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Reminiscences of the Civil War:
Electronic Edition.

John Brown Gordon, 1832-1904

Funding from the Library of Congress/Ameritech National Digital Library Competition supported the electronic publication of this title.

Text scanned (OCR) by Jennifer Kellerman
Images scanned by Jill Kuhn
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First edition, 1999
ca. 1MB
Academic Affairs Library, UNC-CH
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill,
1999.

        © This work is the property of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. It may be used freely by individuals for research, teaching and personal use as long as this statement of availability is included in the text.


Call number E470 .G66 1904c (Davis Library, UNC-CH)

Source Description:
Reminiscences of the Civil War
Gordon, John B.
New York
Charles Scribner's Sons
Atlanta
The Martin & Hoyt Co.
1904

        The electronic edition is a part of the UNC-CH digitization project, Documenting the American South, Beginnings to 1920.
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GENERAL JOHN B. GORDON
From a photograph taken at the close of the war, when he was thirty-three years of age.

        

Illustration

Memorial Edition

REMINISCENCES OF THE CIVIL WAR

BY

GENERAL JOHN B. GORDON
OF THE CONFEDERATE ARMY

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
GENERAL STEPHEN D. LEE
COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE UNITED
CONFEDERATE VETERANS MEMORIAL ACCOUNT BY
FRANCES GORDON SMITH

Illustrated

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
ATLANTA
THE MARTIN & HOYT CO.
1904

Page verso

Copyright, 1903. by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published October, 1903

Page v

CONTENTS

Page xi

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Page xiii

INTRODUCTION TO THE MEMORIAL
EDITION

        GENERAL JOHN B. GORDON'S last work was the publishing of his "Reminiscences of the Civil War." This volume, written in his vigorous style and broad, patriotic spirit, has been most favorably received and read all over the country. Since his death this memorial edition is brought out; and it is appropriate that an additional introduction should accompany it, somewhat in the shape of a biographical sketch.

        General John Brown Gordon was an all-round great man--a valiant and distinguished soldier, an eminent statesman, a great orator, an author of merit, and a public-spirited and useful citizen. He was born in Upson County, Georgia, February 6, 1832. His father was the Rev. Zachary Herndon Gordon. The family was of Scotch extraction, and its members fought in the Revolutionary War. He received his education at the university of his native State, and by profession was a lawyer.

        At the breaking out of the war, in 1861, he enlisted as a private soldier, and was elected captain of his company. His career was perhaps as brilliant as that of any officer in the Confederate army. In rapid succession he filled every grade--that of

Page xiv

Major, Lieutenant-Colonel, Colonel, Brigadier-General, Major-General, and, near the end, was assigned to duty as Lieutenant-General (by authority of the Secretary of War), and while he never received the commission in regular form, he commanded, at the surrender at Appomattox, one half of the Army of Northern Virginia, under Robert E. Lee.

        At the close of the war he had earned the reputation of being perhaps the most conspicuous and personally valiant officer surviving, and the one generally regarded as most promising and competent for increased rank and larger command. His imposing and magnificent soldierly bearing, coupled with his splendid ringing voice and far-reaching oratory, made him the "White-plumed Knight of our Southland" and the "Chevalier Bayard of the Confederate Army." He had the God-given talent of getting in front of his troops and, in a few magnetic appeals, inspiring them almost to madness, and being able to lead them into the jaws of death. This was notably done at Fredericksburg, and again on the 12th of May, at the battle of Spottsylvania Court House. He greatly distinguished himself on many bloody fields. I mention now, as most prominent, the battles of Seven Pines, Sharpsburg or Antietam, the Wilderness, Spottsylvania Court House, Cedar Creek, Petersburg, and Appomattox. At Sharpsburg he was wounded five times, but would not leave his troops till the last shot laid him helpless and insensible on the field. A scholarly professor of history in one of our Southern universities recently stated that in his study of the great war on both sides he had found but one prominent

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general who, when he was in command, or when he led a charge, had never been defeated or repulsed, and that general was John B. Gordon. At Appomattox, just before the surrender, when Lee's army had "been fought to a frazzle" and was surrounded by the enemy, General Gordon, under the most discouraging conditions, led the last charge of the Army of Northern Virginia, and captured the intrenchments and several pieces of artillery in his front just before the surrender.

        He returned to his native State immediately after the surrender at Appomattox, and discovered that his war record had made him the most popular man before the people of his State. His soldiers idolized him, and his fame was a pleasant theme in almost every household. Almost under protest, he was elected governor in 1867, but reconstruction tactics counted him out. He was elected United States senator in 1872, when only forty years of age, over two of the greatest statesmen Georgia ever had, Alexander H. Stephens and Benjamin H. Hill. He served, first and last, about thirteen years in the Senate of the United States. His services in the national Congress were brilliant and statesmanlike, and placed the entire South under great obligations for his display of tact, fortitude, wisdom, and patience under great provocation at possibly the most delicate and threatening period in the history of the ex-Confederate States. His courage and eloquence, used always conservatively, with the aid of such men as Lamar of Mississippi, Hill of Georgia, Gibson of Louisiana, and others, brought his own State and Louisiana, South Carolina, Mississippi, and the

Page xvi

entire Southland under the control of their own people. He was chosen by the Democrats in Congress to draft an address to the people of the South, urging patience, endurance, and an appeal to a returning sense of justice as the cure for all wrongs. He was elected governor of Georgia twice, and the record shows that his messages were as able as any emanating from the long line of distinguished men who preceded or followed him. Able critics declared his first Inaugural "worthy of Thomas Jefferson."

        Of his last election as United States senator, a contemporary historian has written:

        It was a marvellous political victory. Unopposed until he antagonized the sub-treasury plan of the Farmers' Alliance, which had four fifths of the Legislature in its favor, he was elected after the most exciting contest of the times. In the wild enthusiasm succeeding his victory, he was borne by the multitude through the Capitol to the street, placed on a caisson, and drawn about the city amid shouts and rejoicing, while the whole State was ablaze with bonfires. His speech in the Senate in 1893, at the time of the Chicago riots, pledging the aid of the South in maintaining law and order, rang from one end of the country to the other.


        Declining a reëlection to the Senate in 1897, he devoted his latter years to the lecture platform. The one object nearest his heart was to wipe out as far as possible all bitterness between the people of the North and the South. His great lecture, "The Last Days of the Confederacy," was received with enthusiasm everywhere, and he really became

Page xvii

the great evangel of peace and good feeling; nor was his a new idea with him. At Appomattox, after the surrender of Lee's army, he gathered his weeping heroes around him, and his patriotism in that dark hour was prophetic and grand. He told his comrades "to bear their trial bravely, to go home in peace, obey the laws, rebuild the country, and work for the weal and harmony of the Republic." This text was his theme ever afterwards, and while stalwart in battling inch by inch in Congress for his beloved Southland, and devoted to the tender memories of the Confederacy, he yet set an example of true patriotism, by adding to this devotion an unwavering loyalty to our great reunited American Republic. No one could move the masses as he did, North and South, by appeals to patriotism, coupled with pride of section and country.

        The affectionate regard in which he was held was nowhere brought out so markedly as in the great fraternal gatherings of ex-Confederate Soldiers. Here he appeared greatest and most beloved. He was their only Commander from the organization of the United Confederate Veterans until his death. His magical leadership and personality and wise and conservative administration gave it shape and success. His hold on and influence over his comrades, when he appeared among them or rose to speak, was wonderful to behold. Even a motion of his hand brought silence, and the great gatherings hung on every word he spoke, and his advice decided everything. At the Reunion at Nashville, Tennessee, he attempted to lay down his commission as Commander. No one who witnessed that scene

Page xviii

will ever forget it. The great assemblage (some six thousand persons) rose spontaneously, and with wild acclamation, that would admit of no parleying or delay, commissioned him for life as leader and Commander. I doubt if any other man ever had a greater and more effective demonstration of love and confidence. A similar scene occurred at Louisville. Here he raised his voice, amid great excitement, in favor of conservative bearing toward the Veterans of the North, who, when they had their meeting in Fredericksburg, Virginia, had sent friendly greetings to the Veterans of the South.

        In his private life he was pure and spotless, and an example to every American citizen. His devotion to his wife and family was beautiful in the extreme. In early life he had married Miss Fanny Haralson, daughter of Hon. Hugh Anderson Haralson, who represented Georgia in Congress for many years, and her devotion to him equalled the great love he bore her. She was ever near him through-out the war, and, but for her tender and wifely nursing when supposed to be fatally wounded at Sharpsburg, he could never have recovered. Her war experience would make a beautiful romance to go down with that of her departed husband. He never failed to try and make her the partner of his triumphs and popularity. At many of the reunions the old veterans accorded her as great an ovation as they gave their Commander.

        No event since the great demonstration in New Orleans when Jefferson Davis died has brought out more strikingly the love of the Southern people for any one man than was shown when General

Page xix

Gordon was laid away in the beautiful cemetery in Atlanta, Georgia (January 14, 1904). Upwards of seventy-five thousand people viewed and took part in the ceremonies. Governors and distinguished citizens from almost every Southern State were present; and it was especially touching to witness the exhibition of love and affection of surviving Confederate soldiers, who attended in great numbers to show their esteem for the beloved dead. The people of the North also expressed sympathy, and the universal grief was reflected in telegrams from the President of the United States, the Secretary of War, the General of the army, in resolutions of State Legislatures in session, and in memorial meetings in many localities.

        He was a devout and humble Christian gentleman. I know of no man more beloved at the South, and he was probably the most popular Southern man among the people of the North.

STEPHEN D. LEE,
Commander-in-Chief United Confederate Veterans.

        

Illustration

Page xxi

MEMORIAL SKETCH OF THE LAST HOURS,
DEATH, AND FUNERAL OF GENERAL
JOHN B. GORDON

        ON Wednesday morning, January 6, 1904, General Gordon was stricken with his last illness. Less than three weeks before, he had come to his winter home on Biscayne Bay, in Florida, where the sunlight and balmy air, always a delight to him, had seemed to revive him and stir his enthusiasm to a degree unusual even in one of his energetic and joyous temperament.

        Those great qualities which set him high among men illumined with peculiar lustre these last weeks, making them an epitome of his whole life. Unconquerable energy, undying enthusiasm--above all, unselfish love--these were the traits which had borne him through the battles of war and the battles of peace, and through years of peerless civic service; these the traits which uplifted the work of his stalwart years and bore his spirit indomitable through years of physical frailty, and which at the very last shone through the mists of his dying hours with the glowing beauty of a setting sun. Only the day before his illness, he was tramping over the fields and through the orchards with his grandson, planning with the delight of a boy.

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"My son, this shall be a paradise for your grandmother and all of us some day."

        Before noon on Wednesday he was unconscious, and it seemed he would sink out of sight without a sign; but in forty-eight hours he rallied. On Saturday morning he looked out on the sunlit bay and at the great palms waving against a blue sky, and said in low and broken tones: "It seems a poor use of God's beautiful gifts to us to be ill on a day like this!" From then until the end he was conscious enough to be constantly solicitous of the comfort of those about him, and to give during every fleeting hour some tender thought to that one who had been the comrade of his soul for nearly fifty years--"his helpmeet in the loftiest sense, his comforter, his counsellor, his friend";1 and as his beautiful spirit was poised for its glorious flight, he gave to her the last look and smile and touch of recognition.

