2. II.
Thenceforth, Farley was satisfied. His position was one
which suited his peculiar views and habits admirably. Untrammelled
by special duties—never tied down to the routine of command,
or the commonplace round of camp duty—free as the
wind to go or come whenever and wheresoever he pleased, all
the instincts of his peculiar organization had “ample room and
verge enough” for thier development; and his splendid native
traits had the fullest swing and opportunity of display. It was
in vain that General Stuart, estimating at their full value his
capacity for command, repeatedly offered him position. He did
not want any commission, he said; his place suited him perfectly,
and he believed he could do more service to the cause as scout
and partisan than as a regular line-officer. He had not entered
the army, he often declared to me, for place or position; promotion
was not his object; to do as much injury as possible to the
enemy was his sole, controlling sentiment, and he was satisfied
to be where he was.
His devotion to the cause was indeed profound and almost
passionate. He never rested in his exertions, and seemed to feel
as if the success of the struggle depended entirely on his own
exertions. A friend once said to him: “If, as in ancient Roman
days, an immense gulf should miraculously open, and an oracle
should declare that the hobour and peace of the country could
only be maintained by one of her youths throwing himself into
it, do you believe you could do it?” He looked serious, and
answered earnestly and with emphasis,
“I believe I could.”
Thus permanently attached as volunteer aide to General Stuart,
Farley thereafter took part in all the movements of the cavalry.
He was with them in that hot falling back from Centreville, in
March, 1862; in the combats of the Peninsula, where, at Williamsburg,
he led a regiment of infantry in the assault; in the
battles of Cold Harbour and Malvern Hill, at the second Manassas,
Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, and the scores of minor
engagements which marked almost every day upon the outposts.
He missed the battle of Chancellorsville, greatly to his regret,
having gone home, after an absence of two years, to witness the
bombardment of Charleston and see his family.
It was soon after his return in May that the fatal moment
came which deprived the service of this eminent partisan. At
the desperately contested battle of Fleetwood, in Culpeper county,
on the 9th of June, 1863, he was sent by General Stuart to carry
a message to Colonel Butler, of the 2d South Carolina cavalry.
He had just delivered his message, and was sitting upon his
horse by the Colonel, when a shell, which also wounded Butler,
struck him upon the right knee and tore his leg in two at the
joint. He fell from the saddle and was borne to an ambulance,
where surgical assistance was promptly rendered. His wound
was, however, mortal, and all saw that he was dying.
At his own request the torn and bleeding member, with the
cavalry boot still on, was put in the ambulance, and he was
borne from the field. His strength slowly declined, but his
consciousness remained. Meeting one whom he knew, he called
him by name, and murmured, “I am almost gone.” He lingered
but a few hours, and at twilight of that day the writer of these
lines looked on him in his shroud—the pale, cold features calm
and tranquil in their final sleep.
He was clad in his new uniform coat, and looked every inch
a soldier taking his last rest. He had delivered this coat to a
lady of Culpeper, and said, “If anything befalls me, wrap me in
this and send me to my mother.”
Such was the end of the famous partisan. His death left a
void which it seemed impossible to fill. His extraordinary
career had become fully known, and a writer some months before
his death gave utterance to the sentiment of every one when
he wrote: “The story—the plain, unvarnished story—of his
career since the war began is like a tale of old romance. Such
abnegation of self! Office and money both spurned, because
they seemed to stand in the way of his duty. What thrilling
incidents! What strength and courage! and what wonderful
escapes! No wonder, as he rides by, we so often hear it exclaimed,
`There goes the famous scout, Farley! The army has
no braver man, no purer patriot!”'
We put on record here the following passage from the letter
of a lady in Culpeper to his mother, giving, as it does, an outline
of the man, and bearing testimony in its simple words,
warm from a woman's heart, to the affection which was felt for him:
“My Dear Madam—I want you to know how we in Virginia
admired, appreciated, and loved your son. Had he been her own,
Virginia could not have loved him more; certainly she could
not owe him more—so long and so bravely had he fought upon
her soil. He was particularly well known in this unfortunate
part of the State, which has been, sometimes for months, overrun
by our foes. Many families will miss his coming, so daring was
he, and so much depended on by General Stuart. He scouted a
great deal alone in the enemy's lines, and was often the bearer
of letters and messages from loved oncs long unheard from.
