Mohun | Page 8

banjo!"
And walking fifty steps, Stuart caressed the glossy neck of his mare
"Lady Margaret," who was tethered to a bough, and looked around
affectionately at her master.
When he returned he was humming "The dew lay on the blossom," and

following him was Sweeney--the same old Sweeney!--ever mild,
courteous, almost sad, doffing his cap, saluting with simple grace, and
tuning his banjo.
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 assembled, 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 shining. He was writing busily at his desk, as fresh and gay as on
the preceding evening. His enormous constitution 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 embarrassment 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 blushing more than ever at these words.
His confusion seemed to deprive him of the power of utterance.
"I'll bet he's blushing now!" said Stuart, laughing and continuing to
write with his back turned, as he spoke. "He is blushing 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 nobody. His staff soon learned that.
As Davenant's horse was awaiting him, he was as prompt as Stuart
desired. In a minute we were all three riding at full speed toward the
village. Stuart was playing with his glove, which he had taken off and
dangled to and fro. His brows were knit, and he was reflecting. We did
not interrupt him, and in ten minutes we were all clattering over the
main street of the hamlet.

Stuart pushed on by the tavern, without pausing, in the direction of
Fleetwood, when just as he reached the eastern suburbs of the town a
small one-horse wagon, leaving the place, attracted his attention. There
was just sufficient