111. CXI.
HOURS AT “CAMP PELHAM.”
The picturesque head-quarters of General Stuart are before
my eyes as I write these lines.
They were situated upon a wooded slope west of the little
village, and great trees extended their arms above. Under a
“fly”—that is to say, the canvas cover of a tent—were the
General's desk, chair, and couch spread on the ground. In a
clump of pines near by the couriers had pitched their tents d'abri.
Beyond were the horses, picketed among the trees. In front of
the head-quarters, on the grassy knoll, beneath the great trees,
the blood-red flag of Stuart flickered like a dazzling flame in the
April sunshine—a veritable “giant of battle” rose, the General's
favorite flower.
Here at “Camp Pelham”—for so Stuart had called his head-quarters—I
spent two or three days; and I now recall them as
among the most pleasant I have ever passed. The smile of Pelham
and the glad light of his friendly eyes no longer shone amid
the group; but others were there—Farley, with his low, musical
voice, his narratives of wild adventure; and Channing Price,
that brave and lovely spirit, with his frank, young face, his
charming manner, and his smile like sunshine—a sunshine which,
alas! was soon to disappear, as the voice of Farley was to be
silenced, in the lurid smoke, amid the tragic roar of the fast-coming
conflict.
Pardon me, reader, if I linger as before among these good
companions—if I dwell for a moment on the days spent at
“Camp Pelham,” as at “Camp No-Camp.” As I go back to
those times, again the blood-red battle-flag floats proudly in the
dazzling sunshine—again I hear the ready laughter, or the sonorous
voice of Stuart, as he sings at his work—again the eyes of
Farley, Price, and that brave spirit Fontaine, doomed like his
comrades, shine upon me and bring back the hours that are
gone!
But at that time all was joy and merriment. Our old friend
Sweeny played his banjo gayly, making the woods of Culpepper
ring, like the pine thickets of Spottsylvania, with the “Old Gray
Hoss,” and “Sweet Evelina,” and “Jine the Cavalry;” Hagan
went and came, with huge hand smoothing down his mighty
beard; and more than once came bevies of fair girls from the
adjoining village, to sit beneath the trees, and laugh with the
General, while the red flag rippled, the bugle sounded gayly amid
the trees, and Sweeny's banjo filled the air with its uproar.
It was the poetry of war—this life of the cavalry on the outpost—the
romance of the hard career of arms. I have forgotten
many hot conflicts, but remember still those gay days at Camp
Pelham, in the spring of 1863.
Stuart was never in higher spirits, or in finer trim for fighting,
and more than ever I admired this immense war-machine, this
hair-trigger organization, ready day or night to meet the enemy.
It was all the same to him whether the day was brilliant or
drenched in storms—he was what the Duke of Wellington called
a “two o'clock in the morning man,” ready at any moment, and
his spirits defied the atmosphere. That gayety and superb
abandon never left him—war seemed mirth, and he delivered his
great blows with laughter. One morning during my visit, a report
came that a regiment of Federal cavalry had crossed near
Kelly's Ford, and Stuart hastened down in person. As he approached
the point, an officer came to meet him at a gallop, and
announced that they were drawn up on the Southern bank.
“Well,” was his answer, with a laugh, as he rode on, “tell
Colonel Beale to lick into 'em, and jam 'em right over the
river!”[1]
Did you ever hear of a more unromantic or “undignified”
order, reader? It is just what Stuart said, and the order was
obeyed—the enemy forced to hastily recross.
One word more in regard to this great cavalier. There were
many silly persons who believed him frivolous, because he
laughed easily, and said that he neglected his work to dance and
amuse himself with young ladies. Most stupid and unjust of
calumnies! A more enormous capacity for work, a more sleepless
vigilance than Stuart's cannot be imagined. His daily toil
was incredible, his concentration of every faculty upon the task
of guarding the line of the Rappahannock unrelaxing. Not an
avenue of approach was left unguarded—scarce a picket was unvisited
by him. Day and night he was ready.
That he thought profoundly, and saw deep into the future, a
single opinion, expressed to me about this time, will show.
“The next battle will be fought near Chancellorsville.”[2]
Such was the far-seeing prediction of a man who was thought
by many to be frivolous. His daring was proverbial, his name
illustrious; but, besides the troops who fought under and idolized
him, there were only two men in the Southern army who appreciated
him—regarding him as a born master of the art of
war.
But the names of these two men were Lee and Jackson.
