighborhood, both male
and female, was assembled there.

As the traveller drew up his horse, one of the men,
speaking in a low and quiet tone, said, “We want
a word with you, stranger, before you go any farther.”

“As many as you please,” replied the other, “for
I am tired and hungry, and so is my horse; and I am
glad to find some one, at last, of whom I may hope
to purchase something for both of us to eat.”

“That you can have quite handy,” said the countryman,
“for we have been gathering corn, and were
just going to our dinner. If you will only just 'light,
sir, one of the boys can feed your horse, and you
can take such as we have got to give you.”

The invitation was accepted; the horse was taken
in charge by a long-legged lad of fifteen, without hat
or shoes; and the whole party crossed the fence together.

At the moment, a man was seen advancing toward
them, who, observing their approach, fell back a few
steps, and threw himself on the ground at the foot
of a large old apple-tree. Around this were clustered
a motley group of men, women, and boys, who

opened and made way for the stranger. He advanced,
and, bowing gracefully, took off his forage cap, from
beneath which a quantity of soft curling flaxen hair
fell over his brow and cheeks. Every eye was now
fixed on him, with an expression rather of interest
than mere curiosity. Every countenance was serious
and composed, and all wore an air of business, except
that a slight titter was heard among the girls,
who, hovering behind the backs of their mothers,
peeped through the crowd, to get a look at the handsome
stranger.

He was indeed a handsome youth, about twenty
years of age, whose fair complexion and regular features
made him seem yet younger. He was tall,
slightly, but elegantly formed, with a countenance in
which softness and spirit were happily blended. His
dress was plain and cheap, though not unfashionable.
A short grey coat, waistcoat, and pantaloons, that
neatly fitted and set off his handsome person, showed
by the quality of the cloth that his means were
limited; or that he had too much sense to waste, in
foppery, that which might be better expended in the
service of his suffering country. But, even in this
plain dress, he was apparelled like a king in comparison
with the rustics that surrounded him; and his
whole air would have passed him for a gentleman, in
any dress and any company, where the constituents
of that character are rightly understood.

In the present assembly there seemed to be none,

indeed, who could be supposed to have had much experience
in that line. But dignity is felt, and courtesy
appreciated by all, and the expression of frankness
and truth is every where understood.

As the youth approached, the man at the foot of
the tree arose, and returned the salutation, which
seemed unheeded by the rest. He advanced a step
or two, and invited the stranger to be seated. This
action, and the looks turned toward him by the
others, showed that he was in authority of some sort
among them. With him, therefore, our traveller concluded
that the proposed conference was to be held.
There was nothing in his appearance which would
have led a careless observer to assign him any preeminence.
But a second glance might have discovered
something intellectual in his countenance, with
less of boorishness in his air and manner than the rest
of the company displayed. In all, indeed, there was
the negative courtesy of that quiet and serious demeanor
which solemn occasions impart to the rudest
and most frivolous. It was plain to see that they had
a common purpose, and that neither ferocity nor rapacity
entered into their feeling toward the new-comer.
Whether he was to be treated as a friend or
an enemy, obviously depended on some high consideration,
not yet disclosed.

He was at length asked whence he came, and answered
from the neighborhood of Richmond. From
which side of the river?—From the north side.

Did he know any thing of Van Courtlandt?—His
camp was at Bacon's branch, just above the town.
What force had he?

“I cannot say, certainly,” he replied, “but common
fame made his numbers about four thousand.”

“Is that all, on both sides of the river?” said his
interrogator.

“O, no! Col. Loyal's regiment is at Petersburg,
and Col. Coles's at Manchester; each about five
hundred strong; and there is a piquet on the Bridge
island.”

“Did you cross there?”

“I did not.”

“Where then?” he was asked.

“I can hardly tell you,” he replied, “it was at a
private ford, several miles above Cartersville.”

“Was not that mightily out of the way? What
made you come so far around?”

“It was safer travelling on that side of the river.”

“Then the people on that side of the river are
your friends?”

“No. They are not. But, as they are all of a
color there, they would let me pass, and ask no questions,
as long as I travelled due west. On this side,
if you are one man's friend, you are the next man's
enemy; and I had no mind to answer questions.”

“You seem to answer them now mighty freely.”

