Reader! The writer said, when he began the "Reminiscences of the
Guilford Grays," that it was not his purpose to undertake the severe
labors of the historian, but to confine himself to the humbler task of
relating what, has been part of his own experience.
To make the thread of narrative continuous and intelligible, it
deserves to be mentioned, however, that it has been necessary to allude
to portions of the history of those eventful times in which the Grays
were only generally interested, which the circumstance will justify.
The writer closes this, his last chapter, with the consciousness that
he has been actuated by the very kindest feelings to all, and that if
an intimation has escaped him which may have injuriously touched the
feelings of any one, none such was intended. How he has performed his
work, the reader will judge. This much he will say for himself, that he
has attempted to do it faithfully and--lovingly.
But little more now remains to be said. The morning of the 9th of April
presented a spectacle never to be forgotten by those who saw it.
General Gordon was at the front with a meagre two thousand men; behind
us smoked the remnants of the wagon-trains; in the rear, drawn up and
ready again to strike, was the shattered wreck of Longstreet's once
grand and noble command. About ten o'clock dispositions were made for
attack, when Gordon was ordered to advance.
_In vain! Alas, in vain! Ye gallant few!_ Suddenly a _halt_ was
called, a flag of truce appeared upon the scene, hostilities ceased,
and a dreamy sadness filled the April air. The grand old Army of
Northern Virginia was environed! "I have done what I thought best for
you," "the gray-headed man" said to his men. "My heart is too full to
speak, but I wish you all health and happiness."
The negotiations relating to the surrender had been instituted on the
7th by a note from General Grant to General Lee. The correspondence was
continued until the 9th, when the terms proposed by General Grant were
accepted.
On the 10th, General Lee issued his farewell address to his army. On
the afternoon of the 11th, the gallant Gordon spoke most eloquently to
the little remnant massed in the open field.
The sun hid his face in sullen sympathy behind the clouds, night
settled drearily over the camp, and the brave old army fell asleep.
"Hushed was the roll of the Rebel drum,
The sabres were sheathed and the cannon was dumb;
And Fate, with pitiless hand, had furled
The flag that once challenged the gaze of the world."
On the 12th, the Army of Northern Virginia was marshaled for the last
time, not to do battle, but to stack its arms and pass out of
existence--forevermore.
Of the Guilford Grays who were present at the final scene of this
eventful history, the following answered to roll-call: Captain Jno. A.
Sloan, Lieut. Rufus B. Gibson, 1st Sergeant Thomas J. Rhodes, Sergeant
Joel J. Thom; privates Peter M. Brown, Lewis N. Isley, Jas. M. Hardin,
Walter Green, E. Tonkey Sharpe, Geo. W. Lemons, Silas C. Dodson, and
Samuel M. Lipscomb.
On the 11th, printed certificates, certifying that we were paroled
prisoners of war, were issued and distributed among us, bearing date
April 10th, 1865, Appomattox Court-House, granting us "permission to go
home, and remain there undisturbed."
Comrades! We entered the service in the bloom of youthful vigor and
hope, with cheerful step and willing heart, leaving happy homes in
peace and prosperity behind. We took the field for a principle as
sacred as ever led a hero to the cannon's mouth, or a martyr to the
place of execution.
This principle was honor and patriotism; a firm determination to defend
to the last that constitution which our fathers had handed down and
taught us to revere as the only safeguard of our personal rights and
liberties.
After four long years, we returned to our homes in tattered and
battle-stained garments, footsore, weary, and with aching hearts. We
returned to see poverty, desolation, and ruin; to find the hearts of
our loved ones buried in the graves of the dead Confederacy. Aye! and
we have seen other sorrows. We have seen that constitution subverted
under the forms of law; we have seen the rights of individuals and
communities trampled in the dust without hope of redress. Nay, more! We
have seen the government of the fathers removed from existence, and an
engine of oppression, no longer a Union of States, but a _Nation_,
like the devil-fish of the sea, reaching its hideous and devouring
arms in all directions from one common centre, knowing only one law of
action and of motive--_the insatiate greed of avarice and plunder_.
But though the Confederacy went down in fire and smoke, in blood and in
tears, that truth, which was the guiding-star of the devoted soldiers
who fought its battles, and of those at home who toiled and prayed for
its success--that truth did not lower its standard or surrender its
sword at Appomattox. We submit to the inevitable. We submit in dignity
and in silence. But because we accept, with becoming minds and conduct,
that subjugation which the fortune of war has entailed upon us, shall
we therefore pronounce the word "craven?" _Shall we now recant?_ Shall
we now solemnly declare that we did not believe what we professed to
fight for? Shall we thus insult, either in word or act, the memories of
the dead heroes--and we dare maintain they died heroes--who sleep on a
thousand hillsides and in the valleys of our common country?
Should we thus prostrate ourselves to invite the scorn and contempt
which even our enemies would have the right to bestow upon us? _Never!_
A thousand times never! "Will not history consent, will not mankind
applaud, when we still uphold our principles as right, our cause as
just, our country to be honored, when those principles had for
disciple, that cause for defender, that country for son--Robert Lee?
"Not to his honor shall extorted tributes carve the shaft or mould the
statute; but a grateful people will in time give of their poverty
gladly that, in pure marble or time-defying bronze, future generations
may see the counterfeit presentment of this man--the ideal and
consummate flower of our civilization; not an Alexander, it may be; nor
Napoleon, nor Timour, nor Churchill--greater far than they, thank
heaven--the brother and the equal of Sidney and of Falkland, of Hampden
and of Washington!"
"He sleeps all quietly and cold
Beneath the soil that gave him birth,
Then brake his battle-brand in twain
And lay it with him in the earth."
A word to the survivors of the Guilford Grays, and I close these
reminiscences. From the period of the outbreak of the war in April,
1861, to the surrender of the Confederate army in April, 1865, the
muster-rolls of the Grays have contained one hundred and eighty names.
Of this number, some were transferred to other commands, some were
discharged for physical disabilities and other causes. A large
proportion sleep, unmindful of the rude farmer's ploughshare upon the
fields made memorable by their deeds. Some rest under the shades of the
trees in the quiet cemeteries of your forest-green city, and some in
the sacred churchyards of your historic country. Oh! they suffered a
sad, dark fate--fallen in unsuccessful war!
On each return of Spring, come and bring flowers, nature's choicest,
and scatter them on their graves. So long as tears fall, come and shed
them there, and show to the world that we, of all men, are not ashamed
of their memories or afraid to vindicate their motives.
And as we stand upon this hallowed ground, let us bury all animosities
engendered by the war. In the grave there can be no rancorous hates;
between the sleepers there is perpetual truce. Shall the living have
less? Savages, only, perpetuate immortal hates. Then permit no
"barbarian memory of wrong" to lodge in our breasts while we keep
vigils over these graves of our illustrious dead.
To you who stood by me through all these eventful scenes, and came up
out of the great tribulation, I pray Heaven's choicest blessings ever
attend you--and now--_adieu_.