VI. — STUART’S INSTINCT.
The festivities were kept up until nearly midnight.
Then Stuart yawned; said with a laugh, “Good morning, gentle-men” as was his habit when he wished to work; and the tent was soon deserted.
I retired to rest, but at three in the morning felt a hand upon my shoulder.
“The general is going to move, colonel, and wishes to see you,” said the orderly.
I rose, made my brief toilet, and went toward Stuart’s tent where a light was shining. He was writing busily at his desk, as fresh and gay as on the preceding evening. His enormous constitution defied fatigue.
All at once I saw that there was another personage in the tent. He was a young man of about twenty, of slight figure, beardless face, and an expression so shy and retiring that he seemed ready to blush if you spoke to him. He wore, nevertheless, the uniform of a captain of artillery; and I remember wondering how this girlish and shrinking personage, with the large, sad eyes, had come to hold a commission.
“Captain Davenant, of my horse artillery, Colonel Surry,” said Stuart.
The youth colored, and then with an air of painful embarrassment took a step forward and pressed my hand. The grasp of the slender fingers was like the grip of a steel vice.
“Davenant has been on a scout across the Rappahannock, to keep his hand in,” said Stuart, busily writing. “My horse artillery boys do a little of every thing—and Davenant is a wild-cat, Surry, with a touch of the bull dog, in spite of his looks!”
The young officer drew back blushing more than ever at these words. His confusion seemed to deprive him of the power of utterance.
“I’ll bet he’s blushing now!” said Stuart, laughing and continuing to write with his back turned, as he spoke. “He is blushing or sighing—for the poor Yankees he has killed, doubtless!”
“You are laughing at me, general,” said the young man timidly. “Well, my laughter won’t hurt you, Davenant. I never joke with people I don’t like. But to business. The enemy are going to attack me, Surry. Get ready, I am going to move.”
“Ready, general.”
“All right!—Hagan!”
“General!”
The voice came like an echo. Then at the door appeared the gigantic, black-bearded Lieutenant Hagan, chief of the general’s escort. Have you forgotten him, my dear reader?—his huge figure, his mighty beard, the deep thunder of his tones? I showed you the brave soldier in 1861 and ‘62. In 1863 his beard was heavier, his voice more like thunder—when the giant walked along he seemed to shake the ground.
“I am going to move in half an hour, Hagan,” said Stuart, still writing busily. “Head-quarters will be established on Fleetwood Hill, beyond Brandy; my horse!”
Hagan saluted and vanished without uttering a word. In five minutes the camp was buzzing, and “Lady Margaret” was led up.
“Come on, Surry! Come on, Davenant! I will beat you to the Court-House!”
And Stuart buckled on his sword, drew on his gauntlets, and mounted his horse. I was beside him. Not to be ready when Stuart was—was to be left behind. He waited for nobody. His staff soon learned that.
As Davenant’s horse was awaiting him, he was as prompt as Stuart desired. In a minute we were all three riding at full speed toward the village. Stuart was playing with his glove, which he had taken off and dangled to and fro. His brows were knit, and he was reflecting. We did not interrupt him, and in ten minutes we were all clattering over the main street of the hamlet.
Stuart pushed on by the tavern, without pausing, in the direction of Fleetwood, when just as he reached the eastern suburbs of the town a small one-horse wagon, leaving the place, attracted his attention. There was just sufficient light to make out the figures in the wagon. There were two. One was a portly and plainly clad old countryman, with a prominent nose, a double chin, and fat hands decorated with pinchbeck rings. Beside him sat an old woman, as fat as himself, wearing a faded calico gown, a “coal-scuttle” bonnet, and a huge ruffled cap beneath.
Stuart looked keenly at the wagon, called to the driver to halt, and demanded whither he was going, and on what business. The old countryman smiled. The question seemed to strike him as absurd, and his explanation was simple and calculated to remove all suspicion. He stated that his name was Brown—that he lived near the village; had brought in a load of vegetables to sell, on the preceding evening—some friends had persuaded him and “his old woman” to spend the night, and they were now going home.
Stuart peered under the coal-scuttle bonnet.
“And this is your ‘old woman’ my friend,” he said with a laugh.
“Jest so, sir,” was the wheezy reply of the fat old countryman, smiling sweetly. “You see she would come along, sir. Womankind is mighty contrary!”
“A profound sentiment!” laughed Stuart, and riding on without further words, he left the countryman free to proceed on his way.
We crossed a little stream, rode on toward Fleetwood, and had nearly reached Brandy when Stuart suddenly reined in his horse.
“Do you know what I think,” he said, “that I have done a foolish thing?”
“What, general?”
“To let that old fellow go on. I don’t like his looks.”
“The old countryman?”
“Yes; I wish I had arrested him—him and his wife.”
“Arrested them?”
Stuart nodded.
“I have an instinct about rascals, Surry; and something tells me that I have been guilty of an imprudence.”
“Was not his explanation satisfactory?”
“No.”
“What could be wrong?”
“Everything.”
“And his ‘old woman,’” I said, laughing; “think of that highly respectable dame.”
“I like her least of all!”
“From instinct?”
“If you choose.”
“I think your instinct misleads you this time, general.”
“I think not.”
“Well, we will see.”
And we did see.
In two hours the head-quarters tents were pitched upon Fleetwood Hill beyond Brandy, and Stuart sent his provost marshal to Culpeper Court-House, with orders to conduct the prisoner taken by Mohun on the preceding night, to General Lee, for examination.
An hour afterward the worthy provost returned in hot haste with the astounding information that the fair lady was nowhere to be found. She had disappeared from her chamber, none knew how, before daylight, and as a notoriously suspected individual who had lately been hanging round the tavern had disappeared too, it was probable that they had gone off together. Upon this point, a note left by the lady directed to “General Stuart” would probably give information. This had been found upon her table. And the provost wound up by handing the note to Stuart.
He read it with an air of decided ill-humor. Then throwing it upon his desk, burst into a laugh.
“Well, Surry,” he said, “who is right and who is wrong, now? Read that!”
And he pointed to the note, which I opened and read. It was in a delicate female hand, and ran as follows:—
“General Stuart will pardon the attempt his captive is about to make, to effect her escape. He made himself quite charming in their brief interview, but liberty is sweet. Finding a friend unexpectedly in this quarter of the world, I have made every arrangement with him; he is a great master of disguises, and, though the travelling costume which I shall adopt will make me look hideous, I hope it will enable me, before sunrise, to pass a private ford, known to my friend alone, and reach the opposite bank of the Rappahannock.
“Farewell, my dear general. If all the rebels were like yourself, I might change my politics. I have but one other friend in your army—Colonel Mohun, of the cavalry. Present my regards to him, and say that we will meet again.”
That was all. I raised my eyes from the paper, and looked at the general with stupefaction.
“Then that ‘old woman’ was the lady?”
“Precisely.”
“And we are fooled?”
“Completely. They are by this time on the other side of the Rappahannock.”
With these words, Stuart dismissed the whole subject, turned to his desk, and in a moment was busy at his official writing.