It is unsafe to wound the wild-boar, unless the wound be mortal. To change the figure, Grant had parried the almost mortal thrust of Lee; and now, with the famous hammer lifted and whirled aloft, aimed the final and decisive blow at the crest of his great adversary.
On Wednesday, March 29th, the Federal commander commenced the general movement, which had for its object the destruction of Lee’s right wing, and the occupation of the Southside road.
Before dawn, the masses of blue infantry began to move westward across the Rowanty, laying down bridges over the watercourses, as the columns passed on; and on the night of the same day, the corps of Humphreys and Warren were near Dinwiddie Court-House with their extreme right guarded, by Sheridan’s cavalry.
Such was the work of Wednesday. The great moment had evidently arrived. Lee penetrated at a single glance the whole design of his adversary; collected about fifteen thousand men, nearly half his army, and leaving Longstreet north of the James, and only a skirmish line around Petersburg, marched westward, beyond the Rowanty, to meet the enemy on the White Oak road.
On the morning of the 30th, all was ready for General Grant’s great blow. But the elements were hostile to the Federal side. In the night, a heavy rain had fallen. All day on the 30th, it continued to rain, and military movements were impossible. The two great opponents looked at each other,—lines drawn up for the decisive struggle.
On the 31st, Grant was about to open the attack on Lee, when that commander saved him the trouble. The Virginian seemed resolved to die in harness, and advancing.
The corps of Humphreys and Warren had advanced from Dinwiddie Court-House toward the Southside road, and Warren was in sight of the White Oak road, when, suddenly, Lee hurled a column against him, and drove him back. The Confederates followed with wild cheers, endeavoring to turn the enemy’s left, and finish them. But the attempt was in vain. Federal re-enforcements arrived. Lee found his own flank exposed, and fell back doggedly to the White Oak road again, having given the enemy a great scare, but effecting nothing.
As he retired, intelligence reached him that Sheridan’s cavalry were advancing upon Five Forks. That position was the key of the whole surrounding country. If Sheridan seized and occupied this great carrefour, Lee’s right was turned.
A column was sent without delay, and reached the spot to find Sheridan in possession of the place. Short work was made of him. Falling upon the Federal cavalry, Pickett and Fitzhugh Lee drove them back upon Dinwiddie—pushed rapidly after them—and, but for the terrible swamp, into which the late rains had converted the low grounds, would have followed them to the Court-House, and gotten in rear of the left wing of the Federal army.
That was the turning point. If Pickett and Fitz Lee had reached Dinwiddie court-house, and attacked in the enemy’s rear, while Lee assailed them in front, it is difficult to believe that the battle would not have resulted in a Confederate victory.
Such was the alarm of General Grant at the new aspect of affairs, that late at night he withdrew Warren, and ordered him to hurry toward Dinwiddie Court-House, to succor Sheridan in his hour of need. Then if our flanking column could have pushed on—if Lee had then advanced—but all this is idle, reader. Providence had decreed otherwise. The flanking column could not advance—at ten at night it was withdrawn by Lee—midnight found the two armies resting on their arms, awaiting the morning of the first of April.
I have endeavored to present a rapid, but accurate summary of the great events which took place on the lines around Petersburg, from the morning of the 29th of March, when General Grant began his general movement, to the night of the 31st, when he confronted Lee on the White Oak road, ready, after a day of incessant combat, which had decided little, to renew the struggle on the next morning for the possession of the Southside road.
This summary has been, of necessity, a brief and general one. For this volume has for its object, rather to narrate the fortunes of a set of individuals, than to record the history of an epoch, crowded with tragic scenes. I cannot here paint the great picture. The canvass and the time are both wanting. The rapid sketch which I have given will present a sufficient outline. I return, now, to those personages whose lives I have tried to narrate, and who were destined to reach the catastrophe in their private annals at the moment when the Confederacy reached its own.
I shall, therefore, beg the reader to leave the Confederate forces at bay on the White Oak road—the flanking column under Pickett and Johnson falling back on Five Forks—and accompany me to the house of the same name, within a mile of the famous carrefour, where, on the night of the 31st of March, some singular scenes are to be enacted.
It was the night fixed for Mohun’s marriage. I had been requested to act as his first groomsman; and, chancing to encounter him during the day, he had informed me that he adhered to his design of being married in spite of every thing.
