JEB Stuart's Maryland Raid

HARPER'S WEEKLY.

[NOVEMBER 1, 1862.

698

THE REBEL RAID IN MARYLAND.

ON pages 696 and 697 we reproduce a sketch, by Mr. A. R. Waud, representing STUART'S REBEL CAVALRY on the Poolesville Road, returning from their recent raid. On page 693 we publish three more pictures on the same subject, from sketches by Mr. Davis. One of these shows the quiet little town of CHAMBERSBURG, which surrendered to the rebels on their approach. They spent the night there, and finding a large quantity of soldiers' clothing in one of the stores, helped themselves to it freely. One of Mr. Davis's pictures shows us the rebels casting off their tattered and filthy butternut attire, and equipping themselves in the comfortable costumes provided for our soldiers. In the morning they fired the railway buildings and a large store-house containing a quantity of Government stores, including the ammunition lately captured from Longstreet. This forms the subject of Mr. Davis's third picture.

This rebel raid—during which some 2000 cavalry completely "circumnavigated" the whole of the army of the Potomac, crossing the river above our right, passing through Chambersburg, making a complete circuit behind McClellan, and finally returning into Virginia below our left, without losing a dozen men in the operation—is one of the most surprising feats of the war. The rebels bagged a large quantity of clothing, boots, and arms; they likewise carried off some 500 horses. Some authorities estimate the property destroyed and seized by them at $800,000. The following account of the marauders is published in the Washington Star:

A man who arrived here this morning from near Conrad's Ferry states that he was in the presence of General Stuart a few minutes before he crossed the river with his marauding force in retreat from Pennsylvania. Stuart informed him, in a sarcastic manner, he had fooled the whole party, but regretted he had not accomplished what was intended when he started, as he was expected to reach Frederick, Maryland, destroying the Government stores at that point, then destroying the bridge over the Monocacy river; but that all things taken into consideration, he had carried out his programme with much success. Stuart's men and horses looked extremely exhausted, but the former were in high glee, and from the looks of the clothing on their horses, and that which they had on their persons, and that which they had tied on their extra stolen horses, which numbered about 1000, a change would be very acceptable, especially shoes and boots, of which they had a large quantity. General Stuart sent his compliments to a number of United States officers with whom he was acquainted in old times.

The Herald correspondent at Frederick thus speaks of their escape:

The termination of the rebel cavalry raid did not result in their capture, or any considerable portion of them, as had been hoped.

The cavalry force under General Pleasanton, which passed through this city at daylight on Sunday morning, reached the vicinity of Poolesville a short time before the main body of the rebels. Both men and horses had had a very hard jaunt, the men having been in the saddle and on the road almost constantly from the time the fact of the rebels having crossed the river became known, consequently neither of them were in condition to render as efficient service as they otherwise might.

The rebels soon made their appearance, and posted one gun on a hill, so placed as to cover their passage. Our battery was placed in position, and an attempt made to silence this gun. The firing was kept up at intervals for about three hours, without, as far as is known, doing any damage to either side.

It is said that no attempt was made to fire upon the cavalry while they were crossing the river, which might easily have been done, neither was there any attempt made to charge upon them by our cavalry and repulse them. This can only be accounted for upon the supposition that the horses were too much exhausted to warrant such an attempt. Upon any other hypothesis the conduct of our cavalry would seem to have been most disgraceful to themselves and the service.

Persons who were present and saw the affair, state that the rebel gun was supported only by about twenty cavalry men.

The crossing occupied some three or four hours, and from first to last met with no serious opposition. The rebels went on their way with their plunder, no doubt surprised as well as rejoicing at having escaped so easily. There was, in fact, nothing which could be called even a skirmish, and but for the artillery practice obtained our troops might as well have been at Harper's Ferry.

THE WAYSIDE HOUSE.

THE traveler who passes along the H— road can hardly fail to remark a house of most melancholy appearance on his right. Nothing cheers that dreary old house, sinking deeper year by year into decay and desolation. The glass is gone from every window, and there are boards nailed across the openings. Where the stucco has not fallen away it is stained with mould, or hidden with a growth of yellow lichen. Nature has tried to do her gracious part, and made a few grasses spring even on. the highest window-sills, and a little ivy creep about the walls, but she has only enhanced the general sadness.

