The Sunset of the Confederacy: V

I

MEANWHILE Ord’s troops are in bivouac at Farmville, Sheridan’s in and about Prospect Station, and the Fifth Corps, under tall, hollow-cheeked Griffin, is at Prince Edward Court House resting after its twenty-eight-mile march.

One of Sheridan’s regimental surgeons, in giving an account of overtaking his command that night, after having attended, as I assume, some of the wounded at Sailor’s Creek, says that the camp-fires of the encampments of artillery and infantry reddened the sky in every direction; that of those along the roadside, some burned brightly, some faintly, but every one had its group of weary men seeking, and I hope finding, refreshment and rest. ‘As the light played over the forms and faces of these men,’ says Surgeon Rockwell, ‘and those that were sleeping, with here and there a blood-stained bandage; and as it reflected from the stacked arms, and penetrated woody recesses revealing still other groups of blue-coated soldiers, scenes were presented well worthy to be reproduced upon canvas.’ To this vivid picture should be added the indistinct forms of the drowsing horses.

Yet, Reader, for loneliness — and every aide who like myself has carried dispatches will bear witness to the truth of what I say — give me a park of army-wagons in some wan old field enthralled in darkness at the dead hours of a moonless night, men and mules asleep, camp-fires breathing their last, and the beams of day, which wander in the night, resting ghost-like on the arched and mildewed canvas covers.

Lee’s army, meanwhile, was marching fast, weakened by hunger as they were. Apparently each man and organization grew indifferent to what happened to others. When any of the wagons or caissons got mired, or the famishing teams gave out, they did not stop to extricate them, but after cutting down the wheels of the artillery and setting fire to the supply-trains, went on. Lee himself passed through the village of Curdsville about midnight, and dawn found him and his weary army well away from Farmville.

Yet let them make the best time they could, demoralization was growing and spreading with equal speed. A Confederate surgeon, John Herbert Claiborne of Petersburg, says of the march after daylight, that there were abundant signs of disintegration all along the road; that whole trains were abandoned, ammunition and baggage dumped out, and everywhere muskets thrown away or, with their bayonets fixed, stuck deep in the ground. Soldiers who, he knew, had been men of steadiness and courage, straggled unarmed, or lay down and slept apparently unconcerned. Officers of the line as well as colonels and distinguished generals were doing the same thing, and Claiborne saw a staff officer of one of the latter dismount and throw himself down, uttering an oath that he never would draw his sword from its scabbard again.

About noon, the doctor met Lee’s Inspector-General, Colonel Peyton, posting some men, not over a hundred of them, on a knoll from whose bare top they could see in the distance off to the left some of Sheridan’s cavalry then hastening to reach Appomattox Station.

Claiborne asked Colonel Peyton what command he was posting, and the response came back slowly and sadly, ‘That is what is left of the First Virginia.’ It belonged to Pickett’s celebrated Gettysburg division, a mere remnant, for it had been nearly annihilated at Five Forks.

‘ Does General Lee know how few of his soldiers are left?’ asked the doctor, ‘or to what extremities they are reduced?’ ‘I don’t believe he does,’ replied Peyton. ‘Then whose business is it to tell him if not his inspectorgeneral’s?’ blurted out Claiborne; and here we see again how the spirit of the night before had spread. Peyton with sad emphasis answered, ‘I cannot, I cannot’; and I have no doubt that to the end of his days he was glad of the decision he came to. For this world loves the man who stands by his captain till the ship goes down. It may have been that Pendleton at that very hour was conveying to his chief the message Gordon had asked him to carry. Here at any rate is what Pendleton says in reference to its delivery: —

‘ General Lee was lying down resting at the base of a large pine tree. I approached and sat by him. To a statement of the case he quietly listened, and then, courteously expressing his thanks for the consideration of his subordinates in daring to relieve him in part of the existing burdens, spoke in about these words: “I trust it has not come to that; we certainly have too many brave men to think of laying down our arms. They still fight with great spirit, whereas the enemy does not. And besides, if I were to intimate to General Grant that I would listen to terms, he would at once regard it as such evidence of weakness that he would demand unconditional surrender, and sooner than that I am resolved to die. Indeed, we must all be determined to die at our posts.”

‘ My reply could only be that every man would no doubt cheerfully meet death with him in discharge of duty, and that we were perfectly willing that he should decide the question.’

