_Grant's Spring Opening--By the Left Flank Again--Sheridan at Five
Forks--The Fall of Richmond and Petersburg--A Dangerous Ride--How Jeff
Davis faced the Yankees--Chasing Lee up the Appomattox--Breaking the
Backbone of the Southern Confederacy--The Surrender--Confiscating a
Confederate Goose--A Colored Boy to the Rescue._
[Illustration: 9200]
ND now came the orders for what Grant intended should be the last grand
campaign of the gallant Army of the Potomac. Sheridan, as usual, was to
lead off and push out around the right flank of the rebel forces cooped
up in Petersburg and Richmond. The bulk of the army was to follow, and
it was evident that unless the Southern Confederacy got out of the way
“right smart,” somebody would get hurt. Everybody was on the move, or
ready to move, even the troops who were to remain in the fortifications
having their knapsacks packed.
The feeling was general among the rank and file that a decisive battle
was to be fought, and all felt that the Union cause would triumph. There
were no spread-eagle proclamations promulgated through general orders.
Grant was never given to that. His instructions to his lieutenants gave
them to understand just what they were expected to do--they were to move
against the rebels and go in to win.
Little Phil opened the ball at Five Forks on the last day of March. The
army had moved March 29, but the infantry had been unable to make much
progress, being stuck in the mud, for the rain set in during the evening
of the twenty-ninth and continued all night and the next day and night.
The rebels pressed Sheridan hard. Yet the hero of Winchester held on
like grim death. The next day with the aid of the infantry sent to his
support, he pitched in and routed the rebels, capturing more than five
thousand prisoners and putting to flight fifteen thousand or more, who
skedaddled in such a hurry that they left behind all their cannon and
supply wagons. The battle was anything but an April-fool joke.
Meade, Ord and Parke made a general assault on the works in front of
Petersburg, April 2. It was Sunday morning. The roar of battle could be
heard from away over on the Appomattox above City Point, all along the
line. It was a magnificent sight to see the infantry going in. As the
charge was being made, Gen. Meade sent Major Emory of his staff with a
dispatch to Gen. Wright commanding the Sixth corps. I was directed
to accompany the major. Gen. Wright was said to be hotly engaged in
capturing intrenchments off to the left of Petersburg, and to reach him
it would be necessary to make a wide circuit to the left and rear, or
ride directly across the field where the battle was raging. Major Emory
decided upon the latter course, and away we went.
The Johnnies, realizing that their time had come, were making a
desperate defense of the works, and the shot and shell screeched over
and under and around us on all sides as we rode the line of battle. One
shell exploded directly under the major's horse, throwing up a cloud of
dirt and smoke, and for a moment I felt sure Gen. Meade had lost one of
his aids. Then I heard the major shout:
“Come on. I'm all right.”
It was dangerous work. The infantry soldiers were falling on all sides.
But we came out alive and reached Gen. Wright, who had broken through
the outer lines and was pushing toward Petersburg.
The fall of Richmond! All Sunday night the rebels were getting out of
Richmond and Petersburg. The backbone of the Confederacy was broken
indeed. The news seemed too good to be true. We rode into Petersburg
Monday morning, bright and early, and without dismounting, we kept on
and immediately took up the line of march in pursuit of Lee's army,
which was now retreating up the Appomattox.
It was a hot chase--a sort of go-as-you-please. Of course when Richmond
was evacuated, the boys in blue felt that the end was at hand. When the
Confederate commander telegraphed to Jeff Davis that the “enemy” had
broken the line in front of Petersburg, it was a cold day for C. S. A.
It is recorded that Jeff Davis was attending church when he received
Lee's dispatch, and that he quietly stole away without waiting for
the doxology or the benediction. It was a clear case of “every man for
himself.” The “president” didn't whisper even to the brother in the next
pew that it was time to flee from the wrath to come. No. Perhaps he had
heard the echo of that familiar Yankee hymn:
“We'll hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple-tree,
As we go marching on.”
The “president” made better time in getting away from the seat of
government than was made by the braves in butternut. He did not draw
a long breath till he had distanced the retreating Confederates and
reached Danville. To stimulate his soldiers to deeds of daring--and to
induce them to beat back the Union army if possible till he could make
good his escape--Davis declared in a proclamation, issued on the wing
at Danville, April 5, 1865, that “Virginia, with the help of the people,
and by the blessings of Providence, shall be held and defended.”
“Let us,” he continued, “meet the foe with fresh defiance, and with
unconquered and unconquerable hearts.”
Before his signature to the document was dry, Jeff was making a bee-line
for Georgia. He was willing to meet the foe face to face on paper.
“You hold Grant in check till I can get far enough South to establish
a rallying-point,” was the burden of his messages to the rebel general
when read between the lines. At all events, the president of the
Southern Confederacy took to the woods, and was next heard of at
Irwinsville, Georgia, May 11, 1865. Wilson's troopers took the fugitive
into camp on that day.
