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branch of the service demands. If there was any general truth in this criticism, there was none in particular instances. Hampton was sufficiently headlong when I saw him-was one of the most thoroughly successful commanders imaginable, and certainly seemed to have a natural turn for going in front of his column with a drawn sabre. What the French call élan is not, however, the greatest merit in a soldier. Behind the strong arm was the wary brain. Cool and collected resolution, a comprehensive survey of the whole field, and the most excellent dispositions for attack or defence-such were the merits of this soldier. I could never divest myself of the idea that as a corps commander of infantry he would have figured among the most eminent names of history. With an unclouded brain; a coup d'œil as clear as a ray of the sun; invincible before danger; never flurried, anxious, or despondent; content to wait; too wary ever to be surprised; looking to great trials of strength, and to general results-the man possessing these traits of character was better fitted, I always thought, for the command of troops of all arms-infantry, cavalry, and artillery-than for one arm alone. But with that arm which he commanded-cavalry-what splendid results did he achieve. In how many perilous straits was his tall figure seen in front of the Southern horsemen, bidding them "come on," not "go on." He was not only the commander, but the sabreur too. Thousands will remember how his gallant figure led the charging column at Frederick City, at Upperville, at Gettysburg, at Trevillian's, and in a hundred other fights. Nothing more superb could be imagined than Hampton at such moments. There was no flurry in the man-but determined resolution. No doubt of the result apparently-no looking for an avenue of retreat. "Sabre to sabre !" might have been taken as the motto of his banner. In the "heady fight" he was everywhere seen, amid the clouds of smoke, the crashing shell, and the whistling balls, fighting like a private soldier, his long sword doing hard work in the mêlée, and carving its way as did the trenchant weapons of the ancient knights. This spirit of the thorough cavalier in Hampton is worth dwelling on. Under the braid of the Major-General was the brave soul of the fearless soldier, the

"fighting man." It was not a merit in him or in others that they gave up wealth, business, elegance, all the comforts, conveniences, and serene enjoyments of life, to live hard and fight hard; to endure heat, cold, hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and pain, without a murmur; but it was a merit in this brave soldier and gentleman that he did more than his duty, met breast to breast in single combat the best swordsmen of the Federal army, counted his life as no more than a private soldier's, and seemed to ask nothing better than to pour out his heart's blood for the cause in which he fought. This personal heroism—and Hampton had it to a grand extent-attracts the admiration of troops. But there is something better-the power of brain and force of character which wins the confidence of the Commander-in-Chief. When that Commander-in-Chief is called Robert E. Lee, it is something to have secured his high regard and confidence. Hampton had won the respect of Lee, and by that "noblest Roman of them all" his great character and eminent services were fully recognised. These men seemed to understand each other, and to be inspired by the same sentiment—a love of their native land which never failed, and a willingness to spend and be spent to the last drop of their blood in the cause which they had espoused. During General Stuart's life, Hampton was second in command of the Virginia Cavalry; but when that great cavalier fell, he took charge of the whole as ranking-officer. His first blow was that resolute night-attack on Sheridan's force at Mechanicsville, when the enemy were driven in the darkness from their camps, and sprang to horse only in time to avoid the sweeping sabres of the Southerners-giving up from that moment all further attempt to enter Richmond. Then came the long, hard, desperate fighting of the whole year 1864, and the spring of 1865. At Trevillian's, Sheridan was driven back and Charlottesville saved; on the Weldon railroad the Federal cavalry, under Kautz and Wilson, was nearly cut to pieces, and broke in disorder, leaving on the roads their wagons, cannons, ambulances, their dead men and horses; near Bellfield the Federal column sent to destroy the railroad was encountered, stubbornly opposed, and driven back before they could burn the bridge at Hicksford; at

Burgess' Mill, near Petersburg, where General Grant male his first great blow with two corps of infantry, at the Southside railroad, Hampton met them in front and flank, fought them all an October day nearly, lost his brave son Preston, dead from a bullet on the field, but in conjunction with Mahone, that hardy fighter, sent the enemy in haste back to their works; thus saving for the time the great war artery of the Southern army. Thenceforward, until he was sent to South Carolina, Hampton held the right of Lee in the woods of Dinwiddie, guarding with his cavalry cordon the line of the Rowanty, and defying all comers. Stout, hardy, composed, smiling, ready to meet any attack-in those last days of the strange year 1864, he seemed to my eyes the beau ideal of a soldier. The man appeared to be as firm as a rock, as immovably rooted as one of the gigantic live-oaks of his native country. When I asked him one day if he expected to be attacked soon, he laughed and said: "No; the enemy's cavalry are afraid to show their noses beyond their infantry." Nor did the Federal cavalry ever achieve any results in that region until the ten or fifteen thousand crack cavalry of General Sheridan came to ride over the two thousand men, on starved and brokendown horses, of General Fitz Lee, in April, 1865.

