Three hours afterward I was in Richmond.
Sent with a message for General Ewell, I had taken the last train which left for the capital, and reached the city toward midnight.
The first person whom I saw was Tom Herbert, who ran to meet me. His face was pale, but his resolute smile still lit up the brave face.
“Come and wait on me, my dear old friend,” he said; “I am to be married to-night!”
And in a few words he informed me that Katy had consented to have the ceremony performed before Tom followed General Lee southward.
Half an hour afterward I witnessed a singular spectacle: that of a wedding, past midnight, in the midst of hurry, confusion, uproar, universal despair—the scene, a city about to fall into the hands of the enemy—from which the government and all its defenders had fled.{1}
{Footnote 1: Real.}
Katy acted her part bravely. The rosy cheeks were unblanched still—the sweet smile was as endearing. When I took an old friend’s privilege to kiss the smiling lips, there was no tremor in them, and her blue eyes were as brave as ever.
So Tom and Katy were married—and I bestowed upon them my paternal blessing! It was a singular incident—was it not, reader? But war is full of such.
I did not see Tom again until I met him on the retreat. And Katy—I have never seen her sweet face since—but heaven bless her!
An hour afterward I had delivered my message to General Ewell, who was already moving out with his small force to join Lee. They defiled across the bridges, and disappeared. For myself, tired out, I wrapped my cape around me, and stretching myself upon a sofa, at the house of a friend, snatched a little rest.
I was aroused toward daybreak by a tremendous explosion, and going to the window, saw that the city was in flames. The explosion had been caused, doubtless, by blowing up the magazines, or the rams in James River. The warehouses and bridges had been fired in anticipation of the approach of the enemy.
It behooved me to depart now, unless I wished to be captured. I had taken the precaution to provide myself with a horse from one of the government stables; the animal stood ready saddled behind the house; I bade my alarmed friends farewell, and mounting, rode through the streets of the devoted city toward the Capitol, amid bursting shell from the arsenal, exploding magazines, and roaring flames.
I can not describe the scenes which followed. They were terrible and would present a fit subject for the brush of Rembrandt. Fancy crowds of desperate characters breaking into the shops and magazines of stores—negroes, outcasts, malefactors, swarming in the streets, and shouting amid the carnival. The state prison had disgorged its convicts—the slums and subterranean recesses of the city its birds of the night—and now, felons and malefactors, robbers, cut-purses and murderers held their riotous and drunken carnival in the streets, flowing with whiskey. Over all surged the flames, roaring, crackling, tumultuous—the black clouds of smoke drifting far away, under the blue skies of spring.
Then from the Capitol hill, where I had taken my stand, I saw by the early light, a spectacle even more terrible—that of the enemy entering the city. They came on from Charles City in a long blue column resembling a serpent. Infantry and troopers, artillery and stragglers—all rushed toward the doomed city where they were met by a huge crowd of dirty and jabbering negroes and outcasts.
Suddenly a shout near at hand, thundered up to the hill. In front of the Exchange a column of negro cavalry, with drawn sabres rushed on. As they came, they yelled and jabbered—that was the darkest spectacle of all.
I remained looking at the frightful pageant with rage in my heart, until the advance force of the enemy had reached the railing of the Capitol. Then I turned my horse, and, pursued by carbine shots, rode out of the western gate, up Grace Street.
Fifty paces from St. Paul’s I saw Colonel Desperade pass along—smiling, serene, in black coat, snow-white shirt, tall black hat, and with two ladies leaning upon his arms.
“Ah! gallant to the last, I see!” I growled to him as I rode by. “‘None but the brave desert the fair!’”
The colonel smiled, but made no reply.
A hundred yards farther I met little Mr. Blocque joyously approaching.
In his hand he carried his safeguard, brought him by the gray woman. At his breast fluttered a miniature United States flag. The little gentleman was radiant, and exclaimed as he saw me:—
“What! my dear colonel! you are going to leave us? Come and dine with me—at five o’clock, precisely!”
My reply was not polite. I drew my pistol—at which movement Mr. Blocque disappeared, running, at the corner of St. Paul’s.
On his heels followed a portly and despairing gentleman—Mr. Croaker.
