I had just raised the cup of tea to my lips, amid warnings from the

family, to take care or I would be captured, when a cavalryman galloped

up the hill, and stopped in front of the door.

“Look out, the Yankees are coming!” he cried.

I glanced through the window, and recognized a man of Mohun’s command,

who also recognized me.

“How near are they?” I said, attempting to swallow the burning tea.

“Not a quarter of a mile off, colonel!”

“That will give me time,” I said.

And I applied myself again to the tea, which this time I poured out into

the saucer, in order to cool it.

“Look out, colonel!” cried the man.

“Where are they?”

“At the gate.”

I finished the tea, and the goblet of cream just as the man shouted:--

“Here they are, right on you, colonel!”

And I heard the sound of a galloping horse, accompanied by shots at the

retreating cavalryman.

I went quickly to the window. A column of Federal cavalry was rapidly

ascending the hill. By the last beams of day I recognized Darke at the

head of the column; and by his side rode Mr. Alibi. I thought I could

see that Darke was thin and very pale, but was not certain. The light

was faint, and I had only one glance--discretion suggested a quick

retreat.

I just grazed capture--passing through the door, in rear of the

mansion, at the very moment when a number of the enemy, who had hastily

dismounted, rushed in at the front door.

Tom was mounted, and holding my horse, which the good boy had saddled

with his own hands. I leaped to saddle, and had scarcely done so, when

a pistol bullet whizzed by my head. It had crashed through a pane of the

window from within--and a loud shout followed. We had been perceived.

Under these circumstances, my dear reader, we always ran in the late

war. Some persons considered it disgraceful to run or dodge, but they

were civilians.

“Don’t run until you are obliged to, but then run like the ----!” said a

hard-fighting general.

And one day when a lady was telling General R.E. Lee, how a friend of

hers had dodged once, the general turned to the laughing officer, and

said in his deep voice, “That’s right captain, dodge all you can!”

I have often dodged, and more than once have--withdrawn rapidly. On this

occasion, Tom and I thought that retreat was the wisest course. In a

moment we had disappeared in the woods, followed by pistol shots and

some of the enemy.

They did not pursue us far. The Federal cavalry did not like the

Virginia woods.

In ten minutes their shots were no longer heard; their shouts died away;

and returning on our steps, we came once more in sight of Disaways and

reconnoitred.

The enemy were not visible, and riding up, we dismounted and entered.[1]

[Footnote 1: “I have taken up too much space with this trifle,” said

Colonel Surry when I read this, “but that hot tea was a real cup of tea!

I was really burned nearly to death, in attempting to swallow it! The

dialogue with my friend, the cavalryman, was real; and it is just these

trifles which cling to the memory, obscuring the ‘greater events!’”]

XIV.

MR. ALIBI.

The enemy had eaten up my supper! A glance at the table told the whole

tragic history;--but the unnerved family were scarce in a condition to

think of my misfortune.

The enemy had staid for a few moments only, but in that time the family

had gathered important information of their intentions. They were going

to surprise and attack General Fitz Lee that night; and had not so much

as halted, as they passed the house, to gain a by-road beyond. They were

commanded, the men said, by a General Darke, and guided by a man living

near Monk’s Neck, whose name was Alibi.

This information of the enemy’s design banished all other thoughts from

my mind and Tom’s. We ran to our horses--and I think I heard something

like a kiss, in the shadow of the porch, as Tom and Katy parted.

We galloped into the woods, following a course parallel to that taken by

the enemy’s cavalry, and keeping as close to it as was safe.

“A sudden parting between yourself and Katy, Tom!” I said, as we

galloped on. “A touching spectacle! When will you be married?”

“In a week or two--to answer seriously, old fellow,” responded Tom.

“Is it possible!”

“Even so, my boy.”

“Here, at Disaways?”

“No, in Richmond. Katy’s family are refugees there, now; and I was going

to escort her to Petersburg to-morrow, but for these rascals--and I will

do it, yet.”

“Good! I hope the way will be clear then! Let us go on. There is no time

to lose in order to warn General Fitz!”

