University of Virginia Library

II.
THE NIGHT-HAWKS.

Slowly ascending the steep road, I reached the
“Big Poplar,” a well-known tree on the summit of
the mountain, just as the last rays of sunset were
bathing in red and orange the autumn foliage.

From the direction of Winchester came the dull
mutter of cannon, and an occasional carbine shot
was heard in front from the picket at the ford. All
this was in disagreeable contrast with the tranquil
beauty of the landscape. The sides of the Gap
burned with the first fiery tints of autumn. The
blue mountains, melting into haze, rolled far away
southward, like gigantic billows. Through the
gorge, flushed with sunset, lay the beautiful, the
enchanting, the wonderful Valley of the Shenandoah.

It seemed a sacrilege to desecrate this fairy region,
— to trample these sweet fields beneath the iron heel
of war. But the heel was upon them. The land
was a waste. Every pass was guarded. Not even
the solitary and inoffensive Surry could get across
the mountain to his friends, without imminent danger
of capture.

I had determined, however, to attempt it. By
flanking the picket in front, and crossing at the
private and unused ford, called “The Island,” below,
I hoped to make my way unperceived to the house
of the friend referred to, who lived beyond Millwood.

To the execution of this scheme I now proceeded.
Night was rapidly descending, and, by the time I
reached the Mount-Carmel road, branching off to my
right, it was dark.

I had scarcely gone two hundred yards on the
narrow mountain road, half concealed beneath evergreens
and overhanging rocks, when all at once a
shadow seemed to rise from the earth in front of me.
I heard the click of a trigger, and a voice said: —

“Halt! Who goes there?”

“Friend,” I replied, cocking my pistol under my
cape.

“What command?” said the voice.

“Army of Northern Virginia. What do you
belong to?”

“The Night-Hawks,” was the reply of the
shadow.

A brief silence followed.

“Good!” I said, at length. “I never heard of
the Night-Hawks, but I know you are a Virginian
from your voice, and from your post on this road.
I am going to cross at the Island.”

“I will ride with you,” said the horseman.

I assented to this at once, and we rode on in the
darkness side by side, in silence.

Descending the rugged declivity, we reached the
banks of the river, overhung by the white arms of
immense sycamores, plunged into the water, and,
half fording, half swimming, reached the Island, and
then the western bank.

Crossing a small field we entered a forest which
seemed uninhabited, except by the owls, whose weird
laughter was heard in the thicket, or the whippoorwills,
crying plaintively from the interwoven festoons
between the great sycamores. We had scarcely gone
fifty steps in the wood, however, when a second
shadow rose in the path; challenged, was responded
to in a low voice by my companion; and we continued
our way.

I have been on dark marches. Once with General
Stuart, near Chantilly, in 1862, we rode on
through a night so murky that our horses resembled
black phantoms breasting a sea of ink. But that
ride through the woods of the Shenandoah surpassed
all.

All at once, however, a weird light filtrated
through the boughs, and I glanced over my shoulder.
The moon had just soared above the pine-clad summit
of the Blue Ridge, like a great shield bathed in
blood.

Then the wood opened before us, and a small glade
revealed itself, completely walled in with thickets.

Suddenly I saw the gleam of a red Confederate
battle-flag; and in the glade twenty or thirty horses
stood fully equipped. Beside them lay their riders,
— every man holding his bridle, and ready to mount
at a moment's notice.