The morning of the 6th of May was ushered in with thunder.
The battle of the preceding day had been a sort of “feeler”—now the real struggle came.
By a curious coincidence, Grant and Lee both began the attack and at the same hour. At five o’clock in the morning the blue and gray ranks rushed together, and opened fire on each other. Or rather, they fired when they heard each others’ steps and shouts. You saw little in that jungle.
I have already spoken more than once of this sombre country—a land of undergrowth, thicket, ooze; where sight failed, and attacks had to be made by the needle, the officers advancing in front of the line with drawn—compasses!
The assaults here were worse than night fighting; the combats strange beyond example. Regiments, brigades, and divisions stumbled on each other before they knew it; and each opened fire, guided alone by the crackling of steps in the bushes. There was something weird and lugubrious in such a struggle. It was not a conflict of men, matched against each other in civilized warfare. Two wild animals were prowling, and hunting each other in the jungle. When they heard each others’ steps, they sprang and grappled. One fell, the other fell upon him. Then the conqueror rose up and went in pursuit of other game—the dead was lost from all eyes.
In this mournful and desolate country of the Spottsylvania Wilderness, did the bloody campaign of 1864 begin. Here, where the very landscape seemed dolorous; here, in blind wrestle, as at midnight, did 200,000 men, in blue and gray, clutch each other—bloodiest and weirdest of encounters.
War had had nothing like it. Destruction of life had become a science, and was done by the compass.
The Genius of Blood, apparently tired of the old common-place mode of killing, had invented the “Unseen Death,” in the depths of the jungle.
On the morning of May 6th, Lee and Grant had grappled, and the battle became general along the entire line of the two armies. In these rapid memoirs I need only outline this bitter struggle—the histories will describe it.
Lee was aiming to get around the enemy’s left, and huddle him up in the thicket—but in this he failed.
Just as Longstreet, who had arrived and taken part in the action, was advancing to turn the Federal flank on the Brock road, he was wounded by one of his own men; and the movement was arrested in mid career.
But Lee adhered to his plan. He determined to lead his column in person, and would have done so, but for the remonstrances of his men.
“To the rear!” shouted the troops, as he rode in front of them; “to the rear!”
And he was obliged to obey.
He was not needed.
The gray lines surged forward: the thicket was full of smoke and quick flashes of flame: then the woods took fire, and the scene of carnage had a new and ghastly feature added to it. Dense clouds of smoke rose, blinding and choking the combatants: the flames crackled, soared aloft, and were blown in the men’s faces; and still, in the midst of this frightful array of horrors, the carnival of destruction went on without ceasing.
At nightfall, General Lee had driven the enemy from their front line of works—but nothing was gained.
What could be gained in that wretched country, where there was nothing but thicket, thicket!
General Grant saw his danger, and, no doubt, divined the object of his adversary,—to arrest and cripple him in this tangle-wood, where numbers did not count, and artillery could not be used.
There was but one thing to do—to get out of the jungle.
So, on the day after this weird encounter, in which he had lost nearly 20,000 men, and Lee about 8,000, Grant moved toward Spottsylvania.
The thickets of the Wilderness were again silent, and the blue and gray objects in the undergrowth did not move.
The war-dogs had gone to tear each other elsewhere.
In the din and smoke of that desperate grapple of the infantry, I have lost sight of the incessant cavalry combats which marked each day with blood.
And now there is no time to return to them. A great and sombre event drags the pen. With one scene I shall dismiss those heroic fights—but that scene will be superb.
Does the reader remember the brave Breathed, commanding a battalion of the Stuart horse artillery? I first spoke of him on the night preceding Chancellorsville, when he came to see Stuart, at that time he was already famous for his “do-or die” fighting. A Marylander by birth, he had “come over to help us:” had been the right-hand man of Pelham; the favorite of Stuart; the admiration of the whole army for a courage which the word “reckless” best describes;—and now, in this May, 1864, his familiar name of “Old Jim Breathed,” bestowed by Stuart, who held him in high favor, had become the synonym of stubborn nerve and élan, unsurpassed by that of Murat. To fight his guns to the muzzles, or go in with the sabre, best suited Breathed. A veritable bull-dog in combat, he shrank at nothing, and led everywhere. I saw brave men in the war—none braver than Breathed. When he failed in any thing, it was because reckless courage could not accomplish it.