“Save my warehouse! it is on fire! I shall be a beggar!” yelled Mr. Croaker.
I laughed aloud as the wretched creature rushed by, puffing and panting. Ten minutes afterward I was out of the city.
My last view of Richmond was from Hollywood Hill, near the grave of Stuart. The spectacle before me was at once terrible and splendid. The city was wrapped in a sea of flame. A vast black cloud swept away to the far horizon. A menacing roar came up from beneath those flames surging around the white Capitol;—the enemy’s guns, troopers, musketeers and the rabble, were rushing with shouts, yells, and curses into the devoted city, which had at last fallen a prey to the Federal arms.
A last pang was to tear my heart. The sight before me was not enough, I had turned my horse to ride westward, throwing a parting glance upon the city, when suddenly the Virginia flag descended from the summit of the Capitol and the United States flag was run up.
I turned and shook my clenched hand at it.
“That is not my flag, and shall never be!” I exclaimed, aloud.
And taking off my hat as I passed the grave of Stuart, I rode on, thinking of the past and the present.
Crossing James River, above the city, I pushed after the army, which I rejoined on the evening of the 4th, as it was crossing the Appomattox opposite Amelia Court-House.
It reached that village on Wednesday April 5th, and you could see at a glance that its spirit was unbroken. As to General Lee, his resolution up to that time had astonished all who saw him. Never had he seemed in more buoyant spirits.
“I have got my army safe out of its breastworks,” he said, “and in order to follow me, my enemy must abandon his lines, and can derive no further benefit from his railroads, or James River."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
It was only the faint-hearts who lost hope. Lee was not of those. Mounted upon his old iron-gray—at the head of his old army, if his little handful of about fifteen thousand men could be called such—Lee was still the great cavalier. The enemy had not yet checkmated him: his heart of hope was untouched. He would cut his way through, and the red flag should again float on victorious fields!
The army responded to the feeling of its chief. The confidence of the men in Lee was as great as on his days of victory. You would have said that the events of the last few days were, in the estimation of the troops, only momentary reverses. The veterans of Hill and Longstreet advanced steadily, tramping firm, shoulder to shoulder, with glittering gun barrels, and faces as resolute and hopeful as at Manassas and Chancellorsville.
“Those men are not whipped,” said a keen observer to me, as he looked at the closed-up column moving. And he was right. The morale of this remnant of the great army of Northern Virginia was untouched. Those who saw them then will testify to the truth of my statement.
At Amelia Court-House a terrible blow, however, awaited them. General Lee had ordered rations to be sent thither from North Carolina. They had been sent, but the trains had gone on and disgorged them in Richmond. When Lee arrived with his starved army, already staggering and faint, not a pound of bread or meat was found; there was nothing.
Those who saw General Lee at this moment, will remember his expression. For the first time the shadow of despair passed over that brave forehead. Some one had, indeed, struck a death-blow at him. His army was without food. All his plans were reversed. He had intended to reprovision his force at Amelia, and then push straight on. His plan, I think I can state, was to attack the detached forces of Grant in his front; cut his way through there; cross the Nottoway and other streams by means of pontoons, which had been provided; and, forming a junction with General Johnston, crush Sherman or retreat into the Gulf States. All this was, however, reversed by one wretched, microscopic incident. The great machine was to be arrested by an atom in its path. The rations were not found at Amelia Court-House; the army must have food, or die; half the force was dispersed in foraging parties throughout the surrounding country, and the delay gave Grant time to mass heavily in Lee’s front, at Burksville.
Then all was decided. Lee had not doubted his ability to crush a corps, or even more, before the main force of the enemy came up. He saw as clearly now, that there was no hope of his cutting his way through Grant’s army. It was there in his front—the failure of rations had caused all. With what must have been a terrible weight upon his heart, Lee directed his march toward Lynchburg, determined to fight to the end; and, as he had said during the winter, “die sword in hand.”
