Part 32 (1/2)

What gay memories are evoked by that familiar name! How we laughed and sang in that hollow in the hills near Orange, in the cold winter of 1863!

Stuart called his head-quarters ”Wigwam Independence,” but the officers of his staff gave them the sobriquet of ”c.o.o.n Hollow;” and I adopt in my memoirs the old familiar designation.

Never were soldiers more comfortable than the inhabitants of c.o.o.n Hollow!--and Stuart's tent was the most comfortable of all. He had stretched a large canvas beneath some sheltering trees; and filling up the opening at each end with a picturesque wicker-work of evergreens, ensconced himself there in his sylvan lodge, like some Robin Hood, or ranger of the greenwood in old times. The woodland haunt and open air life seemed, at first, to charm the bold cavalier; nothing seemed wanting to his happiness, lost here in the forest: but soon the freezing airs ”demoralized” even the stout cavalryman, and he exchanged his canvas for a regular tent of the largest description, with a plank floor, a camp-couch, and a mighty chimney, wherein sparkled, ere long, a cheerful fire of hickory, driving away the blasts of the cold winter nights, which were sent on their way with song.

Such was Stuart's own domicile. The staff tents were grouped around, with their solid chimneys of rock. The ”cavalry head-quarters” was complete--a warm nest in the woods. Couriers came and went; sabres rattled; spurs jingled; the horses whinnied from their stables, woven of pine boughs, near by; and in and out of the general's tent played his two boisterous setters, Nip and Tuck, the companions of his idle hours. We all messed together, under a broad canvas, at one table: music resounded; songs were sung; Sweeney, soon, alas! to be dead, was yet king of the woodland revels; Stuart joined in his songs, to the music of the banjo; and not seldom did the bright faces of fair ladies s.h.i.+ne on us, bringing back all the warmth of the summer days--the blue sky, the suns.h.i.+ne, and the smiles!

Such was good old ”c.o.o.n Hollow.” I recall it with delight. The chill airs cut you to the bone when you ventured out on horseback from the sheltered nook; but in c.o.o.n Hollow all was warm and bright. In the woods on the crest above, the winds sighed: but in the hollow below, the banjo rattled; laughter resounded; great fires roared; and, as though in open defiance of winter and its tempests, Stuart, carolled in his clear and sonorous voice, his favorite ditty,

”The dew is on the blossom.”

So we sang and laughed all those long winter evenings. The winds carried away the sound of jests, and banjo notes. The long hours of winter thus flew by like birds lost, one by one, in the night of the past. Happy days! happy nights! I remember them still. Stuart is dead--more than one of my dear companions have followed him--but their voices sound again, their eyes again flash, their friendly smiles linger in memory.

So the days fled by--and I wonder if our friends across the Rapidan, who were going to crush us, were as gay as the folk about to be crushed? The future looked stormy, but we laughed--and we did right, did we not, friend? That mirth was not unseemly--not unworthy of approval. It is evidence at least of ”game,” _non fractum esse fortuna et retinere in rebus asperis, dignitatem_--is it not? Good fortune, wealth, and success, are nothing compared to that. For my part, I would rather have the equal mind in arduous things, than money in my purse, or victory. The army of Northern Virginia had that in the winter of 1863, as they had had it in 1861 and '62, and were going to have it in the dark year and black winter preceding April, 1865.

But I linger too long on those days at ”c.o.o.n Hollow.” The wave of war had wafted us to that quiet nook; for a time, we laughed and sang; but the storm was coming. Soon it struck us; and we left the harbor, driven by the tempest.

So I dismiss c.o.o.n Hollow, lost amid the hills of Orange. The spot is desolate to-day, and the bleak wood is silent. But for me, Stuart is singing there now as then--and will sing in my memory forever!

XV.

LEE'S ”RAGGED REGIMENTS.”

It required a stout heart to laugh and sing, _con amore_, in the last days of that winter, and the first days of spring, 1864.

Those very figures, ”1864,” tell the story, and explain this. Do they not, reader?

Each year of the war has its peculiar physiognomy.