Many, many years ago, in that bay window, now almost hidden by the tangled boughs, a father and daughter lingered over the breakfast-table. It was late in the summer, and the shadow of thick leaves made a shelter from the sun, while the air was heavy with perfume from the well-kept flower-beds. There was an air of comfort and even of wealth about every thing, from the chased silver and exquisite china on the table to the rich dress of the young lady. The dark silken folds fell like the robes of a queen round her tall figure, and accorded well with the stately beauty of her face and head. The dark hair smoothly braided, the deeply-set eyes with their heavy fringes, the short upper lip and well-developed chin, the finely-moulded throat set off by the lace collar and knot of rose-color, the rich glow that pervaded cheek and lip, all combined to make Honoria Calvert a beautiful woman. Her father certainly thought her so as he watched her pouring out his tea with a grace and dignity that might have beseemed an empress.

"Did I tell you I met an old friend yesterday, Honoria?" asked Mr. Calvert.

"No, Sir; who was it?"

"I hardly know whether you can recollect him, it is so long ago; but he was a pupil of old Brown's when we lived at Hundon, and he sometimes dined with us on Sundays. You were but five or six years old, and he was a great lad of sixteen. His name is Benham."

"Oh yes, I remember him," answered Honoria, with a smile; "Archer Benham used to swing me and let me ride on his shoulder. He was a merry, good-natured boy."

"Well, he seems a pleasant young man enough," said Mr. Calvert, "and I told him we should be happy to see him here. If he should call this afternoon, ask him to stay and dine. I will bring Ellis back with me to make a fourth."

Honoria bowed assent—she was usually chary of her words—but she looked pleased, for she had an agreeable recollection of her old play-fellow, and she liked society and amusement. After luncheon she opened one of Beethoven's sonatas, and labored vigorously at its complicated chords and chromatic runs, appreciating and enjoying the difficulty, though she missed the beauty.

"Well done!" exclaimed a manly voice, when at length she paused for a little rest; and turning round, she saw a gentleman, whom she easily guessed to be Mr. Benham.

"Pray forgive me," he said, "I am afraid I startled you. I was duly announced, but your grand music drowned my humble name."

She held out her hand and gave him welcome. "I think I should have known you," she said, looking steadily into his face; "you are very little altered, only older and taller."

He shook back his light brown hair and twirled his mustache with an air of good-humored self-complacency, and then said,

"I hardly think I should have known you."

"I was so much younger," Honoria replied, turning away with a slight blush at the compliment his looks implied. He soon glided into a subject less personal, and when Mr. Calvert returned, bringing his old friend Mr. Ellis, he found the young pair strolling side by side in the shrubbery, as amicably as they might have done in those old days of which they had been speaking, when Honoria was six years old.

The evening passed away cheerfully, Mr. Ellis, who held a confidential situation in the banking-house in which Mr. Calvert was a partner, was sensible and well-bred; and while he talked politics with his employer the young people discussed themes more interesting. There was music, too, to beguile the time. Mr. Benham had a rich tenor voice, and though Honoria could not sing, she could accompany him brilliantly. She could talk of poetry also, more eloquently, perhaps, than if she had felt it more deeply, Certain it is that, as Archer Benham rode slowly home, his thoughts were busy with Honoria's image.

"She is a glorious creature to look at," he said, half aloud, "and the father's a gentlemanly fellow enough. Now every body is out of town, it won't be a bad thing to ride this way occasionally. I shouldn't like to offend her, but how splendid she would look in a rage!"

Such were his reflections; but with Honoria life was a more serious matter. She had enjoyed that evening's conversation; she had uttered more of what was really in her heart than she was accustomed to do; her imagination had been warmed and excited by her companion's descriptions of foreign travel, and her ear charmed by the rich tones of his voice.

