Mohun; Or, the Last Days of Lee and His Paladins Part 21

BOOK II.

THE FLOWER OF CAVALIERS.

I.

UNDER "STUART'S OAK."

Crossing to the south bank of the Potomac, Stuart established his headquarters at "The Bower," an old mansion on the Opequon.

The family at the ancient hall were Stuart's cherished friends, and our appearance now, with the red flag floating and the bugle sounding a gay salute as we ascended the hill, was hailed with enthusiasm and rejoicing.

All at the "Bower," loved Stuart; they love him to-day; and will love him always.

His tents were pitched on a gra.s.sy knoll in the extensive grounds, beneath some ancient oaks resembling those seen in English parks. It was a charming spot. Through the openings in the summer foliage you saw the old walls of the hall. At the foot of the hill, the Opequon stole away, around the base of a fir-clad precipice, its right bank lined with immense white-armed sycamores. Beyond, extended a range of hills: and in the far west, the North Mountain mingled its azure billows with the blue of the summer sky.

Such was the beautiful landscape which greeted our eyes: such the spot to which the winds of war had wafted us. Good old "Bower," and good days there! How well I remember you! After the long, hard march, and the incessant fighting, it was charming to settle down for a brief s.p.a.ce in this paradise--to listen idly to the murmur of the Opequon, or the voice of the summer winds amid the foliage of the century oaks!

The great tree on the gra.s.sy knoll, under which Stuart erected his own tent, is called "Stuart's Oak" to this day. No axe will ever harm it, I hope; gold could not purchase it; for tender hearts cherish the gnarled trunk and huge boughs, as a souvenir of the great soldier whom it sheltered in that summer of 1863.

So we were anch.o.r.ed for a little s.p.a.ce, and enjoyed keenly the repose of this summer nook on the Opequon. Soon the bugle would sound again, and new storms would buffet us; meanwhile, we laughed and sang, s.n.a.t.c.hing the bloom of the peaceful hours, inhaling the odors, listening to the birds, and idly dreaming.

For myself, I had more dreams than the rest of the gray people there!

The Bower was not a strange place to me. My brethren of the staff used to laugh, and say that, wherever we went, in Virginia, I found kins-people. I found near and dear ones at the old house on the Opequon; and a hundred spots which recalled my lost youth. Every object carried me back to the days that are dead. The blue hills, the stream, the great oaks, and the hall smiled on me. How familiar the portraits, and wide fireplaces, and deers' antlers. The pictures of hawking scenes, with ladies and gentlemen in the queerest costumes; the engravings of famous race-horses, hanging between guns, bird-bags and fis.h.i.+ng-rods in the wide hall--these were not mere dead objects, but old and long-loved acquaintances. I had known them in my childhood; looked with delight upon them in my boyhood; now they seemed to salute me, murmuring--"Welcome! you remember us!"

Thus the hall, the grounds, the pictures, the most trifling object brought back to me, in that summer of 1863, a hundred memories of the years that had flown. Years of childhood and youth, of mirth and joy, such as we felt before war had come to hara.s.s us; when I swam in the Opequon, or roamed the hills, looking into bright eyes, where life was so fresh and so young. The "dew was on the blossom" then, the flower in the bud. Now the bloom had pa.s.sed away, and the dew dried up in the hot war-atmosphere. It was a worn and weary soldier who came back to the scenes of his youth.

Suddenly, as I mused thus, dreaming idly under the great oak which sheltered me, I heard a voice from Stuart's tent, sending its sonorous music on the air. It was the great cavalier singing l.u.s.tily--

"The dew is on the blossom!"

At all hours of the day you could hear that gay voice. Stuart's headquarters were full of the most mirthful sounds and sights. The knoll was alive with picturesque forms. The horses, tethered to the boughs, champed their bits and pawed impatiently. The bright saddle-blankets shone under the saddles covered with gay decorations.

Young officers with clanking sabres and rattling spurs moved to and fro. In front of the head-quarters tent the red battle-flag caught the suns.h.i.+ne in its dazzling folds.

Suddenly, a new charm is added to the picturesque scene. Maiden figures advance over the gra.s.sy lawn; bright eyes glimmer; glossy ringlets are lifted by the fingers of the wind; tinkling laughter is heard;--and over all rings the wild sonorous music of the bugle!

The days pa.s.s rapidly thus. The nights bring merriment, not sleep. The general goes with his staff to the hospitable mansion, and soon the great drawing-room is full of music and laughter. The song, the dance, the rattling banjo follow. The long hours flit by like a flock of summer birds, and Sweeney, our old friend Sweeney, is the king of the revel.

