CHAPTER XXXIX

In a foliage-embowered house on a hill near Washington Colonel Jeb
Stuart, Commander of the Confederate Cavalry, had made his headquarters.

Neighing horses were hitched to the swaying limbs. They pawed the ground, wheeled and whinnied their impatience at inaction. Every man who sat in one of those saddles owned his mount. These boys were the flower of Southern manhood. The Confederate Government was too poor to furnish horses for the Cavalry. Every man, volunteering for this branch of the service, must bring his own horse and equipment complete. The South only furnished a revolver and carbine. At the first battle of Bull Run they didn't have enough of them even for the regiments Stuart commanded. Whole companies were armed only with the pikes which John Brown had made for the swarming of the Black Bees at Harper's Ferry. They used these pikes as lances.

The thing that gave the Confederate Cavalry its impetuous dash, its fire and efficiency was the fact that every man on horseback had been born in the saddle and had known his horse from a colt. From the moment they swung into line they were veterans.

The North had no such riders in the field as yet. Brigadier-General Phillip St. George Cooke was organizing this branch of the service. It would take weary months to train new riders and break in strange horses.

Until these born riders, mounted on their favorites, could be killed or their horses shot from under them, there would be tough work ahead for the Union Cavalry.

A farmer approached at sunset. He gazed on the array with pride.

He lifted his gray head and shouted:

"Hurrah for our boys! Old Virginia'll show 'em before we're through with this!"

A sentinel saluted the old man.

"I've come for Colonel Stuart. His wife and babies are at my house.
He'll understand. Tell him."

The farmer watched the spectacle. Straight in front of the little portico on its tall staff fluttered the Commander's new, blood-red battle flag with its blue St. Andrew's cross and white stars rippling in the wind. Spurs were clanking, sabers rattling. A courier dashed up, dismounted and entered the house. Young officers in their new uniforms were laughing and chatting in groups before the door.

An escort brought in a Federal Cavalry prisoner on his mount. The boys gathered around him and roared with laughter. He was a good-natured Irishman who could take a joke. His horse was loaded down with a hundred pounds of extra equipment. The Irishman had half of it strapped on his own back.

A boy shouted:

"For the Lord's sake, did you take him with all that freight?"

An escort roared:

"That's why we took him. He couldn't run."

The boy looked at the solemn face of the prisoner and chaffed:

"And why have ye got that load on your own back, man?"

Without cracking a smile the Irishman replied:

"An' I thought me old horse had all he could carry!"

The boys roared, pulled him down, took off his trappings and told him to make himself at home.

Inside the house could be heard the hum of conversation, with an occasional boom of laughter that could come from but one throat.

Work for the day completed, he came to the door to greet his visitor. The farmer's eyes flashed at the sight of his handsome figure. He was only twenty-eight years old, of medium height, with a long, silken, bronzed beard and curling mustache.

He waved his hand and cried:

"With you in a minute!"

His voice was ringing music. He wore a new suit of Confederate gray which his wife had just sent him. His gauntlets extended nine inches above the wrists. His cavalry boots were high above the knee. His broad-brimmed felt hat was caught up on one side with a black ostrich plume. His cavalry coat fitted tightly—a "fighting jacket." It was circled with a black belt from which hung his revolver and over which was tied a splendid yellow sash. His spurs were gold.

A first glance would give the impression of a gay youngster over fond of dress. But the moment his blue eyes flashed there came the glint of steel. The man behind the uniform was seen, the bravest of the brave, the flower of Southern chivalry.

For all his gay dress he was from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, every inch the soldier—the soldier with the big brain and generous, fun-loving heart. His forehead was extraordinary in height and breadth, bronzed by sun and wind. His nose was large and nostrils mobile. His eyes were clear, piercing, intense. His laughing mouth was completely covered by the curling mustache and long beard.

He had darted around the house on waving to his visitor and in a minute reappeared, followed by three negroes. He was taking his minstrels with him on the trip to see his wife.

The cavalcade mounted. He waved his aides aside.

"No escort, boys. See you at sunrise."