"That's a pleasing young man," remarked her father; "you seemed to like him, Honoria, and I hope he will come again. He sings well, doesn't he? I'm no judge."

Honoria ignored the question, gave her father his nightly kiss, and retired to her chamber. She shut her door on the outer world, extinguished her taper, and went to the open window, leaning out to gaze over the quiet meadow-land sleeping in the moonlight. There was a half-smile on her lips as she murmured,

"Have I met my fate to-day ? I could almost think so. All was yesterday so stagnant, so dull, and now— Why is it all so changed?"

Days, weeks, and months passed on, and Archer Benham's frequent visits had become matters of course. Very commonly Honoria rode toward London in the afternoon to meet her father, and she had learned now to be surprised when he was alone. She was a noble figure on horseback, and Archer had one day playfully given her the title of "Empress," by which he now commonly addressed her. Mr. Calvert observed all that passed, and made no objection. The young man was a clerk in the Foreign Office, with a small salary; but he was nephew and heir to Sir Archer Benham, of Benham Hall, in Norfolk, and therefore a very eligible match, even for the stately Honoria. As yet he never spoke of love; but his attentions could be construed into only one meaning, and Mr. Calvert complacently awaited the event, ready to give his consent and blessing when the proper moment should arrive.

Meantime how was it with Honoria herself? She was living in a dream of happiness, which she would not pause to analyze. Enough to know, when she rose in the morning, that she should see him ere nightfall; or, if he came not, enough to think of all he said in their last ride, or in the twilight stroll in the shrubbery, or—as autumn waned —at the fireside, or by the piano. Enough to think out long trains of reasoning suggested by some slight remark of his, and to look out over the broad meadows, and know he would soon return. For on that summer day when Archer Benham first came to the old house Honoria had "met her fate," and now she smiled to feel that it was so.

Did he love her? She never asked herself the question; but it sometimes occurred to Archer himself, and received a doubtful sort of reply. He liked her society—her conversation always so animated with him; her beauty so brightened and almost glorified by her present happiness. He might, he thought, be drifting on toward matrimony; if so, well and good. It did not much matter; but, at all events, she was handsome enough for an empress, and clever enough too, and no doubt her father would give her a good portion; so, if she should take a fancy to him, why, all parties would be very well pleased.

So time passed on, and Christmas was coming

near. One evening Mr. Calvert had brought Archer in his carriage from London to make one of an unusually large dinner-party. Honoria came down with her father just before the other guests arrived, and Archer started from his seat to receive her. She never dressed like others of her age, but in a picturesque style of her own, and on this occasion she wore ruby-colored velvet, with a coronet of chased gold beads on her head.

"You are glorious to-night, Empress!" exclaimed Archer; "allow me to tender my homage. I can not greet you as an ordinary mortal;" and he knelt on one knee and kissed her hand. Her father smiled, and, turning her toward the light, said, "Well, you are very handsome to-night, my dear, though I say it."

"Thank you, papa; it is something to get a compliment from you," said Honoria; and then, to change the subject, she asked if he had read the letter she had put in his room.

"Susie's letter do you mean? Yes. Little darling, how glad I shall be to see her at home again!" "And who may Susie be?" asked Archer.

"Susie is my sister," replied Honoria.

"Your sister! Do you mean to say you have a sister? You never told me so," he exclaimed.

"I wonder you never spoke of Susie in all your talks," observed Mr. Calvert. "She is my only other child, and she leaves school at Christmas, to my great joy; for she is a sweet, loving little creature, and the image of her poor mother."

A silence fell on the three. The father's thoughts were full of his little girl; Archer was wondering how it was that Honoria had never spoken of her sister—her young, only sister. It did not seem amiable or kind. Honoria felt the cloud of doubt that came over him. She might have told him it was because he had never seen Susie; because her own mind had been full of him and his interests, that she had never mentioned her little sister; but perhaps it is always a part of the punishment of idolatry such as hers to be misunderstood by its object.

The guests arrived; the momentary cloud dispersed; and Archer could not but admire the perfect grace with which Honoria presided at the feast. He noticed, however, that, though perfectly polite to all, she seemed intimate with none of the ladies present; and he remarked this to her when some of them were playing and singing.

