Hitherto some angel had watched over me, and Disaways had been unvisited by the enemy's scouting parties, without so much as a vedette at the Halifax bridge, within half a mile. I had sat by the fire, eaten countless suppers, laughed and conversed with my good friends, slept soundly in a real bed, and gone on my way in the morning rejoicing.

I had thus always escaped surprise. No enemy ever annoyed me. It was the old adage, however, of the pitcher that went to the well so often!—but let me go on with my narrative.

As my horse uttered his shrill neigh now, ringing through the March evening, the door opened and Katy ran out to greet me. She had never looked more beautiful, and I recall still, as though I had seen it yesterday, the charming smile on her red lips. The wind blew back her ringlets till they resembled golden ripples—the rosy cheeks were flushed—there madam! (I say this to some one who is leaning over my shoulder, and laughing) don't begrudge me these smiling memories! Katy was only my little niece as it were—she is married and far away now. Nay, Surry ought to love and be grateful to the little lady who took such good care, in those grim days, of—your husband, madam!

Behind Katy appeared the faces of the excellent family, who cordially greeted me. Behind all appeared the blushing but dandified Tom Herbert.

"Ah! there is a straggler!" I said. "Why don't you send him back to his command, ladies? Every man should be at his post in this trying moment!"

"Oh, bother, my dear Surry! what a tongue you have!" exclaimed Tom.

"I see General Fitz was right, or his staff rather, in what they told me, Tom."

"What did they tell you, my dear boy?"

"That you were demoralized and captured!"

Sweet smile on the faces of the family at these words!

"That you had acknowledged your weakness, seen that further resistance was hopeless, and were already negotiating a surrender to the enemy. Well, Tom, what are the terms? Are they arranged?"

Suddenly I felt my hair pulled by an enemy from behind; and looking round I saw Miss Katy passing by, with an immense appearance of innocence. Her face was blushing; her lips emitted a low laugh; and seeing that no one was looking at her, she raised her finger in silent menace at me.

This caused a diversion, and Tom was enabled to rally his forces.

"My dear Surry," he said, smiling, with his delightfully foppish air, "it always charms me to meet you, for you are always sparkling, brilliant, full of wit; which reminds me of the good old days with Stuart! You have only one fault, my boy, you think yourself a philosopher. Don't do that, I beg, Surry!—But what's the news from Petersburg?"

I acquiesced in the change of topic, and gave Tom the news; but I was looking at Katy.

More than ever before I admired that little "bird of beauty," flitting about with charming grace, and an irresistible business air, to get me my supper, for the rest had just finished. This privilege she always claimed when I came to Disaways; fighting furiously, if the excellent lady of the manor attempted to supplant her. Looking at her, as she ran about now, engaged in her most admirable occupation, I thought her lovelier than ever before—certainly than when talking in the woods with Tom! You see she was getting my supper, reader!—and it seemed to be a labor of love. The little fairy ran on her tiptoes from sideboard to table; spread a snowy napkin, and placed a gilt china plate upon it; made tea; covered the table with edibles; and placed beside my plate a great goblet of yellow cream, of the consistency of syrup. Then she poured out my tea, set my chair to the table, and came with courtesy and laughing ceremony, to offer me her arm, and lead me to my seat.

Men are weak, worthy reader, and the most "romantic and poetical" of us all, have much of the animal in us. That is a mortifying confession. I was terribly hungry, and at that moment I think my attention was more closely riveted on the table, than even upon Miss Katy with her roses and ringlets.

I therefore unbuckled my sabre, placed the little hand on my arm, and was about to proceed toward the table, when a shot, accompanied by a shout, was heard from the direction of the Rowanty.

I went and buckled on my sword again. Then seeing Tom rise quickly—to get his horse ready, he said—I requested him to have my own resaddled, and returned to the table.

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 melee 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 3lst, 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 3lst 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 touching 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.



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.