When night came at last, on this day of battles, I was wearied out with the incessant riding on staff duty; but I remembered my promise; again mounted my horse; and set out for “Five Forks,” where, in any event, I was sure of a warm welcome.
Pushing on over the White Oak road, I turned southward at Five Forks, and riding on toward Judge Conway’s, had just reached the road coming in from Dinwiddie Court-House, when I heard a cavalier approaching from that quarter, at a rapid gallop.
He was darting by, toward Five Forks, when by the starlight I recognized Mohun.
“Halt!” I shouted.
He knew my voice, and drew rein with an exclamation of pleasure.
“Thanks, my dear old friend,” he said, grasping my hand. “I knew you would not fail me.”
“Your wedding will take place, Mohun?”
“Yes, battle or no battle.”
“You are right. Life is uncertain. You will hear cannon instead of marriage-bells probably, at your nuptials—but that will be inspiring. What is the news from the Court-House?”
“Our infantry is falling back.”
“The condition of the roads stopped them?”
“Yes, it was impossible to get on; and they have been recalled by order of General Lee. Listen! There is the column coming—they are falling back to Five Forks, a mile north of Judge Conway’s.”
In fact, as we rode on now, I heard the muffled tramp of a column, and the rattle of artillery chains in the woods.
“The enemy will follow, I suppose?”
“Not before morning, I hope.”
I smiled.
“Meanwhile you are making good use of the time to get married. What will you do with Miss Georgia?”
“You mean Mrs. Mohun, Surry!” he said, smiling.
“Yes.”
“Well, she will be sent off—her father will take the whole family to Petersburg in the morning, to avoid the battle which will probably take place in this vicinity to-morrow.”
“You are right. I predict a thundering fight here, in the morning.”
“Which I hope I shall not balk in, my dear Surry,” said Mohun, smiling.
“Is there any danger of that?”
“I really don’t know. It is not good for a soldier to be too happy. It makes him shrink from bullets, and raises visions of a young widow, in mourning, bending over a tomb.”
“Pshaw! stop that folly!” I said. “Is it possible that a stout-hearted cavalier like General Mohun can indulge in such apprehensions—and at a moment as happy as this?”
I saw him smile sadly, in the dim starlight. “I am much changed,” he said, gently; “I no longer risk my life recklessly—trying to throw it away. Once, as you know, Surry, I was a poor outcast, and my conscience was burdened with a terrible crime. Life was little to me, then, and I would not have cared if a bullet cut it short. I was reckless, desperate, and had no hope. Now, I have hope—and a great deal more than all—I have happiness. My hands are not stained with the blood of that man and woman—I have the love of a pure girl who is going to give her life to me—and I have prayed to God for pardon, and been pardoned, I feel—else that All-merciful Being would not make my poor life bright again! But let me stop this talk! A strange conversation for a wedding night! Let me say again, however, my dear Surry, that I have no enmities now. I no longer hate that man, and would not harm that woman for aught on earth. Let them go—they are indifferent to me. I appeal to God to witness the purity of my sentiments, and the sincerity with which I have prayed, ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who have trespassed against us!’”
I reached out my hand in the darkness, and pressed that of the speaker.
“You are right, Mohun—there is something greater, more noble, than vengeance—it is forgiveness. More than ever, I can say now of you, what I said after hearing your history that night.”
“What was that, old friend?”
“That you were no longer the bitter misanthrope, hating your species, and snarling at all things—no longer the gay cavalier rushing to battle as a pastime—that you were altered, entirely changed, rather—that your character was elevated and purified—and that now, you were a patriotic soldier, fit to live or die with Lee!”
“Would that I were!” he murmured, letting his head fall upon his breast.
“That is much to say of any man; but I will add more. You are worthy of her—the blossom of Five Forks!”
As I uttered these words, we reached the gate.
A moment afterward we had entered the grounds, tethered our horses, and were hastening to the house.
On the threshold we were met by Judge Conway, with a bow and a smile.
He pressed our hands cordially, but with a covert sadness, which I suppose comes to the heart of every father who is about to part with a beloved daughter—to give up his place as it were to another—and then we entered the great drawing-room where a gentleman in a white cravat and black coat awaited us. No other persons were visible.
The great apartment was a charming spectacle, with its brilliant lights and blazing fire. The frescoed walls danced in light shadows; the long curtains were drawn down, completely excluding the March air. Coming in out of the night, this smiling interior was inexpressibly home-like and delightful.
