Chancellorsville.     

       Stuart continued to gaze at me, and I could see his eyes slowly fill with tears.     

       “It is a national calamity!” he murmured. “Jackson’s loss is irreparable!”{1}     

       {Footnote 1: His words.}     

       He remained for a moment gazing into my face, then passing his hand over his forehead, he banished by a great effort these depressing memories. His bold features resumed their habitual cheerfulness.     

       Our dialogue was brief, and came rapidly to the point.     

       “Have you been assigned to duty yet, my dear Surry?”      

       “I have not, general.”      

       “Would you like to come with me?”      

       “More than with any general in the army, since Jackson’s death. You know I am sincere in saying that.”      

       “Thanks—then the matter can be very soon arranged, I think. I want another inspector-general, and want you.”      

       With these words Stuart seated himself at his desk, wrote a note, which, he dispatched by a courier to army head-quarters; and then throwing aside business, he began laughing and talking.     

       For once the supply of red tape in Richmond seemed temporarily exhausted. Stuart was Lee’s right hand, and when he made a request, the War Office deigned to listen. Four days afterward, I was seated under the canvas of a staff tent, when Stuart hastened up with boyish ardor, holding a paper.     

       “Here you are, old Surry,”—when he used the prefix “old” to any one’s name, he was always excellently well disposed toward them,—“the Richmond people are prompt this time. Here is your assignment—send for Sweeney and his banjo! He shall play ‘Jine the Cavalry!’ in honor of the occasion, Surry!”      

       You see now, my dear reader, how it happened that in June, 1863, Stuart beckoned to me, and gave me an order to transmit to General Mordaunt.     

  

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