The circumstances of the capture of Jeff Davis have been the subject
of heated controversy--in magazine articles and newspaper publications.
Whatever may be the fact in respect of his wearing apparel at the time
the Yankee cavalrymen overhauled the rebel president--whether he had
on his wife's petticoats or was clad in masculine attire--certain it is
that in abandoning the “lost cause,” and leaving Lee and his followers
to “meet the foe with fresh defiance,” while he skedaddled, the “rebel
hero”--still idolized and worshiped by the solid South--made a sorry
exhibition of himself.
On the chase up the Appomattox our boys were kept busy--in the saddle
night and day--carrying dispatches to and from Meade's headquarters.
It was a very interesting period. Sheridan was neck-and-neck with Lee,
while the grand old Army of the Potomac was hot on the rebel commander's
trail.
Gen. Meade was seriously ill for several days preceding the negotiations
that led to the surrender. But he kept in the saddle most of the time,
in spite of the request of the headquarters' medical men, that he
should “avoid all excitement!” It was strange advice to give under
such circumstances. The hero of Gettysburg realized that the boys
were knocking the bottom out of the Southern Confederacy, and he was
determined to be in at the death.
Whenever there was heavy firing at the front, Meade would get out of the
ambulance, in which he rode when compelled to leave the saddle, and call
for his favorite horse “Baldy.” Then he would ask his son George, one
of his aids, or Major Jay or Major Emory, to assist him into the saddle.
Once mounted, the general seemed to have a way of shaking off his
sickness. He would press on to the head of the column and make a
personal reconnaissance. As soon as the rearguard of the rebels--left to
check the Union advance while the Confederate wagon trains and artillery
were hurried to the west--was brushed out of the way, and the line
of march resumed, the general would return to his ambulance, at times
completely exhausted.
April 4, 1865, was one of the hardest days of the chase. It was a forced
march with only an occasional breathing spell when the advance was
feeling its way along the roads leading toward Appomattox. That night we
unsaddled with what we considered fair prospects of rest. But before we
had settled down for sleep, a trooper dashed up to Meade's headquarters.
The general was so ill that he could scarcely hold up his head, but when
told that Sheridan had intercepted the Confederates, and predicted the
capture of Lee's army if the Army of the Potomac would push to the front
near Jettersville, Meade got out of bed and gave orders for the march to
be resumed at two o'clock in the morning.
The boys were waiting for the wagons to come up with the hard tack and
coffee, and the prospect of pushing on without grub was anything but
transporting. Still when the time came to “fall in,” the men obeyed with
a cheerfulness characteristic of the veterans of the gallant army that
for four years had fought Lee's soldiers with varied success.
The next morning Sheridan's men--a scouting party under Gen. Davies, our
brigade commander--played havoc with a Confederate wagon train that was
“sifting west.” Nearly two hundred wagons were destroyed. It was hard
for the Johnnies to witness the destruction of their supply train. Poor
fellows, they needed all the grub they could get, and more, too. They
fought desperately, but the battle was against them. The Federal column
moved on, and the surrounding of Lee's army was pushed on all sides. The
boys in blue were hungry, but they kept in good spirits. “We can stand
it if the rebs can,” was remarked now and then as the boys were ordered
to move on just before the supply train would get up.
On the battlefield of Sailor's Creek I picked up Gen. Lee's order book.
The last order copied into the book was dated Saturday, April 1,
1865, and, as I remember it, the order referred to the sending of
re-enforcements from the works in front of Petersburg to oppose
Sheridan's advance on the Union left. The ground was strewn with the
debris of the rebel headquarters' train. Army wagons with spokes cut out
of the wheels were overturned on both sides of the road.
“In the last ditch;”
“The C. S. A. is gone up;”
“We all can't whip you all without something to eat,”
and other humorous inscriptions appeared on the canvas covers of the
wagons. I wish I had held on to Lee's order book. It would have been
valuable to-day. But it was heavy, and I threw it aside.
April 9, 1865, while Sheridan was square across the road preventing
Lee's further advance without cutting his way through, and the Army of
the Potomac was on the flank and rear, came the news that white flags
were displayed along the rebel lines and that Grant and Lee were
negotiating for the surrender of the Confederate army of Northern
Virginia. Meade's headquarters contingent was bivouacked just off the
road leading to Appomattox Court House from Farmville.
“Lee's going to surrender!”
The boys could scarcely credit the report that the Confederate commander
had asked terms, for, somehow or other, after a week's hard chase the
Yankees had begun to fear that Lee would effect a junction with Johnston
in North Carolina. But when an orderly from Grant's headquarters dashed
up and handed Meade a letter from the lieutenant-general confirming the
report that Lee had accepted Grant's terms, there was the greatest joy
at headquarters.
