This is not
a history, friend--only a poor little memoir. I show you our daily
lives, more than the "great events" of history. That is the way the
brave Butler and his South Carolinians amused themselves--and the
figure of this soldier is worth placing amid my group of "paladins." He
was brave--none was braver; thoroughbred--I never saw a man more so.
His sword had flashed at Fleetwood, and in a hundred other fights; and
it was going to flash to the end.
I pushed on after the pony race, and very soon had penetrated the belt
of shadowy pines which clothe the banks of the Rowanty, making of this
country a wilderness as singular almost as that of Spottsylvania. Only
here and there appeared a small house, similar to that of Mr.
Alibi's--all else was woods, woods, woods! Through the thicket wound
the "military road" of General Hampton; and I soon found that his
head-quarters were at a spot which I had promised myself to
visit--"Disaway's."
Two hours' ride brought me to the place. Disaway's was an old mansion,
standing on a hill above the Rowanty, near the "Halifax bridge," by
which the great road from Petersburg to North Carolina crosses the
stream. It was a building of considerable size, with wings, numerous
gables, and a portico; and was overshadowed by great oaks, beneath
which gleamed the tents of Hampton and his staff.
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