Then commenced the woeful tragedy. What words can paint that retreat? There is only one other that equals it—Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. The army staggered on, fighting, and starving, and dying. Stalwart men fell by the roadside, or dropped their muskets as they tottered on. The wagons were drawn by skeleton mules, without food like the soldiers. If an ear of corn was found, the men seized and munched it fiercely, like animals. Covered with mud, blackened with powder, with gaunt frames, and glaring eyes, the old guard of the army of Northern Virginia still stood to their colors—fighting at every step, despairing, but not shrinking; and obeying the orders of Lee to the last.
You would not doubt that confidence in, and love for, their commander, reader, if you had witnessed the scene which I did, near Highbridge. The enemy had suddenly assailed Ewell and Custis Lee, and broken them to pieces. The blue horsemen and infantry pressing fiercely on all sides, and hunting their opponents to the death, seemed, at this moment, to have delivered a blow from which the Confederates could not rise. The attack had fallen like a thunderbolt. Ewell, Anderson, and Custis Lee were swept away by mere weight of numbers; the whole army seemed threatened with instant destruction.
Lee suddenly appeared, however, and the scene which followed was indescribable. He had rushed a brigade across, riding in front on his iron-gray; and at that instant he resembled some nobleman of the old age on the track of the wild-boar. With head erect, face unmoved, eyes clear and penetrating, he had reached the scene of danger; and as the disordered remnants of Ewell’s force crowded the hill, hot and panting, they had suddenly seen, rising between them and the enemy, a wall of bayonets, flanked by cannon.
A great painter should have been present then. Night had fallen, and the horizon was lit up by the glare of burning wagons. Every instant rose, sudden and menacing, the enemy’s signal rockets. On the summit of the hill, where the infantry waited, Lee rode among the disordered men of Ewell, and his presence raised a storm.
“It’s General Lee!”
“Uncle Robert!”
“Where’s the man who won’t follow old Uncle Robert!”
Such were the shouts, cries, and fierce exclamations. The haggard faces flushed; the gaunt hands were clenched. On all sides explosions of rage and defiance were heard. The men called on the gray old cavalier, sitting his horse as calm as a statue, to take command of them, and lead them against the enemy.
No attack was made on them. An hour afterward the army moved again—the rear covered by General Fitzhugh Lee with his cavalry, which, at every step, met the blue huntsmen pressing on to hunt down their prey.
Such were some of the scenes of the retreat, up to the 7th. Who has the heart to narrate what followed in the next two days? A great army dying slowly—starving, fighting, falling—is a frightful spectacle. I think the memory of it must affect even the enemies who witnessed it.
It is only a small portion of the tragic picture that the present writer has the heart to paint.
On the morning of the 7th of April, and throughout the 8th, the horrors of the retreat culminated.
The army was fighting at every step. Hope had deserted them, but they were still fighting.
On every side pressed the enemy like bands of wolves hunting down the wounded steed.
Gordon and Longstreet, commanding the two skeleton corps of infantry, and Fitzhugh Lee the two or three thousand cavalry remaining, met the incessant attacks, with a nerve which had in it something of the heroic.
Fitz Lee had commanded the rear guard on the whole retreat. All along the route he had confronted the columns of Sheridan, and checked them with heavy loss.
At Paynesville he had driven Sheridan back, killing, wounding, and capturing two hundred of his men. At Highbridge he captured seven hundred and eighty more, killing many, among the rest the Federal General Read. On the morning of the 7th, beyond the river, he drove back a large column, capturing General Irwin Gregg.
That was a brave resistance made by the old army of Northern Virginia, reader, as it was slowly advancing into the gulf of perdition.
Beyond Farmville there was no longer any hope. All was plainly over. I shrink from the picture, but here is that of one of my friends. “It became necessary to burn hundreds of wagons. At intervals the enemy’s cavalry dashed in and struck the interminable train, here or there, capturing and burning dozens on dozens of wagons. Hundreds of men dropped from exhaustion, and thousands let fall their muskets from inability to carry them any farther. The scenes were of a nature which can be apprehended in its vivid reality only by men who are thoroughly familiar with the harrowing details of war. Behind, and on either flank, a ubiquitous and increasingly adventurous enemy; every mud-hole and every rise in the road choked with blazing wagons; the air filled with the deafening reports of ammunition exploding, and shell bursting when touched by the flames; dense columns of smoke ascending to heaven from the burning and exploding vehicles; exhausted men, worn-out mules and horses, lying down side by side; gaunt famine glaring hopelessly from sunken lack-lustre eyes; dead mules, dead horses, dead men, everywhere; death many times welcomed as God’s blessing in disguise—who can wonder if many hearts tried in the fiery furnace of four unparalleled years, and never hitherto found wanting, should have quailed in presence of starvation, fatigue, sleeplessness, misery, un-intermitted for five or six days, and culminating in hopelessness?"{1}
{Footnote 1: The Hon. Charles Francis Lawley, in the London Times.}
They did not “quail,” they fell. It was not fear that made them drop the musket, their only hope of safety; it was weakness. It was an army of phantoms that staggered on toward Lynchburg—and what had made them phantoms was hunger.
