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:—