Fort Fisher captured--Lee made Commander-in-Chief--Battle of Five
Forks--The General’s farewell to his men--His reception in Richmond
after the surrender--President Davis hears the news--Lee’s visitors--His
son Robert turns farmer
The year 1865 had now commenced. The strength of that thin gray line,
drawn out to less than one thousand men to the mile, which had repulsed
every attempt of the enemy to break through it, was daily becoming less.
The capture of Fort Fisher, our last open port, January 15th, cut off
all supplies and munitions from the outside world. Sherman had reached
Savannah in December, from which point he was ready to unite with Grant
at any time. From General Lee’s letters, official and private, one gets
a clear view of the desperateness of his position. He had been made
commander-in-chief of all the military forces in the Confederate States
on February 6th. In his order issued on accepting this command he says:
“...Deeply impressed with the difficulties and responsibilities of the
position, and humbly invoking the guidance of Almighty God, I rely for
success upon the courage and fortitude of the army, sustained by the
patriotism and firmness of the people, confident that their
united efforts under the blessing of Heaven will secure peace and
independence....”
General Beauregard, who had so ably defended Petersburg when it was
first attacked, and who had assisted so materially in its subsequent
defense, had been sent to gather troops to try to check Sherman’s
advance through the Carolinas. But Beauregard’s health was now very bad,
and it was feared he would have to abandon the field. In a letter to the
Secretary of War, dated February 21, 1865, my father says:
“...In the event of the necessity of abandoning our position on James
River, I shall endeavour to unite the corps of the army about Burkeville
[junction of Southside and Danville Railroad], so as to retain
communication with the North and South as long as practicable, and also
with the West, I should think Lynchburg, or some point west, the most
advantageous place to which to remove stores from Richmond. This,
however, is a most difficult point at this time to decide, and the
place may have to be changed by circumstances. It was my intention in
my former letter to apply for General Joseph E. Johnston, that I might
assign him to duty, should circumstances permit. I have had no official
report of the condition of General Beauregard’s health. It is stated
from many sources to be bad. If he should break down entirely, it might
be fatal. In that event, I should have no one with whom to supply his
place. I therefore respectfully request General Johnston may be ordered
to report to me, and that I may be informed where he is.”
In a letter to the Secretary of War, written the next day:
“...But you may expect Sheridan to move up the Valley, and Stoneman from
Knoxville, as Sherman draws near Roanoke. What then will become of those
sections of the country? I know of no other troops that could be given
to Beauregard. Bragg will be forced back by Schofield, I fear, and,
until I abandon James River, nothing can be sent from this army. Grant,
I think, is now preparing to draw out by his left with the intent of
enveloping me. He may wait till his other columns approach nearer, or
he may be preparing to anticipate my withdrawal. I cannot tell yet....
Everything of value should be removed from Richmond. It is of the first
importance to save all powder. The cavalry and artillery of the army
are still scattered for want of provender, and our supply and ammunition
trains, which out to be with the army in case of sudden movement, are
absent collecting provisions and forage--some in western Virginia and
some in North Carolina. You will see to what straits we are reduced; but
I trust to work out.”
On the same day, in a letter to my mother, he writes:
“...After sending my note this morning, I received from the express
office a back of socks. You will have to send down your offerings as
soon as you can, and bring your work to a close, for I think General
Grant will move against us soon--within a week, if nothing prevents--and
no man can tell what may be the result; but trusting to a merciful God,
who does not always give the battle to the strong, I pray we may not be
overwhelmed. I shall, however, endeavour to do my duty and fight to the
last. Should it be necessary to abandon our position to prevent being
surrounded, what will you do? You must consider the question, and make
up your mind. It is a fearful condition, and we must rely for guidance
and protection upon a kind Providence....”
About this time, I saw my father for the last time until after the
surrender. We had been ordered up to the army from our camp nearly
forty miles away, reaching the vicinity of Petersburg the morning of the
attack of General Gordon on Fort Stedman, on March 25th. My brother and
I had ridden ahead of the division to report its presence, when we met
the General riding Traveller, almost alone, back from that part of the
lines opposite the fort. Since then I have often recalled the sadness of
his face, its careworn expression. When he caught sight of his two
sons, a bright smile at once lit up his countenance, and he showed very
plainly his pleasure at seeing us. He thanked my brother for responding
so promptly to his call upon him, and regretted that events had so
shaped themselves that the division would not then be needed, as he had
hoped it would be.