Let me make one comment on Pendleton’s statement. He says that Lee declared that our army did not fight with spirit. This is astonishing. In view of Five Forks with its heavy losses on both sides, the assaults on his works around Petersburg, which were carried only by the most desperate resolution and gallantry, — indeed, it may be said, with slaughter unparalleled during the war, — the stubborn cavalry engagements at Jetersville and High Bridge, the sanguinary field of Sailor’s Creek, in view of all those combats is it not inconceivable that Lee should have said that our men lacked spirit? Go ask any living veteran of the Army of Northern Virginia whether our troops quailed from the day the campaign began till their general, Cox, fired the last volley at Appomattox. No, no, General Pendleton, you certainly misunderstood General Lee, or General Lee was amazingly misinformed: never, never, did the old Army of the Potomac show more spirit.

But that Lee said he would never submit to unconditional surrender is no doubt true, for he knew in what universal scorn and resentment the South held Pemberton for submitting to Grant’s terms of unconditional surrender at Vicksburg; and rather than place himself alongside Pemberton he would lay his life down. Pendleton, after discharging his delicate mission, rode for a while with Alexander and told him of his interview. Alexander says that he got the impression from his manner that he had been snubbed by Lee; I hope he was entirely mistaken. Parting with Alexander, Pendleton hurried on to the head of the column comprised of Lindsey Walker’s command of sixty-odd guns, accompanied by a guard of two artillery companies equipped as infantry.

They reached the vicinity of Appomattox Station by 3 P.M., and there, in supposed security, unharnessed, and started little fires to cook what they had foraged on the march, all looking forward gladly to several hours of refreshing rest.

Wallace with the leading brigade of the infantry, Gordon’s corps, went into camp about sundown within a mile or so of the river. In the evening, and it will be told why, they were moved forward across the river to the Court House village and slept on their arms. The Appomattox, which they crossed on their way, and whose murmur can almost be heard at the old hamlet, is nothing more than a good-sized willowfringed run that an ordinary coatless country boy, with even a short start, can clear from bank to bank, landing on the turf with the usual sense of having performed a feat; a sense to which I can testify, for more than once, bateheaded and bare-footed, I leaped a run of about the same size that wanders through the fields of the old home farm; and I hope that, as I write, the elecampane and ironweed are blooming golden and purple there as in my youth, and that off on the gray stakeand-ridered fence which runs by the old wild-cherry tree, a bob white sings to his mate mothering her covey in the clover-field.

And now, before telling where the rest of Gordon’s corps and that of Longstreet and the cavalry bivouacked at the end of that last and long day’s march, let me say a word of the lay of the land where their camp-fires glittered along the Lynchburg Road.

From the Appomattox lone and bushy ravine-scored fields tilt up northward for a mile, at least, to a timbered ridge circling southwestward around the birthplace of the river. The challenging note of a chanticleer perched in the old village on a November starlit night, with the wind from the south or the east, can be heard, I think, clear to the ferny tips of the river’s source.

This ridge, where it is crossed by the old road, — which, by the way, comes swerving southward from it through the gullied and sombre old fields, — is flatfish, crowned with woods, and about half a mile wide, breaking down sharply on its northern side into the bed of Rocky Run; a pleasant brook that goes gurgling around the ridge’s base and falls into the Appomattox about a mile below the Court House. Beyond the run the ground begins at once to rise in a long commanding incline to the top of a higher ridge. As you follow the road upward, on each side are beautiful, leaning fields, and when I was there last October, in one of them lay a flock of Southdown sheep, and opposite, amid venerable trees and somewhat away from the road, was the old brick mansion house overlooking dreamily the generous plantation.

At the top of the ridge, the divide between the Appomattox and James, the road enters woods and then sweeps directly to the east by New Hope Church on toward New Store and Farmville. The prevailing timber through which it bears its course, leaving a track almost as red as brick, is oak, and roamed by wild turkeys. The other day, as I was following it, a halfgrown one scurried across it ahead of me and disappeared in the leafy silence. I halted when I came to the spot, but could neither see nor hear him; may he live to grow to a ripe old age, a stately, fleet, and beautiful ornament of the sun-dappled loneliness.

And now, having tried to convey the lay of the land, let me say that Gordon’s camp-fires stretched from the Appomattox to the top of the first ridge, and perhaps as far up the other as where I saw the sheep lying peacefully in the field. McIntosh’s battalion of batteries was on the banks of Rocky Run, and Haskell’s was this side of them in the woods. Longstreet’s corps was beyond New Hope Church and beyond it the cavalry. The bordering fields and roadsides, from New Hope Church to the Appomattox, were packed by artillery, wagons, and ambulances, and except the batteries about all of them had lost every semblance of organization.

The cavalry and a good share of Longstreet’s corps did not bivouac till after night had fully set in, and when the fires were lit, many a long mile lay behind them. Rut it had been a pleasant day, the sun had shone brightly, and, from time to time, soft refreshing breezes had blown; and I have no doubt that the sunshine and fresh breezes were made sweeter by the fact that it was the first day since it crossed the Appomattox at Goode’s Bridge that the column had been free from harassing attacks by the cavalry.

