 | Hilt to hilt, or, Days and nights on the banks of the Shenandoah in the autumn of 1864 |  |
XVII.
WINCHESTER.
I wonder if these memories interest you, friendly
reader, as much as they interest the person who records
them?
Pursuing thus the path of my recollections and
my dreams, I go back to the past, which amuses me
much more than the present, and its figures live and
move for me again as they once did in the flesh!
1864, with all its drawbacks, was exciting, at
least. 1868 is so dull! — is it not, reader?
I think so; and try to make the shadow run back
on the dial. Instead of talking about reconstruction
which does not reconstruct, and that republican liberty
supported so gracefully on bayonets, I return to
1864, and tell my story of the border.
Again the carbines ring and the sabres clash.
Good carbines! trusty sabres! — one hangs on my
wall yonder, — you are useless now, and are rusting
wofully! but I try to make your echoes sound
again as in the hours of old. The present epoch is stupid,
— why not try to enliven it? So I ponder here
at Eagle's Nest; and, falling into dreams as it were,
fresh and living, — the days and nights of adventure,
the charging squadrons, the ringing shouts; all the
romance and incident, — the mingled comedy and
tragedy of “that place and time,” — the border in
1864.
That word “romance” was injudicious. I am
not writing romance. Do you doubt that assertion?
Perhaps, you say, for example, that the incident just
related — that courageous conduct of the young Federal
officer — is imaginary. It is true in every detail;
and for the accuracy of other incidents ask the
old followers of Mosby, and Gilmore, and O'Neil. I
only fear that my picture is too tame.
My narrative lags, and yet I am greatly tempted
to tarry a little in the good old town of Winchester,
to say a few words of the place and some famous personages
whom I encountered there, in this September
of 1864.
Perhaps you imagine that Winchester is too small
to deserve much attention, reader. Never was
greater mistake; and that philosophy, too, is errour.
Size is not the measure of importance in countries,
cities, or men. Greece was only a spot on the map
of the Old World; and yet she fertilized all countries
with her ideas. Macedon was small; but her king
conquered Persia, — the greatest empire of the earth.
Europe in arms.
Among cities is Paris or Pekin the most notable?
One moves in advance of the world; the other is
dragged, a huge bulk, unwieldy and shapeless, as
limitless, inert Asia is dragged by little Europe.
And as to men: size is less a measure of importance
there than elsewhere. Napoleon was the
“Little Corporal.” Vendome was a microscopic
hunchback. Pope was a dwarf.
Granite and marble are not more valuable than
the ruby and the diamond, because the ruby and the
diamond are less bulky.
And Winchester is not insignificant, because it is
a place of only five or six thousand inhabitants.
All which reflections, my dear reader, have, it is
true, no connection with our narrative, but, like the
few pages following, have a distinct aim in view. I
have just shown you a number of scenes of a very
hurried and “dramatic” description, and we are
going to rest a little now, and walk arm in arm
through Winchester.
It is a queer old place, — is it not? These overturned
stones are the ruins of Fort Loudoun, which
a young man, called George Washington, just promoted
to be major, but now forgotten, commanded
against the French and Indians about one hundred
years ago. Look at the old, gray-walled church yonder
the shadow of its walls, lie General Daniel
Morgan, the friend of Washington and victor of
Tarleton; and Lord Fairfax, former owner of all
this portion of Virginia.
Morgan was brave among the brave, but there was
no pretence about him.
“Old Morgan was often miserably afraid!” he
said.
And when coming to die he murmured:—
“To be only twenty again, I would be willing to
be stripped naked, and hunted through the Blue
Ridge with wild dogs!”
Near him sleeps Lord Fairfax, who was the friend
and patron of Washington in the latter's boyhood.
Like Morgan, he died in Winchester here, and his
last hours were bitter. It was in 1781. Yorktown
had just fallen. Cornwallis had surrendered to
Washington, and the people of Winchester raised a
shout.
“What is that?” asked the gray-haired nobleman.
They told him, and he uttered a groan.
“Take me to bed, John,” he murmured to his old
English body-servant; “it is time for me to die!”
And soon afterwards he expired. His bones were
laid far from “Old England,” the home of his race,
in the quiet church-yard here, at Winchester, which
place had been a sentinel watching the border; and
now it still watches Lord Fairfax's tomb.
A single additional historic incident. At the old
house yonder, about 1830, two travellers stopped,
and, asking for dinner in their private apartment,
were indignantly refused that request by the democratic
landlord.
“If they thought they were too good to eat with
the rest, they might leave the house.”
The travellers bowed, and ordered their carriage,
which then drove off elsewhere. It contained Louis
Philippe D'Orleans, afterwards King of the French,
and his kinsman, the Duc de Montpensier.
Odd, original, crooked, suggestive old Winchester!
But how friendly and cordial! Yonder are the
ruins of “Selma,” the former residence of Senator
Mason; and, all around you, are similar traces of
Federal displeasure; but glimmering amid the
ruins are cheerful faces and bright, sweet eyes.
They belong to the “women of Winchester,” and
that term is going to be as famous, one of these
days, as “Roman Mother.”
See those slender figures yonder, moving toward
the hospitals! They look fragile. These girls are
timid, you would say. Do you think so? When
the enemy appear they wave Southern flags. When
the banner of the United States is suspended over
pass Federal officers they draw their skirts aside, to
prevent them from coming in contact with the blue
uniforms. When Jackson drove Banks through the
town, in 1862, details were obliged to go in advance
to warn the girls out of the way, in order that the
platoons might deliver their fire. After Kernstown
they came out and ran to greet and cheer the Southern
prisoners; and then, proceeding to the battle-field,
sought out the Confederate corpses for burial.
They bent over them, sobbing and weeping, so that
a young Federal officer's heart ached at the sight.
“Do not cry so,” he said to a young lady who
seemed heart-broken.
The bowed head rose erect with intense hauteur,
and the wet eyes blazed.
“What right have you to speak to me?” exclaimed
the young lady, with burning indignation.
“Why did your people invade our country? But
you will never conquer us. We will never yield!
We will shed the last drop of our blood before you
shall trample on us!”
A place with such memories and such hearts is
worth attention, — is it not?
For my own part, I never go to Winchester,
without thinking, “Here is the true South! The
hearts around me here were faithful in the dark
days as in the bright. They were true, under all
when others doubted, when brave men shrunk, and
the most hopeful despaired, then Winchester was
most resolved, — her resolution faltered least. Losing
peace, competence, and suffering all woes, she still
kept that irreproachable honour, of which nothing
can ever deprive her, winning a clenched hand for
crest, and for motto, `True to the last!”'
| Hilt to hilt, or, Days and nights on the banks of the Shenandoah in the autumn of 1864 | |