Mohun | Page 2

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