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The Hospital Steward–even he
(Sacred in person as a priest),
And on his coat-sleeve broidered nice
Wore the caduceus, black and green.
No wonder he sat so light on his beast;
This cheery man in suit of price
Not even Mosby dared to slice.

They pass the picket by the pine
And hollow log–a lonesome place;
His horse adroop, and pistol clean;
‘Tis cocked–kept leveled toward the wood;
Strained vigilance ages his childish face.
Since midnight has that stripling been
Peering for Mosby through the green.

Splashing they cross the freshet-flood,
And up the muddy bank they strain;
A horse at the spectral white-ash shies–
One of the span of the ambulance,
Black as a hearse. They give the rein:
Silent speed on a scout were wise,
Could cunning baffle Mosby’s spies.

Rumor had come that a band was lodged
In green retreats of hills that peer
By Aldie (famed for the swordless charge[B]).
Much store they’d heaped of captured arms
And, peradventure, pilfered cheer;
For Mosby’s lads oft hearts enlarge
In revelry by some gorge’s marge.

“Don’t let your sabres rattle and ring;
To his oat-bag let each man give heed–
There now, that fellow’s bag’s untied,
Sowing the road with the precious grain.
Your carbines swing at hand–you need!
Look to yourselves, and your nags beside,
Men who after Mosby ride.”

Picked lads and keen went sharp before–
A guard, though scarce against surprise;
And rearmost rode an answering troop,
But flankers none to right or left.
No bugle peals, no pennon flies:
Silent they sweep, and fail would swoop
On Mosby with an Indian whoop.

On, right on through the forest land,
Nor man, nor maid, nor child was seen–
Not even a dog. The air was still;
The blackened hut they turned to see,
And spied charred benches on the green;
A squirrel sprang from the rotting mill
Whence Mosby sallied late, brave blood to spill.

By worn-out fields they cantered on–
Drear fields amid the woodlands wide;
By cross-roads of some olden time,
In which grew groves; by gate-stones down–
Grassed ruins of secluded pride:
A strange lone land, long past the prime,
Fit land for Mosby or for crime.

The brook in the dell they pass. One peers
Between the leaves: “Ay, there’s the place–
There, on the oozy ledge–’twas there
We found the body (Blake’s you know);
Such whirlings, gurglings round the face–
Shot drinking! Well, in war all’s fair–
So Mosby says. The bough–take care!”

Hard by, a chapel. Flower-pot mould
Danked and decayed the shaded roof;
The porch was punk; the clapboards spanned
With ruffled lichens gray or green;
Red coral-moss was not aloof;
And mid dry leaves green dead-man’s-hand
Groped toward that chapel in Mosby-land.

They leave the road and take the wood,
And mark the trace of ridges there–
A wood where once had slept the farm–
A wood where once tobacco grew
Drowsily in the hazy air,
And wrought in all kind things a calm–
Such influence, Mosby! bids disarm.

To ease even yet the place did woo–
To ease which pines unstirring share,
For ease the weary horses sighed:
Halting, and slackening girths, they feed,
Their pipes they light, they loiter there;
Then up, and urging still the Guide,
On, and after Mosby ride.

This Guide in frowzy coat of brown,
And beard of ancient growth and mould,
Bestrode a bony steed and strong,
As suited well with bulk he bore–
A wheezy man with depth of hold
Who jouncing went. A staff he swung–
A wight whom Mosby’s wasp had stung.