x.x.xVI.

YELLOW TAVERN, MAY 11, 1864.

Yellow Tavern! At the mention of that name, a sort of tremor agitates me even to-day, when nearly four years have pa.s.sed.

In my eyes, the locality is cursed. A gloomy cloud seems ever hanging over it. No birds sing in the trees. The very sunshine of the summer days is sad there.

But I pa.s.s to my brief description of the place, and the event which made it one of the black names in Southern history.

Yellow Tavern is an old dismantled hostelry, on the Brook road, about six miles from Richmond. Nothing more dreary than this desolate wayside inn can be imagined. Its doors stand open, its windows are gone, the rotting floor crumbles beneath the heel, and the winds moan through the paneless sashes, like invisible spirits hovering near and muttering some lugubrious secret. "This is the scene of some deed of darkness!"

you are tempted to mutter, as you place your feet upon the threshold.

When you leave the spot behind you, a weight seems lifted from your breast--you breathe freer.

Such was the Yellow Tavern when I went there in the spring of 1864. Is it different to-day? Do human beings laugh there? I know not; but I know that nothing could make it cheerful in my eyes. It was, and is, and ever will be, a thing accursed!

For the military reader, however, a few words in reference to the topographical features of the locality are necessary.

Yellow Tavern is at the forks of the Telegraph and Mountain roads, six miles from Richmond. The Telegraph road runs north and south--over this road Stuart marched. The Mountain road comes into it from the northwest. By this road Sheridan was coming.

Open the left hand, with the palm upward; the index finger pointing north. The thumb is the Mountain road; the index-finger the Telegraph road; where the thumb joins the hand is the Yellow Tavern in open fields; and Richmond is at the wrist.

Toward the head of the thumb is a wood. Here Wickham, commanding Stuart's right, was placed, his line facing the Mountain road so as to strike the approaching enemy in flank.

From Wickham's left, or near it, Stuart's left wing, under Lomax, extended along the Telegraph road to the Tavern--the two lines thus forming an obtuse angle.

On a hill, near Lomax's right, was Breathed with his guns.

The object of this disposition of Stuart's force will be seen at a glance. Lomax, commanding the left, was across the enemy's front; Wickham, commanding the right, was on their flank; and the artillery was so posted as to sweep at once the front of both Stuart's wings.

The enemy's advance would bring them to the first joint of the thumb.

There they would receive Lomax's fire in front; Wickham's in flank; and Breathed's transversely. The cross fire on that point, over which the enemy must pa.s.s, would be deadly. Take a pencil, reader, and draw the diagram, and lines of fire. That will show Stuart's excellent design.

Stuart had reached Yellow Tavern, and made his dispositions before the arrival of Sheridan, who was, nevertheless, rapidly advancing by the Mountain road. Major McClellan, adjutant-general, had been sent to General Bragg, with a suggestion that the latter should attack from the direction of the city, at the moment when the cavalry a.s.sailed the Federal flank. All was ready.

It was the morning of May 11th, 1864.

Never was scene more beautiful and inspiring. The men were jaded, like their horses; but no heart shrank from the coming encounter. Stretching in a thin line from the tavern into the woods on the right of the Mountain road, the men sat their horses, with drawn sabres gleaming in the sun; and the red battle-flags waved proudly in the fresh May breeze, as though saluting Stuart, who rode in front of them.

Such was the scene at Yellow Tavern. The moment had come. At about eight, a stifled hum, mixed with the tramp of hoofs, was heard. Then a courier came at a gallop, from the right, to Stuart. The enemy were in sight, and advancing rapidly.

Stuart was sitting his horse near Yellow Tavern when that intelligence reached him. He rose in his saddle, took his field-gla.s.ses from their leathern case, and looked through them in the direction of the woods across the Mountain road.

Suddenly, quick firing came on the wind--then, loud shouts. Stuart lowered his gla.s.ses, shut them up, replaced them in their case, and drew his sabre.

Never had I seen him present an appearance more superb. His head was carried proudly erect, his black plume floated, his blue eyes flashed--he was the _beau ideal_ of a soldier, and as one of his bravest officers[1] afterward said to me, looked as if he had resolved on "victory or death." I had seen him often aroused and strung for action. On this morning he seemed on fire, and resembled a veritable king of battle.

[Footnote 1: Breathed.]

Suddenly, the skirmish line of the enemy appeared in front of the woods, and a quick fire was opened on Stuart's sharp-shooters under Colonel Pate, in the angle of the two roads; Stuart hastened to take the real initiative. He posted two guns on a rising ground in the angle, and opened a heavy fire; and galled by this fire, the enemy suddenly made a determined charge upon the guns.

Stuart rose in his stirrups and gazed coolly at the heavy line advancing upon him, and forcing Pate's handful back.

"Take back the guns!" he said.

They were limbered up, and went off rapidly.

At the same moment Colonel Pate appeared, his men obstinately contesting every foot of ground as they fell back toward the Telegraph road, where a deep cut promised them advantage.

Colonel Pate was a tall, fair-haired officer, with a ready smile, and a cordial bearing. He and Stuart had bitterly quarrelled, and the general had court-martialed the colonel. It is scarcely too much to say that they had been deadly enemies.

For the first time now, since their collision, they met. But on this day their enmity seemed dead. The two men about to die grasped each other's hands.

"They are pressing you back, colonel!" exclaimed Stuart.

"Yes, general, I have but three skeleton squadrons! and you see their force."

"You are right. You have done all that any man could. Can you hold this cut?"

"I will try, general."

Their glances crossed. Never was Stuart's face kinder.

"If you say you will, you will do it! Hold this position to the last, colonel."

"I'll hold it until I die, general."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

With a pressure of the hand they parted.

Fifteen minutes afterward, Pate was dead. Attacked at once in front and on both flanks in the road, his little force had been cut to pieces. He fell with three of his captains, and his handful were scattered.

Stuart witnessed all, and his eye grew fiery.

"Pate has died the death of a hero!"[1] he exclaimed.

[Footnote 1: His words.]

"Order Wickham to dismount his brigade, and attack on the right!" he added to Lieutenant Garnett, aid-de-camp. Twenty minutes afterward, Wickham's men were seen advancing, and driving the enemy before them.

This relieved the left, and Wickham continued to push on until he struck up against a heavy line behind rail breastworks in the woods.

He then fell back, and each side remained motionless, awaiting the movement of the other.

Such was the preface to the real battle of Yellow Tavern,--the species of demonstration which preluded the furious grapple.

Stuart's melancholy had all vanished. He was in splendid spirits. He hastened back his artillery to the point from which it had been driven, and soon its defiant roar was heard rising above the woods.