20. XX.
THE RUINED CHURCH AND THE STRANGER.
I ENTERED the great Valley of Virginia through Ashby's Gap,
on a May morning which rendered the scene inexpressibly lovely.
The Shenandoah glided away beneath the mottled arms of the
huge sycamores upon its banks, with a murmur as soft and
sweet as the distant tinkling of silver bells; green fields extended
on every side; and in the west rose the blue ramparts of the
Massinutton and Great North Mountains, as beautiful and tranquil
as some happy dream. It was hard to realize that war
would ever stamp his red hoof upon this Arcady, all loveliness
and repose; or that the day would come when the threat of a
Federal commander would nearly be carried out, that “a crow
flying over the region should be obliged to carry his own rations.”
And now as I enter upon new scenes of my memoirs, I beg
leave to notify the kindly reader that I shall endeavor hereafter
to entertain him with something more interesting than my private
feelings. Why should I inflict upon that amiable personage
a long and lachrymose paragraph all about the heavy heart
which a friend of his bore away from “The Oaks”—or describe
the tragic emotions of that unfortunate individual at the prospect
of seeing his sweetheart marry his rival? Alas! human
life is so full of these unlucky affairs, that I think the less we
hear of them the better!
I am therefore obdurately “resolved to be gay,” and am resolutely
determined that, if possible, not a single wail of anguish
shall be heard from the hero of these memoirs. Is not life a
comedy, and the music lively? Reader mine! I who write have
seen both good and bad fortune in my time; and it has always
seemed best to me to bear the first with a modest, the latter with
a courageous heart.
So we pass away now from those days at “The Oaks.” From
the mast the long streamers wave farewell to the little bark that
glided across our course, and has disappeared. Boń voyage! fair
May Beverley! May the sea be smooth before you! You and I
go different ways!
Turning to the right at Berry's Ferry, I passed a mansion picturesquely
perched upon a hill with a background of woods,
around the portico of which, I remember, some young ladies
were trailing a sweetbrier rose in full blossom. All this was
the very opposite of war—and yet I lived to witness a hot
fight upon that very lawn, and to see the spring grass dyed with
blood.
My horses were fresh, and I expected to reach the neighborhood
of Harper's Ferry before evening, but, when in the vicinity
of Charlestown, I found the sky, which had long been threatening,
suddenly indicate the approach of a storm. A huge bank of
black cloud, against which, from time to time, vivid flashes of
lightning shone, like a fiery crack in the dark mass, admonished
me of the wetting which awaited me unless I found shelter; and
very soon those heavy drops, which are the skirmishers thrown
out by an advancing tempest, began to patter on the leaves.
I looked round for some shelter, but saw no house anywhere.
In a clump of trees, however, a few hundred yards from the road,
rose the ruins of an old church; and to this I hastened, dismounting
and taking refuge within, just as the storm burst. The ruin
was almost roofless; but a projection over the altar-place furnished
some protection from the rain; and to this spot I hurried.
All at once I stopped. A man was kneeling there, with his
forehead buried in his hands; and at the same moment I heard
the neigh of his horse, which was tethered to a bough behind the
ruin, and had escaped my notice.
The falling rain and the rumble of the thunder must have
drowned the noise of my approach; for the kneeling man remained
in the same posture, and perfectly motionless, for at least
a quarter of an hour. At the end of that time, the clatter of my
sabre, as it accidentally struck against a fallen stone, attracted
his attention, and, slowly rising, the stranger turned toward me.
He was a man apparently about forty years of age, tall, gaunt,
and awkward-looking. His beard and mustache, worn tolerably
full, were of a reddish brown, inclining to black; and his eyes
were dark, piercing, and with a peculiar glitter in them. The
stranger wore a plain gray uniform, entirely without decorations,
and his forehead was covered by the rim of a small cadet-cap,
pulled low down, with the top trailing forward.
The expression of the stranger's countenance was mild, benevolent,
and modest—his smile, as he greeted me with an air of simple
courtesy, very winning.
“I am afraid I interrupted your devotions, sir,” I now said,
“and I pray you will pardon me.”
“I had finished, or very nearly,” was his reply, in a voice of
peculiar abruptness, but unmistakable courtesy. “This storm is
very violent, sir.”
“And our place of refuge very dilapidated.”
“Yes,” he said, smiling; “but there seems great fitness in
taking refuge in this holy place.”
“I understand. You mean that the church is the best shelter
from the storms of life. I am not a Christian myself, but you
will not find me differ with you upon that point, sir.”
“I am truly glad to hear it,” was his simple reply, in the same
brief voice. “God has prescribed but one refuge, and the chief
duty he inculcates is prayer.”
There was something simple and noble in the man's bearing as
he spoke; and his words seemed the most rational and natural
in the world—so little of the professional air of the preacher, so
to speak, did I discern in them.
“You belong to the army, sir?” I now said, glancing at his
uniform.