Let others describe those last two days in full. For myself I can not. To sum up all in one sentence. The Army of Northern Virginia, which had for four years snatched victory upon some of the bloodiest battle-fields of history, fought, reeled, fired its last rounds, and fell dead from starvation, defying fiercely with its last breath, gurgling through blood in its throat, the enemy who was hunting it down to its death.
Call it what you will, reader—there was something in those men that made them fight to the last.
On the night of the 8th of April, within a few miles of Appomattox Court-House, took place the last council of war of the army of Northern Virginia.
It was in the open air, beside a camp-fire, near which were spread General Lee’s blankets; for throughout the retreat he had used no tent, sleeping, shelterless like his men, by the bivouac fire.
To this last council of war, none but the corps commanders were invited. Thus the only persons present were Gordon and Longstreet, commanding the skeleton corps of infantry, and Fitzhugh Lee, the cavalry of the army.
Gordon was stretched near Fitzhugh Lee, upon the blankets of the commander-in-chief; Gordon, with his clear complexion, his penetrating eyes, his firm lip, his dark hair, and uniform coat buttoned to his chin—the man to fight and die rather than surrender. Near him lay Fitz Lee, the ardent and laughing cavalier, with the flowing beard, the sparkling eyes, the top-boots, and cavalry sabre—the man to stand by Gordon. On a log, a few feet distant, sat the burly Longstreet, smoking with perfect nonchalance—his heavily bearded face exhibiting no emotion whatever. Erect, within a few paces of these three men, stood General Lee—grave, commanding, unmoved; the fire-light revealing every outline of his vigorous person, clad in its plain gray uniform, the gray beard and mustache, the serene eyes, and that stately poise of the head upon the shoulders, which seemed to mark this human being for command.
All these persons were composed. Their faces were haggard from want of rest, but there was nothing in their expressions indicating anxiety, though some gloom.
“It was a picture for an artist,” said that one of them who described the scene to me afterward. The ruddy light brought out every detail of these martial figures. By that fire on the roadside had assembled for the last time General Robert E. Lee and his corps commanders.
The council was brief.
General Lee succinctly laid before his listeners the whole situation.
His army was on a strip of land between the James River and the enemy. He could not cross the river—if he could not break through the enemy in his front the army was lost. General Grant had understood his situation, and a correspondence had taken place. He would read General Grant’s notes and copies of his own replies.
By the light of the fire, General Lee then proceeded to read the papers alluded too.
Grant had opened the correspondence. “The result of the last week must convince General Lee,” he wrote, “of the hopelessness of further resistance on the part of the army of Northern Virginia.” He therefore “asked the surrender” of that army to prevent bloodshed.
Lee had written in reply, requesting Grant to state the terms.
Grant had stated them on this 8th of April, and Lee had replied at once that he “did not intend to propose the surrender of the army of Northern Virginia, but to ask the terms of General Grant’s proposition. To be frank,” he had added, “I do not think the emergency has arisen to call for the surrender.” But he would meet General Grant on the next morning to discuss the whole affair.
There the correspondence had terminated. What was the opinion of his corps commanders?
Their replies were brief and informal. The scene was august but simple. What was determined upon was this—-
That the army should continue its march on the next day toward Lynchburg, breaking through Sheridan’s cavalry which was known to be in front; but in case the Federal infantry, a very different thing from the cavalry, was found to be “up,” then Gordon, who was to lead the advance, should inform the commander-in-chief of that fact, when a flag of truce would be sent to General Grant acceding to the terms of capitulation proposed in his last note to General Lee.
