124. CXXIV.
THE LAST OF FARLEY.
The hard work had now begun, and, in every portion of the
field, Stuart was obstinately opposing the advance of the enemy
—spending dispatch after dispatch, as the morning wore on, to
General Lee.
The enemy continued to press him back, as their heavy masses
surged forward, but he fell back fighting over every foot of
ground, and inflicting very serious loss upon them.
During the movement, Stuart was everywhere, cheering the
men, holding his line steady, and animating all by his splendid
gayety and courage. In the dazzling blue eyes you could see the
stubborn will that would not bend—the steady flame, which
showed how dangerous this man was when aroused. In front
of his sharpshooters or charging at the head of his column, as
he met, sabre to sabre, the on-coming enemy, Stuart resembled,
to my eyes, the incarnate genius of battle.
But I hasten on in my narrative. I cannot describe the
master-movements of the great commander of the Virginia
cavalry—vindicating here, as on many another hard-fought field,
the supreme genius for war which lay beneath that laughing
eye, that boyish manner. I do not even think of Stuart
now, when I go back to those days—my memory dwells with a
lingering and sorrowful glance upon the form of one who
there, in that unknown skirmish, gave his young life to his
country.
By the side of Stuart, in the thickest of the fight, was Farley;
and never have I seen, upon human face, an expression of enjoyment
more supreme than on the young South Carolinian's as he
rode amid the bullets. The soft, dark eyes, habitually so mild
and gentle, flashed superbly at that moment; the mobile lips
were smiling—the whole face glowing and resplendent with the
fire of battle. As he galloped to and fro, pointing out to Stuart
every movement of the enemy—the position of their batteries,
which now had opened with a heavy fire of shell, and the direction
taken by the cavalry, moving on the flank—his eyes flamed,
his cheek burned hot. Never have I seen a more perfect model
of a soldier.
“There they come, General!” he exclaimed, as a dark line
was seen advancing on the left, in order of battle. “Oh! if
Pelham were only here!”
Suddenly, the fierce rush of a shell filled the air with its unearthly
scream—a crash, accompanied by a low cry, succeeded—
and Farley's horse was hurled to the ground, a crushed and
bleeding mass, which writhed to and fro in a manner frightful to
see.
Beside him lay the young man—already dying.
The shell had struck him upon the side of the knee—torn off
his leg—and, as we hurried to him, he was gasping in the agonies
of death.
“Farley!” exclaimed Stuart, leaping to the ground beside
him, “look at me, Farley!”
The eyes, over which the mists of death were creeping, slowly
opened—a flash of the old fire shone in them—and, half extending
his arms, the dying officer murmured:
“Send me home to my mother!”[1]
Then his head fell back. He was dead.
Stuart gazed at him for an instant, with a flush upon his face
—muttered something in a low, deep voice—and then, making a
motion to some cavalry-men to take up the body, slowly got into
the saddle again.
As he did so, I heard him murmur:
“Serving on my staff seems fatal!”
More than ever was the truth of this shown afterward:
Price, killed at Chancellorsville; Fontaine, at Petersburg;
Hardeman Stuart, Pelham, Turner, and others gone before
them! And now, Farley had passed away, in the very opening
of the fight!
The leg of the young man, which had been torn off by the
shell—boot and all—was placed beside his body in the ambulance;
[2]
and, that evening, I bent over him, and looked into the
cold, pale face, with thoughts too deep for tears.
Pelham—Farley—who would die next?
“Farewell!” I could only say, as I got into the saddle to
avoid capture by the advancing enemy, “farewell, brave Farley!
Somewhere yonder, past the sunset and the night, I hope to
meet you, and see your smile again!”
