42. XLII.
ASHBY.
A FIGURE wrapped in a cloak was lying by the small fire, which
the chill March night made far from uncomfortable.
I could see, as I approached, that this personage was reading
in a small volume, and, as he raised his head, and the firelight
fell upon his face, something on his cheek glittered.
As he rose, I recognized my travelling companion on the way
to the Valley, who had carried before him the weak beggar-girl,
and given me so cordial an invitation to visit him. His beard
was blacker and heavier; his face more swarthy; his expression
deeply sorrowful. But in the cavalry colonel of low stature, clad
in gray, with sabre at side, and wearing a hat with a dark feather,
I easily recognized my former companion.
“Colonel Ashby?” I said.
“Yes, sir.”
“A message from General Jackson, Colonel. I am glad to see
you again, but am afraid you don't remember me.”
I drew nearer as I spoke, into the circle of light.
“Perfectly, Captain,” he said, with much courtesy. “At first
the darkness prevented me.”
And, with frank and soldierly grace, he extended his hand,
hastily turning aside as he did so, and passing his other hand
across his eyes.
The voice of the speaker was profoundly sad; but in his air I
observed the same high-bred courtesy and kindness.
In reply to my message, he now said:
“Then the General intends evacuating Winchester? I am
sorry we are to do so without a fight, and I received orders to
prepare for action in an hour. The General's directions will be
observed, Captain—I beg your pardon—Major: I think I can
promise that my command will fall back in good order.”
“I have no doubt of it, Colonel. I am glad to see you in command
of so fine a body of men.”
“Yes, they are gallant fellows, but I fear I am no disciplinarian.”
I had thrown my bridle over a bough, and was warming my
fingers at the fire.
My host gave me a seat beside him upon his cloak.
“I am afraid I disturb you in your reading,” I said.
“Oh! not at all.”
“What book absorbed you so?”
“I was reading in the Bible,” he said, simply, but with his
former sadness of tone; “it is the best resource for the unfortunate.”
“Do you class yourself with such, Colonel?” I said. “I
should think that, with so fine a command as yours, and your
constitutional gayety—which I well remember you showed upon
our ride last April—you would regard yourself as any thing but
unfortunate.”
“My `constitutional gayety'?” he murmured. “I have none
left.”
The accent of the speaker, as he uttered these words, was so
mournful, that for an instant I did not reply.
“Pardon me,” I said, at length, “if I have touched some
chord which jars. Had I supposed that my words would wound
you”—
“It is nothing,” he said, sadly; “but I am much changed since
I saw you. I have lost my brother.”
“Your brother?—but pardon me again. We will speak of
something else.”
“It does not pain me,” he replied, with settled sadness. “At
times it is a relief to speak of our sorrows to a friend—if you
will let me call you such, sir.”
I bowed with as much respect as sympathy, for the voice of
this man went to my heart.
“When I saw you in April, Major,” he said, in a low tone,
“I had never had any thing to distress me, and doubtless I appeared
to you gay enough. I lived at that time near Markham's,
with my brother Richard, and we passed our lives together. I
had no other friend. You should have known him: he was not a
small, plain-looking man, like myself, but tall and imposing, with
the eye of an eagle, and a soul that was the very mirror of truth
and honor. A braver spirit never breathed—a kinder heart
never beat in human bosom. I weary you—but I loved my
brother,” faltered the speaker, “he was all I had. You see now
why I am not so gay as when we met down yonder. I cannot
help it—my poor brother is dead.”
A flush came to the swarthy features of the speaker, and the
fire-light glittered on a tear which trembled in his eye.
“They killed him yonder, on the Potomae,” he added, in a low
voice, “where his company was scouting. He had only a few
men with him, and was overpowered. He would not surrender
—I never intend to, Major—but fell back, fighting a whole
squadron. In crossing the railroad, his horse fell into one of
those openings called `cattle-stops'—before he could rise, they
were upon him; and can you guess what happened?” said the
speaker, in a lower tone than before.
“Tell me.”
“They beat him to death—literally; riddling his breast with
bullets as they did so.”[1]
The tears were burnt up in the fire which blazed from Ashby's
eyes as he spoke.
“I came up at the moment,” he continued, more calmly, but
with gloomy feeling in his voice, “and charged with a few men,
killing eleven—but my brother was dead. We buried him on
the banks of the Potomac. I am a strong man, but nearly
fainted at his grave. Then I came back to my work.”
The deep-toned and sorrowful accents died away. I understood
all, and realized what a lady afterward said to me—“Ashby
is now a devoted man.”
He preserved silence for some moments, gazing into the fire;
and then, drawing a long breath, as though to relieve himself of
some weight upon his breast, made an evident effort to banish
his gloom. His former air of gentleness returned, and he said,
with an attempt to smile:
“Pardon all this egotism, Major. The unfortunate are too
prone to cry out at times, and try to make others share their
burden. It is hard to bear alone the weight of that `perilous
stuff that weights upon the heart.' ”
“Your words have affected me deeply,” was my reply.
“But I should have spared you this recital. The world would
be a gloomy place if every unlucky fellow insisted upon retailing
his misfortunes to his friends.”
“Sympathy, at least, is something.”
“It is much—almost all that is worth living for. Life is not a
very gay affair—in fact, I am rather tired of it. But let me cease
this unprofitable talk. It would astonish the rough, brave fellows
yonder, who think I am laying some plan to entrap the
enemy. So we are to withdraw, and without a fight!”
“You will have charge of the rear.”
“Of course; and I promise you that, if they press too hard,
they shall feel my teeth. But I expected a regular battle. Well,
that must come, too, before long.”
I rose to go, and said, laughing:
“You are one of the few men I have met with who look forward
with pleasure to a battle.”
“I have never seen one—I was not at Manassas,” he replied,
gently.
“It is very poor amusement, Colonel, I assure you.”
“But exciting?”
“Too much so.”
“Can any excitement be too great?” was his sad reply, as I
got into the saddle; “it enables us to forget.”
And, saluting me with a movement full of friendly grace, the
colonel of cavalry resumed his place by the fire, and recommenced
reading his Bible.
