Mohun, or, the Last Days of Lee

John Esten Cooke

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• Publié par: nivang
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 31
• Langue: English

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Title: Mohun, or, The Last Days of Lee
Author: John Esten Cooke
Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8424] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first
posted on July 9, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOHUN, OR, THE LAST DAYS OF LEE ***
Produced by Eric Eldred, Marvin A. Hodges and the Online Distributed Proofreading TeamMOHUN
OR,
THE LAST DAYS OF LEE AND HIS PALADINS.
FINAL MEMOIRS
OF A
STAFF OFFICER SERVING IN VIRGINIA.
FROM THE MSS. OF
COLONEL SURRY, OF EAGLE'S NEST.
BY
JOHN ESTEN COOKE
AUTHOR OF "SURRY OF EAGLE'S NEST."
Nec aspera terrent.PROLOGUE.
On the wall over the mantel-piece, here in my quiet study at Eagle's-Nest, are two crossed swords. One is a battered
old sabre worn at Gettysburg, and Appomattox; the other, a Federal officer's dress sword captured in 1863.
It was a mere fancy to place them there, as it was a whim to hang upon that nail yonder, the uniform coat with its stars
and braid, which Stuart wore on his famous ride around McClellan in 1862. Under the swords hang portraits of Lee,
Jackson, and Stuart. Jackson wears his old coat, and his brow is raised as though he were looking out from beneath
his yellow old cadet cap. Stuart is seated, grasping his sabre, with his plumed hat resting on his knee. His huge
beard flows on his breast, his eyes are clear and penetrating, and beneath the picture I have placed a slip cut from
one of his letters to me, and containing the words, "Yours to count on, J.E.B. Stuart." Lastly, the gray
commander-inchief looks with a grave smile over his shoulder, the eyes fixed upon that excellent engraving of the "Good Old
Rebel," a private of the Army of Northern Virginia, seated on a log, after the war, and reflecting with knit brows on the
past and the present.
From this sketch of my surroundings, worthy reader, you will perceive, that I amuse myself by recalling the old times
when the Grays and Blues were opposed to each other. Those two swords crossed—those pictures of Lee,
Jackson, Stuart, and the "Old Rebel"—you are certain to think that the possessor of them is unreconstructed (terrible
word!) and still a rebel!
But is it wrong to remember the past? I think of it without bitterness. God decreed it—God the all-wise, the all-merciful
—for his own purpose. I do not indulge any repinings, or reflect with rancor upon the issue of the struggle. I prefer
recalling the stirring adventure, the brave voices, the gallant faces: even in that tremendous drama of 1864-5, I can
find something besides blood and tears: even here and there some sunshine!
In this last series of my memoirs I shall deal chiefly with that immense campaign. In the first series which, I trust the
reader of these pages will have perused, I followed Jackson through his hard battles to the fatal field of
Chancellorsville. In this volume I shall beg the reader first to go with Stuart from the great review of his cavalry, in
June, 1863, to the dark morning of May 11, 1864, at Yellow Tavern. Then the last days will follow.
I open the drama with that fine cavalry review in June, 1863, on the
Plains of Culpeper.
It is a pleasure to return to it—for Gettysburg blackened the sunshine soon. The column thundered by; the gay bugles
rang; the great banner floated. Where is that pageant to-day? Where the old moons of Villon? Alas! the strong hours
work their will. June, 1863, is long dead. The cavalry horses, if they came back from the wars, are ploughing. The
rusty sabres stick fast in the battered old scabbards. The old saddles are shabby—and our friends take them away
from us. The old buttons are tarnished, and an order forbids our wearing them. The brass bands clash no more; and
the bugles are silent. Where are the drums and the bugles? Do they beat the long roll at the approach of phantom
foes, or sound the cavalry charge in another world? They are silent to-day, and have long disappeared; but I think I
hear them still in my dreams!
