ever anyone “looked his part,” James Ewell Brown Stuart looked his.
Everyone but his men called him “Jeb” and among this army of mismatched
men, uniform only in their lack of uniformity, shoeless, frayed and
worn, Jeb Stuart was a resplendent prince amongst retched paupers. He
wore polished boots to the knee, highlighted on occasion with spurs
of gold. His tunic was trimmed with garish amounts of garland and brass
and the full thick beard and mustache were always elegantly curled and
groomed even in the heat of battle.
But the vanities of vanities were the hat and the cape.
up on one side and plumed on the other, the broad brimmed hat was always
noticed first, at least while he was standing still -- which was seldom.
But the cape, the exquisite gray cape, trimmed with gold and lined with
blood-red silk, that was the grandest touch of all. It flew behind him
like a flag unfurled and told who saw, “This, by God, is a cavalryman.
And a hell of a one at that.”
men called him “Beauty.”
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