The news spread like wildfire, and in a few minutes the tired soldiers
were dancing with joy. I was broiling a confiscated chicken in the
angle of a rail fence when the orderly rode up. When I was told of the
tidings he had brought I threw the chicken as high as I could, kicked
the fire in every direction, and shouted till my throat was sore.
Gen. Meade, with a few members of the escort of which I was one, rode
into the Confederate lines and to Lee's camp. The Southern commander had
only a wall tent fly for headquarters. Longstreet was there and several
others whom Meade had known in the old army. Meade and Lee conversed for
a few minutes alone. In the meantime a sergeant of Meade's escort and a
sergeant of Lee's headquarters guard entered into such a heated argument
that the interference of several officers of both sides was necessary to
prevent them from fighting to a finish.
As we were riding down the slope from Lee's bivouac, a weather-stained
Confederate, wearing an old slouch hat, a short butternut jacket, and
with a dilapidated blanket wrapped about his shoulders, shouted to
Meade. The commander of the Army of the Potomac did not recognize the
man who hailed him and who held out his hand, until the rebel said:
“Don't you know me, General? I'm Gen. Wise of Virginia.”
Then there was another handshake. Wise was the sorriest looking general
I saw at the surrender. Lee and Longstreet and some of the others were
clad in bright new uniforms, but Wise looked as though he had been
rolled in the mud all the way from Petersburg.
After calling on Lee, Meade rode over to the Court House and
congratulated Grant and Sheridan on the result. The Union generals
seemed to enjoy the “love feast.”
There was joy and gladness on all sides. A majority of the rebels who
surrendered at Appomattox accepted the inevitable with better grace than
could have been expected of them after the desperate resistance they
had made. But when you put food into a starving man's mouth the chances
favor his smothering his hatred if he has such feeling toward you.
“Dog gone it, that's splendid coffee,” said a butternut clad veteran who
shared my supper the night of the surrender. “You all overpowered us; we
couldn't hold out on wind any longer. I like this meat; I tell you, it's
good. I didn't know I was so hungry; I must have got beyond the hunger
point.”
Then came the order for the return. It was not “on to Richmond” this
time, but “on to Washington.” We all knew that the war was over--that
Sherman would make short work of the Confederate Army in the Carolinas
under Johnston.
When we mounted our horses and rode back toward Burkesville station,
leaving the provost marshal and a small force at Appomattox to parole
the prisoners, it was conceded by both Yankee and rebel that the Army of
the Potomac and the army of Northern Virginia would never again meet as
enemies on the battlefield. The boys in blue felt that they had fought a
good fight, won a glorious victory, and could now return to their homes
proud to have been permitted to suffer and do battle under the flag of
the Union.
It was a happy army that faced about at Appomattox and took up the march
for Washington. The bands played, and the victorious Federals sang. The
bivouacs at night were camp meetings on a large scale. Somehow the boys
did not need as much sleep as was required when in winter quarters.
Discipline was relaxed, and colonels and corporals, captains and
privates talked over the results of the last campaign without any “red
tape nonsense,” as the boys were wont to call a strict observance of
military discipline when there was no fighting to do.
The song that was sung with the most expression on that homeward march,
was a parody on “Dear Mother, I've come home to die,” the last word
being changed to “eat.” Then there was that lively air:
“When Johnny comes marching home again,
Hurrah, hurrah!
When Johnny comes marching home again,
Hurrah, says I;
The lads and lassies, so they say,
With roses they will strew the way,
And we'll all feel gay
When Johnny comes marching home.”
On the road between Farmville and Burkesville station I dismounted at
a farmhouse and asked a little negro boy who stood near the fence with
mouth and eyes wide open, for a drink of water. The lad seemed to be
frightened, and ran away around the house.
“You, Julius, come here!” shouted a middle-aged lady who stepped out
on the piazza. She had overheard my request for water. The young darky
returned at the lady's command.
“I'se 'fraid dese Yankees,” he said.
“I don't think they'll molest you, Julius. Bring the gentleman a drink
of water.”
I was invited to a seat on the piazza pending Julius's expedition to
the spring house, a rod or two back of the dwelling. He returned with a
large gourd dipper filled with deliciously cool water. In the meantime
three young ladies, daughters of the middle-aged lady, appeared on the
piazza and were presented by their mother to the Yankee. Then Julius
went to the spring to fill my canteen.
“I'm sorry we have nothing but water to offer you,” said the mother.
The young ladies also ventured to speak.
“The two armies, ours and yours, just took everything in the shape of
provisions on the place.”
“Yes; and the soldiers found where we had stored a few hams and a sack
of flour down in the woods.”
“And they made out they came across the place accidentally like. I
believe Jeb, a brother of Julius, told the Yankees where we had
buried the box with the hams and flour, for he hasn't been seen on the
plantation since.”
