Major Fairfax was then of middle age, tall, courtly and rather impressive. He had attached himself at once to Longstreet, and took charge of his mess and small wants, presented him with a superb mount, and did the best he could with his new military duties. He lacked nothing in courage; was brave and would go anywhere. But Fairfax had two distinctions—he was the most pious of churchmen and was a born bon vivant, knowing and liking good things. Whiskey later was hard to get, yet he managed to have always a good supply on hand.
He is now a hale and hearty man, wonderfully well preserved.
It was Fairfax, as I said, that provided the feast, drawing the richest materials from his beautiful broad pastures in Loudoun. Everything was plentiful in that stage of the war and much liquor and wine were consumed. Johnston, G. W. Smith, Van Dorn, Beauregard, and others of high rank were present, and we had great merriment and singing.
Suddenly came a clash of steel in the crowded room. Longstreet, with great quickness, had thrown a pair of swords out of the window. Dr. Cullen and Captain Walton, both of his staff (too much wine taken), had suddenly quarreled, and Walton had given the doctor a blow in the face. Longstreet's quick movement disposed of the matter for the time, but it could not so end. After the entertainment, and when done with some hard racing and leaping by the wilder young mounted officers, Colonel Ransome Calhoun of South Carolina called on Major Walton. It was to demand a meeting in expiation of the blow. Walton referred Calhoun to me, and our pourparler opened most courteously. He was an admirable gentleman, and but for his good sense and forbearance there must have been an ugly meeting. My difficulties were increased by Longstreet, who, suspecting something, ordered me to put a stop to the whole affair, adding that I was chief of the staff and would be held responsible were not a hostile meeting avoided. We managed to close the thing by explanations from Cullen and regrets from Walton. Both men seemed well satisfied. Colonel Calhoun, of whom I then formed a high opinion, returned to duty at Charleston, and there incurred the enmity of Colonel Rhett. After some time, and many efforts of friends to bring about a better feeling, they met with pistols, and Calhoun was killed. A high-minded, honorable gentleman! Walton was quite a friend of mine.
Walton was quite a friend of mine and fond of me. Gifted with uncommon intellectual attainments, the favorite scholar of L. Q. C. Lamar at the University of Mississippi, he was of the most uncertain, unexpected temper and exactions; he could be dangerous at times, and only the greatest firmness held him in check until the humor passed off and then he was all lovely. When the war ended he returned to Mississippi, quarreled with a man, and killed him. Moving to Alabama he found himself in the thick of the yellow fever epidemic of 1878. Dropping all personal interests he devoted himself wholly to the sick and dying, until himself struck down by death. His memory is sweet in that part of the State.
One day, as the winter came on, Longstreet sent for me. "The men will want amusement and entertainment the long winter days," he said. "We must get them up a theater and a good company. See to it at once and lose no time. Issue such orders as may be necessary." That was all, and quite easy for the General. Draw a theater and company, properties and all out of one's pocket like a ripe apple! But it could be done with the resources of a division of infantry at one's hand, and I set about it at once. The colonels each received a note asking help and details from the ranks of actors with some experience. They were sure to be found there. But more than all, I wanted a manager, and he soon came out of the First Virginia Infantry to take charge of the play. It was Theodore Hamilton, an actor of some experience. I have met him in several places acting since the peace, and he always comes to me as an old friend, although he was not to tread the boards at the "Centerville Theater."
"Now, Captain," he said, "for scenery and properties. You have the building, I have the company; what about the rest?" It was easy; painters were found in the ranks for scenery, and many of the officers chipping in, we got together enough money to send Hamilton to Richmond to get the costumes and properties. I don't think he made the most of his time there, but he got something, and after many delays we began to think we should see some acting after all. But alas! just then, Johnston, discovering McClellan's movements to the Peninsula, broke up his camp, his officers destroying needlessly an immense amount of valuable supplies, and off we marched merrily to face our old friend, the young Napoleon. Such was the beginning and the end of our first and only attempt at theatricals.
It was while we were about Centerville that a great change came over Longstreet. He was rather gay in disposition with his chums, fond of a glass, and very skilful at poker. He, Van Dorn, and G. W. Smith were accustomed to play almost every night with T. J. Rhett, General Johnston's adjutant-general, and we sometimes heard of rather wild scenes amid these old army chums—all from West Point, all having served in Mexico and against the Indians. Longstreet's wife and children were at Richmond. He was devoted to them. Suddenly scarlet fever broke out and three of the children died within one week. He was with them, and some weeks after resumed his command a changed man. He had become very serious and reserved and a consistent member of the Episcopal Church. His grief was very deep and he had all our sympathies; later years lightened the memory of his sorrow and he became rather more like his old cheerful self, but with no dissipation of any kind.
Before parting with Centerville it should be said that my old troop, the Georgia Hussars, had at last got their services accepted and were brought to Richmond under my friend, Captain F. Waring, and mustered in for the war. They were thrown into a regiment known as the Jeff Davis Legion, commanded by Colonel Will T. Martin, which was to prove itself a fine body of horse.
While in quarters this winter there were several light falls of snow, a novelty to most of our Southern fellows. Not many of them were familiar with such descents from the clouds. There came, however, a storm anything but interesting. Snow was lying deep and camps were almost hidden.
My staff comrade, Peyton Manning, and myself decided it was the time for a sleigh ride of our own. No cutters were to be had, but we improvised one. Securing a stout, well-made box of good size, a plank seat in it for two made it the body of the fabric. Then the forests yielded a couple of slim saplings, which, bent at the ends over the fire, were not bad for runners. On these, braced and crossed, with shafts attached, our box, well elevated, was securely fastened, and there was our cutter. We settled that the team should be stylish and made it "tandem," in good extemporized harness. My charger was put in the shafts and Manning's in the lead, both high-spirited animals. Each horse was mounted by a small negro, postilion-fashion, good riders both, and supposed to add some safety as well as novelty to the equipage.
Manning undertook to handle the long reins from the bits, and we started, the observed of many curious, and amid the worst lot of evil prophecies of what would befall us that it was ever my fate to hear. The outfit took the road handsomely, cheered by the soldiers, our black postilions grinning with delight.
All went well for a time and then the devil himself broke loose! The spirit of the horses rising, especially that fiery brute of Manning's, they were off entirely beyond control. Over the deep-snowed roads and fields, across ditches and broken fences the gallant pair in mad race took everything on a full run, their postilions now ashy hue with terror and clinging like burs to the bounding animals. The finish came quickly. There seemed to be a sudden great fall of stars from the midday skies and Manning and I were hurled right and left into deep snow drifts, everything in pieces, horses and little niggers quite out of sight. Digging ourselves out we took a good look at each other and some ugly words were said; but although scratched and bruised no bones were broken, and we slowly trod our way back to camp, wiser if not better men from our first and last sleigh ride in old Virginia. The horses were brought back to quarters but never again were their black postilions seen in those parts.
CHAPTER III
Reminiscences and Horses
Visit to Mr. Francis Sorrel's country-seat—Interment of Captain Tillinghast, U. S. A.—Sir William Howard Russell, Times correspondent—McDowell and July 21st—Seward and the French princes—Army begins to march to Peninsula.
Not long