"Does it surprise you?" she said, slightly shrugging her shoulders. "I am quite used to it. We beauties have no friends. No woman ever loved me except my mother, who is dead and gone, and little Susie—if I may call that scrap of humanity a woman."

Again Archer was a little startled. He did not like a sarcastic woman. He began to be glad he had never spoken of love to this hard beauty, who had no friends.

She saw the shadow again; and with her most winning smile, said,

"I am tired of all this insipid music. Come and sing your best, and I will play for you."

He did sing—in those full, rich tones that found an echo in her heart. The music was one of Mozart's most touching melodies, and Honoria's proud eyes were filled with tears when she looked up to thank him. It was the sweetest flattery, and might have led him to commit himself by some tender speech, but that Mr. Calvert drew near.

"That is really beautiful, Benham!" he said. "We must have some duets when Susie comes."

"What! does Susie sing?" asked Archer.

"She always had a sweet little voice," replied the father; "and now she has been taking lessons, and they say she sings uncommonly well."

The idea of singing duets with a little girl fresh from school was not very attractive to a musician of Archer's pretensions; but he promised to try, if Honoria would still play the accompaniments. He was going to his uncle's for Christmas, but on his return he would call and bring some music with him to try Susie's voice.

In the second week in January he came. The lamp was lighted, the crimson curtains drawn, and the fire burning cheerily, as he entered the drawing-room. Mr. Calvert was up stairs preparing for dinner. Honoria, in a dress of some rich shawl pattern, leaned back in an easy-chair; and on a cushion at her feet nestled a little figure, almost a child in size, with fair face and light hair, her little hand laid lovingly on Honoria's lap, her blue eyes looking dreamily into Honoria's face. Both started at Archer's approach.

"Welcome!" said Honoria, giving him her hand. "I am very glad you are returned. This," she continued, turning to the little figure now shyly standing beside her—"this is my sister Susie; and this, Susie, is our friend Mr. Benham."

Archer took the little childish hand, only half-extended to him, and clasped it kindly as he looked down with interest on the gentle, blushing girl. Honoria watched him, and a fierce pang shot through her heart. He had many a time looked at herself with admiration, with amusement, even with kindness; but that look of interest was an expression she had never seen in his face before. What did it mean?

Mr. Calvert soon joined them, and Archer dined with the family. Susie was petted by her father, and her shyness soon abated, so that she gave him playful answers and joined sometimes in the general conversation. Honoria was unusually grave, and Archer saw Susie glance uneasily at her occasionally.

"What ails the Empress?" he said, at last; "your majesty is silent to-day. Are you wearied with the festivities of the season?"

"No," Honoria said, with a faint smile; "we have been very quiet."

"I thought very young ladies had parties at this time of the year," he continued, with a sly glance at Susie.

"Indeed, Mr. Benham," Susie said, laughing, "I am not a very young lady now. It is very hard, because one has an empress for a sister, that one is to pass for a child when one is a young woman of eighteen."

"I beg ten thousand pardons," said Archer. "I had no idea I was offending the dignity of eighteen years. I shall be more discreet for the future."

After dinner the piano was opened, and Susie was coaxed to sing. Truly had her father spoken when he said her voice was sweet. There was a pathos in its tones that went straight to the hearer's heart—a tender sadness that brought tears to the eyes. When she sang alone, and the full, pleading tones rose thrilling and clear, Archer listened with hushed breath. Not a note escaped him. Honoria saw it, as she accompanied her sister, and her heart sank with dreary apprehension. Then came duet after duet, the two lovely voices blending in exquisite harmony. Mr. Calvert was beside himself with delight.

"Is it not beautiful, Honoria?" he said; "only I thought you played those last chords a little too loud. Of course, you know best; but it seems to me they ought to die away with the voices."

"I am tired," Honoria said, abruptly, pushing back her chair; "my head aches, and I can play no more. So, if you want any more music, you must play your own accompaniments, Susie."

