For Lee is going to strike at him. The fifty thousand are going to order the one hundred and forty thousand to halt. Stuart’s cavalry is watching. It extends from Madison Court-House, along Robertson River, on the left of the army; and on the right, from Ewell’s camps, past Chancellorsville, to Fredericksburg. Such was the situation on the first of May. The two tigers were watching each other--and one was about to spring. XVII. FORT DELAWARE. To descend now from the heights of generalization to the plains of incident and personal observation. For this volume is not a history of the war in Virginia, but the memoirs of a staff officer belonging to Stuart’s cavalry. May, 1864, had come; we were soon to be in the saddle; the thundering hammer of General Grant was about to commence its performances. One night--it was the night of the first of May--I was sitting in General Stuart’s tent, looking into his blazing log fire, and musing. In this luxury I was not interrupted. It was nearly midnight, and the rest of the staff had retired. Stuart was writing at his desk, by the light of a candle in a captured “camp candlestick,” and from time to time, without turning his head, ejaculated some brief words upon any subject which came into his head. After writing ten minutes, he now said briefly:-- “Surry.” “General,” was my as brief response.” “I think Mohun was a friend of yours?” “Yes, general, we became intimate on the march to Gettysburg.” “Well, I have just received his commission--” “You mean as--” “Brigadier-general. You know I long ago applied for it.” “I knew that--pity he has not been exchanged.” “A great pity,--and you miss a pleasure I promised myself I would give you.” “What pleasure, general?” “To take Mohun his commission with your own hands.” “I am truly sorry I can not. You know he was terribly wounded, and we had to leave him in Warrenton; then the enemy advanced; for a long time we thought him dead. Thus I am sorry I am debarred the pleasure you offer. Some day I hope to accept your offer.” “Accept it now, colonel,” said a benignant voice at the door. I turned suddenly, as did the general. At the opening of the tent, a head was seen--the head passed through--was followed by a body,--and Mr. Nighthawk, private and confidential emissary, glided in with the stealthy step of a wild-cat. He was unchanged. His small eyes were as piercing, his smile as benignant, his costume--black coat, white cravat, and “stove-pipe” hat--as clerical as before. “Good evening, gentlemen,” said Mr. Nighthawk, smiling sweetly; “I bring news of Colonel Mohun.” “And fly in like an owl, or your namesake!” laughed Stuart. “An owl? I am told that is the bird of wisdom, gentlemen!” “You hit the nail on the head, when you said ‘gentlemen!’”[1] replied Stuart, laughing; “but how about Mohun? Is he exchanged, Nighthawk?” [Footnote 1: A favorite phrase of Stuart’s.] And Stuart wheeled round and pointed to a chair.