No good results followed Gordon’s gallant attack. His supports did
not come up a the proper time, and our losses were very heavy, mostly
prisoners. Two days after this, Sheridan, with ten thousand mounted men,
joined Grant, having marched from the Valley of Virginia via Staunton
and Charlottesville. On the 28th, everything being ready, General Grant
commenced to turn our right, and having more than three men to our one,
he had no difficult task. On that very day my father wrote to my mother:
“...I have received your note with a bag of socks. I return the bag and
receipt. The count is all right this time. I have put in the bag General
Scott’s autobiography, which I thought you might like to read. The
General, of course, stands out prominently, and does not hide his light
under a bushel, but he appears the bold, sagacious, truthful man that he
is. I inclose a note from little Agnes. I shall be very glad to see her
to-morrow, but cannot recommend pleasure trips now....”
On April 1st the Battle of Five Forks was fought, where about fifty
thousand infantry and cavalry--more men than were in our entire
army--attacked our extreme right and turned it, so that, to save our
communications, we had to abandon our lines at Petersburg, giving up
that city and Richmond. Form that time to April 9th the Army of
Northern Virginia struggled to get back to some position where it could
concentrate its forces and make a stand; but the whole world knows
of that six-days’ retreat. I shall not attempt to describe it in
detail--indeed, I could not if I would, for I was not present all the
time--but will quote from those who have made it a study and who are far
better fitted to record it than I am. General Early, in his address
at Lexington, Virginia, January 19, 1872--General Lee’s
birthday--eloquently and briefly describes these six days as follows:
“...The retreat from the lines of Richmond and Petersburg began in the
early days of April, and the remnant of the Army of Northern Virginia
fell back, more than one hundred miles, before its overpowering
antagonists, repeatedly presenting front to the latter and giving battle
so as to check his progress. Finally, from mere exhaustion, less than
eight thousand men with arms in their hands, of the noblest army that
ever fought ‘in the tide of time,’ were surrendered at Appomattox to an
army of 150,000 men; the sword of Robert E. Lee, without a blemish
on it, was sheathed forever; and the flag, to which he had added such
luster, was furled, to be, henceforth, embalmed in the affectionate
remembrance of those who remained faithful during all our trials, and
will do so to the end.”
Colonel Archer Anderson, in his address at the unveiling of the Lee
monument in Richmond, Virginia, May 29, 1890, speaking of the siege of
Petersburg and of the surrender, utters these noble words:
“...Of the siege of Petersburg, I have only time to say that in it
for nine months the Confederate commander displayed every art by which
genius and courage can make good the lack of numbers and resources. But
the increasing misfortunes of the Confederate arms on other theatres
of the war gradually cut off the supply of men and means. The Army of
Northern Virginia ceased to be recruited, it ceased to be adequately
fed. It lived for months on less than one-third rations. It was
demoralised, not by the enemy in its front, but by the enemy in Georgia
and the Carolinas. It dwindled to 35,000 men, holding a front of
thirty-five miles; but over the enemy it still cast the shadow of
its great name. Again and again, by a bold offensive, it arrested
the Federal movement to fasten on its communications. At last, an
irresistible concentration of forces broke through its long thin line of
battle. Petersburg had to be abandoned. Richmond was evacuated. Trains
bearing supplies were intercepted, and a starving army, harassed
for seven days by incessant attacks on rear and flank, found itself
completely hemmed in by overwhelming masses. Nothing remained to it but
its stainless honour, its unbroken courage. In those last solemn scenes,
when strong men, losing all self-control, broke down and sobbed like
children, Lee stood forth as great as in the days of victory and
triumph. No disaster crushed his spirit, no extremity of danger ruffled
his bearing. In the agony of dissolution now invading that proud army,
which for four years had wrested victory from every peril, in that
blackness of utter darkness, he preserved the serene lucidity of his
mind. He looked the stubborn facts calmly in the face, and when no
military resource remained, when he recognised the impossibility of
making another march or fighting another battle, he bowed his head in
submission to that Power which makes and unmakes nations. The
surrender of the fragments of the Army of Northern Virginia closed the
imperishable record of his military life....”