“Yes, sir,” was his reply.
“May I ask if you have ever served before?”
“Yes, in Mexico.”
“Ah? in the last war! Then you must have seen some hard
fighting?”
“I was at Churubusco, Chepultepec, and other battles.”
“You are fortunate in having returned safely,” I said.
“God spared me,” was his reply, in the same simple tone.
His eye wandered as he spoke, and he seemed to be thinking,
as the thunder roared above the ruin, of those battles, which
had resembled it.
“I was many times much exposed,” he added, “but no man
ever dies until his time comes. It was the good pleasure of the
Almighty, sir, that I should be spared for another conflict.”
“And you doubtless carry similar convictions into the present
contest? I mean the doctrine of predestination.”
“That word is much abused, sir,” replied the stranger gravely,
“yet it expresses the only rational view of human life. Who
can tell when he will die? The bullet which is to strike me
down may now be moulded, and I may fall in the first skirmish
—or I may pass through a hundred bloody battles untouched.
If I am to fall now, I am to fall—if years hence, not until then—
if never, never! If Providence has decreed that I shall die in
my bed, surely the enemy cannot harm me.”
“You are right, sir,” I said, not a little moved by the earnest
tones of the speaker. “All rational men believe in the doctrine
you assert. But do you entirely discard free will?”
“No, sir, by no means—I believe in that, just as strongly.
But we touch upon the profoundest of all questions. It is better
to obey than to question. It is easy to understand the precept,
“Love one another,” if the doctrines of free will and predestination
are difficult!”
“Love one another!” I said; “that is a curious principle for a
soldier to adopt, is it not, sir?”
“I do not think so.”
“And yet we are at the beginning of a long and bloody war.”
“War is not opposed to the will of God, sir.”
“But it is terribly bloody.”
“So is the surgeon's knife. It is disagreeable, but necessary.”
“You, then, regard this war as just and inevitable!”
“I do, sir. I would cheerfully have laid down my life to have
prevented it; but I believe that it could not be avoided.”
“I agree with you. Will it be long? When will it end?”
“I know not—nor do I expect to see its end.”
“You expect to fall?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet you enter upon it cheerfully?”
“I try to do my duty—God will take care of the rest.”
As the stranger spoke in his simple and earnest voice, he raised
his right hand aloft, looked upward, and, closing his eyes, muttered
some inaudible words which seemed to be a prayer. So
singular was this proceeding that I set my companion down for
a confirmed eccentric; and, not wishing to disturb him, went to
the dilapidated opening, once serving as a window, and looked
out. The clouds were clearing away—the blue began to appear
here and there—the storm was over.
As I turned round, I saw the stranger at my side, with a smile
of exquisite sweetness upon his features. At the same moment,
a dove, which had made its nest in a crevice of the ruin, winged
its way out, uttering a plaintive coo as it disappeared.[1]
“We have spoken of the probability of a long and bloody
war,” said the stranger mildly, “but perhaps we err in our views
upon that subject. This dove may be the blessed emblem of
peace and sunshine, as when one brought the olive-branch to
Noah after the deluge.”
“I hope so,” was my reply, with a smile; “but I am afraid
that fierce bird the `Spread-Eagle' is going to tear our poor little
Southern dove, and make us return to the `great and glorious
Union,' sir.”
“There will be much blood shed first,” was the response of the
stranger. “But I see the rain is over, sir. May I ask what route
you take?”
“I am going to Harper's Ferry.”
“Then we will travel together, as I am riding in the same
direction.”
“Most willingly.”
And we went toward our horses. The stranger walked, I observed,
with a peculiarly awkward stride, and his seat in the saddle,
as he joined me, was very ungraceful. But he was evidently
a practised rider, if not a very graceful one.
Conversing as we rode, we passed through the town of Charlestown,
and, as night fell, approached Harper's Ferry. My companion
had informed me that he was returning from Winchester
when the storm arrested him, and he now rode on with the assured
air of one who was returning to his own quarters.
The hills around were covered with white tents, which shone
like groups of waterfowl in the last rays of day; and, reaching
one of these groups, very plain and unassuming in appearance,
the stranger drew rein, and seemed to have reached his journey's
end.
“Will you stay with me to-night, sir?” he said, very courteously.
“I can offer you a good bed of straw, and soldier's fare.”
“Thanks for your kind offer, but I am looking for the head-quarters
of Colonel Jackson,” I replied.
My companion smiled and said:
“Do you want to see him?”
“Yes; I am assigned to duty with him as aide-de-camp, sir.”
“Ah! then you are——?”
“Captain Surry, of the Virginia forces.”
“And my name is Jackson,” was the stranger's smiling reply.
“I am glad to make your acquaintance, Captain, and to welcome
you to my quarters. I think we shall be very good friends.”
And Colonel Jackson gave me his hand. Such was our first
interview.