As we entered, the clerical-looking gentleman rose, modestly, and smiled.
“The Reverend Mr. Hope,” said Judge Conway, presenting him. And Mr. Hope, with the same gentle smile upon his lips, advanced and shook hands.
At that name I had seen Mohun suddenly start, and turn pale. Then his head rose quickly, his pallor disappeared, and he said with entire calmness:
“Mr. Hope and myself are old acquaintances, I may even say, old friends.”
To these words Mr. Hope made a gentle and smiling reply; and it was plain that he was very far from connecting the personage before him with the terrible tragedy which had taken place at Fonthill, in December, 1856. What was the origin of this ignorance? Had the worthy man, in his remote parsonage, simply heard of the sudden disappearance of Mohun, the lady, and her brother? Had his solitary life prevented him from hearing the vague rumors and surmises which must have followed that event? This was the simplest explanation, and I believe the correct one. Certain it is that the worthy Mr. Hope received us with smiling cordiality. Doubtless he recalled the past, but was too kind to spread a gloom over Mohun’s feelings by alluding to his loss. In a few moments we were seated, and Judge Conway explained the presence of the parson.
The explanation was simple. Mohun, incessantly engaged on duty, had begged Judge Conway to send a message to the parson of his parish; the parson was absent, leaving his church temporarily in charge of his brother-clergyman, Mr. Hope; thus that gentleman by a strange chance, was about to officiate at Mohun’s second marriage, as he had at his first.
I have explained thus, perhaps tediously, an incident which struck me at the time as most singular. Are there fatalities in this world? The presence of the Reverend Mr. Hope on that night at “Five Forks,” resembled one of those strange coincidences which make us believe in the doctrine of destiny.
Having exchanged compliments with the clergyman, Mohun and I were shown to a dressing-room.
No sooner had the door closed, than I said to Mohun:—
“That is strange, is it not?”
“Singular, indeed,” he replied, calmly, “but I am not averse to this worthy man’s presence, Surry. I have no concealments. I have related my whole life to Judge Conway and Georgia. They both know the circumstances which lead to the conviction that that woman was already married, when she married me—that the proof of her marriage with Darke exists. Judge Conway is a lawyer, and knows that, in legal phraseology, the array of circumstances ‘excludes every other hypothesis;’ thus it is not as an adventurer that my father’s son enters this house: all is known, and I do not shrink from the eye of this good man, who is about to officiate at my marriage.”
“Does he know all?”
“I think not. I had half resolved to tell him. But there is no time now. Let us get ready; the hour is near.”
And Mohun looked at his watch.
“Nine o’clock,” he said. “The ceremony takes place at ten.”
And he rapidly made his toilet. The light fell on a superb-looking cavalier. He was clad in full dress uniform, with the braid and stars of a brigadier-general. The erect figure was clearly defined by the coat, buttoned from chin to waist. Above, rose the proudly-poised head, with the lofty brow, the brilliant black eyes, the dark imperial and mustache, beneath which you saw the firm lips.
We descended to the drawing-room, where Judge Conway and Mr. Hope awaited us.
Fifteen minutes afterward light steps were heard upon the great staircase; the old statesman opened the door, and Miss Georgia Conway entered the apartment, leaning upon the arm of her father.
She was clad in simple white muslin, with a string of pearls in her dark hair; and I have never seen a more exquisite beauty. Her cheeks glowed with fresh roses; a charming smile just parted her lips; and her dark eyes, grand and calm, shone out from the snow-white forehead, from which her black hair was carried back in midnight ripples, ending in profuse curls. It was truly a grande dame whom I gazed at on this night, and, with eyes riveted upon the lovely face, I very nearly lost sight of Miss Virginia, who followed her sister.
I hastened to offer my arm to the modest little flower, and followed Judge Conway, who approached the parson, standing, prayer-book in hand, in the middle of the apartment.
In another instant Mohun was standing beside Miss Georgia, and the ceremony began.
It was not destined to proceed far.
The clergyman had nearly finished the exhortation with which the “form for the solemnization of matrimony,” commences.
All at I once I was certain that I heard steps on the portico, and in the hall of the mansion.
The rest seemed not to hear them, however, and Mr. Hope continued the ceremony.
“Into this holy estate,” he went on, “these two persons present come now to be joined. If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
As he uttered the words the door was suddenly burst open, and Darke entered the apartment with the gray woman.