“I am really sorry for you, ladies. I will speak to Gen. Meade, and I am
sure he will direct the commissary to supply you with something to eat.”
“I think we can hold out for another day,” said the mother. “My husband
was in Longstreet's corps, and he said when he galloped by here the
other day that the Confederacy was played out, and that if something
providential did not turn up on the side of Lee's army they would all be
gobbled up inside of ten days. His last words were: 'If you can save
me a dish of meat of some kind till I get home, do it; it may save my
life.'”
“And we're doing our best for papa.”
“Yes, we are. When the last Yankees marched by on the way to the
surrender, we found we had one goose left--”
“Yes; and we've got the goose yet, down in the cellar--”
“Now, Miss Emma, you have told a Yankee about the goose, and papa's
chances for dinner when he comes home are mighty slim.”
“Dear sir, you will spare us?”
“Mr. Yankee, let us keep our goose?”
“I know you didn't mean to rob us!”
“The goose is safe, ladies. Cook your goose for the family reunion, for
I assure you that there isn't a man in the Federal army mean enough to
steal a goose under such circumstances, especially now that the war is
over.”
“I feel relieved.”
“Oh! so much.”
“How kind you are.”
“The Yankees are not so black as our papers have painted them. I'm so
rejoiced to know that we can save the goose.”
Just then Julius came bounding around the corner of the house. His hair
fairly stood on end, and his eyes seemed starting from their sockets.
“Miss Julia! Miss Julia! Miss Julia!”
“What is it, Julius?”
“O, Miss Julia! Miss Julia!”
“Speak, you idiot!”
“De goose, Miss Julia, de goose! See dar, see dar! Look, dat Yankee
gwine ober de fence yonder wid de goose you's a-keepin' for Massa
Colonel Bob!” Sure enough, Julius was right. While the ladies had been
entertaining me on the piazza a straggling cavalryman had entered the
yard. He had filled his canteen at the spring house. Then he interviewed
Julius. Next he slipped into the cellar and raised a tub that was
bottom-side up on the cellar bottom.
Under the tub he found the goose, which he seized by the neck. In a few
seconds he had jumped over the fence to where his horse was standing,
and without paying any attention to my shouts for him to “stop or
drop that goose,” the blue-coated robber put spurs to his steed and
disappeared down the road.
The goose was gone. Col. Bob's dinner was spoiled so far as that goose
was concerned.
“Ladies--”
“Don't speak to me.”
“Nor me.”
“Nor me.”
“Nor me.”
“But I assure you--”
“Yes, you assured us a few minutes ago.”
“I had misgivings all the time that Miss Emma would tell about the
goose.”
“But, mother dear, don't cry; I thought we could trust a gentleman.”
“So we could, but we should have known better than to trust a Yankee.”
I believe that I would have shot the bummer who confiscated that goose
had he been within range of my revolver while I was under fire on that
piazza. I never felt quite so mean in the presence of ladies before.
“Go and join your partner,” said the mother.
“Leave us, sir!” chorused the daughters.
What a predicament for a youthful soldier. There I stood, despised and
hated by four ladies with whom I had been apparently on good terms a
few moments before. Had a band of bushwhackers opened fire on me at that
moment I should have been happy again.
The bushwhackers did not come, but Julius did. I shall never forget
Julius.
“Miss Julia, dis yere Yankee doan' know nuffin 'bout stealin' dat
goose.”
“How do you know, nigger?”
“Cos' what dat oder Yankee say.”
“What did he say?”
“He tole me 'fi made de leas bit of holler so dat Yankee sittin' on de
porch wid you all see he, he would don' cut my brack hed off wid he's
s'od. Deed he did, Miss Julia.”
“How did he know about the goose?”
“Spec I'se de nigger to blame. He axed me whar missus kept her
pervisions, an' fo' I know'd what I do'n, I say, 'Nuffin left but one
ole goose, Massa.' Den he say, 'Whar dat goose?' an' what wor a poor
nigger to do, Miss Julia?”
“We have done you an injustice, sir,” said the mother, again turning to
me.
“Pardon us, sir,” said the younger ladies.
“Don't mention it, ladies. I am so glad that I am relieved from the
suspicion of complicity in the stealing of that goose, that I would stay
and help cook a dinner to celebrate Col. Bob's return were it not for
the fact that I must go on and report to Gen. Meade.”
We parted very good friends. A goodly store of flour, meat, coffee and
sugar was sent to the ladies from the Union commissary department, and
no doubt Col. Bob reached home in time to share the rations with his
charming family.
Although twenty-six years have come and gone since my experience on the
piazza of that Virginia farmhouse, I cannot repress a feeling whenever
I recall the circumstances, that I would be pleased to meet that “other
Yankee” who did steal that goose and choke him till he cried “_peccavi!
_”