        At five minutes past ten o'clock on Saturday night, January 9, he passed into another life, as peacefully as a little child falls asleep. Within an hour the message had sped over the wires to the whole country; and the crowds around the bulletin boards in many Southern cities turned silently, and with tear-dimmed eyes scattered to their homes. Before midnight newsboys were crying the sad news up and down the residence streets; and on Sunday morning the heart of the whole South seemed to go out in one great throb of pain and sympathy. From every quarter of the country, as fast as the wires could carry them, came messages of sympathy

        1 From the Atlanta "News" of January 14, 1904.
Page xxiii

from those who loved the man, and from those who mourned the nation's loss.

        On Sunday evening, at the request of the people of Miami, Florida, the body was borne, with military escort, to the Presbyterian church in that little city on the bay, to lie there in state until the funeral train should leave for Atlanta. A detachment of Florida troops accompanied the remains to Atlanta, and at the State line this guard of honor was augmented by members of the staff of Georgia's governor. At every station beautiful flowers were brought to the funeral car, and, when time allowed, old Confederate veterans, with tears streaming down their rugged cheeks, filed by to look for the last time on the face of their beloved leader.

        "Hats off! Gordon comes home to-day." 1


        "He comes--not as he came, one sunny day in spring nearly twoscore years ago, wearing the crested cypress of defeat as gravely proud as some successful Caesar might wear the conqueror's coronal of bays; not as he came when he laid aside the cares of statesmanship, and loftily enshrined in love and gratitude for those victories of peace no less renowned than war, voluntarily retire from the highest parliament of the world; not as he came for so many successive years from the annual camp-fires where the broken battalions met to exchange their stirring stories of the valor of other days, and, above all, to sit once more under the magic spell of his inspiring tongue. He has come home as, in the course of nature, he needs must come at last, covered with the sable trappings of grief, heralded by the slow monody of muffled drums, followed by the measured march of a people dissolved in the unspeakable bitterness of tears." 2



        1 From Atlanta "Constitution" of January 13, 1904.

        2 Editorial in Atlanta "News" of January 13, 1904.
Page xxiv

        In the cold gray dawn of the January morning a great throng overflowed the station, and filled the streets outside, as the train rolled into Atlanta, bearing the body of General Gordon. The official escort awaiting the train was composed of the new commander-in-chief of the Confederate Veterans Association, and other ex-Confederate officers, members and commanders of four camps of Confederate Veterans, the Confederate Veterans on the Atlanta police force, mounted police, and State militia. Besides these, thousands stood with heads bared, and bowed in reverence, as the casket was removed and borne to the hearse by the grizzled heroes who had followed this leader in war, and learned of him the lessons of peace. As the pall-bearers moved toward the hearse, an old veteran approached the casket, hurriedly, removed his overcoat, handed it to a by-stander, and jerking off his worn and faded jacket, of Confederate gray, asked, in tremulous tones, "May I lay it on his coffin just one minute?" His request was granted; and, as he lifted the jacket tenderly and slipped it again over his bent shoulders, he said between sobs: "Now thousands could n't buy it from me!"

        The procession moved to the State Capitol, and there in the rotunda, on a catafalque covered with flowers, the casket was placed. Around the great circular room, at intervals, drooped the flag of his beloved Confederacy, for which he had given the first blood of his young manhood, and the flag of a reunited country, to which he had given the richest offerings of his mature years. Palm branches from Florida, floral tributes from all over the South and

Page xxv

from the North, garlanded four tall pillars, and hung in fragrant masses on the casket, on the walls, and on stands about the corridor. And thus "the first citizen of the South lay in state in Georgia's Capitol."1 Tens of thousands passed in double line to look upon the face of a man "who was loved as seldom man was ever loved on earth."2 The Capitol doors were kept open at night that the workingmen might see his face, and it was long after midnight before the special guard of veterans and militia was left alone with its precious charge.

        On Thursday morning, at ten o'clock, memorial exercises were held in the Georgia Hall of Representatives. While addresses were being made by men of distinction who had served with him in war and in peace, men, women, and children still passed, in unbroken line, by the casket in the rotunda. Immediately following these exercises, religious services were held in the Presbyterian church adjoining the Capitol. A way was opened through the throng, which packed the Capitol corridors and massed in the square and streets outside; and the casket was borne across by his old comrades. At Mrs. Gordon's request the veterans were given first place in the church after the family.

        "The thing that made Gordon great--that which bound him close to men and made him dear to them-- was his mighty heart, strong as the ramparts of the hills through which he led his columns, gentle and pure as the kind zephyrs of his own Southland . . . . Honest search after the source of Gordon's superb power cannot fail to show that the fountain of his strength was not merely in

        1 Atlanta "News," January 13, 1904.

        2 Atlanta "Journal"
Page xxvi

his right arm, nor in his keen and flashing blade, nor yet in his alertness of mind and vigor of intellect, but in the meeting of these qualities with a pure spirit--these sterling virtues fused behind the crystal of his soul, forming the true mirror of knighthood . . . . He was master of many because master of himself."1


        From the rich treasury of such a nature the ministers of Christ drew their lessons over the bier of this "prince of Christian chivalry."2

        During the hours of the funeral, public and private schools and places of business were closed. All flags hung at half-mast, and in some cities remained so for thirty days. Seventeen guns were fired at intervals of half an hour during the day. Throughout Georgia and the entire South, memorial services were held at this hour, and from morning till night bells tolled out the grief of the people.

        The staff of the Department of the Gulf, United States Army, the Atlanta Camp, G. A. R., the Sixth Regiment United States infantry, stationed near Atlanta, asked for place in the line of the funeral procession. They wished to join with others of the North in paying tribute to the man "who had done most to make them forget the animosities of war-- and whose course since that time had marked him with the attributes of true greatness."3

        It was a "sweet and solemn pageant," that funeral procession, which moved to muffled drumbeats through the city streets, all filled with a silent throng and hushed in reverent sorrow: veterans

        1 Editorial Atlanta "Journal," January 14, 1904.

        2 Atlanta "News."

        3 "Free Press," Detroit, Michigan, and other Northern papers.
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of the Blue and of the Gray; men of America's army to-day, regulars and militia; corps of cadets from Southern military schools; patriotic organizations; drum corps and bugle corps; and a host of private citizens: and when the hearse stopped at the lot selected by the Ladies' Confederate Memorial Association, the end of the procession was still down in the city streets.

        And now

        "The mortal remains of General John B. Gordon--soldier and statesman--lie in Oakland Cemetery . . . . The muffled drum has beat the funeral march, and grief has found voice in the piercing minor of the fifes. But from over the whole South to-day there rises a strange music which blends in one large requiem--not the dirge of unavailing sorrow, but rather a paean of heroic triumph reciting the valorous deeds of him whom the people mourn." 1


        1 Atlanta "Journal," January 14, 1904.



        And those who knew him and loved him best, whose lives are most enriched by the matchless loveliness of his life, are lifted up in his death, and, in the midst of their grief, open their hearts to the countless thousands who mourn his loss, because "he had kept the whiteness of his soul." "His name becomes the heritage of his people, and his fame the glory of a nation."2

        FRANCES GORDON SMITH.


        2 Atlanta "Constitution," January 14, 1904.

Page xxix

INTRODUCTION

        FOR many years I have been urged to place on record my reminiscences of the war between the States. In undertaking the task now, it is not my purpose to attempt a comprehensive description of that great struggle, nor an elaborate analysis of the momentous interests and issues involved. The time may not have arrived for a full and fair history of that most interesting period in the Republic's life. The man capable of writing it with entire justice to both sides is perhaps yet unborn. He may appear, however, at a future day, fully equipped for the great work. If endowed with the requisite breadth and clearness of view, with inflexible mental integrity and absolute freedom from all bias, he will produce the most instructive and thrilling record in the world's deathless annals, and cannot fail to make a contribution of measureless value to the American people and to the cause of free government throughout the world.

        Conscious of my own inability to meet the demands of so great an undertaking, I have not attempted it, but with an earnest desire to contribute

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something toward such future history these reminiscences have been written. I have endeavored to make my review of that most heroic era so condensed as to claim the attention of busy people, and so impartial as to command the confidence of the fair-minded in all sections. It has been my fixed purpose to make a brief but dispassionate and judicially fair analysis of the divergent opinions and ceaseless controversies which for half a century produced an ever-widening alienation between the sections, and which finally plunged into the fiercest and bloodiest of fratricidal wars a great and enlightened people who were of the same race, supporters of the same Constitution, and joint heirs of the same freedom. I have endeavored to demonstrate that the courage displayed and the ratio of losses sustained were unprecedented in modern warfare. I have also recorded in this volume a large number of those characteristic and thrilling incidents which illustrate a unique and hitherto unwritten phase of the war, the story of which should not be lost, because it is luminous with the noblest lessons. Many of these incidents came under my own observation. They marked every step of the war's progress, were often witnessed by both armies, and were of almost daily occurrence in the camps, on the marches, and between the lines; increasing in frequency and pathos as the war progressed, and illustrating the

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distinguishing magnanimity and lofty manhood of the American soldier.

        It will be found, I trust, that no injustice has been done to either section, to any army, or to any of the great leaders, but that the substance and spirit of the following pages will tend rather to lift to a higher plane the estimate placed by victors and vanquished upon their countrymen of the opposing section, and thus strengthen the sentiment of intersectional fraternity which is essential to complete national unity.

J. B. GORDON.

Page 1

REMINISCENCES OF THE
CIVIL WAR

Page 3

CHAPTER I

MY FIRST COMMAND AND THE OUTBREAK OF THE WAR

        A company of mountaineers--Joe Brown's pikes--The Raccoon Roughs--The first Rebel yell--A flag presented to the company--Arrival at Montgomery, Alabama--Analysis of the causes of the war--Slavery's part in it--Liberty in the Union of the States, and liberty in the independence of the States.

        THE outbreak of war found me in the mountains of Georgia, Tennessee, and Alabama, engaged in the development of coal-mines. This does not mean that I was a citizen of three States; but it does mean that I lived so near the lines that my mines were in Georgia, my house in Alabama, and my post-office in Tennessee. The first company of soldiers, therefore, with which I entered the service was composed of stalwart mountaineers from the three States. I had been educated for the bar and for a time practised law in Atlanta. In September, 1854, I had married Miss Fanny Haralson, third daughter of General Hugh A. Haralson, of La Grange, Georgia. The wedding occurred on her seventeenth birthday and when I was but twenty-two. We had two children, both boys. The struggle between devotion to my family on the one hand and duty to my country on the other was most trying to my sensibilities. My spirit had been caught up by the flaming enthusiasm that swept like a prairie-fire through the land, and I hastened to unite with the brave men of the mountains in organizing a company of volunteers. But what

Page 4

was I to do with the girl-wife and the two little boys? The wife and mother was no less taxed in her effort to settle this momentous question. But finally yielding to the promptings of her own heart and to her unerring sense of duty, she ended doubt as to what disposition was to be made of her by announcing that she intended to accompany me to the war, leaving her children with my mother and faithful "Mammy Mary." I rejoiced at her decision then, and had still greater reasons for rejoicing at it afterward, when I felt through every fiery ordeal the inspiration of her near presence, and had, at need, the infinite comfort of her tender nursing.

        The mountaineers did me the honor to elect me their captain. It was the first office I had ever held, and I verily believed it would be the last; for I expected to fight with these men till the war ended or until I should be killed. Our first decision was to mount and go as cavalry. We had not then learned, as we did later, the full meaning of that war-song, "If you want to have a good time, jine the cavalry"; but like most Southerners we were inured to horseback, and all preferred that great arm of the service.