He was young, of vigorous frame, with dark hair and eyes, and tanned by sun and wind. His voice was low, and deep; his manners simple and unassuming; his ready laugh and off-hand bearing indicated the born soldier; eyes mild, friendly, and full of honesty. It was only when Breathed was fighting his guns, or leading a charge, that they resembled red-hot coals, and seemed to flame.
To come to my incident. I wish, reader, to show you Breathed; to let you see the whole individual in a single exploit. It is good to record things not recorded in “history.” They are, after all, the real glory of the South of which nothing can deprive her. I please myself, too, for Breathed was my friend. I loved and admired him—and only a month or two before, he had made the whole army admire—and laugh with—him too.
See how memory leads me off! I am going to give ten words, first, to that incident which made us laugh.
In the last days of winter, a force of Federal cavalry came to make an attack on Charlottesville—crossing the Rapidan high up toward the mountains, and aiming to surprise the place. Unfortunately for him, General Custer, who commanded the expedition, was to find the Stuart horse artillery in winter quarters near. So sudden and unexpected was Custer’s advance, that the artillery camps were entirely surprised. At one moment, the men were lying down in their tents, dozing, smoking, laughing—the horses turned out to graze, the guns covered, a profound peace reigning—at the next, they were running to arms, shouting, and in confusion, with the blue cavalry charging straight on their tents, sabre in hand.
Breathed had been lounging like the rest, laughing and talking with the men. Peril made him suddenly king, and, sabre in hand, he rushed to the guns, calling to his men to follow.
With his own hands he wheeled a gun round, drove home a charge, and trained the piece to bear upon the Federal cavalry, trampling in among the tents within fifty yards of him.
“Man the guns!” he shouted, in his voice of thunder. “Stand to your guns, boys! You promised me you would never let these guns be taken!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
A roar of voices answered him. The bull-dogs thrilled at the voice of the master. Suddenly the pieces spouted flame; shell and canister tore through the Federal ranks. Breathed was everywhere, cheering on the cannoneers. Discharge succeeded discharge; the ground shook: then the enemy gave back, wavering and losing heart.
Breathed seized the moment. Many of the horses had been caught and hastily saddled. Breathed leaped upon one of them, and shouted:—
“Mount!”
The men threw themselves into the saddle—some armed with sabres, others with clubs, others with pieces of fence-rail, caught up from the fires.
“Charge!” thundered Breathed.
At the head of his men, he lead a headlong charge upon the Federal cavalry, which broke and fled in the wildest disorder, pursued by the ragged cannoneers, Breathed in front, with yells, cheers, and cries of defiance.
They were pursued past Barboursville to the Rapidan, without pause. That night Stuart went after them: their officers held a council of war, it is said, to decide whether they should not bury their artillery near Stannardsville, to prevent is capture. On the day after this, they had escaped.
In passing Barboursville, on their return from Charlottesville, one of the Federal troopers stopped to get a drink of water at the house of a citizen.
“What’s the matter?” asked the citizen.
“Well, we are retreating.”
“Who is after you?”
“Nobody but old Jim Breathed and his men, armed with fence-rails."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
Such was one of a dozen incidents in Breathed’s life. Let me come to that which took place near Spottsylvania Court-House.
Grant had moved, as we have seen, by his left flank toward that place. General Fitzhugh Lee opposed him on the way, and at every step harassed the head of the Federal column with his dismounted sharp-shooters and horse artillery. Near Spottsylvania Court-House, it was the stand made by Fitz Lee’s cavalry that saved the position, changing the aspect of the whole campaign.
Sent by Stuart with a message to the brave “General Fitz,” I reached him near Spottsylvania Court-House, at the moment when he had just ordered his cavalry to fall back slowly before the advancing enemy, and take a new position in rear.
Two guns which had been firing on the enemy were still in battery on a hill; upon these a heavy Federal skirmish line was steadily moving: and beside the guns, Breathed and Fitzhugh Lee sat their horses, looking coolly at the advancing line.
“Give them a round of canister, Breathed!” exclaimed General Fitz Lee.
Breathed obeyed, but the skirmish line continued bravely to advance. All at once, there appeared in the woods behind them, a regular line of battle advancing, with flags fluttering.
To remain longer on the hill was to lose the guns. The bullets were whizzing around us, and there was but one course left—to fall back.