In the midst of the stupor of astonishment, she advanced straight toward Georgia Conway, twined her arm in that of the young lady, and said quietly:—
“How do you do, cousin? I am Lucretia Conway. Your father is my uncle. I have come to show just cause why you cannot marry General Mohun—my husband!”
Mohun turned like a tiger, and was evidently about to throw himself upon Darke. I grasped his arm and restrained him.
“Listen!” I said.
The house was surrounded by trampling hoofs, and clattering sabres.
Darke had not drawn his pistol, and now glanced at me. His face was thin and pale—he was scarce the shadow of himself—but his eyes “burned” with a strange fire under his bushy brows.
“You are right, Colonel Surry!” he said, in his deep voice, to me, “restrain your friend. Let no one stir, or they are dead. The house is surrounded by a squadron of my cavalry. You are a mile from all succor. You can make no resistance. I am master of this house. But I design to injure no one. Sit down, madam,” he added, to his companion, “I wish to speak first.”
The sentences followed each other rapidly. The speaker’s accent was cold, and had something metallic in it. The capture of the party before him seemed to be no part of his design.
All at once the voice of the strange woman was heard in the silence. She quietly released the arm of Georgia Conway, who had drawn back with an expression of supreme disdain; and calmly seating herself in a chair, gracefully cut some particles of dust from her gray riding habit with a small whip which she carried.
“Yes, let us converse,” she said, with her eyes riveted upon Georgia Conway, “nothing can be more pleasant than these sweet family reunions!”
Judge Conway glanced at the speaker with eyes full of sudden rage.
“Who are you, madam,” he exclaimed, “who makes this impudent claim of belonging to my family?”
“I have already told you,” was the satirical reply of the woman.
“And you, sir!” exclaimed the old judge, suddenly turning and confronting Darke, “perhaps you, too, are a member of the Conway family?”
“Not exactly,” was the cold reply.
“Your name, sir!”
“Mortimer Davenant.”
Judge Conway gazed at the speaker with stupor.
“You that person?—you the son of General Arthur Davenant?”
“Yes, I am the son of General Arthur Davenant of the Confederate States army—General Davenant, whom you hate and despise as a felon and murderer—and I have come here to-night to relieve him of that imputation; to tell you that it was I and not he, who murdered your brother!
“A moment, if you please, sir,” continued the speaker, in the same low, cold tone, “do not interrupt me, I beg. I have little time, and intend to be brief. You believe that your brother, George Conway, was put to death by General Davenant. Here is the fact of the matter: I saw him at Dinwiddie Court-House; knew he had a large sum of money on his person; followed him, attacked him, murdered him—and with General Davenant’s pen-knife, which I had accidentally come into possession of. Then I stole the knife from the court-house, to prevent his conviction;—wrote and sent to him on the day of his trial a full confession of the murder, signed with my name—and that confession he would not use; he would not inculpate his son; for ten years he has chosen rather to labor under the imputation of murder, than blacken the name of a castaway son, whose character was wretched already, and whom he believed dead.
“That is what I came here, to-night, to say to you, sir. I am a wretch—I know that—it is a dishonor to touch my hand, stained with every vice, and much crime. But I am not entirely lost, though I told—my father—so, when I met him, not long since. Even a dog will not turn and bite the hand that has been kind to him. I was a gentleman once, and am a vulgar fellow now—but there is something worse than crime, in my estimation; it is cowardice and ingratitude. You shall not continue to despise my father; he is innocent of that murder. You have no right to continue your opposition to my brother’s marriage with your daughter, for he is not the son of the murderer of your brother. I count for nothing in this. I am not my father’s son, or my brother’s brother. I am an outcast—a lost man—dead, as far as they are concerned. It was to tell you this that I have come here to-night—and for that only.”
“And—this woman?” said Judge Conway, pale, and glaring at the speaker.
“Let her speak for herself,” said Darke, coldly.
“I will do so, with pleasure,” said the woman, coolly, but with an intensely satirical smile. That smile chilled me—it was worse than any excess of rage. The glance she threw upon Georgia Conway was one of such profound, if covert, hatred, that it drove my hand to my hilt as though to grasp some weapon.