Fitzhugh Lee only stipulated that if he saw that the Federal infantry in his front, rendered surrender inevitable, he should be allowed to go off with his cavalry to save the horses of his men.
This was agreed to, and it will be seen that Fitz Lee availed himself of the conmmander-in-chief’s permission.
So ended that last council of war, by the camp fire.
With grave salutes and a cordial pressure of the brave hands, the famous soldiers took leave of Lee.
As they disappeared he drew his blanket around him and fell asleep by the blazing fire.
It was the night of April 8th, 1865—three years, day for day, from the moment when these lines are written.
Throughout that strange night of the eighth of April, 1865, I was in the saddle, carrying orders.
Those who saw it will remember how singularly brilliant it was. The moon and stars shone. The light clouds sweeping across the sky scarcely obscured the mournful radiance. All was still. The two armies—one surrounded and at bay, the other ready to finish the work before it—rested silently on their arms, waiting for that day which would bring the thunder.
Every arrangement had been made by Lee to break through the force in his front, and gain Lynchburg, from which he could retreat to the southwest.
The column of infantry to open the way was about one thousand six hundred men, under Gordon. The cavalry, numbering two or three thousand, was commanded by Fitzhugh Lee. The artillery, consisting of three or four battalions, was placed under that brave spirit, Colonel Thomas H. Carter.
For the tough work, Lee had selected three braves.
I saw them all that night, and read in their eyes the fire of an unalterable resolution.
You know those men, reader. If you do not, history knows them. It was their immense good fortune to bear the red cross banner in the last charge on the enemy, and with their handful of followers to drive the Federal forces back nearly a mile, half an hour before Lee’s surrender.
I had just left General Fitzhugh Lee, near Appomattox Court-House, and was riding through the pines, when a sonorous voice halted me.
“Who goes there?” said the voice.
“Surry, Mordaunt!”
For I had recognized the voice of the general of cavalry. We have seen little of him, reader, in this rapid narrative; but in all the long hard battles from the Rapidan to this night, I had everywhere found myself thrown in collision with the great soldier—that tried and trusty friend of my heart. The army had saluted him on a hundred fields. His name had become the synonym of unfaltering courage. He was here, on the verge of surrender now, looking as calm and resolute as on his days of victory.
“Well, old friend,” said Mordaunt, grasping my hand and then leaning upon my shoulder; “as the scriptures say, what of the night?”
“Bad, Mordaunt.”
“I understand. You think the enemy’s infantry is up.”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll have hard work; but we are used to that, Surry.”
“The work is nothing. It is death only. But something worse than death is coming Mordaunt.”
“What?”
“Surrender.”
Mordaunt shook his head.
“I am not going to surrender,” he said. “I have sworn to one I love more than my life—you know whom I mean, Surry—that I would come back, or die, sword in hand; and I will keep my oath.”
The proud face glowed. In the serene but fiery eyes I could read the expression of an unchangeable resolution.
“Another friend of ours has sworn that too,” he said.
“Who?”
“Mohun.”
“And just married! His poor, young wife, like yours, is far from him.”
“You are mistaken; she is near him. She went ahead of the army, and is now at the village here.”
“Is it possible? And where is Mohun?”
“He is holding the advance skirmish line, on the right of Gordon. Look! Do you see that fire, yonder, glimmering through the woods? I left him there half an hour since.”
“I will go and see him. Do nothing rash, to-morrow, Mordaunt. Remember that poor Old Virginia, if no one else, needs you yet!”
“Be tranquil, Surry,” he replied, with a cool smile. “Farewell; we shall meet at Philippi!”
And we parted with a pressure of the hand.
I rode toward the fire. Stretched on his cape, beside it, I saw the figure of Mohun. He was reading in a small volume, and did not raise his head until I was within three paces of him.
“What are you reading, Mohun?”
He rose and grasped my hand.
“The only book for a soldier,” he said, with his frank glance and brave smile—“the book of books, my dear Surry—that which tells us to do our duty, and trust to Providence.”
I glanced at the volume, and recognized it. I had seen it in the hands of Georgia Conway, at Five Forks. On the fly leaf, which was open, her name was written.