“Take the guns off, Breathed!” exclaimed the general; “there is no time to lose! Join the command in the new position, farther down the road!”
Breathed looked decidedly unwilling.
“A few more rounds, general!”
And turning to the men, he shouted:—
“Give them canister!”
At the word, the guns spouted flame, and the canister tore through the line of skirmishers, and the Federal line of battle behind; but it did not check them. They came on more rapidly, and the air was full of balls.
“Look out for the guns, Breathed! Take them off!” exclaimed the general.
Breathed turned toward one of the pieces, and ordered:—
“Limber to the rear!”
The order was quickly obeyed.
“Forward!”
The piece went off at a thundering gallop, pursued by bullets.
“Only a few more rounds, general!” pleaded Breathed; “I won’t lose the guns!”
“All right!”
As he spoke, the enemy rushed upon the single gun.
Breathed replied by hurling canister in their faces. He sat his horse, unflinching. Never had I seen a more superb soldier.
The enemy were nearly at the muzzle of the piece.
“Surrender!” they were heard shouting; “surrender the gun!” Breathed’s response was a roar, which hurled back the front rank.
Then, his form towering amid the smoke, his eyes flashing, his drawn sabre whirled above his head, Breathed shouted,—
“Limber up!”
The cannoneers seized the trail; the horses wheeled at a gallop; the piece was limbered up; and the men rushed down the hill to mount their horses, left there.
Then around the gun seemed to open a volcano of flame. The Federal infantry were right on it. A storm of bullets cut the air. The drivers leaped from the horses drawing the piece, thinking its capture inevitable, and ran down the hill.
In an instant they had disappeared. The piece seemed in the hands of the enemy—indeed, they were almost touching it—a gun of the Stuart horse artillery for the first time was to be captured!
That thought seemed to turn Breathed into a giant. As the drivers disappeared, his own horse was shot under him, staggered, sunk, and rolled upon his rider. Breathed dragged himself from beneath the bleeding animal, rose to his feet, and rushing to the lead horses of the gun, leaped upon one of them, and struck them violently with his sabre to force them on.
As he did so, the horse upon which he was mounted fell, pierced by a bullet through the body.
Breathed fell upon his feet, and, with the edge of his sabre, cut the two leaders out of the traces. He then leaped upon one of the middle horses—the gun being drawn by six—and started off.
He had not gone three paces, when the animal which he now rode fell dead in turn. Breathed rolled upon the ground, but rising to his feet, severed the dead animal and his companion from the piece, as he had done the leaders.
He then leaped upon one of the wheel-horses—these alone being now left—struck them furiously with his sabre—started at a thundering gallop down the hill—and pursued by a hail-storm of bullets, from which, as General Lee says in his report, “he miraculously escaped unharmed,” carried off the gun in safety, and rejoined the cavalry, greeted by a rolling thunder of cheers.
Such was the manner in which Breathed fought his artillery, and the narrative is the barest and most simple statement of fact.
Breathed came out of the war a lieutenant-colonel only. Napoleon would have made him a marshal.
More than one stirring incident marked those days of desperate fighting, when, barricading all the roads, and charging recklessly, Stuart opposed, at every step, Grant’s advance toward the Po.
But I can not describe those incidents. They must be left to others. The pen which has paused to record that exploit of Breathed, is drawn onward as by the hand of Fate toward one of those scenes which stand out, lugubrious and bloody, from the pages of history.
From the moment when Grant crossed the Rapidan, Stuart had met the horsemen of Sheridan everywhere in bitter conflict; and the days and nights had been strewed all over with battles.
Now, on the ninth of May, when the two great adversaries faced each other on the Po, a more arduous service still was demanded of the great sabreur. Sheridan had been dispatched to sever General Lee’s communications, and, if possible, capture Richmond. The city was known to be well nigh stripped of troops, and a determined assault might result in its fall. Sheridan accordingly cut loose a heavy column, took command of it in person, and descended like a thunderbolt toward the devoted city.
No sooner, however, had he begun to move, than Stuart followed on his track. He had no difficulty in doing so. A great dust-cloud told the story. That cloud hung above the long column of Federal cavalry, accompanied it wherever it moved, and indicated clearly to Stuart the course which his adversary was pursuing.
If he could only interpose, with however small a force, between Sheridan and Richmond, time would be given for preparation to resist the attack, and the capital might be saved. If he failed to interpose, Sheridan would accomplish his object—Richmond would fall.
