University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

A traveller upon the river-road from Surrey Court-House
to Smithfield, towards the last five or six miles
of his journey, will skirt the beautiful expanse of Burwell's
Bay at two or three hundred yards from the water's
edge. From all points of this stretch the water
is visible, but the view changes frequently, according to
the width and direction of the vistas through the trees
fringing the bold bluff that overhangs the beach.
About midway of this part of his journey he will
meet a road crossing his own at right angles, running
directly to the edge of the bluff. If he canters along
it a few hundred yards he finds it descending the steep
bank, quartering, so as to make the slope gentler. It is
nevertheless steep, and the horse will instinctively turn
back, not believing that his rider is going that way.
Tempted however by the smooth, white shell-beach,
which his eye follows for mile after mile, curving in
and out the green bluff, and whose hard surface is a
delightful contrast to the deep sand through which he
has been plodding; tempted by the cool breeze that
blows in his face (for this is a May-day), of which the

trees on the main road deprive him; invited down there
by the freshness of the white foam from a tiny surf that
escalops the beach like a lace edging, changing every
moment its dainty pattern; — he urges his horse to the
descent. With much dubious shaking of his long head,
with a dogged I-told-you-so-if-you-get-your-neck-broken
expression, with much careful and deliberate reaching
out and planting down of the forefoot, the horse will
start, and will arrive upon the beach at the bottom,
with a deprecatory motion of his under lip which
says plainly enough, You need n't say a word about it,
sir, it was my prudence in the forefoot business that
got you down safe; mingled with which comes a sidelong
turn of the large eyes in sheepish acknowledgment
that the thing was n't so very steep after all!

The breeze invigorates horse and rider, the green
waves break and glossy curves glide smoothly up as if
on glass, the traveller bursts into a song and straightens
up in his saddle, the horse feels the reins tighten and
canters off with a swing and a bound, the bluff face
shows a million green mosses and trickling springs,
great oaks hold out their arms from the top in a perpetual
attitude of blessing, the eye ranges freely down
Burwell's Bay, across Hampton Roads, to the Chesapeake,
out between the capes, on, to the broad waters,
— it is charming for a mile or two.

It is the first day of May, 1864, and this hypothetical
course which has just been marked out is being actually
pursued by an ordinary looking traveller upon an
ordinary looking horse. Suddenly he becomes aware
that his horse is sinking over fetlocks in soft sand.
He looks around; the bluff has receded inland, a long

marsh is between him and it, full of marsh grass, of
mourning cypresses, of black water and black mud, and,
at the further end of it, the bluff is crowned with
scraggy and desolate pines. The beach is now, for a
few yards, only a narrow strip of sand between the near
end of the marsh and the bay. The horse snorts, his
feet sink deeper; as he draws them up the holes fill
with water and crumble in. But it is no use to turn;
fortunately the tide is out, the quicksand is somewhat
dry; the horse plunges forward, and arrives, covered
with perspiration, and trembling in every nerve, on hard
beach again. The broken line of the bluff now recommences,
with its fringe of oaks. In the face of the
cliff appears an opening filled with undergrowth. A
blind road turns off from the beach into it. The traveller
wishes now to leave the treacherous beach and
regain his main road. He turns into the grassy path,
round an angle of the bluff, and instantly is in a Garden
of Eden.

He finds himself in a small dell which is round as a
basin, two hundred yards in diameter, shut in on all
sides. Beeches, oaks, lithe hickories, straight pines,
roof over this dell with a magnificent boscage. In
the centre of it bubbles a limpid spring. Shy companies
of flowers stand between the long grasses; some
of them show wide startled eyes, many of them have
hidden away in cunning nooks. Over them, regarding
them in silent and passionate tenderness, lean the
ebony-fibred ferns; and the busy mosses do their very
best to hide all rudeness and all decay behind a green
velvet arras. The light does not dare shine very
brightly here; it is soft and sacred, tempered with

green leaves, with silence, with odors, with beauties.
Wandering perfumes, restless with happiness, float
about aimlessly; they are the only inhabitants here.

Our traveller has not seen a sign of human life.

Suddenly he stops, recoils, and turns pale with the
surprise of it.

He has seen a sign of human death. A corpse, in
blue uniform, saturated with water, lies before him in
the path. It has evidently been just dragged from the
waves. A line of moisture extends to the water's edge
through the opening in the bluff; it is where the stream
dripped through the wet clothes.

Our traveller gazed around him, he could not see a
man or a trace of one. Good God! Can the spirit
of death inhabit the balm of this May-air in this little
Heaven? Does the Devil dwell also in this rosebud
of little glens? Grave-openers get sometimes, one may
imagine, a mixed odor composed of the death-smell
from inside the grave, mixed with the perfumes of roses
growing on it. Our traveller seemed to inhale this odor.
The air grew thicker, the silence seemed full of noises
as of ghosts flitting about, the horse started at a falling
leaf, our traveller spurred him and cantered off. He
emerged from the dell, followed a path through an old
field, opened a gate, and found himself once more in the
road which he had quitted to ride on the beach.

From the time that this traveller descended to the
beach, until he entered the dell, that is, for a distance
of two miles, an eye was watching him closely and
noting every movement.