We pushed on, following bridle-paths, and making toward Dinwiddie

Court-House. Half an hour thus passed, and we were near the Roney’s

Bridge road, when, suddenly, the whole forest on our right blazed

with shots. Loud shouts accompanied the firing. The woods crackled as

horsemen rushed through them. An obstinate fight was going on in the

darkness, between the Federal and Confederate cavalry.

Plainly, the Confederates had not been surprised, and the dash and

vim with which they met the Federal onset, seemed to dishearten their

enemies. For fifteen minutes the combat continued with great fury, amid

the pines; the air was filled with quick spirts of flame, with the clash

of sabres, with loud cheers and cries; then the wave of Federal horsemen

surged back toward the Rowanty; the Confederates pressed them, with

cheer; and the affair terminated in a headlong pursuit.

Tom and myself had gotten into the _mêlée_ early in the action, and my

feather had been cut out of my hat by a sabre stroke which a big blue

worthy aimed at me. This was my only accident, however. In fifteen

minutes I had the pleasure of seeing our friends run.

I followed with the rest, for about a mile. Then I drew rein, and

turned back--my horse was completely exhausted. I slowly returned toward

Dinwiddie Court-House; hesitated for a moment whether I would lodge at

the tavern; shook my head in a manner not complimentary to the hostelry;

and set out to spend the night at “Five Forks.”

I did not know, until some days afterward, that a serious accident had

happened to the worthy Mr. Alibi, guide and friend of General Darke.

He had been struck by a bullet in the fight; had flapped his wings;

cackled; tumbled from his horse; and expired.

Nighthawk’s visit thus went for nothing.

Mr. Alibi was dead.

XV.

FROM FIVE FORKS TO PETERSBURG.

I shall not dwell upon the evening and night spent at “Five Forks”--upon

whose threshold I was met and cordially greeted by the gray-haired Judge

Conway.

In the great drawing-room I found the young ladies, who hastened to

procure me supper; and I still remember that waiter of every species of

edibles,--that smiling landscape above which rose the spire-like neck

of a decanter! These incessant “bills of fare” will, I fear, revolt some

readers! But these are my memoirs; and _memoirs_ mean recollections.

I have forgotten a dozen battles, but still remember that

decanter-phenomenon in March, 1865. I spent the evening in cordial

converse with the excellent Judge Conway and his daughters, and on the

next morning set out on my return to Petersburg. Mohun had not been

visible. At the first sound of the firing, he had mounted his horse and

departed at a gallop.

So much for my visit to Five Forks. I pass thus rapidly over it, with

real regret--lamenting the want of space which compels me to do so.

Do you love the queenly rose, and the modest lily of the valley, reader?

I could have shown you those flowers, in Georgia and Virginia Conway.

They were exquisitely cordial and high-bred--as was their gray-haired

father. They spoke, and moved, and looked, as only the high-bred can.

Pardon that obsolete word, “high-bred,” so insulting in the present

epoch! I am only jesting when I seem to intimate that I considered the

stately old judge better than the black servant who waited upon me at

supper!

Of Mohun and Will Davenant, I had said nothing, in conversing with the

smiling young ladies. But I think Miss Georgia, stately and imposing as

she was, looked at me with a peculiar smile, which said, “You are _his_

friend, and cannot be a mere ordinary acquaintance to _me_!”

And here I ought to inform the reader, that since that first visit of

mine to Five Forks, affairs had marched with the young lady and her

friend. Mohun and Miss Georgia were about to be married, and I was to

be the first groomsman. The woman-hating Benedict of the banks of the

Rappahannock had completely succumbed, and the satirical Beatrice

had also lost all her wit. It died away in sighs, and gave place to

reveries--those reveries which come to maidens when they are about to

embark on the untried seas of matrimony.

But I linger at Five Forks when great events are on the march. Bidding

my hospitable host and his charming daughters good morning, I mounted

my horse and set out over the White Oak road toward Petersburg. As I

approached the Rowanty, I saw that the new defenses erected by Lee,

were continuous and powerful. Long tiers of breastworks, and redoubts

crowning every eminence, showed very plainly the great importance which

Lee attached to holding the position.

In fact, this was the key to the Southside road. Here was to take place

the last great struggle.