It was a forlorn hope, after all, that he could arrest the Federal commander. General Sheridan took with him a force estimated at 9,000. Stuart’s was, in all, about 3,000; Gordon, who was not in the battle at Yellow Tavern, included. That action was fought by Fitz Lee’s division of 2,400 men all told. But the men and officers were brave beyond words; the incentive to daring resistance was enormous; they would do all that could be done.
Such was the situation of affairs on the 9th of May, 1864.
Stuart set out at full gallop on his iron gray, from Spottsylvania Court-House, about three o’clock in the day, and reached Chilesburg, toward Hanover Junction, just as night fell.
Here we found General Fitz Lee engaged in a hot skirmish with the enemy’s rear-guard; and that night Stuart planned an attack upon their camp, but abandoned the idea.
His spirits at this time were excellent, but it was easy to see that he realized the immense importance of checking the enemy.
An officer said in his presence:—
“We won’t be able to stop Sheridan.”
Stuart turned at those words; his cheeks flushed; his eyes flamed, and he said:—
“No, sir! I’d rather die than let him go on!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words}
On the next morning, he moved in the direction of Hanover Junction; riding boot to boot with his friend General Fitz Lee. I had never seen him more joyous. Some events engrave themselves forever on the memory. That ride of May 10th, 1864, was one of them.
Have human beings a presentiment, ever, at the near approach of death? Does the shadow of the unseen hand ever reveal itself to the eye? I know not, but I know that no such presentiment came to Stuart; no shadow of the coming event darkened the path of the great cavalier. On the contrary, his spirits were buoyant beyond example, almost; and, riding on with General Fitz Lee, he sang in his gallant voice his favorite ditties “Come out of the Wilderness!” and “Jine the Cavalry!”
As he rode on thus, he was the beau ideal of a cavalier. His seat in the saddle was firm; his blue eyes dazzling; his heavy mustache curled with laughter at the least provocation. Something in this man seemed to spring forward to meet danger. Peril aroused and strung him. All his energies were stimulated by it. In that ride through the May forest, to attack Sheridan, and arrest him or die, Stuart’s bearing and expression were superbly joyous and inspiring. His black plume floated in the spring breeze, like some knight-errant’s; and he went to battle humming a song, resolved to conquer or fall.
Riding beside him, I found my eyes incessantly attracted to his proud face; and now I see the great cavalier as then, clearly with the eyes of memory. What a career had been his! what a life of battles!
As we went on through the spring woods, amid the joyous songs of birds, all the long, hard combats of this man passed before me like an immense panorama. The ceaseless scouting and fighting in the Shenandoah Valley; the charge and route of the red-legged “Zouaves” at Manassas; the falling back to the Peninsula, and the fighting all through Charles City; the famous ride around McClellan; the advance and combats on the Rapidan and Rappahannock, after Cedar Mountain; the night attack on Catlett’s, when he captured Pope’s coat and papers; the march on Jackson’s flank, and the capture of Manassas; the advance into Maryland; the fights at Frederick, Crampton’s, and Boonsboro’, with the hard rear-guard work, as Lee retired to Sharpsburg; his splendid handling of artillery on the left wing of the army there; the retreat, covered by his cavalry; the second ride around McClellan, and safe escape from his clutches; the bitter conflicts at Upperville and Barbee’s, as Lee fell back; the hard fighting thereafter, on the banks of the Rappahannock; the “crowding ‘em with artillery,” on the night of Fredericksburg; the winter march to Dumfries; the desperate battle at Kelly’s Ford; the falling back before Hooker; the battle of Chancellorsville, when he succeeded Jackson; the stubborn wrestle of Fleetwood; the war of giants below Upperville; the advance across Maryland into Pennsylvania, when the long march was strewed all over with battles, at Westminister, Hanover, Carlisle, Gettysburg, where he met and repulsed the best cavalry of the Federal army; the retreat from Gettysburg, with the tough affair near Boonsboro’; guarding the rear of the army as it again crossed the Potomac; then the campaign of October, ending with Kilpatrick’s route at Buckland; the assault on Meade’s head of column, when he came over to Mine Run; the bold attack on his rear there; and the hard, incessant fighting since Grant had come over to the Wilderness;—I remembered all these splendid scenes and illustrious services as I rode on beside Stuart, through the fields and forests of Hanover, and thought, “This is one of those great figures which live forever in history, and men’s memories!”