“That is her Bible,” I said, “and doubtless you have just parted with her.”
“Yes, I see you know that she is here, not far from me.”
“Mordaunt told me. It must be a great delight to you, Mohun.”
He smiled, and sighed.
“Yes,” he replied, “but a sort of sorrow, too.”
“Why a sorrow?”
Mohun was silent. Then he said:—-
“I think I shall fall to-morrow.”
“Absurd!” I said, trying to laugh, “Why should you fancy such a thing?”
“I am not going to surrender, Surry. I swore to Chambliss, my old comrade, that I would never surrender, and he swore that to me. He was killed in Charles City—he kept his word; I will not break mine, friend.”
My head sank. I had taken my seat on Mohun’s cape, and gazed in silence at the fire.
“That is a terrible resolution, Mohun,” I said at length.
“Yes,” he replied, with entire calmness, “especially in me. It is hard to die, even when we are old and sorrowful—when life is a burden. Men cling to this miserable existence even when old age and grief have taken away, one by one, all the pleasures of life. Think, then, what it must be to die in the flush of youth, and health, and happiness! I am young, strong, happy beyond words. The person I love best in all the world, has just given me her hand. I have before me a long life of joy, if I only live! But I have sworn that oath, Surry! Chambliss kept his; shall I break mine? Let us not talk further of this, friend.”
And Mohun changed the conversation, refusing to listen to my remonstrances.
Half an hour afterward I left him, with a strange sinking of the heart.
Taking my way back to the Court-House, I passed through the little village, rode on for a mile, and then, overwhelmed by fatigue, lay down by a camp fire in the woods, and fell asleep.
I was waked by a single gun, sending its dull roar through the gray dawn.
Rising, I buttoned my cape around me, mounted my horse, and rode toward the front.
As I ascended the hill, upon which stands Appomattox Court-House, a crimson blush suddenly spread itself over the fields and woods.
I looked over my shoulder. In the east, on the summit of the forest, the newly risen sun was poised, like a great shield bathed in blood.
Such was the spectacle which ushered in the ninth of April, 1865, at Appomattox Court-House.
I rode on rapidly to the front.
It was the morning of the ninth of April, 1865. Since that time three years, day for day, nearly hour for hour have passed; for these lines are written on the morning of the ninth of April, 1868.
Gordon had formed his line of battle across the road just beyond the court-house—and supported by Fitzhugh Lee’s cavalry, and Carter’s artillery on his right, was advancing with measured steps to break through the enemy.
It was a spectacle to make the pulse throb. The little handful was going to death unmoved. The red light of morning darted from the burnished gun-barrels of the infantry, the sabres of the cavalry, and the grim cannon following, in sombre lightnings.
Gordon, the “Bayard of the army,” was riding in front of his line. The hour and the men had both come. Steadily the old guard of the army of Northern Virginia advanced to its last field of battle.
{Illustration: THE LAST CHARGE}
Suddenly, in front of them, the woods swarmed with the enemy’s infantry, cavalry, and artillery. The great multitude had evidently employed the hours of night well. Grant’s entire army seemed to have massed itself in Gordon’s front.
But the force was not the question. Gordon’s one thousand six hundred men were in motion. And when Gordon moved forward he always fought, if he found an enemy.
In five minutes the opponents had closed in, in stubborn fight, and the woods roared with musketry, cannon, and carbines.
Then a resounding cheer rose. The enemy had recoiled before Gordon, and he pressed forward, sweeping every thing in his path for nearly a mile beyond the court-house.
On his right Fitzhugh Lee’s horsemen thundered forward on the retiring enemy; and Carter’s guns advanced at a gallop, taking positions—Starke to the left and Poague to the right of the road—from which they opened a rapid fire upon the Federal line of battle.
I had accompanied the advance and looked on with positive wonder. A miracle seemed about to be enacted before my very eyes. Gordon’s poor little skirmish-line of less than two thousand men, with the half-equipped horsemen of Fitzhugh Lee, on their broken-down animals, seemed about to drive back the whole Federal army, and cut their way through in safety.