I rode on, in deep thought, but soon my reverie was banished. Just as

I reached the hill above Burgess’s, who should I see coming from the

direction of the Court-House--but Tom Herbert and Katy Dare!

Katy Dare, on a little pony, with a riding skirt reaching nearly to

the ground!--with her trim little figure clearly outlined by the

fabric--with a jaunty little riding hat balanced lightly upon her

ringlets--with her cheeks full of roses, her lips full of smiles, her

eyes dancing like two blue waves, which the wind agitates!

Don’t find fault with her, Mrs. Grundy, for having Tom only as an

escort. Those were stern and troubled times; our poor girls were

compelled often to banish ceremony. Katy had only this means to get back

to her family, and went with Tom as with her brother.

She held out both hands to me, her eyes dancing. Three years have

passed since then, but if I were a painter, I could make her portrait,

reproducing every detail! Nothing has escaped my memory; I still hear

her voice; the sun of 1868, not of 1865, seems to shine on the rosy

cheeks framed by masses of golden ringlets!

I would like to record our talk as we rode on toward

Petersburg--describe that ride--a charming episode, flashing like a

gleam of sunlight, amid the dark days, when the black clouds had covered

the whole landscape. In this volume there is so much gloom! Suffering

and death have met us so often! Can you wonder, my dear reader, that the

historian of such an epoch longs to escape, when he can, from the gloom

of the tragedy, and paint those scenes of comedy which occasionally

broke the monotonous drama? To write this book is not agreeable to me. I

wear out a part of my life in composing it. To sum up, in cold historic

generalities that great epoch would be little--but to enter again into

the hot atmosphere; to live once more that life of the past; to feel the

gloom, the suspense, the despair of 1865 again--believe me, that is no

trifle! It wears away the nerves, and tears the heart. The cheek becomes

pale as the MS. grows! The sunshine is yonder, but you do not see it.

The past banishes the present. Across the tranquil landscape of March,

1868, jars the cannon, and rushes the storm wind of March, 1865!

The cloud was black above, therefore, but Katy Dare made the world

bright with her own sunshine, that day. All the way to Petersburg, she

ran on in the most charming prattle. The winding Boydton road, like the

banks of the lower Rowanty, was made vocal with her songs--the “Bird

of Beauty” and the whole repertoire. Nor was Tom Herbert backward in

encouraging his companion’s mirth. Tom was the soul of joy. He sang

“Katy! Katy! don’t marry any other!” with an unction which spoke in

his quick color, and “melting glances” as in the tones of his laughing

voice. Riding along the famous highway, upon which only a solitary

cavalryman or a wagon occasionally appeared, the little maiden and her

lover made the pine-woods ring with their songs, their jests, and their

laughter!

It is good to be young and to love. Is there any thing more charming?

For my part I think that the curly head holds the most wisdom! Tell

me which was the happier--the gray-haired general yonder, oppressed by

care, or the laughing youth and maiden? It is true there is something

nobler, however, than youth, and joy, and love. It is to know that you

are doing your duty--to bear up, like Atlas, a whole world upon your

shoulders--to feel that, if you fall, the whole world will shake--and

that history will place your name beside that of Washington!

As the sun began to decline, we rode into Petersburg, and bidding Katy

and Tom adieu, I returned to my Cedars.

I had taken my last ride in the “low grounds” of the county of

Dinwiddie; I was never more to see Disaways, unless something carries me

thither in the future. To those hours spent in the old mansion, and with

my comrades, near it, I look back now with delight. Days and nights on

the Rowanty! how you come back to me in dreams! Happy hours at Disaways,

with the cavalry, with the horse artillery! you live still in my memory,

and you will live there always! Katy Dare runs to greet me again as in

the past--again her blue eyes dance, and the happy winds are blowing her

bright curls into ripples! She smiles upon me still--as in that “winter

of discontent.” Her cheerful voice again sounds. Her small hands are

held out to me. All things go--nothing lingers--but those days on the

Rowanty, amid the sunset gilded pines, come back with all their tints,

and are fadeless in my memory.

Going back thus in thought, to that winter of 1864, I recall the

friendly faces of Katy, and all my old comrades--I hear their laughter

again, touch their brave hands once more, and salute them, wishing them

long life and happiness.