Lee camped in the open wood on the top of the first ridge, and on the east side of the road, a hundred yards or so from it, the ground rising gently. Near-by and towering high over his camp-fire was a large white oak. Longstreet and Gordon were not far away. So, then, having established the weary, supperless men in their bivouacs, let us leave them to their sleep, which I know came quickly, for they were tired.

Night and the listening fields and woods, which as soon as darkness falls always become suddenly vast, selfconscious personalities, were around them; over them were fast-moving, sinister clouds dimming the Milky Way, that starry bivouac of the heavens; and with those officers and men, whose care blotted out sleep, darkening the future, were the shadows of deeper clouds. Were they to be subjected to harsh terms of surrender and then to a march of humiliation through the cities of the North, to Point Lookout, Fort Delaware, Elmira, and Johnston’s Island, as prisoners of war? What months of confinement and agonies of body and mind were in store for them? Silent veterans, looking with thoughtful eyes into your camp-fires and dreading the future, none, none of those bitter experiences will come to you; on the contrary, you will receive kind terms, and chaplets will be yours at last. For this country will feel a glorious national pride in your fortitude, your soulstirring valor, and your loyalty to her when the storm of war shall be over. Who, who are to be the heroes of the Army of Northern Virginia, then, if not you — you who, like gold tried in the furnace, stood by colors and cause to the end?

And now, before telling you, Reader, of the movements of the Army of the Potomac on that same Saturday, April 8, let me first say that Grant on the evening of the seventh, after sending his first note to Lee, issued orders for Humphreys and Wright to pursue the enemy with vigor in the morning on whatsoever roads he might take, and for Ord’s command to follow Sheridan up the railroad toward Appomattox Station, since it was obvious that, to gain Lynchburg, Lee, confined to the narrow divide between the Appomattox and the James, would have to cross there at its outlet. It is quite clear that these orders, all issued before receiving a reply to his letter, show that Grant did not expect Lee to halt in his tracks and surrender at once.

The answer which he had received at midnight and which has already been given, he replied to in explicit terms the next morning: —

April 8, 1805.
GENERAL, — Your note of last evening, in reply to mine of the same date, asking the condition on which I will accept the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia, is just received. In reply, I would say that peace being my great desire, there is but one condition I would insist upon, namely: that the men and officers surrendered shall be disqualified for taking up arms again against the Government of the United States until properly exchanged. I will meet you, or will designate officers to meet any officers you might name for the same purpose, at any point agreeable to you, for the purpose of arranging definitely the terms upon which the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia will be received.
U. S. GRANT, Lieutenant-General.
General R. E. LEE.

This letter was direct, candid, and generous, and brought the issue squarely to Lee, inasmuch as, where or whensoever it might reach him, he would have to make up his mind to one of two courses: to yield to the inevitable, a spectre that had been haunting him for many a day, or to take his chances to escape from it by further retreat and battle. He chose the latter, notwithstanding Grant had used the expression, ‘ Peace being my great desire.’

This important communication, like the first, was put into the hands of Seth Williams for delivery. In due time that sunny-hearted man came up with the enemy’s rear-guard of cavalry, and, although he was displaying a flag, was fired on, and his orderly wounded. He had to make several approaches to the line, and at last gained the attention of an officer of some sense, who ordered his ill-trained men to desist from firing on the flag of truce. Williams on handing him Grant’s letter asked to have it forwarded promptly to Lee, and to make it clear to his immediately superior officer that hostilities would not be suspended on account of the communication he had given him. But before Williams started on this mission from Farmville, day had broken pleasantly, and to the call of the bugles all the troops had stepped olf briskly ahead of him. All, did you say? All of the Army of the Potomac?

No, not quite all. Up where Miles had made his resolute assault at Cumberland Church, just as the sun was setting the night before, were many in blue and gray whom no earthly bugle could wake; there, boys of twenty were sleeping on, waiting in peace for that other trumpet, the one at the lips of an angel who, on resurrection’s morning, shall sound for us all. Poor fellows, had your lives lasted but. two days more, you would have heard the bands at Appomattox playing ‘Home, Sweet Home.’

II

In accordance with Grant’s orders for a vigorous pursuit, Humphreys at an early hour, with Miles in the lead, pressed through the works at Cumberland Church, which they had failed to carry, and then on to the Lynchburg Stage and the Buckingham Plank roads, which, setting out from Farmville, run near each other for a while. The latter goes by the village of Curdsville, and a cross-road from there meets the former at New Store. Humphreys took the Stage, and Wright the Plank Road.