To-day, I know that I was not mistaken, or laboring under the influence of undue affection and admiration. That figure has passed from earth, but still lives!
Stuart is long dead, and the grass covers him; but there is scarce a foot of the soil of Virginia that does not speak of him. He is gone, but his old mother is proud of him—is she not?
Answer, mountains where he fought—lowlands, where he fell—river, murmuring a dirge, as you foam through the rocks yonder, past his grave!
Let me rapidly pass over the events of the tenth of May.
Gordon’s little brigade had been ordered to follow on the rear of the enemy, while Fitz Lee moved round by Taylorsville to get in front of them.
Stuart rode and met Gordon, gave the brave North Carolinian, so soon to fall, his last orders; and then hastened back to Fitz Lee, who had continued to press the enemy.
They had struck the Central railroad, but the gray cavaliers were close on them. Colonel Robert Randolph, that brave soul, doomed like Gordon, charged them furiously here, took nearly a hundred prisoners, and drove them across the road.
At this moment Stuart returned, and pushed forward toward Taylorsville, from which point he intended to hasten on and get in their front.
About four in the afternoon we reached Fork church, and the command halted to rest.
Stuart stretched himself at full length, surrounded by his staff, in a field of clover; and placing his hat over his face to protect his eyes from the light, snatched a short sleep, of which he was very greatly in need.
The column again moved, and that night camped near Taylorsville, awaiting the work of the morrow.
At daylight on the 11th, Stuart moved toward Ashland. Here he came up with the enemy; attacked them furiously, and drove them before him, and out of the village, killing, wounding, and capturing a considerable number.
Then he put his column again in motion, advanced rapidly by the Telegraph road toward Yellow Tavern, a point near Richmond, where he intended to intercept the enemy—the moment of decisive struggle, to which all the fighting along the roads of Hanover had only been the prelude, was at hand.
Stuart was riding at the head of his column, looking straight forward, and with no thought, apparently, save that of arriving in time.
He was no longer gay. Was it the coming event; was it the loss of sleep; the great interest at stake; the terrible struggle before him? I know not; but he looked anxious, feverish, almost melancholy.
“My men and horses are tired, jaded, and hungry, but all right,” he had written to General Bragg, from Ashland.
And these words will serve in large measure to describe the condition of the great commander himself.
I was riding beside him, when he turned to me and said, in a low tone:—
“Do you remember a conversation which we had at Orange, Surry, that night in my tent?”
“Yes, general.”
“And what I said?”
“Every word is engraved, I think, upon my memory.”
“Good. Do not let one thing ever escape you. Remember, that I said what I say again to-day, that ‘Virginia expects every man to do his duty!’”
“I will never forget that, general.”
He smiled, and rode on. For half a mile he was silent. Then I heard escape from his lips, in a low, musing voice, a refrain which I had never heard him sing before—
{Footnote 1: Real}
I know not why, but that low sound made me shiver.
Yellow Tavern! At the mention of that name, a sort of tremor agitates me even to-day, when nearly four years have passed.
In my eyes, the locality is cursed. A gloomy cloud seems ever hanging over it. No birds sing in the trees. The very sunshine of the summer days is sad there.
But I pass to my brief description of the place, and the event which made it one of the black names in Southern history.
Yellow Tavern is an old dismantled hostelry, on the Brook road, about six miles from Richmond. Nothing more dreary than this desolate wayside inn can be imagined. Its doors stand open, its windows are gone, the rotting floor crumbles beneath the heel, and the winds moan through the paneless sashes, like invisible spirits hovering near and muttering some lugubrious secret. “This is the scene of some deed of darkness!” you are tempted to mutter, as you place your feet upon the threshold. When you leave the spot behind you, a weight seems lifted from your breast—you breathe freer.
Such was the Yellow Tavern when I went there in the spring of 1864. Is it different to-day? Do human beings laugh there? I know not; but I know that nothing could make it cheerful in my eyes. It was, and is, and ever will be, a thing accursed!
For the military reader, however, a few words in reference to the topographical features of the locality are necessary.
Yellow Tavern is at the forks of the Telegraph and Mountain roads, six miles from Richmond. The Telegraph road runs north and south—over this road Stuart marched. The Mountain road comes into it from the northwest. By this road Sheridan was coming.