“I will be brief,” continued the woman, rising slowly, and looking at Georgia Conway, with that dagger-like smile. “General Darke-Davenant has related a pleasing little history. I will relate another, and address myself more particularly to Judge Conway—my dear uncle. He does not, or will not, recognize me; and I suppose I may have changed. But that is not important. I am none the less Lucretia Conway. You do not remember that young lady, perhaps, sir; your proud Conway blood has banished from your memory the very fact of her former existence. And yet she existed—she exists still—she is speaking to you—unbosoming herself in the midst of her dear family! But to tell my little story—it will not take many minutes. I was born here, you remember, uncle, and grew up what is called headstrong. At sixteen, I fell in love with a young Adonis with a mustache; and, as you and the rest opposed my marriage, obdurately refusing your consent, I yielded to the eloquence of Mr. Adonis, and eloped with him, going to the North. Here we had a quarrel. I grew angry, and slapped Adonis; and he took his revenge by departing without leaving me a wedding-ring to recall his dear image. Then I met that gentleman—General Darke-Mortimer-Davenant! We took a fancy to each other; we became friends; and soon afterward travelled to the South, stopping in Dinwiddie. Here I made the acquaintance of General Mohun—there he stands; he fell desperately in love with me—married me—Parson Hope will tell you that—and then attempted to murder me, without rhyme or reason. Luckily, I made my escape from the monster! rejoined my friend, General Darke-Davenant; the war came on; I came back here; have been lately arrested, but escaped by bribing the rebel jailers; only, however, to find that my naughty husband is going to marry my cousin Georgia! Can you wonder, then, that I have exerted myself to be present at the interesting ceremony? That I have yielded to my fond affection, and come to say to my dear Georgia, ‘Don’t marry my husband, cousin!’ And yet you frown at me—you evidently hate me—you think I am lying—that I was married before, perhaps. Well, if that be the case, where is the proof of that marriage?” “Here it is!” said a voice, which made the woman turn suddenly.
And opening the heavy window-curtains, which had, up to this moment, concealed him, Nighthawk advanced into the apartment, holding in his hand a paper.
A wild rage filled the eyes of the woman, but now so smiling. Her hand darted to her bosom, and I saw the gleam of a poniard.
“This paper,” said Nighthawk, coolly, “was found on the dead body of a man named Alibi, who had stolen it. See, Judge Conway; it is in regular form. ‘At Utica, New York, Mortimer Davenant to Lucretia Conway.’ Attested by seal and signature. There can be no doubt of its genuineness.”
Suddenly a hoarse exclamation was heard, and a poniard gleamed in the hand of the woman.
With a single bound, she reached Georgia Conway, and struck at her heart. The corsage of the young lady, however, turned the poniard, and at the same instant a thundering volley of musketry resounded without.
Furious cries were then heard; the wild trampling of horses; and a loud voice ordering:—
“Put them to the bayonet!”
Darke drew his sword, and reached the side of the woman at a bound. Throwing his arms around her, he raised her, and rushed, with his burden, through the hall, toward the lawn, where a fierce combat was in progress.
Suddenly the woman uttered a wild cry, and relaxed her grasp upon his neck. A bullet had buried itself in her bosom.
Darke’s hoarse and menacing voice echoed the cry; but he did not release the body; with superhuman strength he raised it aloft, and bounded down the steps.
As he reached the bottom, a man rushed upon him, and drove his bayonet through his breast. It was withdrawn, streaming with blood.
“Put all to the bayonet!” shouted the voice of General Davenant, as he charged with his young son, Charles, beside him.
At that voice Darke stretched out both hands, and dropping his sword, uttered a cry, which attracted the general’s attention.
For an instant they stood facing each other—unutterable horror in the eyes of General Davenant.
“I am—done for,” exclaimed Darke, a bloody foam rushing to his lips, “but—I have told him—that I was the murderer—that you were innocent. Give me your hand, father!”
General Davenant leaped to the ground, and with a piteous groan received the dying man in his arms.
“I am a wretch—I know that—but I was a Davenant once”—came in low murmurs. “Tell Will, he can marry now, for I will be dead—kiss me once, Charley!”
The weeping boy threw himself upon his knees, and pressed his lips to those of his brother.
As he did so, the wounded man fell back in his father’s arms, and expired.
On the day after these events, Lee’s extreme right at Five Forks, was furiously attacked, and in spite of heroic resistance, the little force under Pickett and Fitzhugh Lee was completely routed and dispersed.
Do you regard that term “heroic,” as merely rhetorical, reader?
