“THE BEGINNING OF THE END.”
The conflict raged! The din of arms—the yell
Of savage hate—the shriek of agony—
The groan of death, commingled in one sound
Of undistinguished horrors; while the sun,
Retiring slow beneath the plain’s far verge,
Shed o’er the quiet hills his fading light.—SOUTHEY.
For many months Britomarte remained a prisoner in Castle Thunder. She
was not brought to trial as a spy.
She was brought up once or twice for an informal examination before the
provost marshal or some other officer in authority. But when questioned
she remained absolutely silent; so that no information could be obtained
from her.
And the only witness that could be found to give testimony in her case,
was the wounded rebel soldier who had overheard the conversation between
herself and her lover, and who swore that her name as heard by himself
was Bridget Martin.
So as Bridget Martin she was remanded to prison, where she seemed likely
to remain until the end of the war.
That end was not very far off. General Grant was slowly but surely
fighting his way to Richmond, winding around it coil after coil of that
“anaconda grasp ever tightening,” that was destined to destroy the
doomed Confederate capital.
In due time Colonel Rosenthal was exchanged and released; but so broken
in health from the pains and privations of his captivity, that when he
reported himself for duty at his brigade headquarters, he was
immediately sent home on sick leave.
And there it required many weeks of Erminie’s careful and skillful
nursing before his strength could be restored.
During all this time Justin had been unremitting in his efforts to hear
tidings of Britomarte, and to take measures for her release. But none of
these efforts were successful.
It will be remembered that when Britomarte was taken from the prisoners’
line of march to be cast into Castle Thunder, Justin was some two
squares ahead, and knew nothing of her withdrawal.
When the party of prisoners reached Belle Isle, he looked around for
Britomarte, and not seeing her, cautiously inquired among the men who,
some of them, knew her by sight, but only as “Captain Wing,” a
commissioned officer of his regiment.
The men could give no information, until at length the two or three who
had marched nearest to her said that “Captain Wing” had been taken from
the line, when they were halted in one of the streets of the city; but
they could not tell where “he” had been carried.
He inquired of the guard, who remained dumb.
Then he questioned the officer of the guard, who gave him no
satisfaction, but, on the contrary, turned cross-questioner himself, in
order to find out who Britomarte was.
Justin saw his drift and became silent.
So his investigations ended for that time, to be renewed again and
again, both at Richmond and at Washington, with no better success.
She was a prisoner in a solitary cell in Castle Thunder, where she was
known only by the name which the mistaken rebel soldier had bestowed
upon her; so it was not probable, or scarcely possible, that her friends
should hear of her condition.
Early in January, Justin, still in very feeble health, but impatient to
serve his country, rejoined his regiment. He returned to the front, in
company with many officers who had been home on furlough to spend the
Christmas holidays.
He found that already the spring campaign, destined to be the last and
greatest of the war, was about to open.
Along the whole lines, active preparations were being made for a new
combined assault upon Petersburg and Richmond.
General Grant was at City Point, with the whole plan of the campaign in
his comprehensive brain, and directing the operations of the whole army
with consummate skill. There had been many changes in the army since
Colonel Rosenthal had fought with them in the battles of Cold Harbor.
Officers by thousands and enlisted men by tens of thousands, had been
killed, wounded, or taken prisoners, in the scores of battles that had
been fought between the Pamunkey, the Chickahominy, and the James
rivers, and around Petersburg. And their places had been filled up with
raw recruits. Veteran privates had developed into commissioned officers,
and officers of the line had grown into regimental, brigade, and even
division commanders. But it was only “gallant and meritorious conduct”
in the service that was thus distinguished.
For instance, little Mim, who, at the battle of the Chickahominy, in
June, was only a private soldier in an infantry regiment, was now major
and aid-de-camp on the staff of a division general, while Billingcoo,
who was mustered in at the same time with Mim, remained still a very
sorry soldier of the rank and file.
But then Mim was a little hero, ever foremost in the fight, by his
high-hearted bravery and devotion ever inspiring and encouraging all
around him, while Billingcoo, in every engagement, was flagrantly among
the skulkers, and ran away and hid himself whenever he could get an
opportunity to do so.
And singularly enough, Mim, who constantly exposed himself in the front
of battle, seemed, even under a storm of shot and shell, to bear a
charmed life; while Billingcoo, who gave his whole mind to the duty of
taking care of his body, was always getting hurt. And once, while hiding
behind a barn, one day, to keep out of the range of shot, he had his ear
torn off by a splinter from a shell that came splitting its way through
the timbers of the building.