Upon the edge of the bluff, a few feet above and beyond
the point where the blind road enters the dell, is

a sort of niche or shelf made by the uprooting of a
tree from the face of the cliff. It is thickly covered
with bushes and grasses and trailing vines. In this
niche lies a statue, which has seemingly fallen upon its
face. In front of its eye is a long field telescope, resting
upon two forked twigs driven in the ground. If
we watch this statue, it comes to life. Two hands appear
from beneath it: they lift the glass from its rests,
and place it upon two others, driven so as to point it in
a different direction.

This far-reaching eye was not the only one which had
been watching our traveller. He had only passed the
corpse a few minutes, when a tall form rose from behind
a thick vine near the path. Another clump yielded
another form, and so on until four men had emerged.
They assembled around the corpse.

“Poor Fed,” said Philip Sterling, who, notwithstanding
three years full of battles, could never keep from
being solemn over dead men. “The old remorseless
waves must have been taken with a spasmodic fit of
repentance. It is not usual that the sea is so just.
She renders this time to Cæsar the things that are Cæ
sar's. She floats to the shore its own dust. Let 's
bury him, boys.”

“Wait a while, Phil,” said Rübetsahl, in a sterner
tone. “Let 's see if there are any letters or papers in
the pockets. This is the very officer who commanded
the party that attacked us last night, on the other side.
Do you see that long nail on the little finger of his
right hand? Here 's a sign-manual he made with it on
my neck. I knocked his pistol out of his hand while
we were fighting there in the water; he then gripped

my throat, and that nail there kept digging in till I
thought it would cut the artery.”

While he was speaking, Rübetsahl had turned the
pockets inside out. A leathern pocket-book, the inevitable
photograph of wife or sweetheart, and a penknife,
were brought to light.

Rübetsahl opened the pocket-book. It contained a
few dollars in greenbacks, an official order from “H 'd
Q'rs., Newports News,” and a letter, apparently crumpled
and thrust in hastily.

“I 'm wondering,” said Rübetsahl, “how those fellows
got wind of our expedition last night. I 'm going
to read this man's letter, to find out, maybe. I beg
his pardon, and if I don't see any thing to the point in
the first two lines I won't go further.”

Rübetsahl carefully spread out the damp folds. The
letter inclosed a note which ran thus: —

Rübetsahl raised his brows, and proceeded to read
the letter. It had evidently cost the writer some pains.

“Where 's Cain, this morning,” asked Rübetsahl
when he had finished the letter.

“Gone to the Point, to look after the horses,” replied
Philip.

“Glad he was n't here to hear that letter.”

“He 's got a big heart, and this exposure of his brother's
treachery would break it,” said Aubrey. “But you
boys have n't told me a word about the fight you had on
the other side last night. You all slept so hard this
morning when I came in from picket that I would n't
wake you, until Flem saw this dead man floating out
there in the water and called to me to get you up and
bury it.”

At this moment Flemington came down from his
niche in the bluff, to inspect the dead body.

“Flem, the boys had a little brush last night. Sit
down and let 's hear about it. Phil, you go watch the
glass, as you were there and don't want to hear it told,”
continued Aubrey. “Go on, Briggs.”

“Oh, there is n't much to tell. You know we left you
and Flem on guard about ten o'clock. We had a fine
run across, but just as we got to the other shore, the
wind hauled clear round and blew right out of the
mouth of the creek. We lowered the sail and had just
got out the oars, when a large skiff came dashing out of
the shadow of the trees and bore down on us, aiming
to run us right under. I sounded with my oar, found
the water was n't more than knee-deep, and jumped out
of the boat. The rest followed, and as the skiff came by
somebody knocked over her helmsman with his gun.”

“Modest John!” interposed Rübetsahl. “He did it,
himself, boys, and it was a neat trick too!”

— “Knocked over the helmsman of the skiff. Of
course she came to instantly. Her crew jumped out
and fired a volley at us. We had held our fire, till
then, for fear of alarming the pickets on the shore; but

it was n't any use now, so we blazed away and closed
with 'em. Well, we made a very lively little splash in
the water. After a while I looked around and did n't
see anybody but Rübetsahl, Cain, and Phil. I heard
two or three of the enemy, though, come out of the
water and run along the shore. We did n't lose much
time in getting in the boat, I assure you. Wind was
fair for this shore, we put up the sail and came home in
a hurry. Dead and wounded none; missing none; total
none. Enemy routed. Flem, read this document,”
Briggs concluded, all in a blush at talking so long.

“Boys, Cain must n't know this,” said Flemington
when he had hastily glanced over the letter. “It 'll
break his heart!”

“Exactly what I said,” exclaimed Aubrey. “But
how can we manage it? We must certainly capture
this fellow Gorm. It won't do to let him get off, now;
and he can find plenty of boats that he can steal and
go across in, any time.”

“What harm can he do, if he does get across?” said
Briggs. “The enemy already knows that we visit the
shore there, at night. Gorm Smallin can't tell them
any more. He don't know our camp.”

“He suspects it, tho',” said Phil Sterling from the
niche. “You saw the horseman who came by just now,
when we all dodged? That was Gorm Smallin, and he
was taking that ride for no other purpose than to discover
our camp. If I had known as much as I do now,
I would have arrested him: but perhaps it is well
enough we did n't betray our hiding-place.”

At this moment a man who had been crouching beneath
a clump of vines a few yards from the group

around the body, stealthily crept to the top of the hill
and walked rapidly away.

“Ye have betrayed yer hidin'-place tho,' and Gorm
Smallin's too smart for any of ye, any day!” said he,
as he moved off.

Gorm Smallin had executed a flank movement upon
the scouts of the Lower James.