Open the left hand, with the palm upward; the index finger pointing north. The thumb is the Mountain road; the index-finger the Telegraph road; where the thumb joins the hand is the Yellow Tavern in open fields; and Richmond is at the wrist.
Toward the head of the thumb is a wood. Here Wickham, commanding Stuart’s right, was placed, his line facing the Mountain road so as to strike the approaching enemy in flank.
From Wickham’s left, or near it, Stuart’s left wing, under Lomax, extended along the Telegraph road to the Tavern—the two lines thus forming an obtuse angle.
On a hill, near Lomax’s right, was Breathed with his guns.
The object of this disposition of Stuart’s force will be seen at a glance. Lomax, commanding the left, was across the enemy’s front; Wickham, commanding the right, was on their flank; and the artillery was so posted as to sweep at once the front of both Stuart’s wings.
The enemy’s advance would bring them to the first joint of the thumb. There they would receive Lomax’s fire in front; Wickham’s in flank; and Breathed’s transversely. The cross fire on that point, over which the enemy must pass, would be deadly. Take a pencil, reader, and draw the diagram, and lines of fire. That will show Stuart’s excellent design.
Stuart had reached Yellow Tavern, and made his dispositions before the arrival of Sheridan, who was, nevertheless, rapidly advancing by the Mountain road. Major McClellan, adjutant-general, had been sent to General Bragg, with a suggestion that the latter should attack from the direction of the city, at the moment when the cavalry assailed the Federal flank. All was ready.
It was the morning of May 11th, 1864.
Never was scene more beautiful and inspiring. The men were jaded, like their horses; but no heart shrank from the coming encounter. Stretching in a thin line from the tavern into the woods on the right of the Mountain road, the men sat their horses, with drawn sabres gleaming in the sun; and the red battle-flags waved proudly in the fresh May breeze, as though saluting Stuart, who rode in front of them.
Such was the scene at Yellow Tavern. The moment had come. At about eight, a stifled hum, mixed with the tramp of hoofs, was heard. Then a courier came at a gallop, from the right, to Stuart. The enemy were in sight, and advancing rapidly.
Stuart was sitting his horse near Yellow Tavern when that intelligence reached him. He rose in his saddle, took his field-glasses from their leathern case, and looked through them in the direction of the woods across the Mountain road.
Suddenly, quick firing came on the wind—then, loud shouts. Stuart lowered his glasses, shut them up, replaced them in their case, and drew his sabre.
Never had I seen him present an appearance more superb. His head was carried proudly erect, his black plume floated, his blue eyes flashed—he was the beau ideal of a soldier, and as one of his bravest officers{1} afterward said to me, looked as if he had resolved on “victory or death.” I had seen him often aroused and strung for action. On this morning he seemed on fire, and resembled a veritable king of battle.
{Footnote 1: Breathed.}
Suddenly, the skirmish line of the enemy appeared in front of the woods, and a quick fire was opened on Stuart’s sharp-shooters under Colonel Pate, in the angle of the two roads; Stuart hastened to take the real initiative. He posted two guns on a rising ground in the angle, and opened a heavy fire; and galled by this fire, the enemy suddenly made a determined charge upon the guns.
Stuart rose in his stirrups and gazed coolly at the heavy line advancing upon him, and forcing Pate’s handful back.
“Take back the guns!” he said.
They were limbered up, and went off rapidly.
At the same moment Colonel Pate appeared, his men obstinately contesting every foot of ground as they fell back toward the Telegraph road, where a deep cut promised them advantage.
Colonel Pate was a tall, fair-haired officer, with a ready smile, and a cordial bearing. He and Stuart had bitterly quarrelled, and the general had court-martialed the colonel. It is scarcely too much to say that they had been deadly enemies.
For the first time now, since their collision, they met. But on this day their enmity seemed dead. The two men about to die grasped each other’s hands.
“They are pressing you back, colonel!” exclaimed Stuart.
“Yes, general, I have but three skeleton squadrons! and you see their force.”
“You are right. You have done all that any man could. Can you hold this cut?”
“I will try, general.”
Their glances crossed. Never was Stuart’s face kinder.
“If you say you will, you will do it! Hold this position to the last, colonel.”
“I’ll hold it until I die, general."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
With a pressure of the hand they parted.