When Colonel Rosenthal met Mim, he congratulated that gallant officer on
his well-earned advancement.
“Thanks,” said the little hero, drawing himself up. “I always told the
recruiting officers, when I offered myself, that I could do good
military service for my country, but they never agreed with me, and in
the face of the fact that almost every great martial hero the world has
known, from Alexander to Napoleon, was a little man, they repeatedly
refused me. Yes, they refused me until things came to such a pass that
for want of men they were compelled, like the feast giver in the Bible,
to call in ‘the maimed, the halt and the blind.’ The Invalid Corps, you
know, Colonel. Then at length they consented to take _me_.”
“And you have done good service to your country, and great credit to
yourself, Major Mim,” answered Justin.
With Billingcoo Justin did not happen to come in contact at all.
And now, about the last of January, the most energetic arrangements were
made to close in around Petersburg and Richmond. The whole army was in
the most active preparation.
The first object was to seize the South Side Railroad.
To absorb the attention of the enemy, a heavy cannonading was opened
upon Petersburg, hurling an overwhelming tempest of shot and shell into
the city.
Under cover of this terrific assault in the front, the sick, the
wounded, the sutlers, the camp followers, with all their baggage, and
all other animate and inanimate incumbrances to the movements of the
army, were dispatched by railroad to City Point, and all serviceable
troops and supplies were brought up and massed on the left.
As early as three o’clock on Sunday, the fifth of February, under cover
of the darkness, Gregg’s division of cavalry commenced its march,
followed immediately by the Fifth and Second Corps. The weather was
glorious, the roads in the best condition, and the men in the best
spirits.
It was rather a strange coincidence that Colonel Rosenthal’s last
engagement, in which he was wounded and taken prisoner, had been in a
charge upon Wade Hampton’s cavalry, and that his first encounter on
rejoining his regiment should be with the same brave foe. But such were
the facts, for—
They had advanced but a little way beyond Ream’s Station, on the
Dinwiddie Court House Road, when they were met by Wade Hampton’s
cavalry, with whom they had a fierce contest for the right of way,
before they could pass. But again they were victorious, and rushed
onward like a whirlwind towards Dinwiddie Court House, encountering and
overwhelming the enemy at every post along the road.
The other divisions advanced by adjacent roads running in the same
general direction, battling every mile of the way.
But the great battle was fought on Monday, the sixth of February, at
Hatcher’s Run, a deep stream passing through a nearly pathless
wilderness, broken into fearful ravines, stagnant marshes, and heavy
woods—a locality new to our soldiers, but perfectly familiar to the
enemy.
Here, at length, the farther advance of our army was for the time
effectually checked.
A battle was commenced early in the day, and gradually increased in
violence, until at nightfall it raged with tremendous fury. Gregg’s
division of cavalry, and Warren’s and Humphrey’s corps, were all
engaged. Again and again they pressed forward under a pelting shower of
bullets, that fell thick, fast and blinding as a hailstorm, and again
and again they were driven back, fighting desperately behind rocks,
stumps and trees. So often they fought over the same ground, that the
woods and marshes were strewn thickly with the dead and dying of both
armies, in an undistinguishable confusion.
The circumstances were very discouraging to brave men, but very
favorable to skulkers; and unluckily there _were_ skulkers in that
heroic army, but they were mostly to be found among the raw
recruits—soft metal—that had not yet been hardened in the fires of an
hundred battles.
From time to time staff officers were sent out, like whippers-in of
hounds, to hunt up these heroes and hurry them to their line.
Major Mim, being an active, energetic little fellow, was dispatched on
just such a duty. In the course of his ride through the wilderness, he
came upon Billingcoo lurking in a thicket.
“Get up and go to your company, sir,” said Mim.
“Oh, I can’t! I can’t, indeed! Hear how the thots are cracking and
thnapping about! And look how the men are dropping! Oh, the poor
fellowth! oh, the poor, dear fellowth!” whimpered Billingcoo.
“For shame, sir! Get up, and go and help the ‘poor fellowths’ you
profess to feel so much sympathy for,” said Mim.
“I can’t! indeed I can’t! The bulleth hurt! they do indeed, Mathor! And
the Rebelth fire without the thlighteth regard to a man’s life! Oh, look
how they are falling! Oh, poor fellowth! oh, the poor, poor fellowth!”
howled Billingcoo.
