University of Virginia Library

108. CVIII.
THE SPRING FLOWERS OF INCOGNITA.

Such was the hard battle of Kelly's Ford, and such the death
of Pelham.

The body of the young artillerist was carried back to Culpepper
Court-House, and laid in its shroud, amid the sobs of
women and the tears of bearded men. That cold, pale face was
all that was left of one who had lived and died for Virginia and
the South.

I was looking at the pallid face, upon which a smile lingered,
as if death had come to him a welcome guest, when a suppressed
sound behind me attracted my attention, and, turning round, I
saw Stuart standing near, gazing, with eyes full of tears, upon
the dead boy's face.

With a measured step, his black-plumed hat in his hand, he
approached the body; looked long and silently upon the smiling
face; then, stooping down, he pressed his bearded lip to the
marble brow.

As he did so, the breast of the great cavalier was shaken; a
sob issued from his lips, and a tear fell on the pale cheek of Pelham.
Severing from his forehead a lock of the light hair—as
the boy had severed one from the head of poor Jean—he turned

away; and as he did so I heard, in low, deep tones, which seemed
to force their way through tears, the single word—

“Farewell!”

It was Stuart's last greeting, on this earth, to the spirit of Pelham—soon
to meet his own again where the roar of battle never
comes.

On the day succeeding the battle, Stuart sent this dispatch to
Richmond:

“The noble, the chivalric, the gallant Pelham is no more.
He was killed in action yesterday. His remains will be sent to
you to-day. How much he was beloved, appreciated, and admired,
let the tears of agony we have shed, and the gloom of
mourning throughout my command, bear witness. His loss is
irreparable.”[1]

“He fell, mortally wounded,” wrote Stuart afterward, in a
general order, “with the battle-cry on his lips, and the light of
victory beaming from his eye.

“His eye had glanced over every battle-field of this army
from the first Manassas to the moment of his death, and he was,
with a single exception, a brilliant actor in all.

“The memory of `the gallant Pelham'—his many virtues, his
noble nature, and purity of character—is enshrined as a sacred
legacy in the hearts of all who knew him.

“His record has been bright and spotless—his career brilliant
and successful.

“He fell, the noblest of sacrifices, on the altar of his country!”

Such was the wreath of fadeless laurel laid by Stuart on the
grave of Pelham—the young, the noble, the immortal! His life
had passed like a dream of glory—and Stuart wept beside his
tomb! Nor was that all. Tears were shed for the dead boy
which the world did not see—there were sighs breathed, far
away, which the world did not hear! I heard one, as it passed
on the winds of spring, from the orange groves of the South—
and the reader shall hear it too.

Some months after the death of my dear, good friend, I wrote

and published, in a Southern journal, a paper upon his character
and career. It was nothing—a mere sketch—the hasty lament
of one comrade for another, as he passes on. My name was not
printed with the sketch—and yet the authorship was in some
manner discovered. In the spring of 1864, I received a note,
in the delicate handwriting of a young lady, from Georgia, and
this note contained a small bunch of flowers—heartsease, violet,
and jessamine—tied up with a tress of hair.

The note lies before me, with its faded flowers—here it is:

Such was the note of an unknown Georgia girl, which accompanied
the flowers bound up with her hair. Does any one laugh,
and mutter “romance!” “extravagance”? I salute and honor
her who wrote those words—they are the true “immortelles”
on the grave of Pelham. I have “never met her, I may never
meet her,” but it is something for a poor soldier to have the
prayers of a pure heart ascend for him! Not in vain, it may be,
O fair Incognita! have those prayers been breathed for the unknown
Virginian who, again to-day, in the hours of a sad peace,
as yonder, amid the thunder on the Rapidan, reads your words
of friendship, in their delicate tracery, and presses your flowers
and your hair to his lips. The soul that you loved is gone from
earth—never more in any future wars will his blue eye flash or
his clear voice ring; but it is something, if yonder, where his spirit
hovers, he can know that his memory is immortal in your heart.

Do not weep for him—it is we that remain “in the land where
we were dreaming” who deserve your regret. Shed no tears
for Pelham! His death was noble, as his life was beautiful and
beneficent. Fame crowned his boyish brow with that amaranthine
wreath, the words of our great chieftain Lee; and he died,
as he lived, amid hearts who loved him as the pearl of chivalry
and honor. The “gallant Pelham” cannot pass from the heart
or the memory of the people of the South—but there is something
which his brave spirit would be touched and thrilled by
more than all those laurels which enrich his tomb.

It is the tears of Stuart, as he murmured, “Poor boy! he
loved me very much!” and the prayers of this “unknown
Georgian,” who had “never heard his voice!”[2]