Part 4 (1/2)

In a moment the tent, the wooded knoll, the whole vicinity was ringing with the uproarious notes of the mirth-inspiring banjo; and Sweeney was chanting, as only that great master _could_ chant, the mighty epic of the sabreurs of Stuart:--

”If you want to have a good time Jine the cavalry, Bully Boys, hey!”

The staff and couriers quickly a.s.sembled, the servants were grouped in the starlight, the horses beneath the boughs turned their intelligent heads--and leading in the uproarious chorus might have been heard the sonorous and laughing voice of Stuart.

VI.

STUART'S INSTINCT.

The festivities were kept up until nearly midnight.

Then Stuart yawned; said with a laugh, ”Good morning, gentle-_men_” as was his habit when he wished to work; and the tent was soon deserted.

I retired to rest, but at three in the morning felt a hand upon my shoulder.

”The general is going to move, colonel, and wishes to see you,” said the orderly.

I rose, made my brief toilet, and went toward Stuart's tent where a light was s.h.i.+ning. He was writing busily at his desk, as fresh and gay as on the preceding evening. His enormous const.i.tution defied fatigue.

All at once I saw that there was another personage in the tent. He was a young man of about twenty, of slight figure, beardless face, and an expression so shy and retiring that he seemed ready to blush if you spoke to him. He wore, nevertheless, the uniform of a captain of artillery; and I remember wondering how this girlish and shrinking personage, with the large, sad eyes, had come to hold a commission.

”Captain Davenant, of my horse artillery, Colonel Surry,” said Stuart.

The youth colored, and then with an air of painful embarra.s.sment took a step forward and pressed my hand. The grasp of the slender fingers was like the grip of a steel vice.

”Davenant has been on a scout across the Rappahannock, to keep his hand in,” said Stuart, busily writing. ”My horse artillery boys do a little of every thing--and Davenant is a wild-cat, Surry, with a touch of the bull dog, in spite of his looks!”

The young officer drew back blus.h.i.+ng more than ever at these words. His confusion seemed to deprive him of the power of utterance.

”I'll bet he's blus.h.i.+ng now!” said Stuart, laughing and continuing to write with his back turned, as he spoke. ”He is blus.h.i.+ng or sighing--for the poor Yankees he has killed, doubtless!”

”You are laughing at me, general,” said the young man timidly. ”Well, my laughter won't hurt you, Davenant. I never joke with people I don't like. But to business. The enemy are going to attack me, Surry. Get ready, I am going to move.”

”Ready, general.”

”All right!--Hagan!”

”General!”

The voice came like an echo. Then at the door appeared the gigantic, black-bearded Lieutenant Hagan, chief of the general's escort. Have you forgotten him, my dear reader?--his huge figure, his mighty beard, the deep thunder of his tones? I showed you the brave soldier in 1861 and '62. In 1863 his beard was heavier, his voice more like thunder--when the giant walked along he seemed to shake the ground.

”I am going to move in half an hour, Hagan,” said Stuart, still writing busily. ”Head-quarters will be established on Fleetwood Hill, beyond Brandy; my horse!”

Hagan saluted and vanished without uttering a word. In five minutes the camp was buzzing, and ”Lady Margaret” was led up.

”Come on, Surry! Come on, Davenant! I will beat you to the Court-House!”

And Stuart buckled on his sword, drew on his gauntlets, and mounted his horse. I was beside him. Not to be ready when Stuart was--was to be left behind. He waited for n.o.body. His staff soon learned that.