XXVI. — STUART SINGS.
My reflections were by no means gay. The scenes at the lonely house had not been cheerful and mirth-inspiring.
That grinning corpse, with the crust of bread in the bony fingers; that stain of blood on the floor; the grave of Achmed; lastly, the appointment of the mysterious Nighthawk with the Federal spy; all were fantastic and lugubrious.
Who was Nighthawk, and what was his connection with Mohun? Who was Mohun, and what had been his previous history? Who was this youth of unbounded wealth, as Nighthawk had intimated, in whose life personages supposed to be dead, but still alive, had figured?
“Decidedly, Mohun and Nighthawk are two enigmas!” I muttered, “and I give the affair up.”
With which words I spurred on, and soon debouched on the Orange plank road, leading toward Mine Run.
As I entered it, I heard hoof-strokes on the resounding boards, and a company of horsemen cantered toward me through the darkness. As they came, I heard a gay voice singing the lines:—
“I wake up in the morning,
I wake up in the morning,
I wake up in the morning,
Before the break o’ day!”
There was no mistaking that gay sound. It was Stuart, riding at the head of his staff and couriers.
In a moment he had come up, and promptly halted me.
“Ah! that’s you, Surry!” he exclaimed with a laugh, “wandering about here in the Wilderness! What news?”
I reported the state of things in front, and Stuart exclaimed:—
“All right; we are ready for them! Coon Hollow is evacuated—head-quarters are in the saddle! Hear that whippoorwill! It is a good omen. Whip ‘em well! Whip ‘em well!—and we’ll do it too!”{1} Stuart laughed, and began to sing—
“Never mind the weather
But get over double trouble!
We are bound for the Happy land of Lincoln!”
{Footnote 1: His words.}
As the martial voice rang through the shadowy thickets, I thought, “How fortunate it is that the grave people are not here to witness this singular ‘want of dignity’ in the great commander of Lee’s cavalry!”
Those “grave people” would certainly have rolled their eyes, and groaned, “Oh! how undignified!” Was not the occasion solemn? Was it not sinful to laugh and sing? No, messieurs! It was right; and much better than rolling the eyes, and staying at home and groaning! Stuart was going to fight hard—meanwhile he sang gayly. Heaven had given him animal spirits, and he laughed in the face of danger. He laughed and sang on this night when he was going to clash against Grant, as he had laughed and sung when he had clashed against Hooker—when his proud plume floated in front of Jackson’s veterans, and he led them over the breastworks at Chancellorsville, singing, “Old Joe Hooker, will you come out of the Wilderness!”
Stuart cantered on: we turned into the Brock road, and I found myself retracing my steps toward the Rapidan.
As I passed near the lonely house, I cast a glance toward the glimmering light. Had Nighthawk’s friend arrived?
We soon reached Ely’s Ford, and I conducted Stuart to Mordaunt’s bivouac, which I had left at dusk. He had just wrapped his cloak around him, and laid down under a tree, ready to mount at a moment’s warning.
“What news, Mordaunt?” said Stuart, grasping his hand.
“Some fighting this evening, but it ceased about nightfall, general.”
Stuart looked toward the river, and listened attentively.
“I hear nothing stirring.”
And passing his hand through his beard he muttered half to himself:—
“I wonder if Grant can have made any change in his programme?”
“The order at least was explicit—that brought by Nighthawk,” I said.
Stuart turned toward me suddenly.
“I wonder where he could be found? If I knew, I would send him over the river to-night, to bring me a reliable report of every thing.”
I drew the general aside.
“I can tell you where to find Nighthawk.”
“Where.”
“Shall I bring him?”
“Like lightning, Surry! I wish to dispatch him at once!”
Without reply I wheeled my horse, and went back rapidly toward the house in the Wilderness. I soon reached the spot, rode to the window, and called to Nighthawk, who came out promptly at my call.
“Your friend has not arrived?” I said.
“He will not come till midnight, colonel.”
“When, I am afraid, he will not see you, Nighthawk—you are wanted.”
And I explained my errand. Nighthawk sighed—it was easy to see that he was much disappointed.
“Well, colonel,” he said, in a resigned tone, “I must give up my private business—duty calls. I will be ready in a moment.”
And disappearing, he put out the light—issued forth in rear of the house—mounted a horse concealed in the bushes—and rejoined me in front.
“Swartz will not know what to think,” he said, as we rode rapidly toward the river; “he knows I am the soul of punctuality, and this failure to keep my appointment will much distress him.”
“Distress him, Nighthawk?”
“He will think some harm has happened to me.”
And Mr. Nighthawk smiled so sadly, that I could not refrain from laughter.
We soon reached the spot where Stuart awaited us. At sight of Nighthawk he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction, and explained in brief words his wishes.
“That will be easy, general,” said Nighthawk.
“Can you procure a Federal uniform?”
“I always travel with one, general.”
And Mr. Nighthawk unstrapped the bundle behind his saddle, drawing forth a blue coat and trousers, which in five minutes had replaced his black clothes. Before us stood one of the “blue birds.” Nighthawk was an unmistakable “Yankee.”
Stuart gave him a few additional instructions, and having listened with the air of a man who is engraving the words he hears upon his memory, Nighthawk disappeared in the darkness, toward the private crossing, where he intended to pass the river.
Half an hour afterward, Stuart was riding toward Germanna Ford. As we approached, Mohun met us, and reported all quiet.
Stuart then turned back in the direction of Chancellorsville, where Nighthawk was to report to him, before daylight, if possible.