It is to be believed that the inquisitive and communicative neighbor enjoyed the best night's rest he had known for a twelvemonth, on the night following, after this conference with a couple of detectives and this peep into a house that had really excited his curiosity. It is doubtful, meanwhile, whether the grocer landlord, informed by his agent, by the next mail, of the exodus of his tenants without liquidation, saw the matter in so enjoyable a light.
Of course, with the fugitives given some fifteen hours start and the use of modern railroad facilities, any thought of pursuit would have been folly, even had there been any conclusive data upon which to found proceedings for their apprehension. And with such meagre and unsatisfactory results closed that portion of the supposed secession mystery—at least for the time. After events showed that the "red woman" disappeared from Prince Street on the same night, whether in company with her former acquaintances or alone. What after-glimpses were caught of any of the other persons concerned, will be shown at a later period of this narration.
CHAPTER XVII.
Looking for John Crawford, of Duryea's Zouaves—The Morning of the First of July—McClellan and His Generals—The First Battle of Malvern—Victory In Retreat.
It will be remembered that Richard Crawford, lying helplessly on his sofa and murmuring over the bodily disability which at once entailed idleness and suffering, made it one of the grounds of comparisons injurious to himself, that his brother John was on service in Virginia with the Advance Guard—better known, perhaps, as "Duryea's Zouaves"—that gallant corps designated by the rebels as the "red-legged devils," and spoken of by every European officer who has seen their action in battle, as the equals of any body of regulars of any service in the world. The claims of business alone had prevented his being in the ranks of that regiment, if in no higher position, when they marched down Broadway on their departure in the summer of 1861, receiving the merited compliment of being the finest-looking body of men, as to physique and probable endurance, that had ever passed over that procession-trodden pavement, and headed by a gallant officer (Colonel, now General, Abram Duryea) who had been so largely instrumental in making the Seventh Regiment famous for drill, discipline and readiness for any service.
John Crawford, a younger brother of Richard (his only brother, in fact—the whole living family being comprised in Richard, Isabella and John) had left his lucrative employment as a confidential dry-goods clerk, in one of the largest down-town establishments, and joined the Advance Guard. He had participated in nearly or quite all the battles shared in by that lucky corps, from Big Bethel, where they performed the wonderful feat of re-forming under fire in the space of four minutes, after having been thrown into complete disorder by the discharge from an ambuscade of artillery,—to the severe conflicts of the Peninsula, in McClellan's advance upon Richmond; and only once had he been wounded, even slightly. He seemed to bear a charmed life; and there was something in the rollick and dash of his letters home, always full charged with the very sense of bravery and physical enjoyment, well calculated to arouse the feeling, if not the envy, of a brother quite as patriotic and probably quite as brave as himself, but kept back by circumstances and afterwards by ill-health from participating in the same glorious conflicts. No matter whether he described the carnage of the turning point in a day of battle; an hour beside a wounded soldier in the hospital, talking of home and friends; or one of the chicken-and-pig-foraging expeditions for which the Zouaves have been almost as famous as for their fighting,—through all these shone the spirit of the gay, rattling, contented soldier, who might have sat for a portrait, any day, of Paddy Murphy, in the "Happy Man," making his baggage-wagon, commissariat and camp-chest of a one-headed drum, ready to fall in love with the first neat pair of ankles that peeped from beneath a well-kept petticoat, a little regardless of any proprietorship in the same ankles, other than that vested in the actual owner, and splendidly indifferent as to either the time or the mode of his death, whenever that death should become a matter of necessity.
The letters of such soldiers as these are the best recruiting-sergeants that can be sent abroad among any people; just as the letters of whining, lugubrious or dissatisfied men, who have gone into war without expecting any of its dangers or discomforts—who are satisfied with no fare less luxurious than that served up at Delmonico's or the Maison Dorée, and who protest against any sleeping which is not done upon spring-mattresses strown with rose-leaves,—cannot do otherwise than discourage and unnerve the whole immediate community in which they fall. Whether the growlers through the press and in general society, have done most to discourage and demoralize the army, or whether the grumblers in the army have wrought more effectually in discouraging enlistments and weakening the national cause, certain it is that the two evil influences have worked together, and that those who have displayed the contrary spirit are entitled to full credit from the whole loyal community.
John Crawford, the Zouave, has not yet made his appearance upon the scene; but it will now become necessary to turn attention to events and incidents in which he was engaged, and to discover what influence his action may have produced on the after events of this story. In this change of scene, too, we pass away for the time from the outside actions and influences of the war—the examination of recruiting officers, their camps and their Broadway parades, with the domestic and social entanglements in which they were involved by the struggle,—to the theatre of the war itself and the sights and sounds involved in one of the deadliest conflicts that ever shook the earth with the thunder created by the blood-shedding descendants of Cain.
It is with the battle of Malvern Hill that we have to do—a battle as yet misunderstood and underrated by many who think themselves thoroughly conversant with the events of the war—one of those marvellous victories in retreat which often more fully than successes in advance illustrate the genius of those who achieve them. When the history of the War for the Union comes to be written at a later day, and when the petty jealousies and misunderstandings are discarded which now embarrass all contemporary records,—it is scarcely to be doubted that the battle of Malvern Hill will be set down as the most terrible conflict ever known on this continent; the most splendid artillery duel of any country or any age; a crowning test of indomitable bravery on the part of both loyalists and rebels; and a brilliant victory for the Union cause, which saved an army, crowned the reputation of its young General, and averted a series of evils which could not have failed to culminate in the fall of Washington and the virtual destruction of the last hope of the republic.