        This company of mounted men was organized as soon as a conflict seemed probable and prior to any call for volunteers. They were doomed to a disappointment, "No cavalry now needed" was the laconic and stunning reply to the offer of our services. What was to be done, was the perplexing question. The proposition to wait until mounted men were needed was promptly negatived by the suggestion that we were so far from any point where a battle was likely to occur, and so hidden from view by the surrounding mountains, that we might be forgotten and the war might end before we had a chance.

        "Let us dismount and go at once as infantry." This proposition was carried with a shout and by an almost unanimous vote. My own vote and whatever influence

Page 5

I possessed were given in favor of the suggestion, although my desire for cavalry service had grown to a passion. Accustomed to horseback on my father's plantation from my early childhood, and with an untutored imagination picturing the wild sweep of my chargers upon belching batteries and broken lines of infantry, it was to me, as well as to my men, a sad descent from dashing cavalry to a commonplace company of slow, plodding foot-soldiers. Reluctantly, therefore, we abandoned our horses, and in order certainly to reach the point of action before the war was over, we resolved to go at once to the front as infantry, without waiting for orders, arms, or uniforms. Not a man in the company had the slightest military training, and the captain himself knew very little of military tactics.

        The new government that was to be formed had no standing army as a nucleus around which the volunteers could be brought into compact order, with a centre of disciplined and thoroughly drilled soldiery; and the States which were to form it had but few arms, and no artisans or factories to supply them. The old-fashioned squirrel rifles and double-barrelled shot-guns were called into requisition. Governor Joseph E. Brown, of Georgia, put shops in the State to work, making what were called "Joe Brown's pikes." They were a sort of rude bayonet, or steel lance, fastened, not to guns, but to long poles or handles, and were to be given to men who had no other arms. Of course, few if any of these pikemen ever had occasion to use these warlike implements, which were worthy of the Middle Ages, but those who bore them were as gallant knights as ever levelled a lance in close quarters. I may say that very few bayonets of any kind were actually used in battle, so far as my observation extended. The one line or the other usually gave way under the galling fire of small arms, grape, and canister, before the bayonet could be brought into

Page 6

requisition. The bristling points and the glitter of the bayonets were fearful to look upon as they were levelled in front of a charging line; but they were rarely reddened with blood. The day of the bayonet is passed except for use in hollow squares, or in resisting cavalry charges, or as an implement in constructing light and temporary fortifications. It may still serve a purpose in such emergencies or to impress the soldier's imagination, as the loud-sounding and ludicrous gongs are supposed to stiffen the backs and steady the nerves of the grotesque soldiers of China. Of course, Georgia's able war governor did not contemplate any very serious execution with these pikes; but the volunteers came in such numbers and were so eager for the fray that something had to be done; and this device served its purpose. It at least shows the desperate straits in securing arms to which the South was driven, even after seizing the United States arsenals within the Confederate territory.

        The irrepressible humor and ready rustic wit which afterward relieved the tedium of the march and broke the monotony of the camp, and which, like a star in the darkness, seemed to grow more brilliant as the gloom of war grew denser, had already begun to sparkle in the intercourse of the volunteers. A woodsman who was noted as a "crack shot" among his hunting companions felt sure that he was going, to win fame as a select rifleman in the army; for he said that in killing a squirrel he always put the bullet through the head, though the squirrel might be perched at the time on the topmost limb of the tallest tree. An Irishman who had seen service in the Mexican War, and was attentively listening to this young hunter's boast, fixed his twinkling eye upon the aspiring rifleman and said to him: "Yes; but Dan, me boy, ye must ricollict that the squirrel had no gon in his hand to shoot back at ye." The young huntsman had not thought about that; but he doubtless found

Illustration

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later on, as the marksmen of both armies did, that it made a vast difference in the accuracy of aim when those in front not only had "gons" in their hands, but were firing them with distracting rapidity. This rude Irish philosopher had explained in a sentence one cause of the wild and aimless firing which wasted more tons of lead in a battle than all its dead victims would weigh.

        There was at the outbreak of the war and just preceding it a class of men both North and South over whose inconsistencies the thoughtful, self-poised, and determined men who did the fighting made many jokes, as the situation grew more serious. It was that class of men in both sections who were most resolute in words and most prudent in acts; who urged the sections to the conflict and then did little to help them out of it; who, like the impatient war-horse, snuffed the battle from afar--very far: but who, when real war began to roll its crimson tide nearer and nearer to them, came to the conclusion that it was better for the country, as well as for themselves, to labor in other spheres; and that it was their duty, as America's great humorist put it, to sacrifice not themselves but their wives' relations on patriotism's altar. One of these furious leaders at the South declared that if we would secede from the Union there would be no war, and if there should be a war, we could "whip the Yankees with children's pop-guns." When, after the war, this same gentleman was addressing an audience, he was asked by an old maimed soldier: "Say, Judge, ain't you the same man that told us before the war that we could whip the Yankees with pop-guns?"

        "Yes," replied the witty speaker, "and we could, but, confound 'em they wouldn't fight us that way."

        My company, dismounted and ready for infantry service, did not wait for orders to move, but hastily bidding adieu to home and kindred, were off for Milledgeville,

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then capital of Georgia. At Atlanta a telegram from the governor met us, telling us to go back home, and stay there until our services were needed. Our discomfiture can be better imagined than described. In fact, there broke out at once in my ranks a new rebellion. These rugged mountaineers resolved that they would not go home; that they had a right to go to the war, had started to the war, and were not going to be trifled with by the governor or any one else. Finally, after much persuasion, and by the cautious exercise of the authority vested in me by my office of captain, I prevailed on them to get on board the home-bound train. As the engine-bell rang and the whistle blew for the train to start, the rebellion broke loose again with double fury. The men rushed to the front of the train, uncoupled the cars from the engine, and gravely informed me that they had reconsidered and were not going back; that they intended to go to the war, and that if Governor Brown would not accept them, some other governor would. Prophetic of future dash as this wild impetuosity might be, it did not give much promise of soldierly discipline; but I knew my men and did not despair. I was satisfied that the metal in them was the best of steel and only needed careful tempering.

        They disembarked and left the empty cars on the track, with the trainmen looking on in utter amazement. There was no course left me but to march them through the streets of Atlanta to a camp on the outskirts. The march, or rather straggle, through that city was a sight marvellous to behold and never to be forgotten. Totally undisciplined and undrilled, no two of these men marched abreast; no two kept the same step; no two wore the same colored coats or trousers. The only pretence at uniformity was the rough fur caps made of raccoon skins, with long, bushy, streaked raccoon tails hanging from behind them. The streets were packed with men,

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women, and children, eager to catch a glimpse of this grotesque company. Naturally we were the observed of all observers. Curiosity was on tip-toe, and from the crowded sidewalks there came to me the inquiry, "Are you the captain of that company, sir?" With a pride which I trust was pardonable, I indicated that I was. In a moment there came to me the second inquiry, "What company is that, sir?" Up to this time no name had been chosen-- at least, none had been announced to the men. I had myself, however, selected a name which I considered both poetic and appropriate, and I replied to the question, "This company is the Mountain Rifles." Instantly a tall mountaineer said in a tone not intended for his captain, but easily overheard by his companions and the bystanders: "Mountain hell! we are no Mountain Rifles; we are the Raccoon Roughs." It is scarcely necessary to say that my selected name was never heard of again. This towering Ajax had killed it by a single blow. The name he gave us clung to the company during all of its long and faithful service.

        Once in camp, we kept the wires hot with telegrams to governors of other States, imploring them to give us a chance. Governor Moore, of Alabama, finally responded, graciously consenting to incorporate the captain of the "Raccoon Roughs" and his coon-capped company into one of the regiments soon to be organized. The reading of this telegram evoked from my men the first wild Rebel yell it was my fortune to hear. Even then it was weird and thrilling. Through all the stages of my subsequent promotions, in all the battles in which I was engaged, this same exhilarating shout from these same trumpet-like throats rang in my ears, growing fainter and fainter as these heroic men became fewer and fewer at the end of each bloody day's work; and when the last hour of the war came, in the last desperate charge at Appomattox, the few and broken remnants of

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the Raccoon Roughs were still near their first captain's side, cheering him with the dying echoes of that first yell in the Atlanta camp.

        Alabama's governor had given us the coveted "chance," and with bounding hearts we joined the host of volunteers then rushing to Montgomery. The line of our travel was one unbroken scene of enthusiasm. Bonfires blazed from the hills at night, and torch-light processions, with drums and fifes, paraded the streets of the towns. In the absence of real cannon, blacksmiths' anvils were made to thunder our welcome. Vast throngs gathered at the depots, filling the air with their shoutings, and bearing banners with all conceivable devices, proclaiming Southern independence, and pledging the last dollar and man for the success of the cause. Staid matrons and gayly bedecked maidens rushed upon the cars, pinned upon our lapels the blue cockades, and cheered us by chanting in thrilling chorus:


                         In Dixie-land I take my stand
                         To live and die in Dixie.

        At other points they sang "The Bonnie Blue Flag," and the Raccoon Roughs, as they were thenceforward known, joined in the transporting chorus:


                         Hurrah, hurrah, for Southern rights hurrah!
                         Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star!

        The Hon. R. M. T. Hunter, of Virginia, who had been Speaker of the National House of Representatives, and United States senator, and who afterward became the Confederate Secretary of State and one of the Hampton Roads commissioners to meet President Lincoln and the Federal representatives, was travelling upon the same train that carried my company to Montgomery. This famous and venerable statesman, on his way to Alabama's capital to aid in organizing the new Government, made,

Illustration

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in answer to the popular demand, a number of speeches at the different stations. His remarks on these occasions were usually explanatory of the South's attitude in the threatened conflict. They were concise, clear, and forcible. The people did not need argument; but they applauded his every utterance, as he carefully described the South's position as one not of aggression but purely of defence; discussed the doctrine promulgated in the Declaration of the Fathers, that all governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed; asserted the sovereignty of the States, and their right to peaceably assume that sovereignty, as evidenced by the declaration of New York, Rhode Island, and Virginia when they entered the Union; explained the protection given the South's peculiar property by the plain provisions of the Constitution and the laws; urged the necessity of separation both for Southern security and the permanent peace of the sections; and closed with the declaration that, while there was no trace of authority in the Constitution for the invasion and coercion of a sovereign State, yet it was the part of prudence and of patriotism to prepare for defence in case of necessity.

        Although I was a young man, yet, as the only captain on board, it fell to my lot also to respond to frequent calls. In the midst of this wild excitement and boundless enthusiasm, I was induced to make some promises which I afterward found inconvenient and even impossible to fulfil. A flag was presented bearing a most embarrassing motto. That motto consisted of two words: "No Retreat." I was compelled to accept it. There was, indeed, no retreat for me then; and in my speech accepting the flag I assured the fair donors that those coon-capped boys would make that motto ring with their cracking rifles on every battle-field; and in the ardor and inexperience of my young manhood, I related to these ladies and to the crowds at the depot the story of

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the little drummer-boy of Switzerland who, when captured and ordered to beat upon his drum a retreat, proudly replied, "Switzerland knows no such music!" Gathering additional inspiration from the shouts and applause which the story evoked, I exclaimed, "And these brave mountaineers and the young Confederacy, like glorious little Switzerland, will never know a retreat!" My men applauded and sanctioned this outburst of inconsiderate enthusiasm, but we learned better after a while. A little sober experience vastly modified and assuaged our youthful impetuosity. War is a wonderful developer, as well as destroyer, of men; and our four years of tuition in it equalled in both these particulars at least forty years of ordinary schooling. The first battle carried us through the rudimentary course of a military education; and several months before the four years' course was ended, the thoughtful ones began to realize that though the expense account had been great, it had at least reasonably well prepared us for final graduation, and for receiving the brief little diploma handed to us at Appomattox.