From the London “Standard,” at the time of his last illness, I quote
these words relative to this retreat:
“When the Army of Northern Virginia marched out of the lines around
Petersburg and Richmond, it still numbered some twenty-six thousand men.
After a retreat of six days, in the face of an overwhelming enemy,
with a crushing artillery--a retreat impeded by constant fighting and
harassed by countless hordes of cavalry--eight thousand were given up
by the capitulation at Appomattox Court House. Brilliant as were General
Lee’s earlier triumphs, we believe that he gave higher proofs of genius
in his last campaign, and that hardly any of his victories were so
honourable to himself and his army as that of his six-days’ retreat.”
Swinton, in his “History of the Army of the Potomac,” after justly
praising its deeds, thus speaks of its great opponent, the Army of
Northern Virginia:
“Nor can there fail to arise the image of that other army that was the
adversary of the Army of the Potomac, and--who that once looked upon
it can ever forget it?--that array of tattered uniforms and bright
muskets--that body of incomparable infantry, the Army of Northern
Virginia, which, for four years, carried the revolt on its bayonets,
opposing a constant front to the mighty concentration of power brought
against it; which, receiving terrible blows, did not fail to give
the like, and which, vital in all its parts, died only with its
annihilation.”
General Long, in speaking of its hardships and struggles during the
retreat, thus describes how the army looked up to their commander and
trusted him to bring them through all their troubles:
“General Lee had never appeared more grandly heroic than on this
occasion. All eyes were raised to him for a deliverance which no human
seemed able to give. He alone was expected to provide food for the
starving army and rescue it from the attacks of a powerful and eager
enemy. Under the accumulation of difficulties, his courage seemed to
expand, and wherever he appeared his presence inspired the weak and
weary with renewed energy to continue the toilsome march. During these
trying scenes his countenance wore its habitual calm, grave expression.
Those who watched his face to catch a glimpse of what was passing in his
mind could gather thence no trace of his inner sentiments.”
No one can tell what he suffered. He did in all things what he
considered right. Self he absolutely abandoned. As he said, so he
believed, that “human virtue should equal human calamity.” A day or two
before the surrender, he said to General Pendleton:
“...I have never believed we could, against the gigantic combination
for our subjugation, make good in the long run our independence unless
foreign powers should, directly or indirectly, assist us.... But
such considerations really made with me no difference. We had, I was
satisfied, sacred principles to maintain and rights to defend, for
which we were in duty bound to do our best, even if we perished in the
endeavour.”
After his last attempt was made with Gordon and Fitz Lee to break
through the lines of the enemy in the early morning of the 9th, and
Colonel Veneble informed him that it was not possible, he said:
“Then there is nothing left me but to go and see General Grant.” When
some one near him, hearing this, said:
“Oh, General, what will history say of the surrender of the army in the
field?” he replied:
“Yes, I know they will say hard things of us; they will not understand
how we were overwhelmed by numbers; but that is not the question,
Colonel; the question is, is it right to surrender this army? If it is
right, then I will take all the responsibility.”
There had been some correspondence with Grant just before the
conversation with General Pendleton. After Gordon’s attack failed, a
flag of truce was sent out, and, about eleven o’clock, General Lee went
to meet General Grant. The terms of surrender were agreed upon, and then
General Lee called attention to the pressing needs of his men. He said:
“I have a thousand or more of your men and officers, whom we have
required to march along with us for several days. I shall be glad to
send them to your lines as soon as it can be arranged, for I have no
provisions for them. My own men have been living for the last few days
principally upon parched cord, and we are badly in need of both rations
and forage.”