“The _brave_ fellows, you mean; get up and imitate them.”
“Oh, I couldn’t! I couldn’t for my life! I thould be thertain to be
killed! The Rebelth fire tho carelethly, not minding who they hit! I
feel I thould he killed!
“Suppose you _are_ killed, you poltroon! what of it? A man can die but
once!” exclaimed little Mim, thoroughly provoked.
“I tell you I’ve died a thouthand death thinth I’ve been in the army!
I’ve died a hundred death thinth I’ve been in thith thicket!”
“And you’ll die a hundred thousand more if you do not get over your
cowardly fears! Look at that young fellow there!” said Mim, pointing to
a young officer at some distance who, with sword in hand, was gaily
cheering on his men to the conflict.
Billingcoo looked; but at that moment a shell came tearing and splitting
its way through the woods, and when the smoke cleared away, a horrible
picture was revealed between its rifts. The young officer stood in the
same attitude, with his sword drawn and held at arm’s length over his
head, but his whole face was blown off, and nothing but a gory, crimson,
quivering mass of flesh remained where it had been. For only an instant
he stood thus, and then fell.
Billingcoo uttered a cry of horror and deadly terror, and threw himself
forward upon the ground.
Even Mim shuddered, and covered his eyes for a moment; but then
recovering herself, he looked up and said:
“It is all over by this time; the brave young fellow is out of his
misery. Come, Billingcoo! I have been sent to hurry up all laggards. Get
up! Pick up your musket and march!”
“I tell you I can’t—there! and I won’t neither—there! Do you think I
want to have my fathe blown to pieth like that young man’th! I say I
can’t and I won’t go! I am religiouthly oppothed to war!” answered
Billingcoo, lifting his head for a moment, and then letting it fall.
“You say you can’t and you won’t! Well, I say you must and you shall!”
exclaimed Mim, goading the sides of the prostrate coward with the point
of his drawn sword.
“Oh! look here now! That hurth! Thtop that!” cried Billingcoo.
“Get up then, and go to your company!” said Mim, goading him more
pointedly than ever.
“Oh lor! oh dear! oh me! call this a free country indeed! Thtop that
now, will you! It _hurth_, I tell you!”
“Get up, then!” repeated Mim, digging at him again.
But at that moment a minie ball came whizzing towards them, piercing the
leg of Mim and killing his horse, which instantly fell under him; so
that both rider and horse rolled on the ground.
“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” shouted Billingcoo. “I don’t bear you any
ill-will, old fellow; but I do think it therveth you right, and I do
thank the goodneth grathiouth alive for thith great deliveranth!”
And he jumped up, cut three or four capers in the air, and ran farther
away out of gun-shot; for the battle was now surging nearer and nearer
to them.
Every one knows that on that night our army was beaten back to their
intrenchments upon Hatcher’s Run, where they made a final stand.
The next day, when the wounded were looked up, Mim was found with his
leg hurt beside his dead horse. And some distance farther on Billingcoo
was found dead—transfixed with a splinter driven into his body by a
shell that had torn its way through the old log cabin behind which the
poor creature, with his usual fatuity, had hidden himself in fancied
security.
Our army were now in undisputed possession of Hatcher’s Run. And the
City Point Railroad was in good working order up to this post.
But, as every one knows, it was three weeks later, and after almost
incessant fighting along the White Oak Road, culminating in the terrific
battle of the Five Forks, that the South Side Railroad was at length
seized and destroyed, the Confederate army totally routed, and the way
opened to the occupation of Richmond and Petersburg by our troops.
It would be presumptuous in a mere story-writer to dwell upon these
magnificent themes, so much beyond her power of treatment. This story
does not pretend to be a history of the campaign or of any portion of
it; it is only a simple narrative of the part taken therein by certain
persons in whom we are interested. And besides, it would be useless to
dilate upon events that are still fresh in the memory of all. All
recollect—how from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and from the Lakes to
the Gulf—how all the land rang with joy, how all the cities glowed with
light, how all the banners waved in triumph—when the vibrating
telegraphic wires flashed East and West—flashed North and South—the
proud words:
“Richmond and Petersburg are ours! One third of Lee’s army is destroyed.
And for the rest there is no escape.”
And yet, even among the most loyal of the Union party, _mostly_ among
them perhaps, was this joy mingled with sadness, for they were no alien
foes that our arms had vanquished.