University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE.

1. I.
THE BLUE COURIER.

In the summer of 1865, after Lee's surrender, I
paid a visit to my friend, Colonel Beverley, at his
estate of “The Oaks,” in Fauquier.

I hope the worthy reader will not regard the transition
from 1864 to 1865, and from the fierce drama
at the Old Chapel to the quiet scenes of peaceful
days, as too abrupt.

You saw — did you not, my dear reader? — that
the drama ended yonder on that grassy slope near
the willows of the old graveyard; that any further
scenes, when the fifth act had ended, would be superfluous,
and appear stale, flat, and unprofitable? Believe
me, there are few things more “fatal” than a
real drama. Do you wish to stop? — it drags you!
Do you wish to go beyond the limit? — it holds you
back! When Macbeth is dead, the play ends, you
see; and there is very little to interest when Richard
has carried away his hump into oblivion.

So the drama tyrannizes, but there is the friendly
and more obliging Epilogue. Let us parody Sancho
Panza, and say, “Blessed is the man who invented
the Epilogue, — for therein may be collected all the
personages and events which have been dismissed too
unceremoniously in the drama!”

I am going, therefore, worthy reader, to tell you
a little more about our friends the Night-Hawks and
their chief; and, as I have narrated in the preceding
sheets only what I witnessed or heard, I will continue
to do so in these concluding pages.

It was about the middle of April, 1865, then,
when, having traversed the same road from the
Rapidan northward, which I had passed over in
September, 1864, I found myself — a prisoner on
parole, with two horses, and the grand privilege of
remaining unmolested — at “The Oaks!” in the
county of Fauquier.

I am not going to dwell upon the old homestead
and the kind hearts there. Would you know all
about them? You have only to read my Memoirs.
Many scenes of that volume occur at “The Oaks.”
There I first met a young lady, who is looking over
my shoulder now as I write; and it was this face
which I went thither to see after Appomattox Court
House, even before I came hither to “Eagle's Nest”
on the Rappahannock.

Observe how I try to find an excuse to tarry at

“The Oaks!” 'Tis a charming place, and the sun
seems to shine brighter there than elsewhere in the
world. But I must come back to the personages
who have played parts in this fierce episode of my
Memoirs.

My acquaintance with Landon — did you fancy
him dead of his wound, reader? — was renewed in a
manner the most simple.

One morning a courier, dressed in blue, came to
“The Oaks,” with a note from the Federal officer commanding
just over the ridge. Would I oblige him
by repairing on the next morning, if convenient, to
Millwood? He was anxious to obtain from me, as
an officer from General Lee's head-quarters, details
relating to the precise manner in which General
Grant had paroled the Confederate forces; the work
in hand being to parole the Partisans of the Shenandoah.

My blue friend — how familiar and like “old
times” already, he looked! — was exceedingly deferential,
and waited, with his hand to his cap, for a
reply. I wrote it; he saluted and disappeared. On
the next morning I mounted my horse and set out
for Ashby's Gap.

This time there were no Confederates on the fence
of the old tavern at Paris — no videttes at the ford
of the Shenandoah — no Night-Hawks or blue people
on picket anywhere.

But a mile further I saw them; and in the streets
of Millwood were my old friends of the night, mingling
with Federal cavalrymen in charming fellowship.
They were laughing, joking, and jesting at
each other; and at the head of the Night-Hawks was
Landon.

2. II.
MY LAST LOOK AT THE RED-CROSS FLAG.

The Partisan greeted me with cordial warmth,
and introduced me to the commander of the Federal
forces, with whom I proceeded to converse upon the
business which had brought me.

“We have agreed on a truce till twelve to-day,”
said Landon, when I had finished, “and if by that
time we do not settle terms of surrender, I am to go
with my Night-Hawks to open the war again.”

“You shall not be forced to do that, captain,”
said the Federal officer, whose tone was perfectly
courteous.

And the negotiations commenced.

At twelve they were not concluded, and Landon
mounted his horse.

“Form column!” he said to his men, “and
unroll the flag!”

At the word the Night-Hawks sprung to horse,
and the red battle-flag of the Confederacy floated
proudly in the wind.

Never shall I forget my feelings as I saw that
banner again given to the air! I had seen it furled

on the Appomattox; I now saw it unrolled again on
the Shenandoah! My heart throbbed, and my hand
went to my side, feeling for the sabre.

Alas! there was none there. But I went and
“fell in” by Landon.

The Federal cavalry had sprung to horse at the
moment when Landon mounted. The men in blue
and gray, but a moment before jesting with each
other, laid their hands upon their sword-hilts.

For the last time I saw the gray ranks face the
blue in line of battle; for the last time the red-cross
flag flaunt proudly in the face of the Stars and
Stripes!

“Forward!” trembled on Landon's lips, and his
eye flashed.

What would have happened, I know not; but
at that moment hoof-strokes were heard upon the
turnpike; a courier came at full gallop from the direction
of Winchester; and the next instant the Federal
officer in command was reading a dispatch.

