 | Hilt to hilt, or, Days and nights on the banks of the Shenandoah in the autumn of 1864 |  |
XXXV.
IN THE “FOX-SPRING WOODS.”
I have said that in returning from Fauquier to
the Valley, I had hastened my steps, in order to be
present at the denouement of the affair between Landon
and Ratcliffe, — a denouement which something
told me would not long be delayed.
That “something” was the intense bitterness of
the adversaries; the knowledge upon Landon's part
that his enemy had destroyed his character, and the
fact that Ratcliffe doubtless knew that he knew it.
That was enough to make two men thirst for each
other's blood; but now a far more bitter sentiment of
hatred inflamed Landon; and I foresaw an early termination
of the drama.
Ratcliffe had not only blackened his good name;
he had produced that rupture with Miss Adair which
had nearly broken Landon's heart. It was easy to
understand that from this moment the young Partisan
would never rest; that he would follow Ratcliffe as a
bloodhound follows the trail. When they met, one
would die.
It was this fierce wrestle which I now looked forward
the interview which I have just described, Landon
was in the saddle at the head of about thirty men,
and we were proceeding in the direction of Berryville.
The deserter had remained behind, by his order,
at “Bizarre;” but this order, as the reader will
perceive, availed little.
I shall now attempt to narrate, in their regular
order, the strangely tragic events which occurred in
the neighbourhood of the Old Chapel. I look back
to these events with a sort of wonder, asking myself
if they really took place before my eyes, or were
only a dream. Here at Eagle's Nest, in 1868, all
that past looks so strange! That autumn of 1864,
when I marched and fought with Landon, seems an
unreal epoch; Millwood, the Lover's Leap, Bizarre,
the Old Chapel, mere imaginary places, which I
have visited in slumber, dozing here in my elbow-chair!
But you nestle yonder still, — do you not, — little
village of Millwood, on the banks of the limpid
stream, stealing on to the Shenandoah? Lover's
Leap! you still hang above the flowing river.
Weeping willows of the Old Chapel! you are sighing
still, I think, above the graves of the dear dead
ones; the brave children of the Valley whom I loved
and will ever love! — sighing now in 1868, when
rushed onward, crammed with adventure; when
every minute sounded the death-knell of some heart
that poured out its blood for Virginia!
O wondrous days and nights of 1864, on the
banks of the Shenandoah! Golden days, moonlight
nights of that dreamy autumn! I have seen much in
my time, and have many things to remember; but I
will forget all before I forget you!
Landon passed through Millwood at the head of
his men, left the little church embowered in trees
behind him, and, advancing steadily, reached a point
on the Berryville road about two miles from Millwood.
Here he obliqued to the right, followed a narrow
road for a few hundred yards, and then, penetrating
the forest, halted his men in a hollow of what are
called the “Fox-Spring Woods.”
He then informed me that he was going to ride
ahead, in order to reconnoitre in person, and invited
me to accompany him. To this I gladly assented;
and Arden, having been left in command of the
Night-Hawks, Landon turned his horse's head toward
the Chapel.
As we went on through the woods, advancing
slowly amid the thick undergrowth, I observed upon
the Partisan's countenance evidences of unwonted
emotion.
“Something moves you, Landon,” I said, gazing
at him; “what is it?”
“It would puzzle me to tell you,” was his reply.
And, riding on for a few moments in silence, he
suddenly added: —
“Do you believe in presentiments?”
“Yes, and no.”
“Well, I believed in them this morning!”
“You feel some presentiment? Of what? Of
evil?”
“I cannot reply to that. I can only say that
something tells me this day will prove an epoch in
my life, — a sad life for the rest, and scarce worth
an epoch!”
“Come, cheer up!”
“I am not cast down. On the contrary a strange
force seems to have come to me, — my blood rushes
through my veins, as if to meet and breast some
struggle that is near! Something drives me on; do
you remember the Greek Necessity with her iron
wedge? In her hands the gods themselves were
powerless!”
I looked curiously at Landon, and he caught my
glance. A grim smile came to his lips.
“You are surprised at my fanciful talk,” he said,
“but I assure you it expresses my feelings to-day.
I know that I am going to engage in some desperate
struggle. I go to it blindly, with my feet dragged —
know nothing, and cannot say whether it will be
fortunate or unfortunate, — happy or terrible.”
His head sank, and he went on in silence. Then
the head rose; the face of the Partisan had assumed
an expression which I had never seen upon it before.
That expression was sweet and yet resolute; a
strange mingling of gentleness and courage.
“I know not how it is, Surry,” he said, thoughtfully;
“but all my life seemed to pass before me as
I rode on, this morning. It is a strange life, — is it
not? and enough to account for that bitterness and
cynicism which you must have noted in me. Sometimes
I am puzzled, — I wander and stumble in my
thought, — I believe in God, in his merciful Providence,
in his goodness, his justice; but at times
the devil comes, and whispers in my ear: `You
are the victim of a blind fatality; there is no Providence;
all is the sport of chance!'
“Do you wonder at that? Think of my life! I
was a happy and warm-hearted boy; now I am a
cold and dreary man. I loved my mother as dearly
as man could, and she was murdered by those cowardly
gossips. I loved a woman, — and she threw
me away without hearing me say a word in my
defence. Then this terrible war came to finish me,
and make me old. Think of this country, in which
my youth passed so happily, laid waste with fire and
brave boys in bloody graves in the Old Chapel yonder,
the very grave of my mother exposed at any moment
to desecration!
“Is it strange, then, that I am hard and an old
man before my time? — that I doubt the goodness
of God sometimes — miserable creature that I am! —
and feel tempted to cry out `Vengeance! be thou
my god!' It is bitter food we eat, a bitter fountain
we drink from, in this year of our Lord 1864!
And what is left us, but to fight on? For my
part I shall never lower my flag until the end; and
a bullet, perhaps to-day, may save me that trouble.”
I looked steadily at him.
“You think it will?” I said.
“Who knows? Did I not tell you just now that
I felt a singular presentiment?”
“Pshaw! You did not sleep last night, Landon,
you are nervous!”
He smiled grimly.
“On the contrary I slept soundly, — only I
dreamed.”
“What did you dream?”
“That a house was burning somewhere; that
Ratcliffe met me hilt to hilt in single combat; that
a rope was thrown around my feet by unseen hands;
I was dragged to the ground, and Ratcliffe leaned
his sword's point on my throat, when I awoke!”
“Good! Remember that dreams always go `by
contraries,' Landon. None of this is going to
happen!”
“You are wrong,” said Landon, coolly; “and
there is the beginning!”
As he spoke, he pointed through an opening in
the woods. To the left of the Old Chapel I saw a
dense smoke rising. A second glance convinced me
that it was Chapeldale on fire.
| Hilt to hilt, or, Days and nights on the banks of the Shenandoah in the autumn of 1864 | |