Archer thought her rude and ill-humored. Alas! from what bitter anguish of heart does a woman's seeming ill-humor sometimes spring! Susie was kinder.

"How good of you, dear, to play for us so long! How selfish we have been! Of course, we won't sing any more. Sit here and let me bathe your head."

Her pretty carefulness was charming, and Archer watched it with a smile, forgetting to express regret for the pains he was trying to soothe. It was past bearing. Harshly forbidding Susie to follow, Honoria said she would go to her room. She only needed darkness and quiet. It was a very trifling headache, and no one need be disturbed about it. Archer held the door open as she swept out, and expressed a hope she would soon be better.

"I fear you are worse than you will acknowledge," he whispered, as she passed him, and he caught sight of her troubled face. She stopped, called all her pride to her aid, and smiled.

"It is nothing, I assure you. Good-night."

And she shook hands.

Her fingers were cold as ice, and he could not forget the expression of her countenance a moment before; but his reflections were soon disturbed by Mr. Calvert, who begged for one more song, and silenced all Susie's objections by the assurance that Honoria could not hear it in her room.

Meantime Honoria had locked her door, thrown aside the heavy curtains, and opened the window at which she had stood dreaming so happily a few short months ago. It was a wild, stormy night. The meadows were covered here and there with patches of snow; the wind wailed drearily, and dark clouds were driving over the moon, which shone out at intervals with keen brightness above the saddened landscape. The bitter air was welcome to Honoria's heated brow. She could have shrieked an answer to the wild wind; her eyes were full of despair, as the moonlight fell upon then. She wrung her hands in anguish.

"It is coming," she muttered; "I know it is corning. Fool, fool that I have been, not to foresee this—not to know that he never loved me! O God! I have staked all my happiness, all my peace, and he cares not for me. He will love her. I see it; I know it; and I must wear a smiling face, day after day, day after day. Oh! if I might die! if I might die!"

Passionate moans and inarticulate cries gave way at last to a burst of tears, and then she heard the muffled sound of music from below. It was plain he did not care; and Susie, too, was heartless, inconsiderate, unfeeling, to sing when her sister was ill and suffering. But her passion was exhausted now, and had given place to an intense self-pity. She closed the window with a shudder, drew the curtains, and prepared for bed. Susie's gentle voice pleaded in vain for admittance; and only a cold "good-night" answered Mr. Calvert's kindly inquiries.

This was the spirit in which Honoria met her heavy trial—the heaviest, perhaps, that could be laid on a nature like hers. She had seen the truth. Archer found a charm in Susie's gentleness that all Honoria's beauty could not equal. His heart was touched as it had never been touched before. All that was best in him was called forth by this young, tender creature, who could but love him in return for his devotion, and for the thousand good qualities she very naturally saw in him. Oh! what days and weeks of torture for Honoria! Stifling down, with the power of her strong will, the anguish of her jealousy, she wore a smiling face in spite of her aching heart. She received Archer as a friend, and talked to him as of old, when her sister was not by. Susie was so occupied with the strange new joy of being beloved that she had seldom time to wonder at Honoria's wayward manner—sometimes so full of affection toward herself, sometimes so cold and stern as almost to frighten her gentler spirit. Still the crisis had not come. Archer had not spoken of love, and he never saw Susie alone. There was to be yet one more drop of bitterness in Honoria's cup. Archer had forgotten, as it is easy for men to do, those old times when he had dreamed of the possibility of making Honoria his wife. Now she was only Susie's sister, and as such, of course, his friend. He could find no opportunities of speaking to Susie. If he offered her a note, how her large blue eyes would open still wider with wonder! He would speak to Honoria. She loved her sister, and would know all about her feelings, and speak for him. So he watched for an occasion, and soon found it.

"You know so well what admiration is, fair Empress," he began; but Honoria shrank away, as if she had been stung. "Forgive me," he continued; "perhaps that address is impertinently familiar. I only meant that, used as you are to homage, you must know what my feelings are toward your sister. She is so young and gentle, I am half afraid to speak to her; but if you will stand my friend I shall be eternally grateful to you." (Next Page)