VII. — THE BALL BEFORE THE BATTLE.
On the same evening I was riding with Stuart toward Culpeper Court-House.
“Do you know where we are going, Surry?” he said, with a laugh.
“I can guess, I think.”
“Try.”
“To the ball given by the young officers to the Charlottesville belles tonight.”
“You are wrong, old fellow. I don’t dare to go there.”
“Don’t dare?”
“Well, that is the word,” he replied; “I am not afraid of the Yankees, but I am of gossips—above all, of the valorous correspondents of the newspapers.”
“I begin to understand now.”
“They are dangerous.”
“Yes.”
Stuart cantered on, playing with his glove as usual. “Think of Messieurs the bomb-proof critics!” he laughed. “They already say I reviewed the cavalry with a wreath of flowers around my horse’s neck.”
“Is it possible?”
“They say so everywhere; and I will tell you the foundation for the charge. In passing through the Court-House on the morning of the review, a young lady friend of mine ran out from her house and threw a wreath over the neck of my horse. Well, I think it is something to be courteous in this world. I did not throw it off. I thanked her, rode on, and only removed it when I got out of sight. Meeting General Lee, I told him of it, laughing, and he said, with a smile: ‘Why did you not wear it?’ {1} I might as well have done so, Surry, for you see I have the credit of it. Why try to be temperate, and pure, and soldierly? I am a drunkard, a libertine, and a popinjay! But I care nothing. I intend to do my duty, old fellow, and the next few days will probably show if I can fight.”
{Footnote 1: Fact.}
With which words Stuart broke into a song, cantered on more rapidly, and passing without drawing rein through the Court-House, soon reached General Lee’s head-quarters on an eminence beyond.
Here he remained for an hour, in private interview with the commander-in-chief. Finally, they came out together. General Lee in his plain uniform, with that sedate dignity of bearing which made the gray old cavalier so superb. I had the honor to receive his salute, and to press his hand, and then I set out with General Stuart for Fleetwood.
In passing through the Court-House we observed the windows of a large building all ablaze with lights, and heard the merry notes of music. Stuart drew rein.
“I think I will drop in for a few minutes, in spite of every thing!” he said. “See the end of all my excellent resolutions, Surry!”
And rapidly dismounting, Stuart entered the ball-room. I followed.
If the review was imposing, the ball was charming. Youths and maidens had assembled promptly at the sound of music, and, if I were a poet or a penny-a-liner, my dear reader, I would compose a fine description of the merry spectacle. But alas! I am neither; and feel unequal to the “ornate” style of writing. I am only a battered old militaire, with a number of great events to speak of. Look in the newspapers of that period for an account of the assembly.
Let me say, however, in passing, that there was something sad as well as joyful, gloomy as well as brilliant, in all that echoing laughter, and the movements of these gay figures, on the eve of the bloody battle of Fleetwood. Girls were smiling upon youths who in twelve hours would be dead. Lips were shaping gallant compliments—soon they were going to utter the death-groan. All went merry as a marriage-bell, and they danced to the joyous music. Soon the cannon would begin to roll, and the youths would charge to that stormy music as they danced to this.
I was gazing at the lively assemblage—at the undulating forms moving to and fro, the gay uniforms, the fluttering scarfs, the snowy arms, the rosy cheeks, when my attention was attracted by a figure which made me lose sight of all else.
It was that of a young girl about twenty, tall, stately, and beautiful. Her dark hair was carried back in glossy waves, and ended in profuse curls. Her cheeks resembled blush roses; the eyes were large, brilliant, and full of laughing hauteur; the lips red, and wreathed into a dazzling smile, which was the perfection of satirical mirth.
I grow extravagant; but this young girl was superb. There was something queen like and imposing in her movements and whole appearance. She seemed to look down on the crowd with satirical disdain, and the gay youths who surrounded her were every instant struck by the bright shafts of a wit which spared nothing.
Who was this dangerous beauty, who received the attentions of the young officers with so much careless disdain? I asked that question of a friend and he replied:
“Miss Georgia Conway, a daughter of Judge William Conway.”
“Ah,” I said, “the statesman?—the successor of Randolph in bitter oratory?”
“Yes, and yonder he is.”
I looked in the direction indicated, and saw an elderly gentleman of small stature, with long gray hair, and lips full of benignant smiles. He wore a suit of black, and there was something courtly and attractive in every movement of the slender figure. His low bow and sweet smile were the perfection of old-time courtesy.
I was still looking at this gentleman, whose fame had extended throughout Virginia and the whole South, when a familiar voice near me, attracted my attention. It was that of Captain Davenant, the young officer of the horse artillery, and glancing in the direction of the voice I saw him bending over a young lady who was seated and conversing with him. She was a girl of seventeen, with blue eyes, auburn hair, and a complexion as fair as a lily. As Davenant addressed her in low tones, she gazed up into his face with an expression of confiding affection. In the eyes of the young officer I could read a profound and ardent love.
Turning to my friend I inquired the name of the young lady, in turn.
“Miss Virginia Conway,” he replied, “the only sister of Miss Georgia.”
He had scarcely uttered the words, when Davenant’s interview with the young lady terminated in a very singular manner. Suddenly Judge Conway passed through the crowd, reached the spot where the young people were conversing, and darting a glance of positive fury at the youth—a glance which made his eyes resemble coals of fire—offered his arm to his daughter, and abruptly bore her away.
Davenant’s face flushed crimson, and his eyes darted flame. He took a step as though about to follow—but all at once he stopped.
Then from red his face became pale. The old expression of sadness returned to his lips. With head bent down, and a faint color stealing over his cheeks, he went toward the door, and passed though it, and disappeared.
Before I had time to reflect upon this singular incident, I heard the voice of Stuart.
“Come, Surry! to horse! unless you wish to remain!” he said.
“Ready, general!” I replied.
And in five minutes we were galloping toward Fleetwood.
“A gay ball,” said Stuart, as we rode along; “but do you remember my instinct, Surry?”
“Perfectly, general. Has it told you something on the present occasion?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“You have heard of the famous ball at Brussells, broken up by the guns of Waterloo?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, I think that this one will prove similar—that cannon are going to thunder before the music stops.”
Stuart had scarcely spoken when rapid hoof-strokes were heard in front, and a horseman shot by.
“Have you seen General Stuart?” said a voice in the darkness.
“Here I am—what news, Stringfellow?”
The horseman drew rein so suddenly that his horse was thrown upon his haunches. “You will be attacked at daylight, general.”
“Well,—what force?”
“The whole Yankee cavalry, with infantry and artillery supports.”
“All right; ride back with me, and tell me every thing, Stringfellow.”
In half an hour we were at head-quarters. Stuart dismounted and entered his tent.
“You see I was right, Surry,” he said turning toward me, “and there is something in my instinct after all!”