The South, the section that had
followed Jefferson's dream, was now at a great disadvantage. It had no
ships, and it did not have the mills to equip it for the great war it was
waging. He realized more keenly than ever the one-sided nature of the
South's development.
The general turned his horse toward the banks of the Rapidan, and a
resplendent figure came forward to meet him. It was that incarnation of
youth and fantastic knighthood, Jeb Stuart, who had just returned from a
ride toward the north. He wore a new and brilliant uniform and the usual
broad yellow sash about his waist. His tunic was embroidered, too,
and his epaulets were heavy with gold. The thick gold braid about his
hat was tied in a gorgeous loop in front. His hands were encased in long
gloves of the finest buckskin, and he tapped the high yellow tops of his
riding boots with a little whip.
Harry always felt that Stuart did not really belong to the present.
His place was with the medieval knights who loved gorgeous armor, who
fought by day for the love of it and who sat in the evening on the castle
steps with fair ladies for the love of it, and who in the dark listened
to the troubadours below, also for the love of it. A great cavalry
leader, he shone at his brightest in the chase, and, when there was no
fighting to be done, his were the spirits of a boy, and he was as quick
for a prank as any lad under his own command.
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