        If any apology be needed for my pledge to the patriotic women who presented the little flag with the big motto, "No Retreat," it must be found in the depth of the conviction that our cause was just. From great leaders and constitutional expounders, from schools and colleges, from debates in Congress, in the convention that adopted the Constitution, and from discussions on the hustings, we had learned the lesson of the sovereignty of the States. We had imbibed these political principles from our childhood. We were, therefore, prepared to defend them, ready to die for them, and it was impossible at the beginning for us to believe that they would be seriously and forcibly assailed.

        But I must return to our trip to Montgomery. We reached that city at night to find it in a hubbub over

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the arrival of enthusiastic, shouting volunteers. The hotels and homes were crowded with visiting statesmen and private citizens, gathered by a common impulse around the cradle of the new-born Confederacy. There was a determined look on every face, a fervid prayer on every lip, and a bounding hope in every heart. There was the rumbling of wagons distributing arms and ammunition at every camp, and the tramping of freshly enlisted men, on every street. There was a roar of cannon on the hills and around the Capitol booming welcome to the incoming patriots; and all nature seemed palpitating in sympathy with the intensity of popular excitement. It fell to the lot of the Raccoon Roughs to be assigned to the Sixth Alabama Regiment, and, contrary to my wishes and most unexpectedly to me, I was unanimously elected major.

        When my company of mountaineers reached Montgomery, the Provisional Government of the "Confederate States of America" had been organized. At first it was composed only of six States: South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Florida, Mississippi, and Louisiana. The States of Texas, Virginia, Arkansas, Tennessee, and North Carolina were admitted into the Southern Union in the order, I believe, in which I have named them. Thus was launched the New Republic, with only eleven stars on its banner; but it took as its chart the same old American Constitution, or one so nearly like it that it contained the same limitations upon Federal power, the same guarantees of the rights of the States, the same muniments of public and personal liberty.

        The historian of the future, who attempts to chronicle the events of this period and analyze the thoughts and purposes of the people, will find far greater unanimity at the South than at the North. This division at the North did not last long; but it existed in a marked degree for some time after the secession movement began

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and after twenty or more United States forts, arsenals and barracks had been seized by State authorities, and even after the steamer Star of the West had been fired upon by State troops and driven back from the entrance of Charleston Harbor.

        At the South, the action of each State in withdrawing from the Union was the end, practically, of all division within the borders of such State; and the roar of the opening battle at Fort Sumter in South Carolina was the signal for practical unanimity at the North.

        Prior to actual secession there was even at the South more or less division of sentiment--not as to principle, but as to policy. Scarcely a man could be found in all the Southern States who doubted the constitutional right of a State to withdraw from the Union; but many of its foremost men thought that such movement was ill-advised or should be delayed. Among these were Robert E. Lee, who became the commander-in-chief of all the Confederate armies; Alexander Hamilton Stephens, who became the Confederate Vice-President; Benjamin H. Hill, who was a Confederate senator and one of the Confederate administration's most ardent and perhaps its most eloquent supporter; and even Jefferson Davis himself is said to have shed tears when, at his seat in the United States Senate, he received the telegram announcing that Mississippi had actually passed the ordinance of secession. The speech of Mr. Davis on taking leave of the Senate shows his loyal devotion to the Republic's flag, for which he had shed his blood in Mexico. In profoundly sincere and pathetic words he thus alludes to his unfeigned sorrow at the thought of parting with the Stars and Stripes. He said: "I shall be pardoned if I here express the deep sorrow which always overwhelms me when I think of taking a last leave of that object of early affection and proud association, feeling that henceforth

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it is not to be the banner which by day and by night I am ready to follow, to hail with the rising and bless with the setting sun."

        He agreed, however, with an overwhelming majority of the Southern people, in the opinion that both honor and security, as well as permanent peace, demanded separation. Referring to the denial of the right of Southerners to carry their property in slaves into the common Territories, he said: "Your votes refuse to recognize our domestic institutions, which preëxisted the formation of the Union--our property, which was guarded by the Constitution. You refuse us that equality without which we should be degraded if we remained in the Union. . . . Is there a senator on the other side who, to-day, will agree that we shall have equal enjoyment of the Territories of the United States? Is there one who will deny that we have equally paid in their purchases and equally bled in their acquisition in war? . . . Whose is the fault, then, if the Union be dissolved? . . . If you desire, at this last moment, to avert civil war, so be it; it is better so. If you will but allow us to separate from you peaceably, since we cannot live peaceably together, to leave with the rights we had before we were united, since we cannot enjoy them in the Union, then there are many relations, drawn from the associations of our (common) struggles from the Revolutionary period to the present day, which may be beneficial to you as well as to us."

        Abraham Lincoln, on the other hand, the newly elected President, was deeply imbued with the conviction that the future welfare of the Republic demanded that slavery should be prohibited forever in all the Territories. Indeed, upon such platform he had been nominated and elected. He, therefore, urged his friends not to yield on this point. His language was: "On the territorial question--that is, the question of extending slavery under national auspices--I am inflexible. I am for no compromise

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which assists or permits the extension of the institution on soil owned by the Nation." *

        Thus these two great leaders of antagonistic sectional thought were pitted against each other before they had actually taken in hand the reins of hostile governments. The South in her marvellous fecundity had given birth to both these illustrious Americans. Both were of Southern lineage and born under Southern skies. Indeed, they were born within a few months and miles of each other, and nurtured by Kentucky as their common mother. But they were destined in God's mysterious providence to find homes in different sections, to grow up under different institutions, to imbibe in youth and early manhood opposing theories of constitutional construction, to become the most conspicuous representatives of conflicting civilizations, and the respective Presidents of contending republics.

        After long, arduous, and distinguished services to their country and to liberty, both of these great sons of the South were doomed to end their brilliant careers in a manner shocking to the sentiment of enlightened Christendom. The one was to die disfranchised by the Government he had long and faithfully served and for the triumph of whose flag he had repeatedly pledged his life. The other was to meet his death by an assassin's bullet, at a period when his life, more than that of any other man, seemed essential to the speedy pacification of his country.

        As stated, there was less division of sentiment in the South at this period than at the North. It is a great mistake to suppose, as was believed by Northern people, that Southern politicians were "dragooning the masses," or beguiling them into secession. The literal truth is that the people were leading the leaders. The rush of volunteers was so great when we reached Montgomery

        * Letter to Seward, February 1.
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that my company, the Raccoon Roughs, felt that they were the favorites of fortune when they found the company enrolled among the "accepted." Hon. L. P. Walker, of Alabama, the first Secretary of War, was literally overwhelmed by the vast numbers wishing to enlist. The applicants in companies and regiments fatigued and bewildered him. The pressure was so great during his office hours that comparatively few of those who sought places in the fighting line could reach him. With a military ardor and patriotic enthusiasm rarely equalled in any age, the volunteers actually waylaid the War Secretary on the streets to urge him to accept at once their services. He stated that he found it necessary, when leaving his office for his hotel, to go by some unfrequented way, to avoid the persistent appeals of those who had commands ready to take the field. Before the Confederate Government left Montgomery for Richmond, about 360,000 men and boys, representing the best of Southern manhood, had offered their services, and were ready to pledge their fortunes and their lives to the cause of Southern independence. What was the meaning of this unparalleled spontaneity that pervaded all classes of the Southern people? The only answer is that it was the impulse of self-defence. One case will illustrate this unsolicited outburst of martial enthusiasm; this excess of patriotism above the supposed exigencies of the hour; this vast surplus of volunteers, beyond the power of the new Government to arm. Mr. W. C. Heyward, of South Carolina, was a gentleman of fortune and a West Pointer, graduating in the same class with President Davis. As soon as the Confederate Government was organized, Mr. Heyward went to Montgomery in person to tender his services with an entire regiment. He was unable for some time to obtain even an interview on the subject, and utterly failed to secure an acceptance of himself or his regiment. Returning to his home disappointed,

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this wealthy, thoroughly educated, and trained military man joined the Home Guards, and died doing duty as a private in the ranks.

        I know of nothing in all history that more brilliantly illustrates the lofty spirit, the high and holy impulse that sways a people aroused by the sentiment of self-defence, than this spontaneous uprising of Southern youth and manhood; than this readiness to stand for inherited convictions and constitutional rights, as they understood them; than the marvellous unanimity with which they rushed to the front with old flint and steel muskets, long-barrelled squirrel rifles, and double-barrelled shot-guns, in defence of their soil, their States, their homes, and, as they verily believed, in defence of imperilled liberty.

        There is no book in existence, I believe, in which the ordinary reader can find an analysis of the issues between the two sections, which fairly represents both the North and the South. Although it would require volumes to contain the great arguments, I shall attempt here to give a brief summary of the causes of our sectional controversy, and it will be my purpose to state the cases of the two sections so impartially that just-minded people on both sides will admit the statement to be judicially fair.

        The causes of the war will be found at the foundation of our political fabric, in our complex organism, in the fundamental law, in the Constitution itself, in the conflicting constructions which it invited, and in the institution of slavery which it recognized and was intended to protect. If asked what was the real issue involved in our unparalleled conflict, the average American citizen will reply, "The negro"; and it is fair to say that had there been no slavery there would have been no war. But there would have been no slavery if the South's protests could have availed when it was first introduced; and now that it is gone, although its sudden and violent

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abolition entailed upon the South directly and incidentally a series of woes which no pen can describe, yet it is true that in no section would its reëstablishment be more strongly and universally resisted. The South steadfastly maintains that responsibility for the presence of this political Pandora's box in this Western world cannot be laid at her door. When the Constitution was adopted and the Union formed, slavery existed in practically all the States; and it is claimed by the Southern people that its disappearance from the Northern and its development in the Southern States is due to climatic conditions and industrial exigencies rather than to the existence or absence of great moral ideas.

        Slavery was undoubtedly the immediate fomenting cause of the woful American conflict. It was the great political factor around which the passions of the sections had long been gathered--the tallest pine in the political forest around whose top the fiercest lightnings were to blaze and whose trunk was destined to be shivered in the earthquake shocks of war. But slavery was far from being the sole cause of the prolonged conflict. Neither its destruction on the one hand, nor its defence on the other, was the energizing force that held the contending armies to four years of bloody work. I apprehend that if all living Union soldiers were summoned to the witness-stand, every one of them would testify that it was the preservation of the American Union and not the destruction of Southern slavery that induced him to volunteer at the call of his country. As for the South, it is enough to say that perhaps eighty per cent. of her armies were neither slave-holders, nor had the remotest interest in the institution. No other proof, however, is needed than the undeniable fact that at any period of the war from its beginning to near its close the South could have saved slavery by simply laying down its arms and returning to the Union.