Meade overtook Humphreys about eight o’clock, just after Williams with Grant’s second letter had gone forward, and Lyman says that as they kept along the road they came on General Williams returning from the front, and shortly after, at eleven-thirty, had got to the house of ‘one Elam,’ where they rested the horses for a spell, and then over a wide road full of boulders and holes they came to Crutes, a large white house on the left side of the road; just before reaching there Grant overtook them and said to Meade, ’How are you, old fellow?’ As will be remembered, Meade had not been at all well for three or four days. That night they both made their headquarters at Crutes.

Meanwhile, Humphreys pushed on fast, and at 5 P.M. sent word to Meade that he was at New Store and that the enemy were reported as about four miles ahead, and asked if he should halt to let the rear close up (that is Wright’s Sixth Corps) and have rations issued. After resting a little while, and without waiting to hear from Meade, he renewed the march till half-past six, and by that time Miles with the advance was near Holliday’s Creek.

At 6:55, just after the sun had set and Humphreys had gone into camp, Meade’s reply to his dispatch came, saying, ‘Push on to-night until you come up with the enemy. No attack is ordered but it is desirable to have the army up to him.’ — ‘Have the army up to him!’ In that command you hear the ring of the iron in the blood of old George Gordon Meade.

Humphreys in reply said that, although it was against his judgment, he would obey the order, buUhat the men were exhausted and without rations. In a postscript he added that Miles at that moment sent word that the enemy were encamped on the first high ground in front of him, and that he had directed him to push forward his skirmishers and feel them.

Before this order could be executed, the enemy had moved on, but the corps, tired as it was, resumed its march in the falling darkness. The men had to yield at last, however, to fatigue and hunger, and at ten o’clock went into bivouac. Nearly twentyfive miles had been covered and the day had been warm; they deserved and I hope enjoyed a night of sweet rest. The camp-fires of some of them were on the banks of Holiday’s Creek, and as their eyes were closing to its murmurs the dull boom of guns away to the soul hwest went floating by. Boom! boom! boom! And Wonder asked sleepily, ‘What is that?’ It was Sheridan at Appomattox Station planting himself squarely across the road to Lynchburg; and here is the story of how he did it.

While the dew was still sparkling and the feet of grazing cows and quick nibbling sheep trailed the pastures, his cavalry poured out of the fields and woods around Prospect Station, and with Custer in advance set off up the railroad for Appomattox Station, which is about two or three miles south of the Court House. Behind the cavalry came Ord’s infantry from Farmville, Birney’s division of colored troops leading them, and then Griffin from Prince Edward Court House, with Chamberlain of Maine, that hero and scholar, at the head. For the sake of the memory of the night when I rode with Warren on our way from the Wilderness, where this corps had left so many of its gallant men, I wish that I could have seen them march by on that sunshiny morning,— not only the Fifth Corps, but all of that column.

III

Reader and friend, I have something to propose to you, and, much as it will delay the narrative, I hope it will strike you pleasantly. Let us find some suitable spot by the roadside from which we can see those veterans go by; for before the sun sets to-morrow their marching will be over and the old Army of the Potomac, that I served with as a boy, will pass through the Gates of Peace and enter the Land of Dreams. I want you to see them, too, for I believe you feel a pride in the glory their courage has brought the country. I marched with them on many campaigns, — Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, the Wilderness, and thence through the bloody fields of Spottsylvania and Cold Harbor to the James. Do you wonder then that I long to look once more at the regiments and batteries, and lift my hat to those brave men whose oft-repeated display of valor made my heart beat? And if, when some dear old friend goes by, you should see tears dropping from my eyes, never mind, never mind, — the sight; will bring back such appealing memories.

Break off that spray of budding laurel and bring it along. It will indicate that what is in your heart is in your hand, and that you would like if you could to Wreathe it around the brows of more than one of those boys. For they are only boys, after all; their average age is undex twenty-one.

I wish we could find a good, overlooking spot. How will that little elevation down there in the valley answer, that rises like an old-fashioned beehive on the left of the road and has three or four big-limbed oaks crowning it, one of them leaning somewhat? Admirably! We are lucky as usual: here is a pair of bars, and we shall not. have to climb this old Virginia rail-fence; but let us be sure to put the bars up, for nothing is more provoking, nothing shows worse breeding, than to leave a farmer’s gates open or his bars down. Well, here we are: oaks spreading above us, at our feet violets, liverwort, and spring beauties, scattered among acorn hulls, dead leaves, and clustered grass. What a reviewing stand, and so near the road that we shall be able to distinguish faces! Truly we have chosen a pleasant spot; let us sit down and enjoy it till they come.

How graciously the road greets us as it emerges from those thick primeval woods yonder, and how cool and fresh its earthy track looks as it comes gliding down between the fields toward us! Why, it. almost sings, — I’m a brother of the morning and my sweetheart is the dawn.