Fifteen minutes afterward, Pate was dead. Attacked at once in front and on both flanks in the road, his little force had been cut to pieces. He fell with three of his captains, and his handful were scattered.
Stuart witnessed all, and his eye grew fiery.
“Pate has died the death of a hero!”{1} he exclaimed.
{Footnote 1: His words.}
“Order Wickham to dismount his brigade, and attack on the right!” he added to Lieutenant Garnett, aid-de-camp. Twenty minutes afterward, Wickham’s men were seen advancing, and driving the enemy before them. This relieved the left, and Wickham continued to push on until he struck up against a heavy line behind rail breastworks in the woods.
He then fell back, and each side remained motionless, awaiting the movement of the other.
Such was the preface to the real battle of Yellow Tavern,—the species of demonstration which preluded the furious grapple.
Stuart’s melancholy had all vanished. He was in splendid spirits. He hastened back his artillery to the point from which it had been driven, and soon its defiant roar was heard rising above the woods.
At the same moment a courier galloped up.
“What news?”
“A dispatch from Gordon, general.”
Stuart took it and read it with high good humor.
“Gordon has had a handsome little affair this morning,” he said; “he has whipped them.”
And looking toward the northwest—
“I wish Gordon was here,"{1} he said.
{Footnote 1: His words.}
The guns continued to roar, and the enemy had not again advanced. It was nearly four o’clock. Night approached.
But the great blow was coming.
Stuart was sitting his horse near the guns, with Breathed beside him. Suddenly the edge of the woods on the Mountain road swarmed with blue horsemen. As they appeared, the long lines of sabres darted from the scabbards; then they rushed like a hurricane toward the guns.
The attack was so sudden and overpowering, that nothing could stand before it. For a short time the men fought desperately, crossing sabres and using their pistols. But the enemy’s numbers were too great. The left was driven back. With triumphant cheers, the Federal troopers pressed upon them to drive them completely from the field.
Suddenly, as the men fell back, Stuart appeared, with drawn sabre, among them, calling upon them to rally. His voice rose above the fire, and a wild cheer greeted him.
The men rallied, the enemy were met again, sabre to sabre, and the field became a scene of the most desperate conflict.
Stuart led every charge. I shall never forget the appearance which he presented at that moment; with one hand he controlled his restive horse, with the other he grasped his sabre; in his cheeks burned the hot blood of the soldier.
“Breathed!” he exclaimed.
“General!”
“Take command of all the mounted men in the road, and hold it against whatever may come! If this road is lost, we are gone!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
Breathed darted to the head of the men and shouted:—
“Follow me!”
His sword flashed lightning, and digging the spur into his horse, he darted ahead of the column, disappearing in the middle of a swarm of enemies.
A superb sight followed. Breathed was seen in the midst of the Federal cavalry defending himself, with pistol and sabre, against the blows which were aimed at him on every side.
He cut one officer out of the saddle; killed a lieutenant with a pistol ball; was shot slightly in the side, and a sabre stroke laid open his head. But five minutes afterward he was seen to clear a path with his sabre, and reappear, streaming with blood.{1}
{Footnote: This incident, like all here related as attending this battle, is rigidly true.}
The momentary repulse effected nothing. The enemy re-formed their line, and again charged the guns, which were pouring a heavy fire upon them. As they rushed forward, the hoofs of their horses shook the ground. A deafening cheer arose from the blue line.
Stuart was looking at them, and spurred out in front of the guns. His eyes flashed, and, taking off his brown felt hat, he waved it and cheered.
Then he wheeled to take command of a column of Lomax’s men, coming to meet the charge.
They were too late. In a moment the enemy were trampling among the guns. All but one were captured, and that piece was saved only by the terror of the drivers. They lashed their horses into a gallop, and rushed toward the Chickahominy, followed by the cannoneers who were cursing them, and shouting:—
“For God’s sake, boys, let’s go back! They’ve got Breathed! Let’s go back to him!”{1}
{Footnote 1: Their words.}
That terror of the drivers, which the cannoneers cursed so bitterly, ended all. The gun, whirling on at wild speed, suddenly struck against the head of the column advancing to meet the enemy. A war-engine hurled against it could not have more effectually broken it. Before it could re-form the enemy had struck it, forced it back; and then the whole Federal force of cavalry was hurled upon Stuart.