“Farewell!” I murmur, “Rowanty, and Sappony, and Disaways! _Bonne

fortune!_ old companions, little maiden, and kind friends all! It has

not been time lost to gather together my recollections--to live again in

the past,--to catch the aroma of those hours when kindness smoothed

the front of war! We no longer wear the gray--my mustache only shows

it _now_! but, thank heaven! many things in memory survive. I think of

these--of the old comrades, the old times. Health and happiness attend

you on your way through life, comrades! May the silver spare the gold of

your clustering ringlets, Katy! Joy and gladness follow your steps! all

friendly stars shine on you! Wherever you are, old friends, may a kind

heaven send you its blessing!”

XVI.

LEE’S LAST GREAT BLOW.

I reached Petersburg on the evening of March 24, 1865.

The ride was a gay comedy--but a tragedy was about to follow it. On the

very next morning, in the gray March dawn, Lee was going to strike his

last great blow at Grant. A column under Gordon, that brave of braves,

was going to be hurled headlong against Hare’s Hill, the enemy’s centre,

just below Petersburg.

That design was evidently the result of supreme audacity, or of despair.

In either case it indicated the terrible character of the crisis. There

could be no two opinions upon that point. Lee aimed at nothing less than

to cut General Grant’s army in two--to root himself doggedly in the

very centre of his enemies, and to force General Grant to draw back the

entire left wing of his army, or run the risk, by holding his position,

to have it destroyed.

Was Lee’s motive to open the way for his retreat over the Boydton road

toward Danville? I know not. Military critics say so, and it is certain

that, a month before, he had endeavored to retreat. The government had

checked him, then, but now, that step was plainly the only one left. He

might effect his retreat by forcing Grant to draw in his left wing for

the support of his centre. Lee could then retire from Hare’s Hill; make

a rapid march westward; push for North Carolina; and joining his forces

with those of Johnston, continue the war in the Gulf States, falling

back if necessary to Texas.

I have always thought that this was his design, but I was much too

obscure a personage to gain any personal knowledge of his plans. It is

certain that he designed one of two things--either to open the path for

his retreat, or to relieve his right wing toward Five Forks, which was

bending under the immense pressure upon it. Either motive was that of a

good soldier--and what seemed wild audacity was sound common sense.

For the rest, there was little else to do. Some change in the aspect

of things was vitally necessary. Grant had been re-enforced by a large

portion of Sherman’s army, and the Federal troops in front of Lee now

numbered about one hundred and fifty thousand. As Lee’s force, all told,

on his entire line, was only about forty thousand, the rupture of the

far-stretching defences, at some point, seemed only a question of time.

And scarcely that. Rather, a question of the moment selected by Grant

for his great blow.

At the end of March the hour of decisive struggle was plainly at hand.

The wind had dried the roads; artillery could move; the Federal left

was nearly in sight of the Southside road; one spring, and General Grant

could lay hold on that great war-artery, and then nothing would be left

to Lee but retreat or surrender.

Such was the condition of things at Petersburg, in these last days of

March. Grant was ready with his one hundred and fifty thousand infantry

to strike Lee’s forty thousand. Sheridan was ready with his twelve

thousand superbly mounted cavalry, to hurl himself against the two

thousand half-armed horsemen, on starved and broken-down animals, under

command of General Fitz Lee. A child could have told the result. The

idea of resistance, with any hope, in the defences, any longer, was a

chimera. Lee was a great soldier--history contains few greater. The

army of Northern Virginia was brave--the annals of the world show none

braver. But there was one thing which neither great generalship, or

supreme courage could effect. Opposed by one hundred and fifty thousand

well-fed troops, with every munition of war, forty thousand starving

men, defending a line of forty miles, must in the end meet capture or

destruction.

The country did not see it, but General Lee did. The civilians--the

brave ones--had a superstitious confidence in the great commander and

his old army. It had repulsed the enemy so uninterruptedly, that

the unskilled people believed it invincible. Lee had foiled Grant so

regularly that he was looked upon as the very God of Victory. Defeat

could not come to him. Glory would ever follow his steps. On the banners

of the old army of Northern Virginia, led by Lee, the eagles of victory

would still, perch, screaming defiance, and untamed to the end.