From Virginia, in the dark winter of 1864, Hampton was sent to oppose with his cavalry the advance of General Sherman, and the world knows how desperately he fought there on his natale solum. More than ever before it was sabre to sabre, and Hampton was still in front. When the enemy pressed on to Columbia he fell back, fighting from street to street, and so continued fighting until the thunderbolt fell in South Carolina, as it had fallen in Virginia at Appomattox, and the struggle ended. The sword that Hampton sheathed that day was one which no soil of bad faith, cruelty, or dishonour had ever tainted. It was the blade of a brave and irreproachable chevalier, of a man who throughout the most desperate and embittered conflict of all history had kept his ancestral name from every blot, and had proved himself upon a hundred battle-fields the worthy son of the "mighty men of old."

Such, in rough outline, was this brave and kindly soldier and

gentleman, as he passed before our eyes in Virginia, "working his work." Seeing him often, in camp, on the field, in bright days, and when the sky was darkest, the present writer looked upon him as a noble spirit, the truthful representative of a great and vigorous race. Brave, just, kindly, courteous, with the tenderness of a woman under that grave exterior; devoted to his principles, for which he fought and would have died; loving his native land with a love "passing the love of woman; " proud, but never haughty; not so much condescending to men of low estate, as giving them-if they were soldiers-the warm right hand of fellowship; merciful, simple-minded; foremost in the fight, but nowhere to be seen in the antechamber of living man; with a hand shut tight upon the sword-hilt, but open as day to "melting charity;" counting his life as nothing at the call of honour; contending with stubborn resolution for the faith that was in him; never cast down, never wavering, never giving back until the torrent bore him away, but fighting to the last with that heroic courage, born in his blood, for the independence of his country. Such was Wade Hampton, of South Carolina. There are those, perhaps, who will malign him in these dark days, when no sun shines. But the light is yonder, behind the cloud and storm; some day it will shine out, and a million rushlights will not be able to extinguish it. There are others who will call him traitor, and look, perhaps, with pity and contempt upon this page which claims for him a noble place among the illustrious figures shining all along the coasts of history like beacon lights above the storm. Traitor let it be; one hundred years ago there were many in the South, and they fought over the same ground. Had the old Revolution failed, those men would have lived for ever, as Hampton and his associates in the recent conflict will. "Surrender," written at the end of this great history, cannot mar its glory; failure cannot blot its splendour. The name and fame of Hampton will endure as long as loyalty and courage are respected by the human race.

IV.

ASHBY.

I.

In the Valley of Virginia, the glory of two men outshines that of all others; two figures were tallest, best beloved, and today are most bitterly mourned. One was Jackson, the other Ashby. The world knows all about Jackson, but has little knowledge of Ashby. I was reading a stupid book the other day in which he was represented as a guerilla-almost as a robber and highwayman. Ashby a guerilla !—that great, powerful, trained, and consummate fighter of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, in the hardest fought battles of the Valley campaign! Ashby a robber and highwayman !—that soul and perfect mirror of chivalry! It is to drive away these mists of stupid or malignant scribblers that the present writer designs recording here the actual truth of Ashby's character and career. Apart from what he performed, he was a personage to whom attached and still attaches a never-dying interest. His career was all romance-it was as brief, splendid, and evanescent as a dreambut, after all, it was the man Turner Ashby who was the real attraction. It was the man whom the people of the Shenandoah Valley admire, rather than his glorious record. There was something grander than the achievements of this soldier, and that was the soldier himself.

Ashby first attracted attention in the spring of 1862, when Jackson made his great campaign in the Valley, crushing one after another Banks, Milroy, Shields, Fremont, and their associates. Among the brilliant figures, the hard fighters grouped

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