61. LXI.
ASHBY AMONG HIS MEN.
On the same night, I went to carry a message to Ashby, and
found him seated at the bivouac fire, in the midst of a circle of
his men, with whom he was conversing like one of their own
comrades.
His sword and pistols were buckled around his waist; his
horse stood ready saddled near; his swarthy face, with its heavy
black beard, shone in the fire-light.
Room was made for me at the fire, my message delivered, and
the conversation went on between Ashby and his men.
The scene was striking and picturesque. All around the rude
bivouac the horses were picketed to the trees, and beyond the
circle of fire-light dusky figures came and went like phantoms.
The great tree-trunks rose all around; the heavy foliage of June
drooped above; and, scattered in groups around the brushwood
fire, upon which some rails from an adjoining fence had been
thrown, were the rudely-clad figures of the cavalry-men.
It was impossible to discover in Ashby's demeanor toward
his men the least consciousness of his superior rank. His manner
was the perfection of unassuming simplicity: you would
have said that the party were a band of huntsmen, of whom he
was one.
A thousand witticisms were uttered—a thousand adventures
related. Ashby listened with a smile, and, with “Well, boys,”
by way of commencement, took his part in the story-telling.
Then some one began to sing.
It was a wild and plaintive air, like the sigh of the wind
through the trees overhead, or the low sound of the pines in
the breezes of autumn. It commemorated the exploits of
Ashby; and, I remember every verse wound up with the
chorus:
“Strike, freemen! for your country,
Sheathe your swords no more,
While remains in arms a Yankee,
On Virginia's shore!”
The words were rude and destitute of poetic merit, but the
air was wild and touching. The men listened in silence, joining,
however, with full voices in the chorus.
When the singer had finished, Ashby rose and said:
“Well, boys, it is getting late, and you had better go to sleep.
We may have tough work to-morrow—perhaps to-night.”
And he mounted his horse, which one of the men led forward.
“Good night, General,” came from the group, who stood up;
and we rode back to a point where a small fire had been
kindled by the General's servant for himself and his staff. They
were all asleep, and, sitting down by the fire, we talked for a
few moments.
Ashby was unusually silent and sad.
“What is the matter?” I said; “has that doleful air we heard
put you in bad spirits?”
“Oh! no,” was his reply.
“Perhaps it is that owl I hear, with its melancholy tu-whoo.
Fie! mon Général, to be low-spirited without reason!”
“You may laugh, my dear Surry, but I do feel oppressed to-night.
Do you know that a curious fancy has taken possession
of my mind?”
“What is that?”
“That my end is approaching—my days on earth numbered.”
“Pshaw! this is mere moonshine. You are sick.”
“I never was in better health, and my arm was never
stronger.”
His voice was sadder than ever, as he added in a low tone:
“I have been thinking to-night of my brother Richard.”
“And went yonder to dissipate your gloom?”
“Yes.”
For some moments he remained silent. Then he said:
“Mine has been a sad life for the last few months. I never
got over that blow. Why did this cruel war come to make me
miserable? I would cheerfully have given my own poor life—
but not my brother's.”
“Your own has been worth much to the country—you cannot
be ignorant of that.”
My companion smiled faintly and shook his head.
“Don't let your friendship induce you to flatter me. I am not
much. It would puzzle you to find any sort of accomplishment
in me except the art of riding. I believe I am a good rider—I
ought to be, as I have been in the saddle, riding over the hills
of Fauquier, since my childhood; but that is all. I am not
intellectual, as Richard was, and I can hardly write at all. As
to my soldiership, Surry, I am a mere partisan with good eyes
and ears, not an educated officer.”
“Is West Point every thing?”
“I confess it does not make a great soldier, but I sadly need
training. Well, I have done what I could. Little as it is, it was
my best, and no man can do more. I can say, if I fall, `I gave
my country all I possessed.' ”
“No one can say more.”
“It is my pride to be able to declare as much. I did not go
into this war to receive military renown, or gain rank. God
knows I would have laid down my life to prevent it. But what
could I do? Our soil was invaded; I was a Virginia gentleman;
I should have died of shame had I remained at home.
For the proud, hard-riding Ashbys to have proved laggards was
impossible. So I took my part—and then came that heavy blow
which you know of. I confess that it made me bitter, and
has added force to many a blow of my sabre. I have killed
many. I pitied these people sometimes when my men were
cutting them to pieces, but then I seemed to hear a voice in my
ears, `Remember Richard!' The thought made me merciless,
and steeled my heart. I have no doubt that younder in the North
they represent me as a bandit and ruffian, but I appeal to my
life to confute their charges. I have fought fairly and openly;
I have never oppressed the weak, or ill-treated a prisoner. In
Winchester, some ladies from the North came to me and said,
`General Ashby, we have nothing contraband in our baggage
or on our persons. You can search us.' I bowed to them and
said, `I am a Virginia gentleman; we do not search the trunks
or persons of ladies here, madam.' You see I boast—but I am
proud to remember that I have never done any thing which was
unworthy of my father's son. I have carried on hostilities, in
this struggle which my whole heart approves, as a Virginia
gentleman should. That consolation, at least, remains.”
“And it ought to be supreme.”
“It is, I have no self-reproach—no regrets. If I could have
done more for old Virginia, I would.”
“It is something at least to have lived in the saddle, watched
day and night, and risked your life every hour”
“Risked my life? Is that much to risk?”
“It is to most men.”
“It is not to me.”
“I understand—since your great misfortune. But he died
like a Southern gentleman, fighting to the last.”
“Well, I hope to do so, too.”
And, making an evident effort to banish his gloom, Ashby began
to converse upon the events of the morning. I drew as grotesque
a picture as possible of the confident Sir Percy, and the sleek
newspaper-correspondent, to make him laugh, but I could not
succeed. His sadness seemed beyond the power of words.
Taking my leave at last, with that grasp of the hand we bestow
upon friends in time of war—friends whose faces we may never
see again—I mounted my horse, and set out on my return.
Fifty yards from the bivouac fire, I chanced to turn my head.
Ashby was upon his knees, praying.