Grant said he would at once send him 25,000 rations. General Lee told
him that amount would be ample and a great relief. He then rode back
to his troops. The rations issued then to our army were the supplies
destined for us but captured at Amelia Court House. Had they reached us
in time, they would have given the half-starved troops that were left
strength enough to make a further struggle. General Long graphically
pictures the last scenes:
“It is impossible to describe the anguish of the troops when it was
known that the surrender of the army was inevitable. Of all their
trials, this was the greatest and hardest to endure. There was no
consciousness of shame; each heart could boast with honest pride that
its duty had been done to the end, and that still unsullied remained its
honour. When, after this interview with General Grant, General Lee again
appeared, a shout of welcome instinctively went up from the army. But
instantly recollecting the sad occasion that brought him before them,
their shouts sank into silence, every hat was raised, and the bronzed
faces of thousands of grim warriors were bathed in tears. As he rode
slowly along the lines, hundreds of his devoted veterans pressed around
the noble chief, trying to take his hand, touch his person, or even
lay their hands upon his horse, thus exhibiting for him their great
affection. The General then with head bare, and tears flowing freely
down his manly cheeks, bade adieu to the army.”
In a few words: “Men, we have fought through the war together; I have
done my best for you; my heart is too full to say more,” he bade
them good-bye and told them to return to their homes and become good
citizens. The next day he issued his farewell address, the last order
published to the army:
“Headquarters, Army of Northern Virginia, April 10, 1865.
“After four years’ of arduous service, marked by unsurpassed courage and
fortitude, the Army of Northern Virginia has been compelled to yield to
overwhelming numbers and resources. I need not tell the survivors of so
many hard-fought battles, who have remained steadfast to the last, that
I have consented to this result from no distrust of them; but, feeling
that valour and devotion could accomplish nothing that could compensate
for the loss that would have attended the continuation of the contest,
I have determined to avoid the useless sacrifice of those whose past
services have endeared them to their countrymen. By the terms of the
agreement, officers and men can return to their homes and remain there
until exchanged. You will take with you the satisfaction that proceeds
from the consciousness of duty faithfully performed; and I earnestly
pray that a merciful God will extend to you his blessing and protection.
With an increasing admiration of your constancy and devotion to
your country, and a grateful remembrance of your kind and generous
consideration of myself, I bid you an affectionate farewell.
“R. E. Lee, General.”
General Long says that General Meade called on General Lee on the 10th,
and in the course of conversation remarked:
“Now that the war may be considered over, I hope you will not deem it
improper for me to ask, for my personal information, the strength of
your army during the operations around Richmond and Petersburg.” General
Lee replied:
“At no time did my force exceed 35,000 men; often it was less.” With a
look of surprise, Meade answered:
“General, you amaze me; we always estimated your force at about seventy
thousand men.”
General de Chanal, a French officer, who was present, states that
General Lee, who had been an associate of Meade’s in the engineers in
the “old army,” said to him pleasantly:
“Meade, years are telling on you; your hair is getting quite gray.”
“Ah, General Lee,” was Meade’s prompt reply, “it is not the work of
years; YOU are responsible for my gray hairs!”
“Three days after the surrender,” says Long, “the Army of Northern
Virginia had dispersed in every direction, and three weeks later the
veterans of a hundred battles had exchanged the musket and the sword for
the implements of husbandry. It is worthy of remark that never before
was there an army disbanded with less disorder. Thousands of soldiers
were set adrift on the world without a penny in their pockets to enable
them to reach their homes. Yet none of the scenes of riot that often
follow the disbanding of armies marked their course.”
A day or two after the surrender, General Lee started for Richmond,
riding Traveller, who had carried him so well all through the war. He
was accompanied by some of his staff. On the way, he stopped at the
house of his eldest brother, Charles Carter Lee, who lived on the Upper
James in Powhatan County. He spent the evening in talking with his
brother, but when bedtime came, though begged by his host to take the
room and bed prepared for him, he insisted on going to his old tent,
pitched by the roadside, and passed the night in the quarters he was
accustomed to. On April 15th he arrived in Richmond. The people there
soon recognised him; men, women, and children crowded around him,
cheering and waving hats and handkerchiefs. It was more like the welcome
to a conqueror than to a defeated prisoner on parole. He raised his hat
in response to their greetings, and rode quietly to his home on Franklin
Street, where my mother and sisters were anxiously awaiting him. Thus he
returned to that private family life for which he had always longed, and
become what he always desired to be--a peaceful citizen in a peaceful
land.
In attempting to describe these last days of the Army of Northern
Virginia, I have quoted largely from Long, Jones, Taylor, and Fitz Lee,
all of whom have given more or less full accounts of the movements of
both armies.