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        We must, therefore, look beyond the institution of slavery for the fundamental issues which dominated and inspired all classes of the contending sections. It is not difficult to find them. The "Old Man Eloquent," William E. Gladstone, who was perhaps England's foremost statesman of the century, believed that the Government formed by our fathers was the noblest political fabric ever devised by the brain of man. This undoubtedly is true; and yet before these inspired builders were dead, controversy arose as to the nature and powers of their free constitutional government. Indeed, in the very convention that framed the Constitution the clashing theories and bristling arguments of 1787 presaged the glistening bayonets of 1861. In the cabinet of the first President, the contests between Hamilton and Jefferson, representatives of conflicting constitutional constructions, were so persistent and fierce as to disturb the harmony of executive councils and tax the patience of Washington. The disciples of each of these political prophets numbered in their respective ranks the greatest statesmen and purest patriots. The followers of each continuously battled for these conflicting theories with a power and earnestness worthy of the founders of the Republic. Generation after generation, in Congress, on the hustings, and through the press, these irreconcilable doctrines were urged by constitutional expounders, until their arguments became ingrained into the very fibre of the brain and conscience of the sections. The long war of words between the leaders waxed at last into a war of guns between their followers.

        During the entire life of the Republic the respective rights and powers of the States and general government had furnished a question for endless controversy. In process of time this controversy assumed a somewhat sectional phase. The dominating thought of the North and of the South may be summarized in a few sentences.

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The South maintained with the depth of religious conviction that the Union formed under the Constitution was a Union of consent and not of force; that the original States were not the creatures but the creators of the Union; that these States had gained their independence, their freedom, and their sovereignty from the mother country, and had not surrendered these on entering the Union; that by the express terms of the Constitution all rights and powers not delegated were reserved to the States; and the South challenged the North to find one trace of authority in that Constitution for invading and coercing a sovereign State.

        The North, on the other hand, maintained with the utmost confidence in the correctness of her position that the Union formed under the Constitution was intended to be perpetual; that sovereignty was a unit and could not be divided; that whether or not there was any express power granted in the Constitution for invading a State, the right of self-preservation was inherent in all governments; that the life of the Union was essential to the life of liberty; or, in the words of Webster, "liberty and union are one and inseparable."

        To the charge of the North that secession was rebellion and treason, the South replied that the epithets of rebel and traitor did not deter her from the assertion of her independence, since these same epithets had been familiar to the ears of Washington and Hancock and Adams and Light Horse Harry Lee. In vindication of her right to secede, she appealed to the essential doctrine, "the right to govern rests on the consent of the governed," and to the right of independent action as among those reserved by the States. The South appealed to the acts and opinions of the Fathers and to the report of the Hartford Convention of New England States asserting the power of each State to decide as to the remedy for infraction of its rights; to the petitions

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presented and positions assumed by ex-President John Quincy Adams; to the contemporaneous declaration of the 8th of January assemblage in Ohio indicating that 200,000 Democrats in that State alone were ready to stand guard on the banks of the border river and resist invasion of Southern territory; and to the repeated declarations of Horace Greeley and the admission of President Lincoln himself that there was difficulty on the question of force, since ours ought to be a fraternal Government.

        In answer to all these points, the North also cited the acts and opinions of the same Fathers, and urged that the purpose of those Fathers was to make a more perfect Union and a stronger government. The North offset the opinions of Greeley and others by the emphatic declaration of Stephen A. Douglas, the foremost of Western Democrats, and by the official opinion as to the power of the Government to collect revenues and enforce laws, given to President Buchanan by Jere Black, the able Democratic Attorney-General.

        Thus the opposing arguments drawn from current opinions and from the actions and opinions of the Fathers were piled mountain high on both sides. Thus the mighty athletes of debate wrestled in the political arena, each profoundly convinced of the righteousness of his position; hurling at each other their ponderous arguments, which reverberated like angry thunderbolts through legislative halls, until the whole political atmosphere resounded with the tumult. Long before a single gun was fired public sentiment North and South had been lashed into a foaming sea of passion; and every timber in the framework of the Government was ending and ready to break from "the heaving ground-swell of the tremendous agitation." Gradually and naturally in this furnace of sectional debate, sectional ballots were crystallized into sectional bullets; and both sides came

Illustration

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at last to the position formerly held by the great Troup of Georgia: "The argument is exhausted; we stand to our guns."

        I submit that this brief and incomplete summary is sufficient to satisfy those who live after us that these great leaders of conflicting thought, and their followers who continued the debate in battle and blood, while in some sense partisans, were in a far juster sense patriots.

        The opinions of Lee and Grant, from each of whom I briefly quote, will illustrate in a measure the convictions of their armies. Every Confederate appreciates the magnanimity exhibited by General Grant at Appomattox; and it has been my pleasure for nearly forty years to speak in public and private of his great qualities. In his personal memoirs, General Grant has left on record his estimate of the Southern cause. This estimate represents a strong phase of Northern sentiment, but it is a sentiment which it is extremely difficult for a Southern man to comprehend. In speaking of his feelings as "sad and depressed," as he rode to meet General Lee and receive the surrender of the Southern armies at Appomattox, General Grant says: "I felt like anything rather than rejoicing at the downfall of a foe who had fought so long and valiantly, and who had suffered so much for a cause, though that cause was, I believe, one of the worst for which a people ever fought, and one for which there was the least excuse." He adds: "I do not question, however, the sincerity of the great mass of those who were opposed to us."

        The words above quoted, showing General Grant's opinion of the Southern cause, are italicized by me and not by him. My object in emphasizing them is to invite special attention to their marked contrast with the opinions of General Robert E. Lee as to that same Southern cause. This peerless Confederate soldier and representative American, than whom no age or country

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ever produced a loftier spirit or more clear-sighted, conscientious Christian gentleman, in referring, two days before the surrender, to the apparent hopelessness of our cause, used these immortal words: "We had, I was satisfied, sacred principles to maintain and rights to defend for which we were in duty bound to do our best, even if we perished in the endeavor."

        There were those, a few years ago, who were especially devoted to the somewhat stereotyped phrase that in our Civil War one side (meaning the North) "was wholly and eternally right," while the other side (meaning the South) "was wholly and eternally wrong." I might cite those on the Southern side of the great controversy, equally sincere and fully as able, who would have been glad to persuade posterity that the North was "wholly and eternally wrong"; that her people waged war upon sister States who sought peacefully to set up a homogeneous government, and meditated no wrong or warfare upon the remaining sister States. These Southern leaders steadfastly maintained that the Southern people, in the exercise of the freedom and sovereign rights purchased by Revolutionary blood, were asserting a second independence according to the teachings and example of their fathers.

        But what good is to come to the country from partisan utterances on either side? My own well-considered and long-entertained opinion, my settled and profound conviction, the correctness of which the future will vindicate, is this: that the one thing which is "wholly and eternally wrong" is the effort of so-called statesmen to inject one-sided and jaundiced sentiments into the youth of the country in either section. Such sentiments are neither consistent with the truth of history, nor conducive to the future welfare and unity of the Republic. The assumption on either side of all the righteousness and all the truth would produce a belittling arrogance,

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and an offensive intolerance of the opposing section; or, if either section could be persuaded that it was "wholly and eternally wrong," it would inevitably destroy the self-respect and manhood of its people. A far broader, more truthful, and statesmanlike view was presented by the Hon. A. E. Stevenson, of Illinois, then Vice-President of the United States, in his opening remarks as presiding officer at the dedication of the National Park at Chickamauga. In perfect accord with the sentiment of the occasion and the spirit which led to the establishment of this park as a bond of national brotherhood, Mr. Stevenson said: "Here, in the dread tribunal of last resort, valor contended against valor. Here brave men struggled and died for the right as God gave them to see the right."

        Mr. Stevenson was right--"wholly and eternally right." Truth, justice, and patriotism unite in proclaiming that both sides fought and suffered for liberty as bequeathed by the Fathers--the one for liberty in the union of the States, the other for liberty in the independence of the States.

        While the object of these papers is to record my personal reminiscences and to perpetuate incidents illustrative of the character of the American soldier, whether he fought on the one side or the other, I am also moved to write by what I conceive to be a still higher aim; and that is to point out, if I can, the common ground on which all may stand; where justification of one section does not require or imply condemnation of the other--the broad, high, sunlit middle ground where fact meets fact, argument confronts argument, and truth is balanced against truth.

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CHAPTER II

THE TRIP FROM CORINTH

        The Raccoon Roughs made a part of the Sixth Alabama--The journey to Virginia--Families divided in Tennessee, Kentucky, and Missouri--A father captured by a son in battle--The military spirit in Virginia--Andrew Johnson and Parson Brownlow Union leaders in Tennessee--Johnson's narrowness afterward exhibited as President.

        THE Raccoon Roughs made an imposing twelfth part of the Sixth Alabama, which was one of the largest regiments in the Confederate army. Governor Moore, in order to comply with his promise to incorporate my company into one of the first regiments to be organized, consented that the Sixth should contain twelve instead of the regulation number of ten companies. A movement had been started in Atlanta to uniform my mountaineers: but when the message was received from Governor Moore, inviting us to come to Montgomery, all thought of uniformity in dress was lost in the enthusiasm evoked by the knowledge that our services were accepted; and even after the hastily prepared uniforms were issued by the new Government my company clung tenaciously to "coonskin" head-dress, which made a striking contrast to the gray caps worn by the other companies.

        No regulation uniform had at this time been adopted for field officers, and in deference to the wishes and the somewhat quaint taste of Colonel Seibles, the regimental commander, the mounted officers of the Sixth wore double-breasted

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frock-coats made of green broadcloth, with the brass buttons of the United States army. These green coats--more suited to Irishmen than to Americans--were not discarded during the entire term of our first enlistment for twelve months, nor until we were enrolled as a part of the army that was to serve until Southern independence was won or lost. I do not know what became of my bottle-green coat, with the bullet-holes through it, which would now be an object of interest to my children. It is remarkable that during the war no care was taken of any of these battle-marked articles. All minds and hearts were absorbed in the one thought of defence. It was a long time before even the flags borne in battle became objects of special veneration, or gathered about them the sentiment which grew into a passion as the war neared its close. After one of the early battles one of my color-bearers had secured and fastened to the staff a beautiful new flag. When I asked him what he had done with the old one, he replied:

        "I threw it away, sir. It was so badly shot that it was not worth keeping."

        Our departure from Montgomery for Corinth, Mississippi, where we were to go into camp of instruction for an indefinite period, was amid the roar of cannon, the shouts of the multitude, the waving of flags and handkerchiefs, and the prayers and tears of mothers, wives, and sisters. The encampment at Corinth was brief and uneventful; but our trip thence to Virginia was intensely interesting, because of the danger and threat of conflict between my troops and the citizens in certain localities. The line of our travel was through East Tennessee, where, even at that early period, there were evidences of the radical conflict of opinion between neighbors which was destined to eventuate in many bloody feuds. At the depots crowds of men were gathered, some cheering, some jeering, my troops as they passed. From the tops

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of houses on one side of the street floated the Stars and Stripes; from those on the other were ensigns showing sympathy with the new-born Confederacy. The responsibility on my shoulders was not a light one, for it was my duty on every account to restrain the ardor of my own men and prevent the slightest imprudence of speech or action. No other locality approached East Tennessee in the extent of suffering from this peculiarly harassing sort of strife, unless possibly it was the State of Kentucky. In both public sentiment was divided. There was intense loyalty to the Union on the one hand, and to the Confederate cause on the other.

        War's visage is grim enough at best; and to the people of those localities which were constantly subjected to raids, first by one side and then by the other, its frowning face was rarely relieved by one gleam of alleviating tenderness. These divided communities were the fated grist which the demon of border war seemed determined to grind to dust between his upper and nether millstones.