The farmer's house was only half a mile inside his lines. When the army of the North was hurled back into Washington he had sent for his wife and babies and arranged for their board at the nearest farmhouse.

The little mother's heart was fluttering with love and pride. Richmond was already ringing with the praises of her soldier man. They were recruiting the first brigade of Cavalry. He was slated for Brigadier-General of the mounted forces. And he was only twenty-eight!

Stuart sprang from his horse and rushed to meet his wife. She was waiting in the glow of the sunset, her eyes misty with joyous tears.

It was a long time as she nestled in his arms before she could speak.
Her voice was barely a whisper.

"You've passed through your first baptism of blood safely, my own!"

"Baptism of blood—nothing!" He laughed. "It wasn't a fight at all. We had nothing to do till the blue birds flew. And then we flew after 'em. Oh, honey girl, it was just a lark. I laughed till I cried—"

She raised her eyes to his.

"And you didn't see my dear old daddy anywhere?"

"No. I wish I had! I'd have taken the loyal old rascal prisoner and made you keep him till the war's over."

"It is over, isn't it, dear?"

"No."

"Why, you've driven the army back in a panic on Washington. They'll ask for peace, won't they?"

"They won't, honey. I know 'em too well. They'll more than likely ask for a million volunteers."

"It's not over, then?"

"No, dear little mother. I'll be honest with you. Don't believe silly talk. We're in for a long, desperate fight—"

"And I've been so happy thinking you'd come home—"

"Your home will be with me, won't it?"

"Always."

"All right. This is the beginning of my scheme for the duration of the war. I'm going to get you a map of Virginia, showing the roads. I'll get you a compass. There'll always be a little farmhouse somewhere behind my headquarters. Our home will be in the field and saddle for a while."

He kissed his babies and ate his supper laughing and joking like a boy of nineteen. The table cleared, he ordered a concert for their entertainment.

Bob, the leader of his minstrels, was a dandified mulatto who played the guitar, the second was a whistler and the third a master of the negro dance, the back step and the breakdown.

Bob tuned his guitar, picked his strings and gazed at the ceiling. He was apparently selecting the first piece. It, was always the same, his favorite, "Listen to the Mocking Bird." He played with a plaintive, swaying melody that charmed his hearers. The whistler amazed them with his marvelous imitation of birds and bird calls. The room throbbed with every note of the garden, field and wood.

The mother's face was wreathed in smiles. The boy shouted. The baby crooned. The first piece done, the audience burst into a round of applause.

Bob gave them "Alabama" next, accompanied by the whistler and his bird chorus.

Stuart laughed and called for the breakdown. Bob begins a jig on his guitar, the whistler claps and the sable dancer edges his way to the center of the floor in little spasmodic shuffles. He begins with his heel tap, then the toe, then in leaps and whirls. The guitar swelled to a steady roar. The whistler quickens his claps. And Stuart's boyish laughter rang above the din.

"Go it, boy! Go it!"

The dancer's eyes roll. His step quickens. He cuts the wildest figures in a frenzy of abandoned joy. With a leap through the door he is gone. The guitar stops with a sudden twang and Stuart's laughter roars.

And then he gave an hour to play with his children before a mother's lullaby should put them to sleep. He got down on his all fours and little Jeb mounted and rode round the room to the baby's scream of joy. He lay flat on the floor with the baby on his breast and let her pull his beard and mustache until her strength failed.

The children were still sound asleep when they sat down and ate breakfast before day.

At the first streak of dawn he was standing beside his horse ready for the dash back to his headquarters and the work of the day.

The shadow had fallen across the woman's heart again. He saw and understood. He put his hand under her chin and lifted it.

"No more tears now, my sweetheart."

"I'll try."

"We may be here for weeks."

"There'll be another fight soon?"

"I think not."

"For a month?"

"Not for a long time."

"Thank God!"

A far-off look stole into his eyes.

"It will be a good one though when it comes, I reckon."

"There can be no good one—if my boy's in it."

"Well, I'll be in it!"

"Yes. I know."

She kissed him and turned back into the house, with the old fear gripping her heart.