It so happened that shortly after we left our lines, April 2d or 3d, in
one of the innumerable contests, my horse was shot, and in getting
him and myself off the field, having no choice of routes, the pursuing
Federal cavalry intervened between men and the rest of our command, so
I had to make my way around the head of Sheridan’s advance squadrons
before I could rejoin our forces. This I did not succeed in
accomplishing until April 9th, the day of the surrender, for my wounded
horse had to be left with a farmer, who kindly gave me one in exchange,
saying I could send him back when I was able, or, if I was prevented,
that I could keep him and he would replace him with mine when he got
well.
As I was riding toward Appomattox on the 9th, I met a body of our
cavalry with General T. H. Rosser at the head. He told me that General
Lee and his army had surrendered, and that this force had made its
way out, and was marching back to Lynchburg, expecting thence to reach
General Johnston’s army. To say that I was surprised does not express my
feelings. I had never heard the word “surrender” mentioned, nor even
a suggested, in connection with our general or our army. I could not
believe it, and did not until I was positively assured by all my friends
who were with Rosser’s column that it was absolutely so. Very sadly I
turned back and went to Lynchburg along with them. There I found some
wagons from our headquarters which had been sent back, and with them the
horses and servants of the staff. These I got together, not believing
for an instant that our struggle was over, and, with several officers
from our command and others, we made our way to Greensboro, North
Carolina. There I found Mr. Davis and his cabinet and representatives of
the Confederate departments from Richmond. There was a great diversity
of opinion amongst all present as to what we should do. After waiting
a couple of days, looking over the situation from every point of view,
consulting with my uncle, Commodore S. S. Lee, of the Confederate Navy,
and with many others, old friends of my father and staunch adherents of
the Southern cause, it was determined to go back to Virginia to get our
paroles, go home, and go to work.
While at Greensboro I went to see President Davis, just before he
proceeded on his way further south. He was calm and dignified, and, in
his conversation with several officers of rank who were there, seemed
to think, and so expressed himself, that our cause was not lost,
though sorely stricken, and that we could rally our forces west of the
Mississippi and make good our fight. While I was in the room, Mr.
Davis received the first official communication from General Lee of his
surrender. Colonel John Taylor Woods, his aide-de-camp, had taken me
in to see the President, and he and I were standing by him when the
despatch from General Lee was brought to him. After reading it, he
handed it without comment to us; then, turning away, he silently wept
bitter tears. He seemed quite broken at the moment by this tangible
evidence of the loss of his army and the misfortune of its general. All
of us, respecting his great grief, silently withdrew, leaving him with
Colonel Wood. I never saw him again.
I started for Richmond, accompanied by several companions, with the
servants and horses belonging to our headquarters. These I had brought
down with me from Lynchburg, where I had found them after the surrender.
After two week of marching and resting, I arrived in Richmond and found
my father there, in the house on Franklin Street, now the rooms of the
“Virginia Historical Society,” and also my mother, brother, and sisters.
They were all much relieved at my reappearance.
As well as I can recall my father at this time, he appeared to be
very well physically, though he looked older, grayer, more quiet and
reserved. He seemed very tired, and was always glad to talk of any other
subject than that of the war or anything pertaining thereto. We all
tried to cheer and help him. And the people of Richmond and of the
entire South were as kind and considerate as it was possible to be.
Indeed, I think their great kindness tired him. He appreciated it
all, was courteous, grateful, and polite, but he had been under such a
terrible strain for several years that he needed the time and quiet to
get back his strength of heart and mind. All sorts and conditions
of people came to see him: officers and soldiers from both armies,
statesmen, politicians, ministers of the Gospel, mothers and wives to
ask about husbands and sons of whom they had heard nothing. To keep him
from being overtaxed by this incessant stream of visitors, we formed
a sort of guard of the young men in the house, some of whom took it by
turns to keep the door and, if possible, turn strangers away. My father
was gentle, kind, and polite to all, and never willingly, so far as I
know, refused to see any one.