And is not this leaning valley in front of us sweet? How the wavering fences and the heaving fields take the eye farther and farther up and off northward, until at last it rests on distant woods and vast solitary traveling clouds! Do you know that under those very clouds the Army of Northern Virginia is marching? How peacefully beneficent they look! I wonder if heaven in her sympathy has not set them a-sailing so that their shadows may comfort our enemies, — for the day is warm and hearts are low. I wish we could review them also, for perhaps I might see some old West Point friend, and I think he would speak to me, and I should like to slip a biscuit into his hand, for I know he is hungry. But whether I should see one or not, I know I would wave the laurel to more than one of those Confederate regiments.

But upon my soul we could not have found a better place had we looked for weeks. Note how the road climbs up athwart the open hill beyond this lusty, blessed run at our left, the gurgling child of the valley; and I ’ll warrant you that there are minnows, dace, and, may be, shiners in some of its pools, and t hat I could find a cardinal’s or a catbird’s nest somewhere along its willowand alder-covered banks; those master songsters, like the thrush, love quiet places like this. And do you note the regular, intermittent pauses in the beat of the wings of that bird, which is coming from the woods to the oaks? It’s a flicker, for I know his undulating flight right well. And do you hear that meadow-lark? He is up there in that shouldered pasture where you see a few sumacs near a settlement of big boulders, travelers from ages gone by that are resting a while; and as he sings to his golden-breasted mate, who knows if his song does not set the stern travelers dreaming of the world’s first morning, just as the thrush’s sets the fields dreaming of the first evening? But, like the flicker, what a naturally wild bird is the lark!

Surely the old road hears many a pleasant tone and runs by many a pleasant scene, but not one is sweeter than this or more suited to serve an innocent purpose like ours. For we can see the troops coming and going, and follow them as they climb the hill, until banners and men disappear beyond its crest. But here they come!

The cavalry brigade at the head of the column this morning is Pennington’s of Custer’s division, and when its commander rides by I will point him out to you, for he is a friend, and as was said of Sir George Beaumont, the intimate of Wordsworth and Coleridge, he is inherently a gentleman. The regiment that is now approaching in the advance is the Second New York, and that behind it is the Third New Jersey. The colonel of the former is Alanson M. Randol, and when he rides by, you will see that he has thin, straight, light red hair and a spare face; and I wish that you could hear him sing, for he has a fine tenor voice which on many a summer night at West Point I heard rising high and clear as he led a group of his fellow cadets who used to gather at the head of some company street during encampment, and, seated in a circle on camp-stools in their gray fatigue jackets and white trousers, sing the evening away. It is this regiment that will capture the four trains at. Appomattox to-night, and then, with the rest of the brigade and division, at last, and notwithstanding musketry, canister, and darkness, will gain the Lynchburg road, and force the surrender of Lee to-morrow.

Bless my heart! here comes Custer now, and riding by his side are Pennington and Randol; Custer, a majorgeneral, Pennington, a brigadier, and not one of the three has yet seen his twenty-seventh birthday. They were all fellow cadets, and I will wager you that this very moment they are talking about those old West Point days; for no matter when or where we graduates meet, soon, very soon, we are back at that beautiful spot on the Hudson and living over the days of our youth.

But do look at Custer, for he was one of my close friends and we passed many a happy hour together. Did you ever in all your life see any man more spectacularly dressed? That broad upturned sombrero, those long yellow locks, that olive-green corduroy suit tinseled lavishly with gold braid, those huge roweled spurs, and that long, flowing scarlet necktie! Just look, too, at the length of the sabre scabbard and the gold knots dangling from the sword’s hilt, and note also those pistols in his high cavalry boots.

But don’t misjudge him: Custer is only a great big jolly boy, and no one ever had a better friend, and no foe ever had an antagonist with more generosity of spirit. I wish you could catch his mischievous smile and hear his merry laugh.

I declare I believe he sees us. He does. — ‘Hello, Morris! Hello, “Old Shoaf ” ! ’ Yes, yes, I hear you, Custer, Pennington, and Randol. Yes, I hear you, but my heart is too full to answer; I can only murmur as the tears fall, ‘ God bless each of you!’ Wave, wave your laurel, Reader, and keep on waving it till the mist clears away from my swimming eyes. And after a pause, if some one says softly, ‘Why did they call you “Old Shoaf”?’ Oh, it was a nickname I got at West Point.

That regiment now passing is the First Connecticut, and I wish to call your attention to its major, Goodwin; and near him is Lieutenant Fanfare. Those two brave officers each captured a gun at Five Forks only a few days ago, when after repeated charges, with Pennington at the head, the brigade carried the enemy’s breastworks. There goes the Second Ohio. I have a pride in my native state; let us lift our hats to the Second, and to them all.