While the civilians were saying this, Lee was preparing to retreat.

Nothing blinded that clear vision--the eyes of the great chief pierced

every mist. He saw the blow coming--the shadow of the Grant hammer as

the weapon was lifted, ran before--on the 25th of March Lee’s rapier

made it last lunge. But when his adversary recoiled to avoid it, it was

Lee who was going to retreat.

That lunge was sudden and terrible--if it did not accomplish its object.

In the dark March morning, Gordon, “The Bayard of the army,” advanced

with three thousand men across the abatis in front of Hare’s Hill.

What followed was a fierce tragedy, as brief and deadly as the fall of a

thunder-bolt.

Gordon rushed at the head of his column over the space which separated

the lines; stormed the Federal defences at the point of the bayonet;

seized on Fort Steadman, a powerful work, and the batteries surrounding

it, then as the light broadened in the East, he looked back for

re-enforcements. None came--he was holding the centre of Grant’s army

with three thousand men. What he had won was by sheer audacity--the

enemy had been surprised, and seemed laboring under a species of stupor;

if not supported, and supported at once, he was gone!

An hour afterward, Gordon was returning, shattered and bleeding at every

pore. The enemy had suddenly come to their senses after the stunning

blow. From the forts and redoubts crowning every surrounding hill issued

the thunder. Cannon glared, shell crashed, musketry rolled in long

fusillade, on three sides of the devoted Confederates. Huddled in the

trenches they were torn to pieces by a tempest of shell and bullets.

As the light broadened, the hills swarmed with blue masses hastening

toward the scene of the combat, to punish the daring assailants. Grant’s

army was closing in around the little band of Gordon. No help came to

them, they were being butchered; to stay longer there was mere suicide,

and the few who could do so, retreated to the Confederate lines.

They were few indeed. Of the splendid assaulting column, led by Gordon,

more than two thousand were killed or captured. He had split the

stubborn trunk, but it was the trunk which now held the wedge in its

obdurate jaws.

Gordon retreated with his bleeding handful--it was the second or third

time that this king of battle had nearly accomplished impossibilities by

the magic of his genius.

He could do only what was possible. To stay yonder was impossible.

And the scarred veteran of thirty-three years, came back pale and in

despair.

Lee had struck his last great blow, and it had failed.

XVII.

THE WRESTLE FOR THE WHITE OAK ROAD.

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.

XVIII.

THE BRIDEGROOM.

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.

XIX.

THE CEREMONY.

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!”

XX.

WHAT OCCURRED AT “FIVE FORKS,” ON THE NIGHT OF MARCH 31, 1865.

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.

XXI.

FIVE FORKS.

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.

XXII.

“THE LINE HAS BEEN STRETCHED UNTIL IT HAS BROKEN, COLONEL.”.

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.

XXIII.

WHAT I SAW FROM THE GRAVE OF STUART.

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.

XXIV.

THE RETREAT.

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.

XXV.

HUNTED DOWN.

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.

XXVI.

THE LAST COUNCIL OF WAR OF THE ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA.

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.

XXVII.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE SURRENDER.

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.

XXVIII.

THE LAST CHARGE OF THE OLD GUARD.

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.

XXIX.

THE SURRENDER.

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!

EPILOGUE.

In the autumn of last year, 1867, I set out on horseback from “Eagle’s

Nest,” and following the route west by Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville,

Germanna Ford, Culpeper, and Orleans, reached “The Oaks” in Fauquier.

I needed the sunshine and bright faces of the old homestead, after

that journey; for at every step had sprung up some gloomy or exciting

recollection.

It was a veritable journey through the world of memory.

Fredericksburg! Chancellorsville! the Wilderness! the plains of

Culpeper!--as I rode on amid these historic scenes, a thousand memories

came to knock at the door of my heart. Some were gay, if many were

sorrowful--laughter mingled with the sighs. But to return to the past

is nearly always sad. As I rode through the waste land now, it was with

drooping head. All the old days came back again, the cannon sent their

long dull thunder through the forests; again the gray and blue lines

closed in, and hurled together; again Jackson in his old dingy coat,

Stuart with his floating plume, Pelham, Farley, all whom I had known,

loved, and still mourned, rose before me--a line of august phantoms

fading away into the night of the past.

