University of Virginia Library

VII.
AN EYE FOR AN EYE.

Death in battle is one thing; it seems natural.
Death by a military execution is another thing, and
seems unnatural, repulsive, and horrible. One stirs
the pulses, for it is tragic and terrible. The other
revolts the feelings, for it is disgusting.

Other considerations induce me to omit a minute
account of the fierce spectacle which I witnessed
that night. “Melodrama! — claptrap!” some good
people would be apt to exclaim. And for fear of
these terrible critics, it behoves those who write their
own adventures to consult the vraisemblable rather
than the vrai.

These things occurred, and will not be believed.
Let me therefore pass rapidly over the event of that
night of 1864.

The prisoners were ranged in a line with the men
of the band opposite, and Landon sat his horse
looking at the former. His face was perfectly calm,
and he did not utter a word. When the preparations
had been made, and a sergeant had reported with
finger to his hat, Landon turned to me.

“Colonel Surry,” he said, “I am glad you are
here to-night and can testify to what you witness. I
am a regularly commissioned officer in the Confederate
States army; my command is a regularly
enrolled company under the Partisan Ranger Act
of the Confederate Congress; I make open war on
the enemy, under the Confederate flag; and I and
my men are treated, not as open enemies, but as
bandits. You see before you a proof of this assertion.
The three men hanging yonder were among
the best and bravest of my command. They went
out yesterday, — in Confederate uniform, as you see,
— to attack a wagon-train belonging to Sheridan's
army, were taken prisoners, and are hung here by
Captain Ratcliffe, of the Federal cavalry, as guerillas.
I have captured to-night a dozen men from
Ratcliffe's command: they stand before you. What
is necessary to protect my men hereafter from being
thus murdered in cold blood?”

There was but one reply to make.

“The death of three of these prisoners,” I said.

“You are right, colonel. I am glad we agree.”

And, tearing a leaf from his despatch-book, Landon
wrote upon it some lines; the bright moonlight
enabled him to do so without difficulty. He then
turned to Arden.

“Lieutenant,” he said, “you will see to the execution
of the following orders. These prisoners

will proceed to draw lots; three will thus be designated,
and these three will be allowed fifteen
minutes to perform their devotions, after which they
will be shot to death. You will then take down the
bodies hanging yonder, remove them to Millwood,
where they will be placed in coffins, to await my
return to-morrow, and the bodies of the three prisoners
will be hung in the places which my men now
occupy. Lastly, you will affix to the trunk of the
tree beneath them the paper which I hold in my
hand. It contains the words: —

“ `St. Leger Landon,
“`Captain C. S. A.”'

Arden saluted and received the paper from the
hand of Landon.

“For the performance of this duty,” continued
the Partisan, “you will detail six men, and will see
in person that my orders are executed. When performed,
report to me at the Bethel Cross Roads,
where I will bivouac.”

There was something terribly weird in these business-like
and commonplace details of a bloody tragedy.
Landon gave his orders with the air of a man

who is merely following a routine as humdrum as
guard-mounting, or calling the roll.

His voice was unmoved; his countenance perfectly
indifferent. Having finished, he turned his horse's
head toward the river, and we rode off together, followed
by the whole command, with the exception of
the six men who remained with Arden.

I was only too glad to leave the spot. The terrible
scene about to be enacted had no attractions in
my eyes, — thoroughly as I approved it, — and I
turned my back upon the gloomy locality with a
long breath of relief.

Landon exhibited no emotion of any description.
His impassive countenance revealed nothing. Riding
in silence past the mill, where he paused a few moments
to look after the wounded carried thither, and
to give orders for their transfer in safety beyond the
Ridge, he turned into the road by which Blount
had come to his assistance, and, going half a mile,
halted in a little wood near a cross roads.

Suddenly, as the column halted, three shots resounded
from the direction of Millwood. I could
not suppress a shudder at that sound, which indicated
that three human beings had passed from time
to eternity.

I looked at Landon. His countenance was entirely
unmoved.

“Put out videttes,” he said, in a calm voice, to
a sergeant, “and tell the men to unsaddle.”

Half an hour afterwards I had wrapped my cape
around me, and fallen asleep, worn out with fatigue,
beneath a tree.

Such were the events of my first night on the
Shenandoah.[1]