That man at the head of the Fifteenth New York is Colonel Coppinger, and when I saw him first he was an aide, I believe, on Sheridan’s staff. He is one of several young Irish gentlemen who came over and offered their services to our country, and braver or wittier men never graced a camp.

The lieutenant-colonel, on the white horse, is Augustus I. Root, and tonight, at the very end of the battle, he will charge into the village of Appomattox Court House and there meet a volley from Wallace’s Confederate brigade and fall dead from his charger; and to-morrow morning a tenderhearted Confederate lady, before whose house he has fallen, will have his body brought from the road and buried in her yard. And when, after the war is over, his family shall come to take his body home, do you know, she will gather some flowers from the garden to deck his coffin!

‘What is the meaning of that oldfashioned family coach, drawn by two mules, with a colored woman riding in state in it, among the headquarter wagons and led horses bringing up the rear of Custer’s division?’

Well, my friend, — I might address you as Stranger, but I think you are closer to me than that, — that’s Eliza, Custer’s cook. He picked her up near the Blue Ridge on one of his campaigns in that lonely region. I don’t know where he laid his hands on the coach. But this I know, that, at the fierce battle of Trevilion last summer, Eliza and all of Custer’s and Pennington’s private baggage were captured. That night, after the brigade had got out of a very tight place and gone into bivouac, Custer and Pennington, while lounging before their camp-fires, heard cheering up the road. Pretty soon the cheering broke out again, but this time it was stronger and nearer. What does that mean? they asked each other; and when they went out to learn the cause, there came Eliza, the men lining the road and cheering her at every step.

It seems that her mounted captors, while marching her off the field, told her to throw down a high fence in their way; but instead of beginning at the top rail she pulled out a low one, bolted through, took to her heels among young pines, and then with native shrewdness struck out in the direction she thought our troops had taken; and there she was, ready to get Custer’s breakfast as usual. Of all the Army of the Potomac to-day, Eliza is the only one riding in state, and I’ve no doubt that at this very moment she is canvassing in her mind whether the coffee and sugar amid the trumpery with which her mud-spattered vehicle is loaded, will hold out till the campaign is over. It will; don’t worry about it, Eliza; ride on without care.

But what a contrast is that old coach with its family memories to that column of cavalry now doubled up and riding four abreast, — horses bay, sorrel, white, black, and roan, guidons and colors waving, and each trooper armed with carbine, sabre and pistol! The old carriage is not going to church or to a wedding this morning.

The division following Custer’s is Merritt’s, Wesley Merritt’s, one of the most popular men at West Point in my day. He has smiling blue eyes and has led this division in many a charge. Moreover he is naturally modest, can write inspiring English, and is an addition always to the good company he loves. I think that Sheridan relies on him more than on any one of his division commanders, and to-morrow he will be one of three selected by Grant to receive the surrender of Lee’s army.

That brigade just passing is the famous Michigan brigade; you notice that every one has a flaming scarlet necktie like Custer’s; they were his first command, and they love him. I wish that I could dwell on some of their exploits with him at their head. You do not know how the sight of those cavalrymen brings back to me that night after the two awful days in the Wilderness, when, with Warren in advance, I rode by them to Todd’s Tavern where they had fought so bravely for the Brock Road, without which Grant’s move to Spottsylvania would have been seriously baffled.

And here comes the Second Brigade under Charley Fitzhugh. Wave your laurel, for he is another of my fellow cadets. He has brown eyes, and in that robust figure is a warm and gallant heart.

And now passes the Reserve brigade. At its head is the Second Massachusetts under Colonel Forbes, who bears a name which the Blue Hills of Milton cherish with pride. Its young colonel, Lowell, was killed last autumn in the valley, and his sword brought much added lustre to a family already distinguished.

The troopers and those grim old sergeants with grizzled moustaches and imperials, who sit their horses so firmly, belong to the First, Fifth, and Sixth Regulars; and, companion, my heart swells at the sight of them again, for I, too, was a regular.

And here comes Crook’s division. I have already told you what kind of a looking man he is, and how he was beloved. I wish I could point out all whom I know and who have rendered great services, but I am afraid of being tedious. That regiment just passing, its guidons flirting so cheerily, is the First Maine. At its head is Colonel Cilley, and when all is still to-night, he with his regiment will be standing guard across the Lynchburg Pike, just this side of the little graveyard at Appomattox, and within hearing of the enemy’s bivouac down in the old, weary-looking hamlet.

