59. LIX.
I MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF SIR PERCY WYNDHAM.
I found myself in the plain sitting-room of a small farm-house.
On a table were spread maps and papers; and a bottle of wine
raised its slender neck, flanked by glasses.
Lolling in a split-bottomed rocking-chair was a tall, fine looking
personage, clad in a superb uniform, and wearing a sabre
with a magnificently chased hilt, which rattled against fine
French cavalry boots, decorated with enormous spurs. The
countenance of this officer was ruddy, handsome, and full of
pride. His hair was light, long, and worn in curls. It was a
military Adonis I saw before me in the person of Sir Percy.
When I entered, he was talking with a sleek personage, clad
in citizen's dress, who had on his knees a portfolio, in which lay
some loose sheets of paper covered with writing. Upon my appearance,
this gentleman seized a pen, dipped it in the ink, and
held it poised above his paper, with the air of a man who is going
to report a public speech.
“A prisoner, Colonel,” said my escort.
The Colonel wheeled round in his chair and looked keenly at
me.
“When were you captured?”
“Half an hour ago.”
“You are an officer—a major, I see. What command?”
“I have already replied to that question.”
“To whom?”
“The officer who captured me.”
“Well, sir, you can, no doubt, favor me with a repetition of
your reply.”
I replied that I belonged to the Confederate States Army.
“Close, Colonel!” here interposed the sleek gentleman in
black, who had hastily scratched away at his paper as this dialogue
took place.
“A perfect trap!” exclaimed the Colonel, lolling carelessly
back in his chair; “but I have never known a single rebel officer
who had not this exaggerated idea of the importance of
secrecy in every thing. Now, I make no mystery of my movements—none.”
“You are going to `bag Ashby,' Colonel, and that's a fact,”
came, with a laugh, from the sleek personage.
“I swear I will! At least you can tell me, sir,” he added, turning
to me, “whether you know General Ashby.”
“Intimately, sir.”
“Ah?” and the Colonel rose in his chair.
“I have been with him throughout the retreat—though I am
not attached to his command.”
These words seemed to attract the Colonel's attention and excite
his interest.
“Take a seat, Major,” he said. “I did not hear your name”—
“Surry.”
“An English name. You Virginians come of the genuine
English stock—and ought to fight well.”
“We try to do the best we can, Colonel.”
“And you do it devilish well, Major. Ashby has given me a
world of trouble.”
“He will be delighted to hear it, when I get back.”
“Ha! but I am not going to part with you so soon, my dear
sir. Let us talk a little first.”
“Willingly, Colonel.”
“I have sworn to capture Ashby.”
“Don't you think it is a difficult undertaking?”
“Well, he is cool and watchful enough, but I will get the better
of him yet. I thought I had him the other day at the bridge.”
“Over the Shenandoah?”
“Yes—did you witness the chase after him?”
“I was with him.”
“Ah! then you were the other officer we ran?”
“Yes, Colonel: but your pursuing party went a little too far.”
“How?”
“Ashby cut down one with his sabre, and the other was
shot.”
The Colonel frowned.
“And that's a fact, Sir Percy,” said the sleek gentleman, scribbling
away. “I saw the bodies as we passed.”
“Curse what you saw, sir!” was the growling reply.
“I wouldn't take any thing for that incident, Colonel!” exclaimed
the newspaper correspondent—for such he evidently
was: “rapid retreat of rebels, pursued by victorious Unionists—bridge
burning in their rear—Ashby on white charger, `retiring'
at full gallop—unfortunate fate of two of his pursuers,
who, surrounded by a whole brigade of rebel cavalry, fought
their way nearly out, but were finally killed by treacherous blows
from behind: it will be splendid, Colonel!”
A careless laugh from the Colonel greeted this magnificent picture,
and, at the same moment, an officer galloped up and entered.
“Well?” said the Colonel.
“The enemy are falling back again, sir—the road is clear in
front.”
“Entirely?”
“Nothing seen, sir, but a detachment of cavalry, commanded
by General Ashby.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw him distinctly through my glass, and know him perfectly.”
The Colonel started up.
“Order a squadron of picked men to report to me here, in
fifteen minutes,” he said to a staff-officer on the porch of the
farm-house.
Then, turning to the newspaper correspondent, he said:
“Do you wish to secure material for a fine paragraph?”
“I would go through fire and blood to do so!” exclaimed the
correspondent, in a martial tone, and brandishing his pen.
“You like amusement?”
“I am devoted to it, Colonel.”
“Well, come with me, and you will see some fun.”
“What is your design, Colonel?”
“To bag Ashby.”[1]
And the Colonel twirled his mustache with joyful ardor. A
quick thrill ran through me, and, assuming a careless tone, I
turned to Sir Percy, and said:
“I really should like to be present at that little affair,
Colonel.”
“You!”
“I can ride in the rear, under guard, and, in either event,
there will be small danger of my escaping.”
“In `either event!” My dear sir, I intend to capture your
General Ashby as surely as the sun shines. As you doubt it, have
your wish, and come and see me do it.”
“And I, Colonel,” said the correspondent.
“Of course! You are the historian to hand me down to
posterity.”
As the Colonel, now in high good-humor, turned away, I saw
a grimace upon the countenance of the correspondent. He was
evidently a philosopher, and estimated the element of failure in
all human affairs.
In ten minutes we were all in the saddle—the Colonel riding
at the head of the squadron at a trot, on the straight road to
Cross Keys.