As he finished, he bowed to Landon, and said: —

“I am glad to inform you, captain, that General
Hancock has extended the truce until sunset this
evening, and the Partisan troops are placed upon the
same footing as General Lee's army. They will be
paroled on the same terms.”

Landon bowed gloomily.

“I accept the terms of parole for my command,”
he said.

And, breaking ranks by his order, the men formally
surrendered and were paroled, retaining their horses
and side-arms.

Then, without word, they mounted and formed line.
All eyes were turned to Landon; it was plain that
they were waiting for his last words to them.

He spurred forward, his head erect, his eye flashing,
his keen glance running along the line, as
though to see that it was “dressed.”

Then, removing his hat, he spoke.

I will not attempt to repeat his words. I could
do so, for they thrilled through me. Again my heart
throbbed hotly. I recall every word, every accent,
and every expression of the face of the Partisan.

As he spoke, the rough Rangers stirred and murmured.
With flushed faces and flashing eyes, they
seemed to go back and live over the glorious days
when they chased the very blue horsemen now before
them.

Landon ended his brief and fiery address in a few
minutes. Then, turning with an electric gesture toward
the red flag which one of the men had seized
and unrolled, he drew his sword, and said in his deep,
proud voice: —

“I salute the flag which history will salute forever!”

A whirl of the arm — the sabre at a salute, in
which the whole band imitated him — a burst of
cheers — and the Night-Hawks looked at Landon.

“Break ranks!” he said.

And, as he spurred into their midst, the men seized
his hand, his coat, and seemed utterly unable to control
the wild sobs that burst from them.

In another instant the Partisan had made me a
sign, and we were proceeding at a full gallop toward
“Bizarre.”

3. III.
IN ARMS TO THE LAST

I saw that Landon's emotion was nearly choking
him, and did not utter a word.

We passed on rapidly, entered the forest, swept
along beneath the great oaks, and suddenly came in
sight of “Bizarre.”

Then, as we approached, I saw all at once the
gleam of a robe at the great gate. A form hastened
to meet us, the sweet eyes full of tears. Landon
sprung from his horse, and catching the young lady
in his arms, allowed his head to fall upon her shoulder.

“I have surrendered!” he said, hoarsely. “I
was obliged to, on my men's account.”

And for the first time a fiery tear dimmed his eye.

“It is hard, — is it not, colonel?” he said with
his proud head raised, and a faint smile upon his
lips; “it makes children of us old soldiers!”

Then, taking the lady's hand he held it out to me
and said: —

“You know Mrs. Landon!”

It was Ellen Adair's bright eyes which looked at
me, her warm hand which pressed mine, her smiling

lips which greeted me; and we walked on, in pleasant
talk, to the old mansion.

“Bizarre” was still “torn down” and war-worn in
appearance, — but all our Virginia homes were thus
in '65. The old mansion seemed to smile upon us,
nevertheless, as we approached; the great door stood
hospitably open. As we entered the hall, the old portraits,
in lace and powder, on the dim canvas,
seemed to smile, but not so brightly as the lovely face
of Ellen Adair, as I will still call her, who was beside
me.

Then, all at once, there came out of the parlour to
meet us, a charming maiden of seventeen or eighteen,
who approached and gave me her hand. It was Miss
Annie Meadows, full of smiles and blushes, and behind
her came, limping, and leaning on his brother
Ralph, no less a personage than my dear Harry
Arden.

So you see, reader, nobody that was worth living
was dead, except the noble Blount and the brave
Touch-and-go. And even they — they sleep, but
are not dead!

Harry Arden had been desperately wounded, but
was brought with Landon after the fight to “Bizarre,”
where I left them to return to Petersburg. Landon
had soon recovered, and had been married for a
month. Harry was nearly well; and it was plain
that “Annie” had been “thinking” a great deal of

him, and was soon going to become Mrs. Arden.
As to Ralph, he had never again entered the army;
had returned to Delaware; put on citizens' clothes;
was on a visit to his brother now, and gave me one
of the most cordial pressures of the hand I ever received.

An hour afterwards, Landon and myself had
strolled to Lover's Leap. From the shadowy pine
wood came a pensive sigh; the murmur of the Shenandoah
ascended to the great rock; and on the
slopes of the Blue Ridge the red sunset fell in mellow
splendour.

Landon leaned against the solitary pine and
mused. The hour subdued me too, and, resting my
head upon my hand, I fell into a reverie. They
were bitter — those reveries — in April, '65, friend.
Did you dream then, as we did? I have had pleasanter
dreams.

Landon sighed as he gazed on the splendid landscape.

“Surrender! — the flag lowered!” I heard him
murmur, — “we have lost all.”

“But me!”

And a form passed me, two tender arms clasped
him; the head of Ellen Adair was resting upon his
heart.

A week afterwards I was at Eagle's Nest.

And in this spring of 1868, I have found time to
write the history of St. Leger Landon.

May you like it, my dear reader!

Surry of Eagle's Nest.