Alas! the hope was vain. In front of the handful were eighty thousand men! It was not Sheridan’s cavalry only—that would have speedily been disposed of. During the night, General Grant’s best infantry had pressed forward, and arrived in time to place itself across Lee’s path. What Gordon and Fitzhugh Lee encountered was the Federal army.
Right and left, as in front, were seen dense blue columns of infantry, heavy masses of cavalry, crowding batteries, from which issued at every instant that quick glare which precedes the shell.
From this multitude a great shout arose; and was taken up by the Federal troops for miles. From the extreme rear, where Longstreet stood stubbornly confronting the pursuers, as from the front, where Gordon was trying to break through the immense obstacles in his path, came that thunder of cheers, indicating clearly that the enemy at last felt that their prey was in their clutch.
The recoil was brief. The great Federal wave which had rolled backward before Gordon, now rolled forward to engulf him. The moment seemed to have come for the old guard of the army of Northern Virginia to crown its victories with a glorious death.
The Federal line rushed on. From end to end of the great field, broken by woods, the blue infantry delivered their fire, as they advanced with wild cheers upon the line of Gordon and Lee.
The guns of Carter thundered in vain. Never were cannon fought more superbly; the enemy were now nearly at the muzzle of the pieces.
Gordon was everywhere encouraging his men, and attempting to hold them steady. With flaming eyes, his drawn sword waving amid the smoke, his strident voice rising above the din of battle, Gordon was superb.
But all was of no avail. The Federal line came on like a wave of steel and fire. A long deafening crash, mingled with the thunder of cannon, stunned the ear; above the combatants rose a huge smoke-cloud, from which issued cheers and groans.
Suddenly an officer of General Lee’s staff passed by like lightning; was lost in the smoke; then I saw him speaking to Gordon. At the few words uttered by the officer, the latter turned pale.
A moment afterward a white flag fluttered—the order to surrender had come.
What I felt at that instant I can not describe. Something seemed to choke me. I groaned aloud, and turned toward the cavalry.
At fifty paces from me I saw Mordaunt, surrounded by his officers and men.
His swarthy face glowed—his eyes blazed. Near him, General Fitzhugh Lee—with Tom Herbert, and some other members of his staff—was sitting his horse, pale and silent.
“What will you do, general?” said Mordaunt, saluting with drawn sabre.
Fitzhugh Lee uttered a groan.
“I don’t wish to be included in the surrender,” he said. “Come, let’s go. General Lee no longer requires my poor services!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
Mordaunt saluted again, as General Lee and his staff officers turned away.
“We’ll go out sword in hand!” Mordaunt said. “Let who will, follow me!”
A wild cheer greeted the words. The men formed column and charged.
As they moved, a second cheer was heard at fifty paces from us. I turned my head, and saw Mohun, in front of about fifty cavalrymen, among whom I recognized Nighthawk.
In an instant I was at Mohun’s side.
“You are going to charge!” I said.
“And die, Surry! A gentleman gives his word but once!”
And, following Mordaunt with long leaps, Mohun and his horsemen burst upon the enemy.
Then was presented a spectacle which made the two armies hold their breath.
The column of cavalry under Mordaunt and Mohun, had struck the Federal line of battle.
For an instant, you could see little, hear little, in the smoke and uproar. A furious volley unhorsed at least half of the charging column, and the rest were seen striking with their sabres at the blue infantry, who stabbed with their bayonets at the rearing horses.
Then a thundering shout rose. The smoke was swept away by the wind, and made all clear.
Mordaunt had cut his way through, and was seen to disappear with a dozen followers.
Mohun, shot through the breast, and streaming with blood, had fallen from the saddle, his foot had caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged by his frightened animal toward the Confederate lines.
The horse came on at a headlong gallop, but suddenly a cavalier came up with him, seized the bridle, and threw him violently on his haunches.
The new-comer was Nighthawk.
Leaping to the ground, he seized the body of Mohun in his arms, extricated his foot from the stirrup, and remounted his own horse, with the form of his master still clasped to his breast.
Then, plunging the spurs into his animal, he turned to fly. But his last hour had come.
A bullet, fired at fifty paces, penetrated his back, and the blood spouted. He fell from the flying animal to the earth, but his arms still clasped the body of Mohun, whose head lay upon his breast.