It is in June, 1863, therefore, worthy reader, that I open my volume. Up to that time I had gone with Jackson's "foot
cavalry," marching slowly and steadily to battle. Now, I was to follow the gay and adventurous career of the Virginia
Rupert—Stuart, the Knight of the Black Plume! If you are willing to accompany me, I promise to show you some
animated scenes. You will hear Stuart laugh as he leads the charge, or jest with his staff, or sing his gay cavalry
songs. But, alas! we shall not go far with him; and when he leaves us a sort of shadow will fall upon the landscape.
From that May, 1864, laughter will seldom be heard. The light which shines on the great picture will be red and
baleful. Blood will gush on desperate fields—men will fall like dry leaves in the winds of autumn.
The crimson torrent will sweep away a whole generation almost—and the
Red Cross flag will go down in blood.
The current of events will drag us to Petersburg, and those last months which witnessed the final wrestle in this war of
the giants.
Let us bask in the sunshine, before breasting the storm. The pages of blood and mourning will soon be opened—
meanwhile we will laugh.
In this June, 1863, faces smile still, and cheers resound. Bugles are ringing, swords clashing, cannon thundering.
Lee's old army is full of ardor, and seventy thousand men shout!
"Pennsylvania! Pennsylvania!"MOHUN;
OR,
THE LAST DAYS OF LEE AND HIS PALADINS.
BOOK I.
GETTYSBURG.I.
THE CAVALRY REVIEW.
On a beautiful day of June, 1863, the plains of Culpeper, in Virginia, were the scene of an imposing pageant.
Stuart's cavalry was passing in review before Lee, who was about to commence his march toward Gettysburg.
Those of my readers who were fortunate enough to be present, will not forget that scene. They will remember the
martial form of Stuart at the head of his sabreurs; how the columns of horsemen thundered by the great flag; how the
multitude cheered, brightest eyes shone, the merry bands clashed, the gay bugles rang; how the horse artillery
roared as it was charged in mimic battle—while Lee, the gray old soldier, with serene carriage, sat his horse and
looked on.
Never had the fields of Culpeper witnessed a spectacle more magnificent. The sunshine darted in lightnings from the
long line of sabres, lit up beautiful faces, and flashed from scarfs, and waving handkerchiefs, rosy cheeks, and glossy
ringlets. All was life, and joy, and splendor. For once war seemed turned to carnival; and flowers wreathed the keen
edge of the sword.
Among the illustrious figures gazed at by the crowd, two were the observed of all the observers—those of Lee and
Stuart.
Lee sat his powerful horse, with its plain soldierly equipments, beneath the large flag. He was clad in a gray uniform,
almost without mark of rank. Cavalry boots reached nearly to his knees; as usual he wore no sword; over his broad
brow drooped a plain brown felt hat, without tassel or decoration. Beneath, you saw a pair of frank and benignant, but
penetrating eyes, ruddy cheeks, and an iron gray mustache and beard, both cut close. In the poise of the stately
head, as in the whole carriage of his person, there was something calm, august and imposing. This man, it was plain,
was not only great, but good;—the true type of the race of gentlemen of other times.
Stuart, the chief of cavalry of the army, was altogether different in appearance. Young, ardent, full of life and abandon,
he was the true reproduction of Rupert, said to be his ancestor. The dark cavalry feather; the lofty forehead, and
dazzling blue eyes; his little "fighting jacket," as he called it, bright with braid and buttons, made a picture. His boots
reached to the knee; a yellow silk sash was about his waist; his spurs, of solid gold, were the present of some ladies
of Maryland; and with saber at tierce point, extended over his horse's head, he led the charge with his staff, in front of
the column, and laughing, as though the notes of the bugle drove him forward.
In every movement of that stalwart figure, as in the glance of the blue eyes, and the laughter curling the huge
mustache, could be read youth and joy, and a courage which nothing could bend. He was called a "boy" by some, as
Coriolanus was before him. But his Federal adversaries did not laugh at him; they had felt his blow