University of Virginia Library

VIII.
THE NIGHT MARCH.

The beams of the September sun, darting from the
summit of the Blue Ridge, and turning the dewy
leaves to molten gold, awoke me.

Landon was already up, and the men were busy
around their bivouac fires, preparing breakfast. It
was a plain but excellent meal, and having finished I
rose to depart.

“Then you will not stay and attend the burial of
my poor fellows to-night, colonel?”

“The burial to-night, captain?”

“Yes, I regard it as a duty I owe them. They
were brave and faithful soldiers, and deserve something
more than to be thrown into the first ditch by
the roadside. God willing, no man of my command
shall be thus treated; and I intend to bury these
three in the Old Chapel graveyard, about three miles
from Millwood, on the road to Berryville. I should
like to do so by daylight; but a strong force is
camped near the Chapel, and it is impossible.”

“You will go to-night?”

“To-night, and as quietly as possible. Will you
accompany us?”

The expedition strangely attracted me. That
love of adventure which all men possess, surrounded
this nocturnal march in the performance of a pious
duty, with an irresistible charm.

“I will go with you, captain,” I said, “but will
first make a visit to a friend near White Post. Will
I find you here at sunset?”

“Then, or soon afterwards. I am going on a
reconnoissance toward the Chapel, and will have returned
by that time.”

“Good! I will be punctual.” And, exchanging
a pressure of the hand with my host, I set off to make
my visit.

That visit has no connection with the present history,
and I shall not dwell upon it. Punctually at
sunset I was again in sight of the cross roads, and
found the command, with the exception of Landon
and one or two of the men, at the same spot in the
woods which they had occupied on the preceding
night.

The scene was picturesque. The red light of
sunset fell upon a little glade in the forest, and,
grouped beneath a tall oak, with their horses ready
saddled, and picketed to the boughs around, the
Rangers had surrendered themselves to the social delights
of the bivouac.

At the moment, the attention of all was centred
upon Lieutenant Arden, who, seated upon a root of
the oak, with his back against the trunk, was playing
upon a banjo, and singing.

I had heard the music commence just as I turned
a corner of the road, and the words came clearly to
me on the calm evening air. Determined not to interrupt
the singer, I checked my horse, remained motionless,
and listened.

I should have expected some rude camp ballad in
this bivouac of the Rangers — or, if Arden sang,
some stirring war lyric, full of the clash of the sabre,
the bang of carbines, and the ring of the bugle.
What I heard was very different; and, strangest of
all, was listened to by the Rangers with obvious
sympathy and admiration. The song which the
young sabreur sang — this youth who had proved
himself a veritable firebrand on the preceding evening,
cutting more than one man out of the saddle —
was the following: —

As the sweet and tender accents of the youthful
voice died away, I cried “Bravo!” and the Rangers
started up. I approached, and received a cordial
greeting; after which Lieutenant Arden made room
for me on the root beside him, and I requested him
to go on.

“I was only singing the boys a little song of
mine,” he said, with a blush and a laugh; “they
pretend that they like it, but their real favorites are
`Johnny, fill up the Bowl,' and `Jine the
Cavalry.”'

With these words, Arden handed the banjo to one
of the men, who sang in succession that lively ditty,
commencing: —

And then the famous song, so loved by Stuart: —

Have you ever heard those wonderful lyrics, my
dear reader? If not, I should like to quote them,
which I assure you I could do without missing a
single word. I should like especially to record the
latter, that great comic Iliad of the sabreurs of
Stuart; to lay before you in full, the most popular
of all the cavalry ballads of the war. But, alas! to
give the mere words would be to offer you a withered
flower, from which the colour and perfume had fled.
It would be nothing — this famous ditty — without
the tune, without the banjo, without the foliage above,
and the fires of the bivouac glimmering near.

The performer executed it admirably, and the Rangers
joined rapturously in the chorus. The woods
rang; the very horses turned their heads, and the
men starting to their feet, began to dance to the uproarious
strumming, above which rose the gay cavalry
chorus. Altogether the scene was indescribable
for its grotesque merriment; the Rangers had surrendered
themselves to a mirth which passed all
bounds.

It was in the very midst of the revelry that the
sound of horses' hoofs was heard, and Landon appeared
at the turn of the road, accompanied by
Touch-and-go. As Arden saw him, he extended his

hand toward the performer on the banjo, buckled on
his sabre, and gave the order: —

“Prepare to mount!”

At that command the merriment ceased as if by
magic. The men ran to their horses, and, at a second
order from Arden, mounted and formed column.
The young man then rode up to Landon, made the
military salute, and said: —

“Ready, captain!”

Landon saluted in return, pressed my hand
cordially, and, running his keen eye along the
column, placed himself at the head, and gave successively
the orders: —

“Unfurl the flag!” and “Forward!”

The red flag was unfurled, the column moved, and,
at a steady pace, went back over the road by which
we had reached the bivouac on the preceding evening.

Ere long the houses of Millwood appeared, embowered
in trees, and, in the waste ground in front,
rose the great oak.

As we passed, I turned my head, and looked at it.
From the boughs, in place of the dead Confederates,
hung the three Federal cavalrymen executed on the
preceding evening. Against the trunk of the tree
something glimmered in the moonlight. It was the
paper stating the grounds upon which the death
penalty had been inflicted.

Habituated as I had long been to the horrours of
war, the three ghastly figures were appalling. There
was something gloomy and lugubrious in their outlines,
as they dangled from the great oak, illumined
by the moon; the spectacle was tragic and terrible.

As Landon rode by, I saw him look at them, and
tried to discover in his countenance some traces of
emotion. There were none whatever. He gazed at
the ghastly figures with an expression of entire indifference,
and his face had the cold, hard look which
characterized it invariably when in repose. Was
there any feeling under that mask? I know not.
Men's faces are bad indices. Suffering hardens, and
stamps a gloomy impress on the very muscles at
length; and under that frozen surface thoughts come
and go as the tide does beneath the ice, without moving
the hard crust.