1861--that is mirth, adventure, inexperience, bright faces, wreaths of flowers, ”boxes” from home, and ”honorable mention” in reports, if you only waved your sword and shouted ”Hurrah!” Then you heard the bra.s.s bands playing, the drum gayly rolling, the bugles sending their joyous notes across the fields and through the forests--blooming fields, untouched forests!--and that music made the pulses dance. Gayly-clad volunteers marched gallantly through the streets; the crowds cheered; the new flags, shaped by fair hands, fluttered;--not a bullet had torn through them, not a rent was seen in the new uniforms. As the trains swept by with the young heroes on board, bevies of lovely girls cheered, waved handkerchiefs, and threw nosegays. Eyes were sparkling, lips smiling, cheeks glowing in '61. The youths had havelocks to ward off the sun; gaiters to keep out the dust; woollen belts to prevent rheumatism; fanciful s.h.i.+rt bosoms, and pretty needle-cases and tobacco pouches of silk and velvet, decked with beads and gay needle-work, by the dearest fingers in the world!

So they went to the wars--those stout and ruddy youths. Every one anxious to have his head taken off by a cannon ball, all for the honor and glory of it. They marched along cheering, as the white handkerchiefs waved; they proudly kept step to the tap of the drum, or moved briskly beside the cannon, or cantered by on their glossy and spirited horses.

The epoch was agitated, but joy coursed in every vein. And when the first successes came, those small affairs were greeted with ”thunders of applause.”

General Spoons marched to Bethel; took a look at the gray people; fired a gun or two before retreating--and a thousand Southern journalists shouted ”lo, triumphe!--a grand victory!” The brave Del. Kemper fired a shot at the Federal train approaching Vienna, and the journalists cried, ”we have driven back the whole Federal army!”

Then some real fighting came, and the applause was again tremendous.

When the news of the first Mana.s.sas flashed over the wires, the Southern people stood upon their heads, and went wild. The war was ended--the affair was over--the bra.s.s bands, and rolling drums, and dazzling uniforms had speedily done the business. The power of the North was broken. She had run upon the breakers. The great hulk was lying stranded, the waves were beating her, and she was about to go to pieces.

Such was 1861--an era of mirth, inexperience, inflated views, brilliant pageants, gay adventures, ruddy cheeks, sparkling eyes and splendid banners, floating proudly in the suns.h.i.+ne of victory!

1862 came, and with it a new phase of the war. Sweat, dust, and blood had replaced the music and wreaths of roses. Faces, were not so ruddy--they began to look war-worn. The rounded cheeks had become gaunt. The bright uniforms were battle-soiled. Smoke had stained them, the bivouac dimmed them, the sun had changed the blue-gray to a sort of scorched yellow. Waving handkerchiefs still greeted the troops--as they greeted them to the end of the war. But few flowers were thrown now--their good angels looked on in silence, and prayed for them.

They were no longer holiday soldiers, but were hardened in battle. They knew the work before them, and advanced to it with the measured tramp of veterans. They fought as well as soldiers have ever fought in this world. Did they not? Answer, Cold Harbor, Malvern Hill, Cedar Mountain, Mana.s.sas, Boonsboro', Sharpsburg, and Fredericksburg! And every battle, nearly, was a victory. In the lowlands and the mountains--in Virginia and Maryland--they bore aloft the banner of the South in stalwart hands, and carried it forward with unshrinking hearts, to that baptism of blood awaiting it. That was the great year for the South. The hour was dark--a huge foe fronted us--but wherever that foe was met, he seemed to reel before the mailed hand that buffeted his front. All frippery and decoration had long been stripped from the army. The fingers of war--real war--had torn off the gaudy trappings; and the grim lips had muttered, ”What I want is hard muscle, and the brave heart--not tinsel!” The bands were seldom heard--the musicians were tending the wounded. The drums had ceased their jovial rattle, and were chiefly used in the ”long roll,” which said ”Get ready, boys! they are coming!”

So in the midst of smoke and dust,--with yells of triumph, or groans of agony, in place of the gay cheering--pa.s.sed that year of battles, 1862.