And here comes Sheridan, — Sheridan! he to whom the country to-morrow, and as long as it lives, will owe more than to anyone in the Army of the Potomac for its final victory over what is called the Great Rebellion, inasmuch as, had it not been for his inflaming activity, the pursuit would not have been so rigorous, and Lee, instead of being where he is to-day, at the very verge of complete overthrow, would be, I fear, well on his way to the Roanoke.

Sheridan is mounted on Rienzi. Look at man and horse, for they are both of the same spirit and temper. It was Rienzi who with flaming nostrils carried Sheridan to the field of Cedar Creek, twenty miles away; and he was on him at Five Forks, the battle which broke Lee’s line and let disaster in. Before the final charge there, the horse became as impatient as his rider, kicking, plunging, tossing his head, pulling at the bit, while foam flecked his black breast. And when Sheridan gave him his head, when he saw that Ayres, at the point of the bayonet, was going to carry the day, off sprang Rienzi and with a leap bounded over the enemy’s works and landed Sheridan among the mob of prisoners and fighting troops. Well, Rienzi, by this time to-morrow von will bear your distinguished rider to the McLean house, and there you will see General Lee coming up on Traveller, a horse with a better temper than yours, and soon thereafter Grant wall ride up on high-bred Cincinnati, and you three horses will go down to history together; and Grant to the day of his death will say that your rider, little Phil Sheridan, was the one great corps commander of the war.

As you see, Sheridan is cased in the uniform of his grade; he has on a double-breasted frock-coat, the brass buttons in groups of three; his trousers are outside of his boots and strapped down; and slightly tipping on his big round head is a low-crowned, soft felt hat, concealing his close-cropped black hair. He is the very embodiment of vital energy, and in addition to his natural force and courage he is supported by an extraordinary, clear and quick comprehension of the phases of battle. Were you to get close to him, you would not fail to note his set jaw, his rather high, solid cheek-bones, quick blazing eyes, and all the impulsive characteristics of his determined nature mingling in his weather-bronzed face; and perchance it would make you think of a living anvil. His voice is naturally low, and on one occasion, amid all the tension and din of battle, an aide came galloping up and began to scream out some bad news, whereupon Sheridan, with set teeth and low measured tones, said, ‘Damn you, sir, don’t yell at me!’ Great as will his honors be, he never will have any affectations, but will ring true to the end.

Those threescore or more unfurled Confederate colors carried behind him and his brilliant staff, ‘Tony’ and ‘Sandy’ Forsythe, Newhall, and Gillespie, were captured at Sailor’s Creek; and could anything equal the sight of those flags in stirring the hearts of his men to renewed daring?

And now the rear of the cavalry is passing, the head of the column has long since disappeared over the crest. Sheridan is near the top of the hill and I can still make out his blue headquarters flag. It was with that flag in his hand, Rienzi plunging wildly and mad with the excitement of the roaring musketry, that Sheridan, aflame, turned Ayres’s repulsed division back to face their foes again at Five Forks, and then to carry Pickett’s line of breastworks. In the oncoming infantry that will soon appear you will see Ayres and that very division; and I have no doubt that you will look on them with admiration when I tell you of their exploits, for I have been with them and seen them under fire.

And now, in the momentary pause between cavalry and infantry, goes by a little squad with bandaged heads and limbs, hurrying along, some on mules and some on horses. They are wounded cavalrymen who have slipped away from the field hospitals of Sailor’s Creek and Farmville, and are bound to be with their regiments.

‘What has that hatless man with the bandage across his brow dismounted for, there at the run?’ Watch him and you will see. He is filling the canteens of his comrades. And note how the feverish fellows drink! lie has had to fill one a second time; the contents of the first have been poured over a bandaged arm. Oh, fine is the spirit in the Army of the Potomac to-day!

‘But why are you smiling?’ Oh, because I know those fellows well, and except that obviously broken-down, abandoned old mule, and that woe-begone, bald-faced chestnut horse which they have picked up, the chances are ten to one that those young rascals have stolen every mount they have.

Now they are off, and the infantry is just issuing from the woods, and Turner’s division of Ord’s command is in the lead. Those troops, some from Illinois, some from Ohio, West Virginia, and far-away Massachusetts, were in the lines north of the James when the campaign began, and have covered more miles than any in the army. Note their swing as they pass by, for they mean to keep up with the cavalry.