Often, when we have been cut off from all communication from
our own people, he has been the first to come as the enemy were
leaving, often galloping up when they were searcely out of
sight—always inspiring us with fresh hope and courage, his
cheerful presence itself seeming to us a prophecy of good.
“On Tuesday night, just one week before the battle in which
he fell, he came here, about one o'clock at night. We were surprised
and alarmed to see him, as a large party of the enemy
had passed our very doors only a few hours before. When my
aunt opened the door she found him sitting on the steps, his
head resting on his hands, as if tired and sleepy. We asked
him if he did not know the Yankees were near. `Oh, yes,' he
replied; `they have been chasing me, and compelled me to
lengthen my ride considerably.' He came in, but said, `I cannot
rest with you long, as I must be riding all night.” We gave
him some bread, honey and milk, which we knew he loved. He
said he had been fasting since morning. `Ah,' said he, `this is
just what I want.' He buckled on his pistols again before sitting
down, and said laughingly to me, `Lock the doors and listen
well, for I'll never surrender.' We stood in the porch when he
left, and watched him walk off briskly (he had come on foot,
having left his horse in the woods). We hated to see him go
out in the dark and rainy night time; but
he went cheerfully, so
willing was he to encounter danger, to endure hardships, `to
spend and be spent' in his country's service.”
To “spend and be spent” in the cause of the South was truly
this brave spirit's chief delight. These are not idle words, but
the truth, in relation to him. The writer of this page was long
and intimately associated with him; and so far from presenting
an exaggerated picture of him, the incidents and extracts above
given do him only partial justice. I never saw a braver man,
nor one more modest. He had a peculiar refinement of feeling
and bearing which stamped him a gentleman to the utmost fibre
of his being. This delicacy of temperament was most notable;
and it would be difficult to describe the remarkable union of the
most daring courage and the sweetest simplicity of demeanour in
the young partisan. Greater simplicity and modesty were never
seen in human bearing; and so endearing were these traits of
his character, that ladies and children—those infalliable critics—
were uniformly charmed with him. One of the latter wrote:
“His death has been a great sorrow to us. He was with us
frequently the week before the battle, and won our entire hearts
by his many noble qualities, and his superiority to all around
him. He talked much about his family; he loved them with
entire devotion. He read to us some of your poems, and repeated
one of his own. I close my eyes, and memory brings
back to me the thrilling tones of that dear voice, which, though
heard no more on earth, has added to the melody of heaven.”
His manner was the perfection of good-breeding, and you saw
that the famous partisan, whose exploits were the theme of every
tongue, had not been raised, like others of his class, amid rude
associates and scenes, but with gently nurtured women, and surrounded
by the sweet amenities of home. His voice was a
peculiar one—very low and distinct in its tones; and these subdued
inflections often produced upon the listener the impression
that it was a habit acquired in scouting, when to speak above a
murmur is dangerous. The low, clear words were habitually
accompanied by a bright smile, and the young man was a favourite
with all—so cordial was his bearing, so unassuming his whole
demeanour. His personal appearance has already been described,
but it may interest some of his friends in the far South to know
how he appeared when “at work.” He dressed uniformly in a
plain suit of gray, wearing a jacket, and over this a dark blue
overcoat, with a belt, holding his pistol, tightly drawn around
his waist. In his hat he wore the black cavalry feather; and his
boots were of that handsome pattern which is worn by Federal
officers, with patent-leather tops and ornamental thread-work.
None of his equipments cost him or the Confederate States a
single dollar. They were all captured—either from sutlers'
wagons or the enemies he had slain with his own hand. I never
knew him to purchase any portion of his own or his horse's
accoutrements—saddle, bridle, halter, sabre, pistols, belt, carbine,
spurs, were all captured from the enemy. His horses were in
the same category, and he rarely kept the same riding-horse
long. They were with great regularity shot under him; and he
mounted the first he found running riderless, or from which his
pistol hurled one of the enemy.