Landon rode on without uttering a word, and passing
through the little stream, over which some tall
trees leaned, we entered the village of Millwood,
which the superb moonlight bathed in its mellow
splendour.

The bodies of the three Confederates awaited us in
rude pine coffins, deposited in a light wagon ready to
move. On the coffins some young ladies had placed
wreaths and garlands of autumn flowers; and, as we
appeared, more than one fair figure, glimmering in
the moonlight, raised a white handkerchief to her

eyes; more than one sob was uttered by those standing
beside the coffins.

Landon saluted, but did not open his lips. At a
sign from him, the men ranged themselves in front;
the wagon moved; and the funeral cortege, with the
red flag borne in front, ascended the hill, proceeding
slowly in the direction of the Old Chapel.

I shall never forget that strange night march.
The little band of Rangers, going to bury their dead
comrades by moonlight, presented a solemn and moving
spectacle, and the landscape was in unison with
the occasion. The chill wind of the September night
sighed through the great oaks, and the moon shone
with a dreamy and memorial splendour, lighting up
the highway, the trees, the modest little church on
its grassy slope, and the hamlet nestling down behind
us, amid the autumn foliage. The band moved slowly
on; scarce a hoof-stroke was heard; and the
men resembled rather so many silent phantoms than
human beings. It was, in truth, a strange scene,
and a stranger errand. We were going thus, under
cover of darkness, to give our poor, dead comrades
Christian burial in holy ground, because we could
not do so by day, for fear of interruption. Even
now, amid the shadows of night, it was possible that
some eye would spy us; some enemy interrupt us —
and then we must fight. A fight over graves! The

living must fall, that the dead might be buried! —
the dead burying the dead!

We entered a forest, emerged into the open
country beyond, and, ascending a lofty hill, were
within a mile of the chapel.

“I think we will have to fight, colonel,” said Landon,
by whose side I was riding. “There is a heavy
force of cavalry just this side of Berryville, and
a picket at the Chapel. I reconnoitred this morning
in person.”

“In that case you will attack?”

“Yes, I am determined to bury my poor fellows
yonder in spite of them.”

As Landon spoke, a shot was heard in front, and
then another quickly following the first.

“That is bad,” said the Partisan. “Touch-and-go
must have run into them unawares.”

“You sent him on ahead?”

“Yes, to discover if any change had taken place
in the position of the picket.”

And, turning round, Landon said in his clear, low
voice: —

“Halt the column.”

At the word it halted, the men remaining motionless
on the slope.

All at once muffled hoof-strokes were heard approaching
across the wide field on our left. Then a
figure appeared advancing on a fleet horse in the dim

light. It was Touch-and-go, and in an instant he
was beside Landon.

“Well?” said the latter, briefly.

“No change in the picket, captain,” was the low
reply of the scout; “it is still on the hill above the
Chapel.”

“You ran into the outer picket?”

“Against one of the videttes, captain. He was
completely hidden in the sycamores near the Chapel
fence, within a hundred yards of the main body, and
before I knew it he fired on me.”

“Unlucky.”

“Sorry, captain, but really I could not help it.
Who would have expected to find a vidette hidden
there?”

And an expression of quiet contempt came to
Touch-and-go's face.

“He fired, and turned to run back; but I put a
bullet through him, and he threw up his arms.
I then jumped the fence, and came back to report.”

Landon reflected an instant.

“You turned to the left?”

“Yes, captain.”

“Good! that will do. I will attack in front, and
from the right yonder. Lieutenant Arden!”

The young lieutenant rode up and saluted.

“I am going to attack the picket, lieutenant.
You will take twelve men and gain that wood yonder

on our right, so as to be able to strike the enemy
in flank and rear. I will go on, on this road. The
signal of your attack will be firing in front. Move
quickly, but quietly. I shall break them by a
charge with the sabre, and expect to meet you on the
hill, lieutenant, when we will drive them.”

“All right, captain; it shall be done.”

And, with an animated face, the young officer returned
to his men, took twelve, and moved off rapidly,
but silently, over the field on the right.

Landon then rode forward, inviting me to follow
him.

“Arden will require a little time,” he said;
“and we will take a look at the ground, colonel.
It is picturesque.”

We had left the highway, on both sides of which
the fences were torn down, and the turf over which
we advanced gave back no echo. Five minutes' ride
brought us to the summit of a hill, and from this
hill we had a view of the Old Chapel, which lay
immediately in front of us.

It was an ancient edifice of plain gray stone nestling
in a sort of amphitheatre of hills, dotted with
country seats. Near it ran a little stream skirted
with sycamores, which extended also upon each side
of the highway, forming a vault of foliage above.
Beyond the sycamores some weeping willows waved
their tassels in the wind, and beneath these glimmered

in the moonlight the white tombstones of the
tranquil country graveyard.

It seemed like a blot upon the lovely landscape, —
that dusky mass of horsemen on the hill beyond.
Upon this commanding point the officer of the picket
had taken up his position, to observe the main highway
over which we were advancing, and a second
road, which, forking at the Chapel, ran across our
left, in the direction of White Post.

Landon gazed in silence for some moments toward
the picket.

“The very worst place I know for an attack,” he
said; “but I count on Arden, — and my first charge
will drive them. Come, colonel,” he added, turning
his horse rapidly, “I never see such game as is
yonder before us, on the hill, without feeling like
giving the view-halloo!”

“You are far from complimentary, captain,” I
said laughing; “you compare our friends to foxes.”

“You are right, colonel,” said Landon; “they are
wolves.”