For Sweeney rattles as before on his banjo; and the "Old Gray Horse"

flourishes still in imperishable youth! It is the same old Sweeney, with his mild and deferential courtesy, his obliging smile, his unapproachable skill in "picking on the string." Listen! his voice rings again as in the days of '61 and '62. He is singing still "Oh Johnny Booker, help this n.i.g.g.e.r!" "Stephen, come back, come back, Stephen!" "Out of the window I did sail!" "Sweet Evelina," and the grand, magnificent epic which advises you to "Jine the Cavalry!"

Hagan listens to him yonder with a twinkle of the eye--Hagan the black-bearded giant, the brave whose voice resembles thunder, the devotee and factotum of Stuart, whom he loves. And Sweeney rattles on.

You laugh loud as you listen. The banjo laughs louder than all, and the great apartment is full of uproar, and mirth, and dance.

Then the couples sink back exhausted; a deep silence follows; Sweeney has made you laugh, and is now going to make you sigh. Listen! You can scarcely believe that the singer is the same person who has just been rattling through the "Old Gray Horse." Sweeney is no longer mirthful; his voice sighs instead of laughing. He is singing his tender and exquisite "Faded Flowers." He is telling you in tones as soft as the sigh of the wind in the great oaks, how

"The cold, chilly winds of December, Stole my flowers, my companions from me!"

Alas! the cold, chilly winds of the coming winter will blow over the grave of the prince of musicians! Sweeney, the pride and charm of the cavalry head-quarters, is going to pa.s.s away, and leave his comrades and his banjo forever!

You would say that the future throws its shadow on the present.

Sweeney's tones are so sweet and sorrowful, that many eyes grow moist--like Rubini, he "has tears in his voice." The melting strains ascend and sigh through the old hall. When they die away like a wind in the distance, the company remain silent, plunged in sad and dreamy revery.

Suddenly Stuart starts up and exclaims:--

"Stop that, Sweeney! you will make everybody die of the blues. Sing the 'Old Gray Horse' again, or 'Jine the Cavalry!'"

Sweeney smiles and obeys. Then, the gay song ended, he commences a reel. The banjo laughs; his flying fingers race over the strings; youths and maidens whirl from end to end of the great room--on the walls the "old people" in ruffles and short-waisted dresses, look down smiling on their little descendants!

O gay summer nights on the banks of the Opequon! you have flown, but linger still in memory!

In the autumn of 1867, I revisited the old hall where those summer days of 1863 had pa.s.sed in mirth and enjoyment; and then I wandered away to the gra.s.sy knoll where "Stuart's oak" still stands. The sight of the great tree brought back a whole world of memories. Seated on one of its huge roots, beneath the dome of foliage just touched by the finger of autumn, I seemed to see all the past rise up again and move before me, with its gallant figures, its bright scenes, and brighter eyes. Alas!

those days were dust, and Stuart sang and laughed no more. The gra.s.s was green again, and the birds were singing; but no martial forms moved there, no battle-flag rippled, no voice was heard. Stuart was dead;--his sword rusting under the dry leaves of Hollywood, and his battle-flag was furled forever.

That hour under the old oak, in the autumn of 1867, was one of the saddest that I have ever spent.

The hall was there as before; the clouds floated, the stream murmured, the wind sighed in the great tree, as when Stuart's tent shone under it. But the splendor had vanished, the laughter was hushed--it was a company of ghosts that gathered around me, and their faint voices sounded from another world!

II.

BACK TO THE RAPIDAN.

But this is a book of incident, worthy reader. We have little time for musing recollections. The halts are brief; the bugle is sounding to horse; events drag us, and we are again in the saddle.

Those gay hours on the Opequon were too agreeable to last. The old hall was a sort of oasis in the desert of war only. We paused for an instant; rested under the green trees; heard the murmur of the waters--then the caravan moved, breasting the arid wastes once more, and the coming simoom.

Stuart's head-quarters disappeared--we bade our kind friends good-bye--and, mounting, set out for the Lowland, whither Lee's column was then marching.

The short lull had been succeeded by new activity. Meade was advancing along the east slope of the Blue Ridge to cut Lee off from Richmond.

But the adventure succeeded no better now than in 1862. Meade failed, as McClellan had failed before him.

The army pa.s.sed the Blue Ridge; drove back the force sent to a.s.sail them in flank as they moved; and descended to Culpeper, from which they withdrew behind the Rapidan. Here Lee took up his position, crowned the south bank with his artillery, and, facing General Meade, occupying the north bank, rested.