VIII. — MR. X——-.
It was past ten in the evening when I left Judge Conway. But I felt no disposition to retire; and determined to pay a visit to a singular character of my acquaintance.
The name of this gentleman was Mr. X——-.
Looking back now to the days spent in Richmond, in that curious summer of ‘64, I recall, among the representative personages whom I encountered, no individual more remarkable than the Honorable Mr. X——-. You are acquainted with him, my dear reader, either personally or by reputation, for he was a prominent official of the Confederate Government, and, before the war, had been famous in the councils of “the nation.”
He resided at this time in a small house, on a street near the capitol. You gained access to his apartment after night—if you knew the way—by a winding path, through shrubbery, to the back door of the mansion. When you entered, you found yourself in presence of a tall, powerful, gray-haired and very courteous personage, who sat in a huge arm-chair, near a table littered with papers, and smoked, meditatively, a cigar, the flavor of which indicated its excellent quality.
I enjoyed the intimacy of Mr. X——- in spite of the difference of our ages and positions. He had been the friend of my father, and, in my turn, did me the honor to bestow his friendship upon me. On this evening I was seized with the fancy to visit him—and passing through the grounds of the capitol, where the bronze Washington and his great companions looked silently out into the moonlight, reached the small house, followed the path through the shrubbery, and opening the door in the rear, found myself suddenly enveloped in a cloud of cigar smoke, through which loomed the portly figure of Mr. X——-.
He was seated, as usual, in his large arm-chair, by the table, covered with papers; and a small bell near his hand seemed placed there for the convenience of summoning an attendant, without the trouble of rising. Near the bell lay a package of foreign-looking documents. Near the documents lay a pile of telegraphic dispatches. In the appearance and surroundings of this man you read “Power.”
Mr. X——- received me with easy cordiality.
“Glad to see you, my dear colonel,” he said, rising and shaking my hand; then sinking back in his chair, “take a cigar, and tell me the news.” I sat down,—having declined the proffered cigar.
“The news!” I said, laughing; “I ought to ask that of you.”
“Ah! you think I am well-informed?”
I pointed to the dispatches. Mr. X——- shrugged his shoulders.
“Papers from England and France—they are not going to recognize us.
“And those telegrams—nothing. We get little that is worth attention, except a line now and then, signed ‘R.E. Lee.’”
“Well, there is that signature,” I said, pointing to an open paper.
“It is a private letter to me—but do you wish to see a line which I have just received? It is interesting, I assure you.”
And he handed me a paper.
It was a telegram announcing the fall of Atlanta!
“Good heavens!” I said, “is it possible? Then there is nothing to stop Sherman.”
“Nothing whatever,” said Mr. X——-, coolly.
“What will be the consequence?”
“The Confederacy will be cut in two. Sherman will be at Savannah before Grant reaches the Southside road—or as soon, at least.”
“You think Grant will reach that?”
“Yes, by April; and then—you know what!”
“But Lee will protect it.”
Mr. X——- shrugged his shoulders.
“Shall I tell you a secret?”
I listened.
“Lee’s force is less than 50,000—next spring it will not number 40,000. Grant’s will be at least four times that.”
“Why can not our army be re-enforced?”
Mr. X——- helped himself to a fresh cigar.
“The people are tired, and the conscript officers are playing a farce,” he said. “The commissary department gives the army a quarter of a pound of rancid meat. That even often fails, for the quartermaster’s department does not supply it. The result is—no conscripts, and a thousand desertions. The soldiers are starving; their wives and children are writing them letters that drive them mad—the end is not far off; and when Grant reaches the Southside road we are gone.”
Mr. X——- smoked his cigar with extreme calmness as he spoke.
“But one thing remains,” I said.
“What is that?”
“Lee will retreat from Virginia.”
Mr. X——- shook his head.
“He will not.”
“Why not?”
“He will be prevented from doing so.”
“Under any circumstances?”
“Until too late, at least.”
“And the result?”
“Surrender—though he said to me the other day, when he came to see me here, ‘For myself, I intend to die sword in hand.’”
I could not refrain from a sentiment of profound gloom, as I listened to these sombre predictions. It seemed incredible that they could be well founded, but I had more than once had an opportunity to remark the extraordinary prescience of the remarkable man with whom I conversed.
“You draw a black picture of the future,” I said. “And the South seems moving to and fro, on the crust of a volcano.”
“No metaphor could be more just.”
“And what will be the result of the war?”
“That is easy to reply to. Political slavery, negro suffrage, and the bayonet, until the new leaven works.”
“The new leaven?”
“The conviction that democratic government is a failure.”
“And then—?”
“An emperor, or dictator—call him what you will. The main fact is, that he will rule the country by the bayonet—North and South impartially.”
Mr. X——- lit a fresh cigar.
“Things are going on straight to that,” he said. “The future is perfectly plain to me, for I read it in the light of history. These events are going to follow step by step. Lee is brave—no man is braver; a great leader. I think him one of the first captains of the world. But in spite of his courage and skill—in spite of the heroism of his army—in spite of the high character and pure motives of the president—we are going to fail. Then the rest will follow—negro suffrage and the bayonet. Then the third era will begin—the disgust of the white man at the equality of the negro; his distrust of a government which makes such a farce possible; consequent revulsion against democracy; a tendency toward monarchy; a king, emperor or dictator, who will restore order out of the chaos of misrule and madness. England is rushing toward a democracy, America is hastening to become an empire. For my own part I think I prefer the imperial to the popular idea—Imperator to Demos. It is a matter of taste, however.”
And Mr. X——- turned his head, calling out, calmly,
“Come in!”
The door opened and a stranger glided into the apartment. He was clad in a blue Federal uniform, half-concealed by a brown linen overall. His face was almost covered by a red beard; his lips by a mustache of the same color; and his eyes disappeared behind huge green goggles.
“Come in,” repeated Mr. X——-, who seemed to recognize the intruder; “what news?”
The personage glanced quickly at me.
“Speak before him,” said Mr. X——-, “he is a friend.”
“I am very well acquainted with Colonel Surry,” said the other, smiling, “and have the honor to number him, I hope, among my own friends.”
With which words, the new-comer quietly removed his red beard, took off his green spectacles, and I saw before me no less a personage than Mr. Nighthawk!