22. XXII.
I VISIT COLONEL “JEB. STUART.”
Passing rapidly through the beautiful country skirting the
banks of the Potomac, I approached the Opequon.
When in sight of that picturesque stream, with it grassy banks,
studded with huge white-armed sycamores, I met a cavalryman,
who informed me that Colonel Stuart, with a squadron from his
regiment, was at that moment passing through the woods beyond.
I hastened to come up with him, and, fording the stream, galloped
on beneath the boughs of the gay spring forest, which was
ringing with the songs of birds.
Ere long I heard the tramp of hoofs, and a sonorous voice
singing one of my favorite songs, “The dew is on the blossom.”
Five minutes afterward there appeared at a turn of the road,
clearly relieved against the green background of the leafy covert,
the head of a column of horsemen, in front of whom rode the
singer.
Let me draw his outline. He was a man of twenty-five or
thirty, of low stature, athletic figure, and with the air of a born
cavalryman. There was no mistaking his arm of the service.
He was the cavalier all over. His boot-tops covered the knee;
his brass spurs were models of neatness; his sabre was light,
flexible, and “handy;” his gauntlets reached to the elbows.
The young cavalier was evidently at home in the saddle, and
asked nothing better than “a fight or a frolic.” He wore the
blue undress uniform coat of the United States Army, gathered
at the waist by his sword-belt; an old brown pair of velveteen
pantaloons, rusty from long use, and his bold face was surmounted
by a Zouave cap, from which depended a white “have-lock,”
giving him the appearance of a mediæval knight with a
chain-helmet. Upon that proud head, indeed, a helmet, with its
flowing plume, seemed the fittest covering.
But I have not finished. I am drawing the portrait of one of
the immortals, reader, and you can afford to listen to every detail.
His saddle was a plain “McClellan tree” strapped over a
red blanket for saddle-cloth; behind the cantel was his oil-cloth,
containing a single blanket, and on the pommel was a light india-rubber
overcoat for stormy days. The chest of his sorrel was
decorated with a brilliant yellow breast-cap, a blazing heart in
the centre, and the spirited animal champed a strong curb bit,
to which was attached a single rein.[1]
I did not notice these details when I first saw Stuart that day.
I was looking at his face. It was the picture of martial gayety
and enjoyment. A lofty and massive forehead, blue eyes as
brilliant and piercing as the eagle's, a prominent nose, a huge
brown beard, and heavy mustache, whose long ends curled upward—there
was Stuart's countenance. In that face and form,
immense health and physical strength shone. This man, it was
plain, could remain whole days and nights in the saddle, never
growing weary; could march all night, fight all day, and then
ride a dozen miles and dance until sunrise.
Such was the splendid war-machine which I saw before
me; such the man who now paused in his song, looked at me
keenly out of his clear blue eyes, and gave me the frank military
salute with his gauntleted hand.
I introduced myself, delivered my message, and rode on with
Stuart, who had cordially shaken hands and said:
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Captain. Come, and ride
back to camp with me.”
So we rode on, side by side, Stuart talking carelessly, with the
ease and unreserve of the bon compagnon, instead of the stiffness
of the West-Pointer.
“Jackson is right,” he said, musing, with an absent air; and
as he spoke he took off his cap, made a salute, apparently to
some imaginary personage, and then replaced his cap. This
curious habit I frequently observed in him afterward.
“The enemy will cross near Williamsport,” he added; “I
am convinced of that. The pickets are already doubled, Captain,
and the relays established. I intend to inspect my pickets along
the whole front to-morrow. Will you ride with me? You can
then make an exact report of every thing.”
I accepted this invitation, and Stuart then seemed to banish
all “official” affairs from his mind. He turned his head, called
out “Sweeny!” and there rode forward from his escort a tall,
mild-looking man, of deferential bearing, who carried under his
arm an old-fashioned Virginia banjo.
“Come! strike up, Sweeny,” Stuart exclaimed, in a jovial
voice. “Here is Captain Surry—give him a specimen of your
music.”
Sweeny saluted me with sad and deferential courtesy, and I
expected him to play something like a dead march upon his instrument.
Never was any one more mistaken. He struck
up that popular song—“O Lord, ladies! don't you mind Stephen!”
and if ever the spirit of wild and uproarious mirth
spoke from any instrument, it was heard in the notes of Sweeny's
banjo. After finishing this gay air, with its burden, “Come
back, Stephen!—Stephen, come back!” he played a medley,
with wonderful skill—a comic vis that was irresistible; and then
Stuart, lying back on his horse for laughter, cried:
“Now give us the `Old Gray Hoss,' Sweeny!”
And Sweeny commenced that most celebrated of recitations,
which I heard and laughed at a hundred times afterward, but
never without thinking of that gay spring scene—the long line
of cavalry winding through the May forest, with Stuart at their
head, shouting with laughter as he rode, and joining in the
chorus, like an uproarious boy.
Sweeny played then, in succession, “O Johnny Booker, help
this nigger!” “Sweet Evelina,” and “Faded Flowers”—for
this great musician could pass from gay to sad, and charm you
more with his sentimental songs than he amused you with his
comic repertoire. In the choruses Stuart joined—singing in a
sonorous voice, with a perfectly correct ear—and thus the cavalcade
passed over mile after mile, until, at sunset, we reached
Stuart's quarters, near Martinsburg. That individual appeared
to me more like some gay knight-errant of the elder-time than
a commonplace cavalry officer of the year 1861; and I never
afterward, through all his arduous career, could rid myself of
this idea. I saw him everywhere during his long, hard work, as
commander of the cavalry of General Lee's army, and as that
great chief's “right hand”—but I could never think of him except
as an ideal personage. He was not so much a soldier of the
nineteenth century as a chevalier “from out the old romances.”
Are you weary, my dear reader, of this long description? I
should be sorry to think so; and I have still some words to add.
In these pages Stuart will speak often, and perform many things.
Here I wish, “once for all,” to give you his outline. Then
you will know what manner of man it was that spoke the
words and struck the great blows. So I linger still in those old
days, spent in the Shenandoah Valley, recalling every incident
of my brief visit to the afterward celebrated “Jeb. Stuart.”