        In East Tennessee, Kentucky, and Missouri, neighbors who had been lifelong friends became extremely embittered. Families were divided, brother against brother, and father against son. In Kentucky, it will be remembered, many of the most prominent families of the State, among them the Breckinridges, the Clays, and the Crittendens, were represented in both the Confederate and Union armies. John C. Breckinridge, who had just left the seat of Vice-President of the United States, and who had been the candidate of one wing of the Democratic party for President, cast his fortunes with the South, and made a brilliant record as a soldier and as the last Confederate Secretary of War. Other members of this distinguished family filled honorable positions in the opposing armies, and the distinguished and somewhat eccentric divine, the Rev. Robert J. Breckinridge,

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was one of the most eloquent and fervid--not to say bitter-- advocates of the Union cause. His trenchant pen and lashing tongue spared neither blood relatives nor ministers nor members of the church, not even those of the same faith with himself, provided he regarded them as untrue to the Union. The intensity of Dr. Breckinridge's antagonism showed itself even on his death-bed. He and the Rev. Dr. Stuart Robinson, of Kentucky, were both eminent ministers of the same church, Dr. Robinson being as intense a sympathizer with the South as Dr. Breckinridge was with the North. From devoted friends they became fierce antagonists and uncompromising foes. When Dr. Breckinridge lay on his death-bed, his family and some of his church-members were gathered around him. They were most anxious that he should be reconciled to all men, and especially to Dr. Robinson, before he died, and they asked him, "Brother Breckinridge, have you forgiven all your enemies?"

        "Oh, yes; certainly, certainly I have."

        "Well, Brother Breckinridge, have you forgiven our brother Dr. Stuart Robinson?"

        "Certainly I have. Didn't I just tell you that I had forgiven all my enemies?"

        "But, Brother Breckinridge, when you meet Brother Stuart Robinson in heaven, do you feel that you can greet him as all the redeemed ought to greet one another?"

        "Don't bother me with such questions. Stuart Robinson will never get there!"

        During the year 1895 I was honored with an invitation to address an audience in Maysville, Kentucky. I was deeply impressed by the fact conveyed to me that a large number of those who sat before me had the harmony and happiness of their homes destroyed for the four years of war by the inexpressibly horrid

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thought that sons of the same parents were pitted against each other in battle. I was personally presented to a number of these formerly divided brothers who had bravely fought from the beginning to the end in opposing lines, but were now reunited under the old family roof and in the common Republic. It was a Kentucky father, I believe, both of whose sons had been killed in battle, the one in the Confederate, the other in the Union army, who erected to the memory of both over their common grave the monument on which he had inscribed these five monosyllables: "God knows which was right."

        So much has been said and written of the peculiar trials and horrors experienced by the divided communities in Missouri, East Tennessee, and Kentucky that it is a privilege to record one of the incidents which at rare intervals sent rays of light through those unhappy localities. Major Edwards, of the Confederate army, who afterward became an editor of distinction in Missouri, had, at the beginning of the war, a neighbor and friend who was as intense a Unionist as the major was an enthusiastic Confederate. Each felt it his duty to go into the service, and when the war came they parted to take their places in opposing battle lines. Later on, Major Edwards captured this former neighbor and friend behind the Southern lines, and near their Missouri home. In reply to the question as to why he had taken such risk of being captured and sent to a Southern prison, the Union soldier explained that his wife was behind those lines and extremely ill--probably dying; that he had taken the risk of slipping at night, between the Confederate picket posts in order to receive her last blessing and embrace. This statement was enough for the knightly man in gray. The Union soldier was at once made a prisoner, but only in the bonds of brotherly tenderness. His house was carefully guarded by Major Edwards himself until the sad parting with his

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wife was over, and then he was safely conducted through the Confederate lines and sent with a Confederate's sympathy to his post of duty in the Union camps.

        At a recent reunion of the United Confederate Veterans, I was told of a thrilling incident which still further and more strikingly illustrates the tragedy of war in these divided States. At the beginning of the war Major M. H. Clift, of Tennessee, was a mere lad, and was attending school in another State. His father was an East Tennesseean and was devoted to the cause of the Union. Young Clift, however, was carried away by the storm of Southern enthusiasm and joined the Confederate army. The father soon yielded to his own sense of patriotic duty, and enlisted in one of the Union regiments formed in the neighborhood. In the fortunes of war, the two, father and son, were soon called to confront each other under hostile banners and in battle array. Neither had the remotest thought that the other stood in his front. In a furious charge by the Southern lines this young Confederate forced a Union soldier to surrender to him. Looking into the captured soldier's face, the young man recognized his own father. No pen could adequately depict his consternation when he realized that he had been on the point of killing his father, nor the joy which filled his heart that this dire calamity had been averted. Steps were at once taken to render it certain that no such contingency should again occur.

        But the horrors of family division were not confined to these States. There were conspicuous instances elsewhere of the disruption of the most sacred ties. The Virginia kindred of that able soldier General George H. Thomas, and of ex-President Harrison, were in the Confederate service, while those of Generals Lovell and Pemberton, who fought for the Southern cause, and of Mrs. General Longstreet, supported the flag of the Union.

        In my own State the wife of a Confederate officer saw

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her husband retreat from Savannah under the Confederate commander, while her own dearly loved kindred marched into the town under General W. T. Sherman. This wife was Nellie Kinsey, said to be the first white child born in Chicago. She grew to accomplished womanhood, and married William W. Gordon of Savannah, who made a brilliant record as a Confederate officer, and during our recent war with Spain was commissioned brigadier-general by President McKinley. Mrs. Gordon was intensely loyal to her husband and to the cause he loved, but her kindred--her only kindred--were in the Union army and conspicuous for their gallantry in almost every arm of the service. As she stood with her children watching the Federal troops march in triumphant array under the windows of her Southern home, a splendid brass band at the head of one of the divisions began playing that familiar old air, "When this Cruel War is Over." As soon as the notes struck the ears of her little daughter, this enthusiastic young Confederate exclaimed, "Mamma, just listen to the Yankees playing 'When this Cruel War is Over,' and they just doing it themselves!"

        When we reached Virginia the military spirit was in full flood-tide. The State had just passed the ordinance of secession, and almost every young and middle-aged man was volunteering for service. Even the servants were becoming interested in the military positions to which the aspiring young men of the household might be assigned. I recall an incident so strikingly characteristic that it seems due to a proper appreciation of these old-time loyal and faithful slaves that I give it in this connection.

        Old Simon was the trusted and devoted butler of a leading Virginia family, and was very proud of his young master, who had just enlisted as a private in the cavalry, and, dressed in his new uniform and mounted

Illustration

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upon his blooded horse, was drilling every day with his company. He was, in old Simon's estimation, the equal, if not the superior, of any soldier that was ever booted and spurred. The time came for the company to start to the front, and one of them rode up and asked old Simon:

        "Is Bob here, Simon, or has he gone to camp?"

        "Is you talking about my young marster, Colonel Robert?"

        "Yes; of course I am, Simon," replied the trooper. "But I should like to know how in the - - - Bob got to be a colonel?"

        "Lawd, sir, he 's des born a colonel!" said Simon; and his genuine and unaffected pride in this belief flashed in his old eyes and rang in his tones.

        No account of East Tennessee's condition and experiences at this period would be complete without a few words in reference to those impetuous East Tennessee Union leaders, Andrew Johnson, who afterward became President, and the redoubtable Parson Brownlow, whose fiery denunciations of the Southern cause filled the columns of his paper, "Brownlow's Whig." Lifelong political antagonists, the one a Democrat, the other a Whig, and both aggressive and unrelenting, they nevertheless, when civil war approached, buried the partisan tomahawk and wielded the Union battle-axe side by side. They became coadjutors and the most powerful civil supporters of the Union cause in the State, if not in the South. Andrew Johnson, as is well known, was a tailor when a young man, and, it is said, was taught to read by his faithful wife. He deserved and received immense credit for the laborious study and untiring perseverance which converted the scissors of his shop into the sceptre of Chief Executive of the world's greatest Republic; but he did not broaden in sentiment in proportion to the elevation he attained and the gravity of the responsibilities

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imposed. He was strong but narrow. He could not be a statesman in the highest sense of that term, because he was swayed by prejudice more than by lofty convictions. That he was impelled by motives intensely patriotic in adhering to the Union there can be no reasonable doubt; but his utter failure to rise to a full conception of the situation in which he found himself after President Lincoln's unfortunate death was painfully apparent to every thoughtful observer. His intolerant bigotry, and his failure to appreciate the obligations imposed upon him by General Grant's magnanimous and solemn compact with the Southern army at Appomattox, were manifested by his desire to arrest General Lee and other prominent prisoners of war who had protecting paroles. His blind prejudice against our best people was shown in his selection of classes for amnesty; and the low plane on which he planted his administration was evidenced by his inconsistencies, his vacillations, and his reversal of the wise, generous, and statesmanly policy of his great predecessor. But the narrowness of the man and the amazing absurdity of his prejudice are sufficiently exhibited in a circumstance trivial in itself, but which, perhaps on that account, more clearly indicates his calibre. A few months after the war was over, I was passing through Washington, and called to pay my respects to General Grant, who had shown me personally, at the close of hostilities, marked consideration and kindness, of which I shall make mention in another chapter. General Grant offered to introduce me to President Johnson, whom I had never met. We walked across to the Executive Mansion, and General Grant gave the usher a card on which was written, "General Grant, with General Gordon of Georgia," with instructions to the usher to hand it to the President. We were at once admitted to his presence, and I was introduced by General Grant as "General Gordon," with

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some complimentary reference to my rank and service in General Lee's army. The President met this introduction by these words, pronounced with peculiar emphasis, "How are you, Mr. Gordon?" especially accentuating the word Mister. I was neither angry nor indignant, but my contempt was sincere for the ineffable littleness of the man whose untimely ascendancy to power at that critical period I can but regard as the veriest mockery of fate.

        Contrast this foolish and abortive effort at insult with the conduct of President Grant, who succeeded him, or of General Grant as soldier, or with that of any other prominent soldier or high-minded citizen of the country. The conduct of General Hancock at General Grant's funeral in New York is perhaps in still greater contrast with that of President Johnson. Although the incident I am about to relate is chronologically out of place here, it is emphatically in place as illustrating the point I am making in reference to President Johnson.

        It will be remembered that General Hancock was commander of the Department of the East (United States army) at the time of General Grant's death, and was, by reason of his military rank, the chief marshal of that stupendous and most impressive pageant witnessed in New York at General Grant's obsequies. I was included among those ex-Confederate officers who had been specially invited to participate in the honors to be paid to the dead soldier and former President. General Hancock had requested that I should ride with him at the head of the mighty procession, and he had playfully said to the staff that each of us should take his place according to rank. Of course I had no thought of claiming any rank, and I took my place in the rear of the regular staff. General Hancock sent one after an other of his immediate staff to request me to ride up to the front, with the message that I must obey orders and

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report to him at once at the head of the column. When I reached the head of the column, General Hancock directed the staff to compare dates and ascertain the ranking officer who should ride on his right. My rank as a Confederate general was higher than that of any other member of his staff, and he ordered that I should take the place of honor. As I could not gracefully resist this assignment any longer, I accepted it, saying to the Union generals, who also served on General Hancock's staff, that they had overwhelmed me some twenty-odd years before, but that I had them down now. General Fitzhugh Lee was similarly honored.