Dan lee, late of the Confederate States Navy, my first cousin, and
myself, one day had charge of the front door, when at it appeared a
Federal soldier, accompanied by a darkey carrying a large willow basket
filled to the brim with provisions of every kind. The man was Irish all
over, and showed by his uniform and carriage that he was a “regular,”
and not a volunteer. On our asking him what he wanted, he replied that
he wanted to see General Lee, that he had heard down the street the
General and his family were suffering for lack of something to eat, that
he had been with “the Colonel” when he commanded the Second Cavalry,
and, as long as he had a cent, his old colonel should not suffer. My
father, who had stepped into another room as he heard the bell ring,
hearing something of the conversation, came out into the hall. The
old Irishman, as soon as he saw him, drew himself up and saluted, and
repeated to the General, with tears streaming down his cheeks, what
he had just said to us. My father was very much touched, thanked him
heartily for his kindness and generosity, but told him that he did not
need the things he had brought and could not take them. This seemed to
disappoint the old soldier greatly, and he pleaded so hard to be allowed
to present the supplies to his old colonel, whom he believed to be
in want of them, that at last my father said that he would accept the
basket and sent it to the hospital, for the sick and wounded, who were
really in great need. Though he was not satisfied, he submitted to this
compromise, and then to our surprise and dismay, in bidding the General
good-bye, threw his arms around him and was attempting to kiss him, when
“Dan” and I interfered. As he was leaving, he said:
“Good-bye, Colonel! God bless ye! If I could have got over in time I
would have been with ye!”
A day or two after that, when “Dan” was doorkeeper, three Federal
officers, a colonel, a major, and a doctor, called and asked to see
General Lee. They were shown into the parlour, presented their cards,
and said they desired to pay their respects as officers of the United
States Army. When Dan went out with the three cards, he was told by some
one that my father was up stairs engaged with some other visitor, so he
returned and told them this and they departed. When my father came down,
was shown the cards and told of the three visitors, he was quite put out
at Dan’s not having brought him the cards at the time and that afternoon
mounted him on one of his horses and sent him over to Manchester, where
they were camped, to look up the three officers and to tell them he
would be glad to see them at any time they might be pleased to call.
However, Dan failed to find them.
He had another visit at this time which affected him deeply. Two
Confederate soldiers in very dilapidated clothing, worn and emaciated in
body, came to see him. They said they had been selected from about sixty
other fellows, too ragged to come themselves, to offer him a home in the
mountains of Virginia. The home was a good house and farm, and near
by was a defile, in some rugged hills, from which they could defy the
entire Federal Army. They made this offer of a home and their protection
because there was a report that he was about to be indicted for treason.
The General had to decline to go with them, but the tears came into his
eyes at this hearty exhibition of loyalty.
After being in Richmond a few days, and by the advice of my father
getting my parole from the United States Provost Marshal there, the
question as to what I should do came up. My father told me that I
could go back to college if I desired and prepare myself for some
profession--that he had a little money which he would be willing
and glad to devote to the completion of my education. I think he was
strongly in favour of my going back to college. At the same time he told
me that, if I preferred it, I could take possession of my farm land
in King William County, which I had inherited from my grandfather, Mr.
Custis, and make my home there. As there was little left of the farm
but the land, he thought he could arrange to help me build a house and
purchase stock and machinery.
My brother, General W. H. F. Lee, had already gone down to his place,
“The White House” in New Kent County, with Major John Lee, our first
cousin, had erected a shanty, and gone to work, breaking up land for
a corn crop, putting their cavalry horses to the plow. As I thought my
father had use for any means he might have in caring for my mother and
sisters, and as I had this property, I determined to become a farmer.
However, I did not decide positively, and in the meantime it was thought
best that I should join my brother and cousin at the White House and
help them make their crop of corn. In returning to Richmond, I had left
at “Hickory Hill,” General Wickham’s place in Hanover County, our horses
and servants, taken with me from Lynchburg to Greensboro and back. So
bidding all my friends and family good-bye, I went by rail to “Hickory
Hill” and started the next day with three servants and about eight
horses for New Kent, stopping the first night at “Pampatike.” The next
day I reached the White House, where the reinforcements I brought with
me were hailed with delight.
Though I have been a farmer from that day to this, I will say that
the crop of corn which we planted that summer, with ourselves and army
servants as laborers and our old cavalry horses as teams, and which we
did not finish planting until the 9th of June, was the best I ever made.