Once more I looked upon Pelham, holding in his arms the bleeding form of

Jean--passing “Camp-no-camp,” only a desolate and dreary field now, all

the laughing faces and brave forms of Stuart and his men returned--in

the Wilderness I saw Jackson fight and fall; saw him borne through the

moonlight; heard his sighs and his last greeting with Stuart. A step

farther, I passed the lonely old house in the Wilderness, and all the

strange and sombre scenes there surged up from the shadows of the past.

Mordaunt, Achmed, Fenwick, Violet Grafton!--all reappeared, playing over

again their fierce tragedy; and to this was added the fiercer drama of

May, 1864, when General Grant invented the “Unseen Death.”

Thus the journey which I made through the bare and deserted fields, or

the mournful thickets, was not gay; and these were only a part of the

panorama which passed before me. Looking toward the south, I saw as

clearly with the eyes of the memory, the banks of the Po, the swamps of

the Chickahominy, the trenches at Petersburg, the woods of Dinwiddie,

Five Forks, Highbridge--Appomattox Court-House! Nearer was Yellow

Tavern, where Stuart had fallen. Not a foot of this soil of Old Virginia

but seemed to have been the scene of some fierce battle, some sombre

tragedy!

“Well, well,” I sighed, as I rode on toward the Oaks, “all that is

buried in the past, and it is useless to think of it. I am only a poor

paroled prisoner, wearing arms no more--let me forget the red cross flag

which used to float so proudly here, and bow my head to the will of the

Supreme Ruler of all worlds.”

So I went on, and in due time reached the Oaks, in Fauquier.

You recall the good old homestead, do you not, my dear reader? I should

be sorry to have you forget the spot where I have been so happy. It was

to this honest old mansion that I was conducted in April, 1861, when

struck from my horse by a falling limb in the storm-lashed wood, I

saw come to my succor the dearest person in the world. She awaited me

now--having a month before left Eagle’s Nest, to pay a visit to her

family--and again, as in the spring of ‘63, she came to meet me as I

ascended the hill--only we met now as bridegroom and bride!

This May of my life had brought back the sunshine, even after that black

day of 1865. Two white arms had met the poor paroled prisoner, on his

return to Eagle’s Nest--a pair of violet eyes had filled with happy

tears--and the red lips, smiling with exquisite emotion, murmured “All

is well, since you have come back to me!”

It was this beautiful head which the sunshine of that autumn of 1867

revealed to me, on the lawn of the good old chateau of the mountains!

And behind, came all my good friends of the Oaks--the kind lady of the

manor, the old colonel, and Charley and Annie, who were there too! With

his long gray hair, and eyes that still flashed, Colonel Beverly came

to meet me--brave and smiling in 1867 as he had been in 1861. Then, with

Annie’s arm around me--that little sister had grown astonishingly!--I

went in and was at home.

At home! You must be a soldier to know what that simple word means,

reader! You must sleep under a tree, carry your effects behind your

saddle, lie down in bivouac in strange countries, and feel the longing

of the heart for the dear faces, the old scenes.

“Tell my mother that I die in a foreign land!” murmured my poor dear

Tazewell Patton, at Gettysburg. I have often thought of those words; and

they express much I think. Oh! for home! for a glimpse, if no more, of

the fond faces, as life goes! You may be the bravest of the brave, as

my dear Tazewell was; but ‘tis home where the heart is, and you sigh for

the dear old land!

The Oaks was like home to me, for the somebody with violet eyes, and

chestnut hair, was here to greet me.

The sun is setting, and we wander in the fields touched by the dreamy

autumn.

“Look,” says the somebody who holds my hand, and smiles, “there is the

rock where we stopped in the autumn of 1862, and where you behaved with

so little propriety, you remember, sir!”

“I remember the rock but not the absence of propriety. What were a man’s

arms made for but to clasp the woman he loves!”

“Stop, sir! People would think we were two foolish young lovers.”