Hear a Northern writer, a wearer of blue, but too honest not to give brave men their due:—
“Having gained the White Oak road, Warren changed front again to the right, and advanced westward, so continually to take in flank and rear whatever hostile force still continued to hold the right of the Confederate line. This had originally been about three miles in extent, but above two-thirds of it were now carried. Yet, vital in all its parts, what of the two divisions remained, still continued the combat with unyielding mettle. Parrying the thrusts of the cavalry from the front, this poor scratch of a force threw back its left in a new and short crochet, so as to meet the advance of Warren, who continued to press in at right angles to the White Oak road. When the infantry, greatly elated with their success, but somewhat disorganized by marching and fighting so long in the woods, arrived before this new line, they halted and opened an untimely fusillade, though there had been orders not to halt. The officers, indeed, urged their men forward, but they continued to fire without advancing. Seeing this hesitation, Warren dashed forward, calling to those near him to follow. Inspired by his example, the color-bearers and officers all along the front, sprang out, and without more firing, the men charged at the pas de course, capturing all that remained of the enemy. The history of the war presents no equally splendid illustration of personal magnetism.... A charge of the cavalry completed the rout, and the remnants of the divisions of Pickett and Johnson fled westward from Five Forks, pursued for many miles, and until long after dark, by the mounted divisions of Merritt and McKenzie.”
That is picturesque, is it not? It is amusing, too—though so tragic.
You can see that “poor scratch of a force” fighting to the death, can you not? You can see the poor little handful attacked by Sheridan’s crack cavalry corps in front, and then suddenly by Warren’s superb infantry corps in both their flank and rear. You can see them, game to the last, throwing back their left in the crochet to meet Warren; see that good soldier cheering on his men “greatly elated,” but “somewhat disorganized,” too—so much so that they suddenly halt, and require the “personal magnetism” of the general to inspire them, and bring them up to the work. Then the little scratch gives way—they are a handful, and two corps are pressing them. They have “continued the combat with unyielding mettle,” as long as they could—now they are driven; and on rushes the thundering cavaliers to destroy them! Sound the bugles! Out with sabres! charge! ride over them! “Hurra!” So’the little scratch disappears.
General Warren, who won that fight, was a brave man, and did not boast of it. Tell me, general—you are honest—is any laurel in your hardwon wreath, labelled “Five Forks?” It would be insulting that other laurel labelled “Gettysburg,” where you saved Meade!
In that bitter and desperate fight, Corse’s infantry brigade and Lee’s cavalry won a renown which can never be taken from them. The infantry remained unbroken to the last moment; and a charge of Lee’s cavalry upon Sheridan’s drove them back, well nigh routed.
But nothing could avail against such numbers. The Confederate infantry, cavalry, and artillery at last gave way. Overwhelmed by the great force, they were shattered and driven. Night descended upon a battlefield covered with heaps of dead and wounded, the blue mingled with the gray.
Among those wounded, mortally to all appearances, was Willie Davenant. He had fought with the courage of the bull-dog which lay perdu under the shy bearing of the boy. All the army had come to recognize it, by this time; and such was the high estimate which General R.E. Lee placed upon him, that it is said he was about to be offered the command of a brigade of infantry. Before this promotion reached him, however, the great crash came; and the brave youth was to fall upon the field of Five Forks, where he fought his guns obstinately to the very last.
It was just at nightfall that he fell, with a bullet through his breast.
The enemy were pressing on hotly, and there was no time to bring off the wounded officer. It seemed useless, too. He lay at full length, in a pool of blood, and was breathing heavily. To attempt to move him, even if it were possible, threatened him with instant death.
A tòuching incident followed. The enemy carried Five Forks as night descended. They had advanced so early, that Judge Conway and his daughters had had no time to leave their home. Compelled to remain thus, they did not forget their duty to the brave defenders of the Confederacy, and when the firing ceased, the old statesman and his daughters went to succor the wounded.
Among the first bodies which they saw was that of Will Davenant. One gleam of the lantern carried by the Federal surgeon told all; and Virginia Conway with a low moan knelt down and raised the head of the wounded boy, placing it upon her bosom.
As she did so, he sighed faintly, and opening his eyes, looked up into her face. The blood rushed to his cheeks; he attempted to stretch out his arms; then falling back upon her bosom the young officer fainted.
