JACK SWAN was the best swordsman in the regiment—probably the best in the army. Jack was a Marylander, who came south singing “My Maryland,” and heartily believing in the assertion of that song that
“She breathes, she burns, she’ll come, she’ll come,
Maryland, my Maryland!”
Like most men from border states he represented a house divided against itself. In his case the division was peculiarly distressing.
He was an enthusiastic Southerner. His twin brother was an equally enthusiastic Union man. The one was in the one army as a matter of conscience, and the other in the other for precisely the same reason. It was always a grief to Jack that this separation had come between him and the curly-headed twin brother, with whom he had slept in infancy, and who had been his comrade until that terrible fratricidal war had parted them.
He used to talk with us about it around the camp-fire, and was especially sad over it when any of us managed to get off for a day or a week to visit our homes. His home was beyond the lines; and in all that country for which he was fighting there was no human being whom he could call kin.
He had this comfort, however, that his brother and he were never likely to meet in the conflict of arms. For to avoid that the brother had betaken himself to the West and was serving in Mississippi. But there was always the terrible chance that in the shifting of troops they two might some day, unknown to each other, be fighting on opposite sides of the same field. That, in fact, is what happened at Brandy Station, and it happened more dramatically than either of the brothers had anticipated.
The conflict at Brandy Station was perhaps the greatest cavalry fight of the war. It was the one contest in which large bodies of armed and trained horsemen, under the greatest cavalry leaders on either side, met fairly in conflict with little or no interference from troops of other arms.
It was the only contest of the kind, so far as I know, in which highly expert swordsmen met each other fairly in single combat. There was on both sides a chivalric feeling akin to that of the “knights of old,” which prompted men not to interfere when two well-matched cavaliers met each other with naked blades.
Jack Swan was naturally eager for a fray of this sort. He knew and mightily rejoiced in his superb skill with the sabre.
He watched anxiously for his opportunity. Presently it came.
A singularly lithe young fellow from one of the Northern regiments met and slew, in the open field, one of our officers. Thereupon Jack turned to his captain and said: “If I have your leave, captain, I’d like to try conclusions with that young fellow myself. He seems to know how to handle sharp steel.”
The captain nodded assent, and Jack put spurs to his horse. The two men met in midfield. They crossed swords as a couple of gladiators might, while a thousand eyes watched anxiously for the result.
It was manifestly to be a contest of experts, a battle of the giants, for both men were above the average in height and weight, and both knew every trick of the sabre.
Their swords drew fire from each other’s edge at the first onset.
Then they paused strangely and looked at each other. Then Jack deliberately threw his sabre upon the ground and uncovered his head.
His adversary could have run him through on the instant, but the action of Jack seemed to give him pause. He stopped with his sword poised at the tierce thrust. He leant forward eagerly and gazed into the calm eyes of the Confederate. Then he, too, abandoning his purpose, threw his weapon to the ground.
We were all eagerness and curiosity; and neither our eagerness nor our curiosity was relieved when the two men grasped each other’s hand, swung their horses around, and each returned unarmed to his own line.
When Jack rode up he had just six words of explanation to make.
“That man,” he said, “is my twin brother.”
That seemed to be all there was to say. “Blood is thicker than water.”