“Young lovers are not foolish, madam. They are extremely intelligent.”

Madam laughs.

“Yonder is the primrose from which I plucked the bud,” she says.

“That sent me through Stuart’s head-quarters in April, 1863?” I say.

“Yes; you have not forgotten it I hope.”

“Almost; Stay! I think it meant ‘Come,’--did it not?--And you sent it to

me!”

Madam pouts beautifully.

“You have ‘almost forgotten’ it! Have you, indeed, sir?”

“These trifles will escape us.”

May loses all her smiles, and her head sinks.

I begin to laugh, taking an old porte-monnaie from my pocket. There

is very little money in it, but a number of worn papers, my parole and

others. I take one and open it. It contains a faded primrose.

“Look!” I say, with a smile, “it said ‘Come,’ once, and it brings me

back again to the dearest girl in the world!”

A tear falls from the violet eyes upon the faded flower, but through the

tears burst a smile!

They are curious, these earthly angels--are they not, my dear reader?

They are romantic and sentimental to the last, and this old soldier

admires them!

So, conversing of a thousand things, we return to the Oaks wandering

like boy and girl through the “happy autumn fields.” May Surry flits

through the old doorway and disappears.

As she goes the sun sinks behind the forest. But it will rise, as she

will, to-morrow!

The smiling Colonel Beverly meets me on the threshold, with a note in

his hand.

“A servant has just brought this,” he says, “it is from your friend,

Mordaunt.”

I opened the note and read the following words:--

“_My dear Surry_:--

“I send this note to await your appearance at the Oaks. Come and see me.

Some old friends will give you a cordial greeting, in addition to

“Your comrade,

“Mordaunt.”

I had intended visiting Mordaunt in a day or two after my arrival. On

the very next morning I mounted my horse, and set out for the house in

the mountain, anxious to ascertain who the “old friends” were, to whom

he alluded.

In an hour I had come within sight of Mordaunt’s mansion. Passing

through the great gate, I rode on between the two rows of magnificent

trees; approached the low mansion with its extensive wings, overshadowed

by the huge black oaks; dismounted; raised the heavy bronze knocker,

carved like the frowning mask of the old tragedians; and letting it fall

sent a peal of low thunder through the mansion.

Mordaunt appeared in a few moments; and behind him came dear Violet

Grafton, as I will still call her, smiling. Mordaunt’s face glowed

with pleasure, and the grasp of his strong hand was like a vice. He

was unchanged, except that he wore a suit of plain gray cloth. His

statuesque head, with the long black beard and mustache, the sparkling

eyes, and cheeks tanned by exposure to the sun and wind, rose as proudly

as on that morning in 1865, when he had charged and cut through the

enemy at Appomattox.

Violet was Violet still! The beautiful tranquil face still smiled with

its calm sweetness; the lips had still that expression of infantile

innocence. The blue eyes still looked forth from the shower of golden

ringlets which had struck me when I first met her in the lonely house in

the Wilderness, in the gay month of April, 1861.

I had shaken hands with Mordaunt, but I advanced and “saluted” madam,

and the cheek was suddenly filled with exquisite roses.

“For old times’ sake, madam!”

“Which are the best of all possible times, Surry!” said Mordaunt,

laughing.

And he led the way into the great apartment, hung round with portraits,

where we had supped on the night of Pelham’s hard fight at Barbee’s,

after Sharpsburg.

“You remember this room, do you not, my dear Surry?” said Mordaunt. “It

escaped during the war; though you see that my poor little grandmother,

the child of sixteen there, with the curls and laces, received a

sabre thrust in the neck. But you are looking round for the friends I

promised. They were here a moment since, and only retired to give you a

surprise.

“See! here they are!”

The door opened, and I saw enter--Mohun and Landon!

In an instant I had grasped the hands of these dear friends; and

they had explained their presence. Mohun had come to make a visit to

Mordaunt, and had prolonged his stay in order to meet me. Then Mordaunt

had written to Landon, at “Bizarre,” just over the mountain, to come

and complete the party--he had promptly arrived--and I found myself in

presence of three old comrades, any one of whom it would have been a

rare pleasure to have met.