“That is true. I am like a letter that tells all it
knows as soon as it gets to the right hand; but it
does not want to be opened before that.”

“And how do you know that you have got to the
right hand now?”

“Because I know where I am.”

“And where are you?”

“Just at the foot of the Devil's Back-bone,” replied
the youth.

“Were you ever here before?”

“Never in my life.”

“How do you know then where you are?” asked
the mountaineer.

“Because the right way to avoid questions is to
ask none. So I took care to know all about the
road, and the country, and the place, before I left
home.”

“And who told you all about it?”

“Suppose I should tell you,” answered the young
man, “that Van Courtlandt had a map of the country
made, and gave it to me.”

“I should say, you were a traitor to him, or a spy
upon us,” was the stern reply.

At the same moment, a startled hum was heard
from the crowd, and the press moved and swayed for
an instant, as if a sort of spasm had pervaded the
whole mass.

“You are a good hand at questioning,” said the
youth, with a smile, “but, without asking a single
question, I have found out all I wanted to know.”

“And what was that?” asked the other.

“Whether you were friends to the Yorkers and
Yankees, or to poor old Virginia.”

“And which are we for?” added the laconic mountaineer.

“For old Virginia for ever,” replied the youth,
in a tone in which exultation rung through a deeper
emotion, that half stifled his voice.

It reached the hearts of his auditors, and was echoed
in a shout that pealed along the mountain sides
their proud war-cry of “Old Virginia for ever.”
The leader looked around in silence, but with a countenance
that spoke all that the voices of his comrades
had uttered.

“Quiet boys,” said he, “never shout till the war
is ended—unless it be when you see the enemy.”
Then turning again to the traveller, he said, “And
how did you know we were for old Virginia?”

“I knew it by the place where I find you. I heard
it in your voice; I saw it in their eyes; and I felt in in
my heart;” said the young man, extending his hand.

His inquisitor returned the cordial pressure with
an iron grasp, strong, but not convulsive, and went
on: “You are a sharp youth,” said he, “and if you
are of the right metal that will hold an edge, you
will make somebody feel it. But I don't know rightly
yet who that is to be, only just I will say, that if
you are not ready to live and die by old Virginia,
your heart and face are not of the same color, that's
all.”

He then resumed his steady look, and quiet tone,
and added, “You must not make me forget what I
am about. How did you learn the way here?”

“I can answer that now;” said the youth. “I
learned it from Captain Douglas.”

“Captain Douglas!” exclaimed the other. “If
you were never here before, you have never seen him
since he knew it himself.”

“True enough;” was the reply. “But I have
heard from him.”

“I should like to see his letter.”

“I have no letter.”

“How then?”

“Go with me to my horse, and I will show you.”

The youth, accompanied by his interrogator, now
returned toward the fence. Many of the crowd
were about to follow; but the chief (for such he
seemed) waved them back-with a silent motion of
his hand, while a glance of meaning at two of the
company invited them to proceed. As soon as the
stranger reached his horse, he drew out, from between
the padding and seat of his saddle, a paper
closely folded. On opening this, it was found to be
a map of his route from Richmond to a point in the
mountains, a few miles west of the spot where they
stood. On this were traced the roads and streams,
with the names of a few places, written in a hand
which was known to the leader of the mountaineers
to be that of Captain Douglas. A red line marked
the devious route the traveller had been directed to
pursue.

He said that, after crossing the river, between

Lynchburg and Cartersville, to avoid the parties of
the enemy stationed at both places, he had lain by,
until dark, at the house of a true Virginian. Then,
turning south, and riding hard all night, he had crossed
the Appomattox above Farmville, (which he avoided
for a like reason,) and, before day, had left behind
him all the hostile posts and scouting parties. He
soon reached the Staunton river, and, having passed
it, resumed his westward course in comparative safety.

“You know this hand,” said he to the chief, “and
now, I suppose, you are satisfied.”

“I am satisfied,” replied the other, “and glad to
see you. I have not a doubt about you, young man,
and you are heartily welcome among us—to all we
can give you—and that an't much—and all we can do
for you; and that will depend upon whether stout
hearts, and willing minds, and good rifles can help you.
But you said you were hungry; so, I dare say, you'll
be glad enough of a part of our sorry dinner.”