A cry from the girl attracted the attention of the Federal surgeon who was attending to the wounded Federalists. He was a kind-hearted man, and came to the spot whence he had heard the cry.
“He is dying!” moaned the poor girl, with bloodless cheeks. “Can you do nothing for him? Oh, save him, sir!—only save him!—have pity upon me!”
She could say no more.
The surgeon bent over and examined the wound. When he had done so, he shook his head.
“His wound is mortal, I am afraid,” he said, “but I will do all I can for him.”
And with a rapid hand he stanched the blood, and bandaged the wound.
The boy had not stirred. He remained still, with his head leaning upon the girl’s breast.
“Can he live?” she murmured, in a tone almost inaudible.
“If he is not moved, he may possibly live; but if he is moved his death is certain. The least change in the position of his body, for some hours from this time, will be fatal.”
“Then he shall not have to change his position!” exclaimed the girl.
And, with the pale face still lying upon her bosom, she remained immovable.
Throughout all the long night she did not move or disturb the youth. He had fallen into a deep sleep, and his head still lay upon her bosom.
Who can tell what thoughts came to that brave child as she thus watched over his sleep? The long hours on the lonely battle-field, full of the dead and dying, slowly dragged on. The great dipper wheeled in circle; the moon rose; the dawn came; still the girl, with the groans of the dying around her, held the wounded boy in her arms.{1}
{Footnote 1: Fact.}
Is there a painter in Virginia who desires a great subject? There it is; and it is historical.
When the sun rose, Willie Davenant opened his eyes, and gazed up into her face. Their glances met; their blushing cheeks were near each other; the presence of her, whom he loved so much, seemed to have brought back life to the shattered frame.
An hour afterward he was moved to “Five Forks,” where he was tenderly cared for. The old statesman had forgotten his life-long prejudice, and was the first to do all in his power to save the boy.
A month afterward he was convalescent. A week more and he was well. In the summer of 1865 he was married to Virginia Conway.
As for Mohun, his marriage ceremony, so singularly interrupted, had been resumed and completed an hour after the death of the unfortunate Darke and his companion.
At nightfall, on the first of April, the immense struggle had really ended.
Lee’s whole right was swept away; he was hemmed in, in Petersburg; what remained for General Grant was only to give the coup de grace to the great adversary, who still confronted him, torn and shattered, but with a will and courage wholly unbroken.
It is not an exaggeration, reader. Judge for yourself. I am to show you Lee as I saw him in this moment of terrible trial: still undaunted, raising his head proudly amid the crash of all around him; great in the hour of victory; in the hour of ruin, sublime.
Grant attacked again at dawn, on the morning of the second of April. It was Sunday, but no peaceful church-bells disturbed the spring air. The roar of cannon was heard, instead, hoarse and menacing, in the very suburbs of the devoted city.
There was no hope now—all was ended—but the Confederate arms were to snatch a last, and supreme laurel, which time can not wither. Attacked in Fort Gregg, by General Gibbon, Harris’s Mississippi brigade, of two hundred and fifty men, made one of those struggles which throw their splendor along the paths of history.
“This handful of skilled marksmen,” says a Northern writer, “conducted the defence with such intrepidity, that Gibbon’s forces, surging repeatedly against it, were each time thrown back.”
That is the generous but cold statement of an opponent; but it is sufficient. It was not until seven o’clock that Gibbon stormed the fort. Thirty men only out of the two hundred and fifty were left, but they were still fighting.
In the attack the Federal loss was “about five hundred men,” says the writer above quoted.
So fell Lee’s last stronghold on this vital part of his lines. Another misfortune soon followed. The gallant A.P. Hill, riding ahead of his men, was fired on and killed, by a small detachment of the enemy whom he had halted and ordered to surrender.
He fell from his horse, and was borne back, already dying. That night, amid the thunder of the exploding magazines, the commander, first, of the “light division,” and then of a great corps—the hero of Cold Harbor, Sharpsburg, and a hundred other battles—was buried in the city cemetery, just in time to avoid seeing the flag he had fought under, lowered.
Peace to the ashes of that brave! Old Virginia had no son more faithful!
Fort Gregg was the last obstacle. At ten o’clock that had fallen, heavy masses of the enemy were pushing forward. Their bristling battalions, and long lines of artillery had advanced nearly to General Lee’s head-quarters, a mile west of Petersburg.