        In closing this chapter, it is not necessary, I trust, for me to say that I would do no injustice to the memory of President Johnson, but it seems to me that the future manhood of our country can be ennobled by the contemplation of the marked and notable contrasts here presented, and by a realization of the truth that no station in life, however conspicuous, can conceal from view the weakness of its possessor. Certainly it can inflict no damage upon the character of our youth to let them understand that the gulf is both broad and deep which separates the highest type of courage from petty and ignoble spite, and that the line which divides true nobility of soul from narrowness of spirit was drawn by God's hand, and will become clearer to human apprehension as we approach nearer to Him in thought and action.

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CHAPTER III

BULL RUN OR MANASSAS

        The first great battle of the war--A series of surprises--Mishaps and mistakes of the Confederates--Beauregard's lost order--General Ewell's rage--The most eccentric officer in the Confederate army--Anecdotes of his career--The wild panic of the Union troops--Senseless frights that cannot be explained-- Illustrated at Cedar Creek.

        THE battle of Bull Run or Manassas was the first, and in many respects the most remarkable, battle of our Civil War. It was a series of surprises--the unexpected happening at almost every moment of its progress. Planned by the Union chieftain with consummate skill, executed for the most part with unquestioned ability, and fought by the Union troops for a time with magnificent courage, it ended at last in their disastrous rout and the official decapitation of their able commander. On the Confederate side it was a chapter of mishaps, miscarriages, and of some mistakes. It was also a chapter of superb fighting by the Southern army, and of final complete and overwhelming victory. The breaking down of the train bearing General Joseph E. Johnston's troops was an accident which almost defeated the consummation of that splendid piece of strategy by which he had eluded General Patterson in the Valley, and which had enabled him to hurry almost his entire force to the support of General Beauregard at Manassas. The mistakes are represented by the fact that the feint of General McDowell on the Confederate front was believed

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to be the real attack, until the Union general was hurling his army on Beauregard's flank. Finally, the most serious miscarriage was that the order from Beauregard to Ewell directing an assault on the Union left failed to reach that officer. This strange miscarriage prevented General Ewell from making a movement which it then seemed probable and now appears certain would have added materially to McDowell's disaster. I had already been instructed by him to make a reconnaissance in the direction of the anticipated assault, but I had been suddenly recalled just as my skirmishers were opening fire. I was recalled because General Ewell had not received the promised order. For me it was perhaps a most fortunate recall, for in my isolated position I should probably have been surrounded and my little command cut to pieces. On my return I found General Ewell in an agony of suspense. He was chafing like a caged lion, infuriated by the scent of blood. He would mount his horse one moment and dismount the next. He would walk rapidly to and fro, muttering to himself, "No orders, no orders." General Ewell, who afterward became a corps commander, had in many respects the most unique personality I have ever known. He was a compound of anomalies, the oddest, most eccentric genius in the Confederate army. He was my friend, and I was sincerely and deeply attached to him. No man had a better heart nor a worse manner of showing it. He was in truth as tender and sympathetic as a woman, but, even under slight provocation, he became externally as rough as a polar bear, and the needles with which he pricked sensibilities were more numerous and keener than porcupines' quills. His written orders were full, accurate, and lucid; but his verbal orders or directions, especially when under intense excitement, no man could comprehend. At such times his eyes would flash with a peculiar brilliancy, and his brain far outran his tongue.

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His thoughts would leap across great gaps which his words never touched, but which he expected his listener to fill up by intuition, and woe to the dull subordinate who failed to understand him!

        When he was first assigned to command at the beginning of the war, he had recently returned from fighting Indians on the Western frontier. He had been dealing only with the enlisted men of the standing army. His experience in that wild border life, away from churches, civilization, and the refining influences of woman's society, were not particularly conducive to the development of the softer and better side of his nature. He became a very pious man in his later years, but at this time he was not choice in the manner of expressing himself. He asked me to take a hasty breakfast with him just before he expected the order from Beauregard to ford Bull Run and rush upon McDowell's left. His verbal invitation was in these words: "Come and eat a cracker with me; we will breakfast together here and dine together in hell." To a young officer like myself, who had never been under fire except at long range, on scouting excursions, or on the skirmish-line, such an invitation was not inspiring or appetizing; but Ewell's spirits seemed to be in a flutter of exultation.

        An hour later, after I had been recalled from my perilous movement to "feel of the enemy," I found General Ewell, as I have said, almost frenzied with anxiety over the non-arrival of the anticipated order to move to the attack. He directed me to send to him at once a mounted man "with sense enough to go and find out what was the matter." I ordered a member of the governor's Horse Guard to report immediately to General Ewell. This troop represented some of the best blood of Virginia. Its privates were refined and accomplished gentlemen, many of them University graduates, who, at the first tocsin of war, had sprung into their saddles as volunteers.

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        The intelligent young trooper who was selected to ride upon this most important mission under the verbal direction of General Ewell himself, mounted his high-spirited horse, and, with high-top boots, polished spurs, and clanking sabre, galloped away to where the general was impatiently waiting at his temporary headquarters on the hill. Before this inexperienced but promising young soldier had time to lift his hat in respectful salutation, the general was slashing away with tongue and finger, delivering his directions with such rapidity and incompleteness that the young man's thoughts were dancing through his brain in inextricable confusion. The general, having thus delivered himself, quickly asked, "Do you understand, sir?" Of course the young man did not understand, and he began timidly to ask for a little more explicit information. The fiery old soldier cut short the interview with "Go away from here and send me a man who has some sense!"

        Later in the war, when I was commanding a division in Stonewall Jackson's old corps, then commanded by General Ewell, I had a very similar experience with this eccentric officer. It was in the midst of one of the battles between Lee and Grant in the Wilderness. As already explained, General Ewell's spirits, like the eagle's wings gathering additional power in the storm, seemed to mount higher and higher as the fury of the battle increased. My division of his corps was advancing under a galling fire. General Ewell rode at full speed to the point where I was intensely engaged directing the charge, and asked me to lend him one of my staff, his own all having been despatched with orders to different portions of the field. I indicated a staff-officer whom he might command, and he began, in his characteristic style under excitement, to tell this officer what to do. My staff-officer had learned to interpret the general fairly well, but

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to catch his meaning at one point stopped him and said: "Let me see if I understand you, sir?" General Ewell was so incensed at this insinuation of lack of perspicuity that he turned away abruptly, without a word of explanation simply throwing up his hand and blowing away the young officer with a sort of "whoo-oo-oot." There is no way to spell out this indignant and resounding puff; but even in the fierce battle that was raging there was a roar of laughter from the other members of my staff as the droll and doughty warrior rushed away to another part of the field.

        I cannot conclude this imperfect portrayal of the peculiarities of this splendid soldier and eccentric genius without placing upon record one more incident connected with the first battle of Bull Run. While he waited for the order from Beauregard (which never came), I sat on my horse near him as he was directing the location of a battery to cover the ford, and fire upon a Union battery and its supports on the opposite hills. As our guns were unlimbered, a young lady, who had been caught between the lines of the two armies, galloped up to where the general and I were sitting on our horses, and began to tell the story of what she had seen. She had mounted her horse just in front of General McDowell's troops, who it was expected would attempt to force a crossing at this point. This Virginia girl, who appeared to be seventeen or eighteen years of age, was in a flutter of martial excitement. She was profoundly impressed with the belief that she really had something of importance to tell. The information which she was trying to convey to General Ewell she was sure would be of vast import to the Confederate cause, and she was bound to deliver it. General Ewell listened to her for a few minutes, and then called her attention to the Union batteries that were rushing into position and getting ready to open fire upon the Confederate lines. He said to her, in

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his quick, quaint manner: "Look there, look there, miss! Don't you see those men with blue clothes on, in the edge of the woods? Look at those men loading those big guns. They are going to fire, and fire quick, and fire right here. You 'll get killed. You 'll be a dead damsel in less than a minute. Get away from here! Get away!" The young woman looked over at the blue coats and the big guns, but paid not the slightest attention to either. Nor did she make any reply to his urgent injunction, "Get away from here!" but continued the story of what she had seen. General Ewell, who was a crusty old bachelor at that time, and knew far less about women than he did about wild Indians, was astounded at this exhibition of feminine courage. He gazed at her in mute wonder for a few minutes, and then turned to me suddenly, and, with a sort of jerk in his words, said: "Women--I tell you, sir, women would make a grand brigade--if it was not for snakes and spiders!" He then added much more thoughtfully: "They don't mind bullets--women are not afraid of bullets; but one big black-snake would put a whole army to flight." And he had not fired very wide of the mark. It requires the direst dangers, especially where those dangers threaten some cause or object around which their affections are entwined, to call out the marvellous courage of women. Under such conditions they will brave death itself without a quiver. I have seen one of them tested. I saw Mrs. Gordon on the streets of Winchester, under fire, her soul aflame with patriotic ardor, appealing to retreating Confederates to halt and form a new line to resist the Union advance. She was so transported by her patriotic passion that she took no notice of the whizzing shot and shell, and seemed wholly unconscious of her great peril. And yet she will precipitately fly from a bat, and a big black bug would fill her with panic.

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        Those who are inclined to investigate the mysteries of that strange compound which makes up our mental, moral, and physical natures will find abundant material in the wild panic which seized and shook to pieces the Union army at Bull Run, scattering it in disorganized fragments through woods and fields and by-ways, and filling the roads with broken wagons and knapsacks, and small arms--an astounding experience which was the prototype of similar scenes to be enacted in both armies in the later stages of the war. No better troops were ever marshalled than those who filled the Union and Confederate ranks. Indeed, taking them all in all, I doubt whether they have been equalled. How courage of the noblest type, such as these American soldiers possessed, could be converted in an instant into apparent--even apparent--cowardice is one of the secrets, unsolvable perhaps, of our being. What was the special, sufficient, and justifiable ground for such uncontrollable apprehensions in men who enlisted to meet death, and did meet it, or were ready to meet it, bravely and grandly on a hundred fields? The panic at Bull Run seized McDowell's whole army; and yet a large portion of it at the moment the panic occurred was perhaps not under fire--certainly in no danger of annihilation or of serious harm. Yet they fled, all or practically all--fled with uncontrollable terror. Of course there were times when it was necessary to retreat. Occasions came, I presume, to every command that did much fighting during those four years, when the most sensible thing to do was to go, and without much thought as to the order of the going--the faster the better. It is not that class of retreats that I am considering. These were not panics; nor did they bear any special resemblance to panics, except that in both cases it was flight--even disorganized flight. There was, however, this radical difference between the two: in one

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case the men were ready to halt, reform their lines, and fight again; in the other case these same men were as heedless of an officer's orders (supposing the officer to have retained his senses) as a herd of wild buffaloes.

        The soldiers on both sides who may read this book will recall many instances of both kinds of flight. One of the good-natured gibes with which the infantry poked the ribs of the cavalry was that they had too many feet and legs under them to stand and be shot at; but what old soldier of either arm of the service will refuse to bear testimony to the fact that the Confederate cavalry on many occasions charged batteries and solid lines, and, after being repulsed, would retreat, reform, and charge again and again--a constant alternation of charges and rapid retreats without the slightest indication of panic? I saw Sheridan's cavalry in the Valley of Virginia form in my front, charge across the open fields and almost over my lines, which were posted behind stone fences. They rode at a furious rate, driving spurs into their horses' sides as they rushed like a mountain torrent against the rock wall. Some of them went over it, only to be captured or shot. They discharged carbines in our faces, and then retreated in fairly good order, under a furious fire, with apparently no more of panic than if they had been fighting a sham battle.

        But those sudden and sometimes senseless frights which deprived brave men of all self-control for the time, were so unexpected, so strange and terrible, so inconsistent with the conduct of the same men at other times and under circumstances equally and perhaps even more trying, that they justify a few additional illustrations.