His right, where Fitz Lee commanded in person, was giving back. His left was broken and driven. The day was evidently lost; and Stuart, with a sort of desperation, rushed into the midst of the enemy, calling upon his men to rally, and firing his pistol in the faces of the Federal cavalrymen.
Suddenly, one of them darted past him toward the rear, and as he did so, placed his pistol nearly on Stuart’s body, and fired.
As the man disappeared in the smoke, Stuart’s hand went quickly to his side, he reeled in the saddle, and would have fallen had not Captain Dorsay, of the First Virginia Cavalry, caught him in his arms.
The bullet had passed through his side into the stomach, and wounded him mortally. In its passage, it just grazed a small Bible in his pocket. The Bible was the gift of his mother—but the Almighty had decreed that it should not turn the fatal bullet.
Stuart’s immense vitality sustained him for a moment. Pale, and tottering in the saddle, he still surveyed the field, and called on the men to rally.
“Go back,” he exclaimed, “and do your duty, as I have done mine! And our country will be safe!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
A moment afterward he called out again to the men passing him:—
“Go back! go back! I’d rather die than be whipped!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
The old lightning flashed from his eyes as he spoke. Then a mist passed over them; his head sank upon his breast; and, still supported in the saddle, he was led through the woods toward the Chickahominy.
Suddenly, Fitzhugh Lee, who had been stubbornly fighting on the right, galloped up, and accosted Stuart. His face was flushed, his eyes moist.
“You are wounded!” he exclaimed.
“Badly,” Stuart replied, “but look out, Fitz! Yonder they come!”
A glance showed all. In the midst of a wild uproar of clashing sabres, quick shots, and resounding cries, the Federal cavalry were rushing forward to overwhelm the disordered lines.
Stuart’s eye flashed for the last time. Turning to General Fitzhugh Lee, he exclaimed in a full, sonorous voice:—
“Go ahead, Fitz, old fellow! I know you will do what is right!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
This was the last order he ever gave upon the field. As he spoke, his head sank, his eyes closed, and he was borne toward the rear.
There was scarcely time to save him from capture. His wound seemed to have been the signal for his lines to break. They had now given way everywhere—the enemy were pressing them with loud shouts. Fighting with stubborn desperation, they fell back toward the Chickahominy, which they crossed, hotly pressed by the victorious enemy.
Stuart had been placed in an ambulance and borne across the stream, where Dr. Randolph and Dr. Fontaine made a brief examination of his wound. It was plainly mortal—but he was hastily driven, by way of Mechanicsville, into Richmond.
His hard fighting had saved the city. When Sheridan attacked, he was repulsed.
But the capital was dearly purchased. Twenty-four hours afterward Stuart was dead.
{Illustration: DEATH OF STUART}
The end of the great cavalier had been as serene as his life was stormy. His death was that of the Christian warrior, who bows to the will of God, and accepts whatever His loving hand decrees for him.
He asked repeatedly that his favorite hymns should be sung for him; and when President Davis visited him, and asked:—
“General, how do you feel?”
“Easy, but willing to die,” he said, “if God and my country think I have fulfilled my destiny, and done my duty."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
As night came, he requested his physician to inform him if he thought he would live till morning. The physician replied that his death was rapidly approaching, when he faintly bowed his head, and murmured:—
“I am resigned, if it be God’s will. I should like to see my wife, but God’s will be done."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
When the proposed attack upon Sheridan, near Mechanicsville, was spoken of in his presence, he said:—
“God grant that it may be successful. I wish I could be there.” *
Turning his face toward the pillow, he added, with tears in his eyes, “but I must prepare for another world."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
Feeling now that his end was near, he made his last dispositions.
“You will find in my hat,” he said to a member of his staff, “a little Confederate flag, which a lady of Columbia, South Carolina, sent me, requesting that I would wear it on my horse in battle, and return it to her. Send it to her."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
He gave then the name of the lady, and added:—
“My spurs—those always worn in battle—I promised to give to Mrs. Lily Lee, at Shepherdstown. My sabre I leave to my son.”
His horses and equipments were then given to his staff—his papers directed to be sent to his wife.
A prayer was then offered by the minister at his bedside: his lips moved as he repeated the words. As the prayer ended he murmured:—
“I am going fast now—I am resigned. God’s will be done!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
As the words escaped from his lips, he expired.