Mohun and Landon were as unchanged as Mordaunt. I saw the same proud and

loyal faces, listened to the same frank brave voices, touched the same

firm hands. They no longer wore uniforms--that was the whole difference.

Under the black coats beat the same hearts which had throbbed beneath

the gray.

I spent the whole day with Mordaunt, After dinner he led the way into

the room on the right of the entrance--that singular apartment into

which I had been shown by accident on my first visit to him, and where

afterward I witnessed the test of poor Achmed’s love. The apartment

was unchanged. The floor was still covered with the rich furs of

lions, tigers, and leopards--the agate eyes still glared at me, and

the grinning teeth seemed to utter growls or snarls. On the walls I saw

still the large collection of books in every language--the hunting and

battle pictures which I had before so greatly admired--the strange array

of outlandish arms--and over the mantel-piece still hung the portrait of

Violet Grafton.

Seated in front of a cheerful blaze, we smoked and talked--Mordaunt,

Mohun, Landon, and myself--until the shades of evening drew on.

Landon told me of his life at “Bizarre,” near the little village of

Millwood, through which we had marched that night to bury his dead at

the old chapel, and where he had surrendered in April, 1865. Arden and

Annie lived near him, and were happy: and if I would come to “Bizarre,”

he would show me the young lady whom I had carried off, that night, from

the chapel graveyard, on the croup of my saddle!

Landon laughed. His face was charming; it was easy to see that he was

happy. To understand how that expression contrasted with his former

appearance, the worthy reader must peruse my episodical memoir, _Hilt to

Hilt_.

Mohun’s face was no less smiling. He had lost every trace of gloom.

He gave me intelligence of all my old friends. General Davenant and

Judge Conway had become close friends again. Will and Virginia were

married. Charley was cultivating a mustache and speculating upon a new

revolution. Tom Herbert and Katy were on a visit to “Disaways.”

“Poor Nighthawk is the only one whom I miss, my dear Surry,” said Mohun.

“He died trying to save me, and I have had his body taken to Fonthill,

where it is buried in the family graveyard.”

“He was a faithful friend; and to be killed on that very last morning

was hard. But many were. _You_ had a narrow escape, Mohun.”

“Yes, and was only preserved by a Bible.”

“A Bible?”

“Do you remember that I was reading by the camp fire, when you came to

visit me on the night preceding the surrender?”

“Yes--in your wife’s Bible.”

“Well, my dear Surry, when I had finished reading, I placed the volume

in my breast, as usual. When I was shot, on the next morning, the bullet

struck the book and glanced. Had the Bible not been there, that bullet

would have pierced my heart. As it was, it only wounded me in the

breast. Here is my old Bible--I carry it about me still.”

As he spoke, Mohun drew from his breast the small leather-bound volume,

in the cover of which was visible a deep gash.

He looked at it with a smile, and said:---

“This book has been the salvation of my body and soul, Surry. I was

haughty and a man-hater once--now I try to be humble. I had no hope

once, now I am happy. I have one other souvenir of that memorable day at

Appomattox--this scrap of paper between the leaves of my old Bible.”

He drew out the scrap, which was dirty and discolored with blood.

Upon it was written in pencil, the words:--

“This is the body of General Mohun, C.S.A.”

As Mohun pointed to it, a ray of sunset shot athwart the forest, and

fell on his serene features, lighting them up with a sort of glory. The

clear eyes gave back the ray, and there was something exquisitely soft

in them. Mordaunt and Landon too, were bathed in that crimson light of

evening, disappearing beyond the shaggy crest of the Blue Ridge--and I

thought I saw on their proud faces the same expression.

“These three men are happy,” I thought. “Their lot has been strange;

they have been nearly lost; but heaven has sent to each an angel,

to bring back hope to them. Ellen Adair, Georgia Conway, Violet

Grafton--these fond hearts have changed your lives, Landon, Mohun, and

Mordaunt!”

In an hour I was at the “Oaks.”

A month afterward, I had returned to “Eagle’s Nest.”

And in this April, 1868, when the flowers are blooming, and the sun is

shining--when a pair of violet eyes make the sunshine still brighter--I

end the last volume of my memoirs.

THE END.