XVII. — FORT DELAWARE.
To descend now from the heights of generalization to the plains of incident and personal observation.
For this volume is not a history of the war in Virginia, but the memoirs of a staff officer belonging to Stuart’s cavalry.
May, 1864, had come; we were soon to be in the saddle; the thundering hammer of General Grant was about to commence its performances.
One night—it was the night of the first of May—I was sitting in General Stuart’s tent, looking into his blazing log fire, and musing. In this luxury I was not interrupted. It was nearly midnight, and the rest of the staff had retired. Stuart was writing at his desk, by the light of a candle in a captured “camp candlestick,” and from time to time, without turning his head, ejaculated some brief words upon any subject which came into his head.
After writing ten minutes, he now said briefly:—
“Surry.”
“General,” was my as brief response.”
“I think Mohun was a friend of yours?”
“Yes, general, we became intimate on the march to Gettysburg.”
“Well, I have just received his commission—”
“You mean as—”
“Brigadier-general. You know I long ago applied for it.”
“I knew that—pity he has not been exchanged.”
“A great pity,—and you miss a pleasure I promised myself I would give you.”
“What pleasure, general?”
“To take Mohun his commission with your own hands.”
“I am truly sorry I can not. You know he was terribly wounded, and we had to leave him in Warrenton; then the enemy advanced; for a long time we thought him dead. Thus I am sorry I am debarred the pleasure you offer. Some day I hope to accept your offer.”
“Accept it now, colonel,” said a benignant voice at the door. I turned suddenly, as did the general. At the opening of the tent, a head was seen—the head passed through—was followed by a body,—and Mr. Nighthawk, private and confidential emissary, glided in with the stealthy step of a wild-cat.
He was unchanged. His small eyes were as piercing, his smile as benignant, his costume—black coat, white cravat, and “stove-pipe” hat—as clerical as before.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Mr. Nighthawk, smiling sweetly; “I bring news of Colonel Mohun.”
“And fly in like an owl, or your namesake!” laughed Stuart.
“An owl? I am told that is the bird of wisdom, gentlemen!”
“You hit the nail on the head, when you said ‘gentlemen!’”{1} replied Stuart, laughing; “but how about Mohun? Is he exchanged, Nighthawk?”
{Footnote 1: A favorite phrase of Stuart’s.}
And Stuart wheeled round and pointed to a chair.
Nighthawk sat down modestly.
“Not exchanged, exactly, general; but safe!” he said.
“He escaped?”
“Exactly, general.”
“And you helped him?”
“I believe so.”
“Good! You really are a trump, Nighthawk—and you seem to have a peculiar fancy for Mohun.”
“He is the best friend I have in the world, general.”
“Well, that accounts for it. But how did he escape?”
“I will tell you in a few words, general. I rather pride myself on the manner in which I conducted the little affair. You remember, Colonel Mohun was very badly wounded when you defeated Kilpatrick at Buckland. It was in a fight with Colonel Darke, of the Federal cavalry, who was also wounded and left dying, as was erroneously supposed, at a small house on the roadside, when you fell back. Colonel Mohun was left at Warrenton, his wound being so severe that he could not be brought farther in his ambulance, and here he staid until he was convalescent. His recovery was miraculous, as a bullet had passed through his breast; but he is a gentleman of vigorous constitution, and he rallied at last, but, unfortunately, to find himself a prisoner. General Meade had reoccupied the country, and Colonel Mohun was transferred from hospital to Fort Delaware, as a prisoner of war.
“I have informed you, general,” continued Mr. Nighthawk, smiling, and turning the rim of his black hat between his fingers, “that Colonel Mohun was one of my best friends. For that reason, I went to see him at Warrenton, and had arranged a very good plan for his escape, when, unfortunately, he was all at once sent away, thereby disappointing all my schemes. I followed, however, saw that he was taken to Fort Delaware, and proceeded thither at once. You have probably not visited this place, general, or you, colonel. It is a fort, and outside is a pen, or stockade as it is called, covering two or three acres. Inside are cabins for the prisoners, in the shape of a semicircle, and grounds to walk in, except in the space marked off by the ‘dead line.’ If any prisoner crosses that he is shot by the sentries, whose beat is on a platform running round upon the top of the stockade.
“Well, I went to the place, and found that Colonel Mohun was confined with other officers in the pen, where they had the usual Federal ration of watery soup, bad meat, and musty crackers. For a gentleman, like himself, accustomed before the war to every luxury that unbounded wealth could supply, this was naturally disagreeable, and I determined to omit no exertion to effect his escape.
“Unfortunately, the rules of Fort Delaware are very strict, however. To cross the ‘dead line’ is death; to attempt to burrow is confinement in irons, and other degrading punishments; and to bribe the sentinels invariably resulted in having the whole affair revealed, after they had received the money. It really seemed as if Colonel Mohun were doomed to the living death of a filthy prison until the end of the war, since exchanges had ceased, and it was only by devising a ruse of very great risk that I accomplished the end in view.”
“What was your plan, Nighthawk?” said Stuart, rising and moving to the fireplace, where he stood basking in the warmth. “Original, I lay my life, and—quiet.”
“Exactly that, general.”
And Nighthawk smiled sweetly.