Behind them is Foster’s division, and at its head are two small brigades of colored troops, as you see. Do you know, my friend, that these earnest black men recall some vivid memories? For I sat on the parapet of one of our batteries and saw Feraro’s division — they were all negroes officered by white men — move to the attack when the mine was exploded at Petersburg. Up to that day thousands of us doubted the colored man’s courage, and for fear these negroes would falter, a division of white troops was assigned to lead the assault. But such heroism as they displayed I never saw surpassed on any field. Their advance up the incline was in full view, and you should have seen their steadiness in the face of a most deadly front-and-flank fire. Their flags began to fall as soon as they cleared our works, but up they would come boldly and on they would go. I cannot tell you how my breath shortened as the ground was strewn with their dead and wounded. Let us uncover. They have shown that they can be loyal and true to their masters, and they have shown that they can stand undaunted the final test of battle. Full of pathos are their songs and their fate for me, and I sometimes wonder if marble and bronze are not waiting for the hand of genius to express nature’s deep feeling of North and South in their behalf.

That spare man with iron gray hair and moustache is Ord, the senior officer of all this column of cavalry and infantry hastening on to head off Lee. He graduated at West Point the year Grant entered, and his eyes are bluishgrav and kindly. In company he is an easy but not a loquacious talker, and never is known to be angry or excited; in other words, Reader, he is a man of good breeding. His voice, which is naturally clear, nas a tinge of persuasiveness or solicitation in its tones. It was he who tried to bring about an interview between Grant and Lee before this final campaign began, for he felt sure that if they could meet they would bring the war to an end. Longstreet joined with him in this merciful and patriotic design, but as soon as it was heard of in Washington, Grant got peremptory orders to have no communication with Lee on questions of a political nature.

All in all, I am glad that Ord’s scheme failed, but, nevertheless, it tells what kind of man he is, and Peace at the last great day will beckon to him, you may rest assured, to come and sit down by her side.

That young man, in fact almost a boy, among his staff, is Alfred A. Woodhull, an assistant surgeon in the army; and when Ord went to see Longstreet on his peace mission, he took Woodhull with him.

And now there is another pause, for some of Ord’s wagons are stalled at the run and block the way, but the officers and drivers are using the vigorous terms which the mule understands, and soon the road will be cleared. Yes, even now, for look, look! there comes the old Fifth Corps. See how the sun glints on the leaning gun-barrels! Griffin is at its head, and behind him floats the Maltese Cross. What fields the sight of that flag evokes! Gaines’s Mill, Glendale, Malvern Hill, Manassas, Fredericksburg, Gettysburg, the Wilderness, Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor, Five Forks! Blood of the Fifth Corps reddened, and in some cases almost deluged, every one of them. And, upon my soul, I hear the volleys again, and once more I see their colors crossing the Old Sanders Field in the Wilderness and wavering up toward the orchard on the Spindle farm at Spottsylvania! Come on, you that are left! Come on! I was young once, too, and shared those bitter days with you. God bless you, come on with those tattered banners!

Leading the First Brigade is Chamberlain of Maine, and for the sake of Round Top, the key of Gettysburg, which at the sword’s tip he helped to save, and for the sake of his gentleness and knightliness, for he will bring that division to a salute when the Army of Northern Virginia marches by to lay down their arms, wave your laurel for Chamberlain.

There go Coulter, Bartlett, and Baxter; they do not know me, but I know them; and when I saw Bartlett last in the Wilderness, blood was streaming down his face. And here comes Crawford, neat and trim as usual; and behind him is Kellogg leading all that is left of the Iron Brigade of the West, the Sixth and Seventh Wisconsin; for the sake of that first day at Gettysburg let us rise and uncover.

And here comes the sturdy old regular, Ayres, with his division fresh from Five Forks. Look at those shredded and bullet-riddled colors! In their lacerated bands of red and white, and in those ripped, star-decked fields of blue, is written the visible history of the Army of the Potomac. Oh, let us be grateful for that breeze which has set them a-rippling. They seem to be rejoicing. And who has told the west wind that peace is coming?

There go the One Hundred and Fortieth, One Hundred and Fortysixth New York, the One Hundred and Fifty-fifth Pennsylvania, and the Maryland Brigade. All hail! but oh, brave fellows, are you all that are left? Reader, if you should ever visit the field of Spottsylvania I wish you would go to where a stone bears this legend: —

FARTHEST ADVANCE ON THIS FRONT

THE MARYLAND BRIGADE

‘Never mind bullets, never mind cannon, but press on and clear the road.'

That was the order they got from Warren that Sunday morning and I saw them try to obey it. Can I easily find it? Yes; and it will be glad to see you, and as you stand beside it in its loneliness and recall what it commemorates, you will feel how gently persuasive is the peace of the arching sky.

And now that they have all gone by and are mounting the hill, I feel sorry that I directed your eye to a few only of those brave officers and men. But perhaps I have delayed the narrative already too long. Would that I could keep right on with the story, and that I did not so often forget that the majority of my fellow men have no particular interest in the mysteriously suffusing lights which haunt the background of heroic deeds, but are concerned rather in the deeds themselves.

(To be continued.)