81. LXXXI.
I CHASE AND COME UP WITH A FEDERAL OFFICER.
The object of my night-ride is probably no mystery to the
reader. Salem was near White Plains; and near White Plains
was “Elm Cottage.”
I had determined to go and reconnoitre in that direction, in
spite of the Federal cavalry in our front. Many things induced
me to visit the cottage. Was Violet Grafton still there? Had
Fenwick again been lurking around the place? I say again, for,
in his night interview with Mrs. Parkins, he had spoken of his
reception by Violet. Had Mrs. Fitzhugh heard from May Beverley?
It was that last question which, despite my fatigue, made
me get into the saddle.
The ember was not cold. It flamed again at a breath. Do
you laugh, good reader, at the love-sick condition of the unfortunate
Surry, pining, with a hopeless attachment, for a woman
who was to be the wife of another? Alas! love laughs at logic
as well as locksmiths—and, though I have not insisted upon
speaking incessantly of Miss May Beverley, she had occupied my
thoughts on many battle-fields, and bent over me, beautiful and
smiling, as I fell asleep by numerous camp-fires! Such things, I
know, never occur in the lives of other men—and of you, beloved
reader, this fable has never been narrated. But so it was. I
tried to cease the immoral proceeding; but I was in love with
my neighbor Baskerville's wife—I coveted the property of that
paladin and flower of chivalry, as much as ever!
So I went to find whether Mrs. Fitzhugh had heard from her,
and incidentally to see Violet Grafton and the rest.
The infantry picket halted me, but, upon giving my name to
the officer, I was allowed to pass. The same occurred when I
came to the exterior picket of cavalry, and I rode on through the
darkness. For half an hour, no sound broke the deep stillness.
The enemy's scouts, I suspected, were prowling around, but none
made their appearance—and ere long I came in sight of the
clump of trees embowering Elm Cottage.
From a distance came the glimmer of a cheerful light; and,
pressing forward, I had reached the outer gate, when the neigh
of a horse was heard near the house. My own horse neighed in
reply; and I was galloping along the winding avenue, when, all
at once, the door opened, a flood of light poured through it, and
I recognized the blue uniform of an officer of the U. S. Army.
He had taken two rapid steps toward his horse, when I ordered
him to halt and surrender.
His reply was a loud laugh, which I distinctly heard; and,
turning to utter a few hasty words to some ladies behind him,
he ran to his horse.
As he mounted I fired upon him, but did not strike him. A
second laugh greeted the shot; and, clearing the low fence, the
officer darted off.
I followed, and pursued at full speed, ordering him to halt or
I would kill him. His horse was fleeter than my own, and the
distance between us was increasing; but suddenly my challenge
seemed to produce the desired effect. He drew rein—I approached
at full speed—and, levelling my pistol at his head, said:
“You are my prisoner!”
A third burst of langhter greeted me; the figure held out his
hand; and I heard, in the familiar voice of Will Surry:
“How are you, brother!”
“Will!” I exclaimed.
“Certainly it is Will, and you have given me a devil of a
chase!” responded the boy; “to say nothing of that shot, which
has spoiled my very best coat!”
And, with a gay laugh, the speaker showed me the collar of
his uniform coat, which was pierced by a bullet.
“Good God!—this miserable war!” I could not forbear from
exclaiming. “Brother taking the life of brother!”
“Not at all! I never felt better in my life; and my horse,
too, is unhurt. I could easily have gotten off; but I recognized
your voice, and stopped, to hear the news from home,
brother.”
These words were an inexpressible relief to me. Then Will
was not my prisoner—he had voluntarily stopped, and I was not
bound, in honor, to regard him as a captured officer.
In a moment we had dismounted, thrown ourselves upon the
grass by the road-side, in the light of the rising moon, and I was
answering the boy's ardent questions. They were all about
home.
“And so the dear old gentleman is well. And how is Annie—
my little pet?”
“Perfectly well.”
“And old Carlo! Does he hunt now? How are the ducks
on the river? And what's become of Jenny Clayton—at the
North still? Pshaw! why ain't she at home? Brother, there's
no place in the world like Old Virginia—it's the best of lands,
and Eagle's-Nest is the best place in it!”
I could make no reply. There was something inexpressibly
sad to me in these questions, from an officer of the U. S. Army.
“I see what you are thinking of,” said the boy, with a cloud
upon his brow. “I am an enemy—fighting against you. Well,
so I am—but I can't help it, brother! I thought Virginia would
not secede, and held on to my commission until the fighting
commenced—and then I thought it my duty to stay in the army.
The devil of it is,” he added, with a quick sigh, “that I can't
help wishing the South would whip! But I'm going on `fighting
for the old flag'—that's a glorious sentiment—eh?”
He remained for a moment silent and gloomy.
“And to-night,” he said, in a low tone, “suppose you had
killed me? I wouldn't have cared, but you know it would have
broken your heart.”
“Indeed it would, Will.”
“I say, brother,” he said, resuming his good spirits, “don't
let us shoot at each other hereafter! War is my trade, but I
am not bound to kill you; and as to your shooting me, that
would be remarkably inconvenient just at this time.”
I could not help catching the contagion of the boy's light-heartedness,
and gliding to more pleasant themes.
“The fact is, brother,” he said, “I'm dead in love with a little
girl not a hundred miles from this place, and being killed would
seriously interfere with my arrangements.”
“You mean Henrietta Fitzhugh?”
“How in the world did you know it?”
I told him the history of his letter, and he said:
“So poor Tom Govran is wounded or killed. Sorry for him!
And you've got my letter?”
“In my valise.”
“And know all about my `flame,' as the poets say! But
brother, she's a regular tartar, and will searcely speak to me.
I had just `dropped' in when I heard your horse neigh, and
thought you were a whole squadron, or I wouldn't have run so.
But here I am running on about trifles. Tell me all about dear
old Eagle's-Nest, and your own adventures? Did you get over
your wound soon? Is the old place changed? What does our
old mammy say about the war? Does Annie `love me as
before?' ”
And the boy ran on in a perfect torrent of questions—all now
about `the old folks at home.' I replied to all—and so we
conversed for more than an hour. Under the great oak beneath
which we had thrown ourselves, two brothers were talking of
home; the gray and blue coats made no difference—the hearts
which they covered beat close together. On the heaving arena
of war they had found this little spot of firm soil to stand
upon and greet each other as they were borne along.
We were talking still when shots were heard upon the right,
at the distance of about half a mile; and Will rose to his feet.
There were tears in his eyes, as he said:
“My company is yonder! I must go there.”
“Good-by, Will.”
“Good-by, brother!”
A close pressure of the hand—and in a moment he had
disappeared.
