87. LXXXVII.
THE YOUNG SIGNAL-OFFICER.
On the day succeeding this desperate conflict, Jackson, whose
column was pressing toward Centreville, directed me to find
Stuart, and accompany him in a movement which he was making
to the rear of the enemy. I was to ascertain the state of things
in that direction, and return as soon as possible with confidential
intelligence from Stuart.
My route led me by the Stone House, which my readers cannot
have forgotten; and I soon came in sight of it. The place was
a mass of ruins. The walls had been shattered and overthrown
by cannon-balls, the garden torn to pieces in the hot struggle;
and, reining in my horse, I could scarcely make out the stunted
tree under which the unfortunate lady in white had been buried.
The mansion was a melancholy ruin, charred and blackened—
It seemed to typify the life of the woman who had returned to
this place, the scene of her former happiness, to sleep the sleep
of death.
Had Mordaunt passed near that spot? I asked myself as I
rode on; and then a thousand thoughts chased each other through
my mind. How singular were the circumstances which had put
me in possession of this strange man's history! How sad that
record! How surprising had been the combination of events
which threw him face to face, on that gloomy night, in this
weird spot, with the living image of the woman whom he had
loved! I could understand the profound emotion which had
mastered the strong man, at seeing thus, as it were, the very
face and eyes and hair of Frances Carleton once more there before
him, where she had smiled long years before—and understand
too the poignant anguish which wrung his heart, when all
his fancied wrongs and shame were thus brought back to mind,
and traced, as it were, with a pen of flame upon his heart. And
then a deeper admiration than before for this proud spirit inspired
me—for this man who, burying his grief and distress and bitter
anguish, had borne up so bravely, and served his country with a
courage and devotion so conspicuous and splendid.
Stuart had pressed on rapidly, and, before I had joined him, I
heard the thunder of his horse artillery as he attacked the
Federal forces near Fairfax Court-House. Pushing on, I reached
the spot, and found the General superintending the fire of the
guns, which were commanded by young Pelham, now his chief
of artillery.
“All goes well, Surry,” said the General, when I had delivered
my message. “I am crowding 'em with artillery;
[1]
and, if
Stonewall doesn't hurry up, there will be nothing for him to do.”
“He is coming right on, General.”
“And you have pushed on to `jine the cavalry'! Well, we
have had a little affair near Chautilly—captured a whole company
of Yankee cavalry. Look! there is the captain!”
And he pointed to an officer mounted upon a magnificent black
horse, carrying before him on the pommel of his saddle a brilliant
stars-and-stripes flag.[2]
I looked at the officer and thought I recognized him, but
could not remember where I had seen him. A second glance
recalled the time and place. It was the humorous personage
who had captured me near Cross Keys, and sent me to Sir Perey
Wyndham with the laughing order to my guard to kill me if I
attempted to escape.
“We recaptured poor Hardeman Stuart's coat, too,” added the
General, with a sad expression in his bold face. “You remember
him, do you not—my signal-officer?”
“Remember him?” I said; “he is one of the best friends I
have on your staff, General. It is impossible not to love his gay,
frank face, with its blue eyes and chestnut curls. I saw him
just before the battle opened.”
“Ah?” said Stuart, with the same half sigh.
“Yes,” was my reply. “I was riding over to the right, when
a dusty figure, without hat or coat, ran out from a house and
hailed me. I could scarcely recognize Hardeman, who is the
model of elegance, you know, in uniform and appearance. He
called out, `How d'ye, Major!'—shook hands with me—and
then told me, laughing, that he had been attacked on the mountain
yonder, at his signal-station, and had lost his horse and
coat. He said he intended to get another horse and rejoin you.”
“Poor boy!” sighed Stuart; “he could not mount himself, and
he was too brave and devoted to remain idle. He got a musket,
fought with his old company from Mississippi, and was killed.”
I felt deeply shocked at this intelligence. Hardeman Stuart
had been one of my greatest favorites, and I loved him, as everybody
did, for his sweet, frank temper and his gallant spirit.
“Hardeman dead?” I said. “It is not possible, General!”
“It is true, and the singular thing is that we have just recaptured
his new uniform coat.”
“His coat?”
“Yes, it was strapped to his saddle, and captured with his
horse. This Yankee company of cavalry, surprised at Chantilly,
had it.[3]
There it is.”
And he pointed to the coat strapped behind a courier.
“Poor, poor Hardeman! But he was buried?”
“Yes. Major Von Borcke saw his grave. But we are getting
sad. Come, Surry, I am going to withdraw, and, as I expect information
during the night, you had better remain until morning.
Come with me, and I will provide you with lodgings.”
“Willingly.”
And I followed the General, who retired just at nightfall.