A loud cheer rose, and the blue line rushed straight upon him. Nighthawk’s head rose, and he gazed at them with flashing eyes—then he looked at Mohun and groaned.
Summoning his last remains of strength, he drew from his breast a pencil and a piece of paper, wrote some words upon the paper, and affixed it to Mohun’s breast.
This seemed to exhaust him. He had scarcely finished, when his head sank, his shoulders drooped, and falling forward on the breast of Mohun, he expired.
An hour afterward, all was still. On the summit of the Court-House hill a blue column was stationary, waving a large white flag.
General Lee had surrendered.
Lee had surrendered the army of Northern Virginia.
Ask old soldiers of that army to describe their feelings at the announcement, reader. They will tell you that they can not; and I will not attempt to record my own.
It was, truly, the bitterness of death that we tasted at ten o’clock on the morning of that ninth of April, 1865, at Appomattox Court-House. Gray-haired soldiers cried like children. It was hard to say whether they would have preferred, at that moment, to return to their families or to throw themselves upon the bayonets of the enemy, and die.
In that hour of their agony they were not insulted, however. The deportment of the enemy was chivalric and courteous. No bands played; no cheers were heard; and General Grant was the first to salute profoundly his gray-haired adversary, who came, with a single officer, to arrange, in a house near the field, the terms of surrender.
They are known. On the tenth they were carried out.
The men stacked the old muskets, which they had carried in a hundred fights, surrendered the bullet-torn colors, which had waved over victorious fields, and silently returned, like mourners, to their desolate homes.
Two days after the surrender, Mohun was still alive.
Three months afterward, the welcome intelligence reached me that he was rapidly recovering.
He had made a narrow escape. Ten minutes after the death of the faithful Nighthawk, the Federal line had swept over him; and such was the agony of his wound, that he exclaimed to one of the enemy:—
“Take your pistol, and shoot me!”
The man cocked his weapon, and aimed at his heart. Then he turned the muzzle aside, and uncocking the pistol, replaced it in its holster.
“No,” he said, “Johnny Reb, you might get well!”
{Footnote: These details are all real.}
And glancing at the paper on Mohun’s breast, he passed on, muttering—
“It’s a general!”
The paper saved Mohun’s life. An acquaintance in the Federal army saw it, and speedily had him cared for. An hour afterward his friends were informed of his whereabouts. I hastened to the house to which he had been borne. Bending over him, the beautiful Georgia was sobbing hopelessly, and dropping tears upon the paper, which contained the words—
“This is the body of General Mohun, C.S.A.”
The army had surrendered; the flag was lowered: with a singular feeling of bewilderment, and a “lost” feeling that is indescribable, I set out, followed by my servant, for Eagle’s Nest.
I was the possessor of a paper, which I still keep as a strange memorial.
“The bearer,” ran this paper, “a paroled prisoner of the army of Northern Virginia, has permission to go to his home, and there remain undisturbed—with two horses!”
At the top of this document, was, “Appomattox Court-House, Va., April, 10, 1865.” On the left-hand side was, “Paroled Prisoner’s Pass.”
So, with his pass, the paroled prisoner passed slowly across Virginia to his home.
Oh! that Virginia of 1865—that desolate, dreary land! Oh! those poor, sad soldiers returning to their homes! Everywhere burned houses, unfenced fields, ruined homesteads! On all sides, the desolation of the torch and the sword! The “poor paroled prisoners,” going home wearily in that dark April, felt a pang which only a very bitter foe will laugh at.
But all was not taken. Honor was left us—and the angels of home! As the sorrowful survivors of the great army came back, as they reached their old homes, dragging their weary feet after them, or urging on their jaded horses, suddenly the sunshine burst forth for them, and lit up their rags with a sort of glory. The wife, the mother, and the little child rushed to them. Hearts beat fast, as the gray uniforms were clasped in a long embrace. Those angels of home loved the poor prisoners better in their dark days than in their bright. The fond eyes melted to tears, the white arms held them close; and the old soldiers, who had only laughed at the roar of the enemy’s guns, dropped tears on the faces of their wives and little children!