As the great blue wave surged forward, General Lee, in full-dress uniform, and wearing his gold-hilted sword, looked at them through his field glasses from the lawn, in front of his head-quarters, on foot, and surrounded by his staff. I have never seen him more composed. Chancing to address him, he saluted me with the calmest and most scrupulous courtesy; and his voice was as measured and unmoved as though he were attending a parade. Do you laugh at us, friends of the North, for our devotion to Lee? You should have seen him that day, when ruin stared him in the face; you would have known then, the texture of that stout Virginia heart.
The enemy’s column literally rushed on. Our artillery, on a hill near by, had opened a rapid fire on the head of the column; the enemy’s object was to gain shelter under a crest, in their front.
They soon gained it; formed line of battle, and charged the guns.
Then all was over. The bullets rained, in a hurtling tempest on the cannoneer; the blue line came on with loud shouts; and the pieces were brought off at a gallop, followed by a hailstorm of musket-balls.
Suddenly the Federal artillery opened from a hill behind their line. General Lee had mounted his iron-gray, and was slowly retiring toward Petersburg, surrounded by his officers. His appearance was superb at this moment—and I still see the erect form of the proud old cavalier; his hand curbing his restive horse; his head turned over his shoulder; his face calm, collected, and full of that courage which nothing could break.
All at once a shell screamed from the Federal battery, and bursting close to the general, tore up the ground in a dozen places. The horse of an officer at his side was mortally wounded by a fragment, and fell beneath his rider other animals darted onward, with hanging bridle-reins, cut by the shell—but I was looking at General Lee, feeling certain that he must have been wounded.
He had escaped, however. Not a muscle of his calm face had moved. Only, as he turned his face over his shoulder in the direction of the battery, I could see a sudden color rush to his cheeks, and his eye flashed.
“I should now like to go into a charge!” he said to Stuart, once, after a disaster. And I thought I read the same thought in his face at this moment.
But it was impossible. He had no troops. The entire line on the right of Petersburg had been broken to pieces, and General Lee retired slowly to his inner works, near the city where a little skirmish line, full of fight yet, and shaking their fists at the huge enemy approaching, received him with cheers and cries which made the pulse throb.
There was no hack in that remnant—pardon the word, reader; it expresses the idea.
“Let ‘em come on! We’ll give ‘em ——!” shouted the ragged handful. I dare not change that rough sentence. It belongs to history. And it was glorious, if rude. In front of that squad was a whole army-corps. The corps was advancing, supported by a tremendous artillery fire, to crush them—and the tatterdemalions defied and laughed at them.
This all took place before noon. Longstreet had come in from the north of the James with his skeleton regiments; and these opposed a bold front to the enemy on the right, while Gordon commanding the left, below the city, was thundering. A cordon hemmed in the little army now, in the suburbs of Petersburg. The right, on the Boydton road, was carried away; and the left beyond James River. One hope alone remained—to hold Petersburg until night, and then retreat.
I will not describe that day. This volume approaches its end; and it is fortunate. To describe at length those last days would be a terrible task to the writer.
Lee telegraphed to the President that he was going to retreat that night; and at the moment when the officers of the government hastily left Richmond by the Danville railroad, the army at Petersburg began to retire.
Did you witness what I describe, reader? What a spectacle!—the army of Northern Virginia, or what was left of it, rather, stealing away amid darkness. I sat my horse on the Hickory road, north of the Appomattox, near the city, and looked at the ragged column, which defiled by from the bridge over the river. In the starlight I could see their faces. There was not a particle of depression in them. You would have said, indeed, that they rejoiced at being out of the trenches—to be once more on the march, with Lee, riding his old iron-gray, in front of his old soldiers—with the battle-flags of a hundred battles still floating defiantly.
General Lee stood at the forks of the road, directing his column. He had said little during the day, and said little now, but his voice was as calm and measured, his eye as serene as before.
“This is a bad business, colonel!”{1} I had heard him say, at the moment when the shell burst near him in the morning.
{Footnote 1: His words.}
I heard but one other allusion which he made to the situation.
“Well, colonel,” he said to an officer, in his deep and sonorous voice, “it has happened as I told them it would, at Richmond. The line has been stretched until it has broken."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
So, over the Hickory road, leading up the northern bank of the Appomattox, in the direction of Lynchburg—amid the explosion of magazines, surging upward like volcanoes, the old army of Northern Virginia, reduced to fifteen thousand men, went forth, still defiant, into the night.