        The battle of Cedar Creek in the Shenandoah Valley, on October 19, 1864, about which I shall have more to say in its chronological order, furnishes cases in

Illustration

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point by both armies and on the same day. Neither the panic which struck with such resistless terror, Sheridan's two corps as they were assaulted at dawn, and which sent them, as the sun rose over the adjacent mountains, flying in wildest rout from the fields and for miles to the rear, with no enemy in pursuit; nor the panic which seized and sent General Early's army, as that same sun was setting behind the opposite mountains, rushing across the bridges, or into the chilly waters, and through the dense cedars of the limestone cliffs--neither of these was the necessary, logical, or even natural sequence of the conditions which preceded them. There is no logic in a panic. It is true that in both cases the armies had been assailed in front and flank; and the cry, "We are flanked!" not infrequently produced upon the steadiest battalions an effect similar to that caused among passengers at sea by the alarm of fire. But the point is that while it might not have been possible to prevent the opposing forces from achieving a victory after the flank movement was under full headway, yet the retreat in each case could have been accomplished with far lighter losses in killed, wounded, and prisoners. If the armies had not allowed the unnecessary panic to deprive them of their reason and thus of all control of will power, they would have had a better chance for life in a somewhat orderly retreat, distracting and confusing the aim of the advancing lines by returning fire for fire, than by permitting the pursuers deliberately to shoot them in the back.

        The strangest fact of all is that many of these men in both armies had often exhibited before, as they did on many succeeding fields and under just as trying conditions, a heroism rarely equalled and never excelled in military annals--a heroism that defied danger and was impervious to panic. Sheridan's men, who threw away everything that could impede their flight in the morning

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at Cedar Creek, fought with splendid courage before and afterward. Indeed, they returned that same afternoon and made most honorable amends for the mistakes of the morning. Some of these same Confederates had been flanked and almost surrounded by McDowell's army in the early hours at Bull Run and yet felt no symptoms of panic. Some of them had been with me at South Mountain in '62, detached for the moment from the main army, at times nearly surrounded, attacked first in front, then upon the right, and then upon the left flank, changing front under fire, retreating now slowly, now rapidly, but in every case halting at the command and forming a new line to repeat the manoeuvres, and without a semblance of panic. I verily believe they would have died, almost to a man, on the rocks of that rugged mountain-side, but for the gracious dropping of night's curtain on the scene. They did die, nearly or quite half of them, the next day at Antietam or Sharpsburg. Still more striking the contrast--large numbers of these Confederates who were overwhelmed with panic at Cedar Creek fought upon the last dreadful retreat from Petersburg with marvellous intrepidity, while flanked and forced to move rapidly from one position to another. And on that last morning at Appomattox these same Confederates were fighting in almost every direction, surrounded on all sides except one, with a column plainly in view and advancing to complete the circle of fire around them; and they continued to fight bravely and grandly until the flag of truce heralded the announcement that the war was over.

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CHAPTER IV

THE SPRING OF 1862--BATTLE OF SEVEN PINES OR FAIR OAKS

        Indomitable Americanism, North and South--Rally of the North after Bull Run--Severity of winter quarters in Virginia--McClellan's army landed at Yorktown--Retreat of the Confederates--On the Chickahominy--Terrible slaughter at Seven Pines--A brigade commander.

        THE North had lost, the South had won, in the first bloody battle of the war, and all chances for compromise were obliterated, if indeed they had ever existed. The Northern army had been defeated and driven back beyond the Potomac, but the defeat simply served to arouse the patriotic people of that section to more determined effort. Party passion was buried, party lines were almost entirely erased, and party organizations were merged into the one compact body of a united people, led by the all-pervading purpose to crush out the Southern movement and save the Union. With that tenacity of will, that unyielding Anglo-Saxon perseverance--or, I prefer to say, that indomitable Americanism--for which the people of the United States are so justly famed, the North rose superior to the disaster, and resolved, as did old Andrew Jackson, that "the Union should be preserved."

        The South, on the other hand, greatly encouraged by the victory, bowed at its altars and thanked Heaven for this indication of ultimate triumph. Her whole people, with an equally tenacious Americanism, and fully persuaded

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that the independent States, now united under another and similar Constitution, had a right to set up their own homogeneous government, resolved that, if sacrifices and fighting could secure it, the South should become an independent republic. With a deeper consecration than ever, if possible, they pledged anew to that cause their honor, their wealth, their faith, their prayers, their lofty manhood and glorious womanhood, resolving never to yield as long as hope or life endured. And they did not yield until their whole section, "with its resources all exhausted, lay prostrate and powerless, bleeding at every pore."

        The North soon rallied after the defeat at Bull Run. Her armies were placed under the immediate command of that brilliant young chieftain, George B. McClellan, whose genius as organizer, ability as disciplinarian, and magnetism in contact with his men, rapidly advanced his heavily reënforced army to a high plane of efficiency. The pride felt in him was manifested by the title "Young Napoleon," bestowed upon him by his admiring countrymen. No advance, however, was made by his army until the following spring. The Confederate army, under General Joseph E. Johnston, was occupied during the remaining months of summer and fall, mainly in drilling, recruiting its ranks, doing picket duty, and, as winter approached, in gathering supplies and preparing, as far as possible, for protection against Virginia freezes and snows.

        My men were winter-quartered in the dense pine thickets on the rough hills that border the Occoquan. Christmas came, and was to be made as joyous as our surroundings would permit, by a genuine Southern eggnog with our friends. The country was scoured far and near for eggs, which were exceedingly scarce. Of sugar we still had at that time a reasonable supply, but our small store of eggs and the other ingredients could not

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be increased in all the country round about. Mrs. Gordon superintended the preparation of this favorite Christmas beverage, and at last the delicious potion was ready. All stood anxiously waiting with camp cups in hand. The servant started toward the company with full and foaming bowl, holding it out before him with almost painful care. He had taken but a few steps when he struck his toe against the uneven floor of the rude quarters and stumbled. The scattered fragments of crockery and the aroma of the wasted nectar marked the melancholy wreck of our Christmas cheer.

        The winter was a severe one and the men suffered greatly--not only for want of sufficient preparation, but because those from farther South were unaccustomed to so cold a climate. There was much sickness in camp. It was amazing to see the large number of country boys who had never had the measles. Indeed, it seemed to me that they ran through the whole catalogue of complaints to which boyhood and even babyhood are subjected. They had everything almost except teething, nettle-rash, and whooping-cough. I rather think some of them were afflicted with this latter disease. Those who are disposed to wonder that Southern troops should suffer so much from a Virginia winter will better appreciate the occasional severity of that climate when told of the incident which I now relate. General R. A. Alger, of the Union army, ex-Governor of Michigan and ex-Secretary of War, states that he was himself on picket duty in winter and at night in this same section of Virginia. It was his duty as officer in charge to visit during the night the different picket posts and see that the men were on the alert, so as to avoid surprises. It was an intensely cold night, and on one of his rounds, a few hours before daylight, he approached a post where a solitary picket stood on guard. As he neared the post he was greatly surprised to find that the soldier did not

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halt him and force him to give the countersign. He could plainly see the soldier standing on his post, leaning against a tree, and was indignant because he supposed he had found one of his men asleep on duty, when to remain awake and watchful was essential to the army's safety. Walking up to his man, he took him by the arm to arouse him from sleep and place him under immediate arrest. He was horrified to find that the sentinel was dead. Frozen, literally frozen, was this faithful picket, but still standing at the post of duty where his commander had placed him, his form erect and rigid--dead on his post!

        Even at that early period the Southern men were scantily clad, though we had not then reached the straits to which we came as the war progressed, and of which a simple-hearted countrywoman gave an approximate conception when she naïvely explained that her son's only pair of socks did not wear out, because "when the feet of the socks got full of holes I just knitted new feet to the tops, and when the tops wore out I just knitted new tops to the feet."

        This remarkable deficiency in heavy clothing among the Southern troops even at the beginning of the war is easily explained. We were an agricultural people. Farming or planting was fairly remunerative and brought comfort, with not only financial but personal independence, which induced a large majority of our population to cling to rural life and its delightful occupations. Little attention, comparatively, was paid to mining or manufacturing. The railroads were constructed through cotton belts rather than through coal- and iron-fields. There were some factories for the manufacture of cloth, but these were mainly engaged upon cotton fabrics, and those which produced woollens or heavy goods were few and of limited capacity. It will be seen that in this situation, with small milling facilities, with great armies on

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our hands, and our ports closed against foreign importations, we were reduced to the dangerous extremity of blockade-running, and to the still more hazardous contingency of capturing now and then overcoats and trousers from the Union forces.

        Perhaps the utter lack of preparation for the war on the part of the South is proof that its wisest statesmen anticipated no such stupendous struggle as ensued. After the inauguration of the government at Montgomery, the Confederacy could have purchased the entire cotton crop--practically every bale left in the Southern States at that season--with Confederate bonds or with Confederate currency. The people, as a rule, had absolute faith in the success and stability of the government. Thoughtful business men took the bonds as an investment. Careful and conscientious guardians sold the property of minors and invested the proceeds in Confederate bonds. If, therefore, Southern statesmen had believed that the Northern people would with practical unanimity back the United States Government in a vigorous and determined war to prevent the withdrawal of the Southern States, those able men who led the South would undoubtedly have sought to place the Confederacy in control of the cotton then on hand, and of succeeding crops. It will be readily seen what an enormous financial strength would have been thus acquired, and what a basis for negotiations abroad would have been furnished. When the price of cotton rose to twenty-five, forty, fifty cents per pound (it was worth, I think, over ninety cents per pound at one time), a navy for the Confederate Government could have been purchased strong enough to have broken, by concentrated effort, the blockade of almost any port on the Southern coast, thus admitting arms, ammunition, clothing, tents, and medicine which would have largely increased the efficiency of the Confederate armies.

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        At last after the winter months, each one of which seemed to us almost a year, the snows on the Occoquan melted. The buds began to swell, the dogwood to blossom, and the wild onions, which the men gathered by the bushel and ate, began to shed their pungent odor on the soft warm air. With the spring came also the marching and the fighting. General McClellan landed his splendid army at Yorktown, and threatened Richmond from the Virginia peninsula. The rush then came to relieve from capture the small force of General Magruder and to confront General McClellan's army at his new base of operations. Striking camp and moving to the nearest depot, we were soon on the way to Yorktown. The long trains packed with their living Confederate freight were hurried along with the utmost possible speed. As the crowded train upon which I sat rushed under full head of steam down grade on this single track, it was met by another train of empty cars flying with great speed in the opposite direction. The crash of the fearful collision and its harrowing results are indescribable. Nearly every car on the densely packed train was telescoped and torn in pieces; and men, knapsacks, arms, and shivered seats were hurled to the front and piled in horrid mass against the crushed timbers and ironwork. Many were killed, many maimed for life, and the marvel is that any escaped unhurt. Mrs. Gordon, who was with me on this ill-fated train, was saved, by a merciful Providence, without the slightest injury. Her hands were busied with the wounded, while I superintended the cutting away of debris to rescue the maimed and remove the dead.

        From Yorktown it was the Confederates' time to retreat, and it was a retreat to the very gates of Richmond. General Johnston, however, like a lion pursued to his den, turned upon McClellan, when there, with a tremendous bound.

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On that memorable retreat it was my fortune for a time to bring up the rear. The roads were in horrible condition. In the mud and slush and deep ruts cut by the wagon-trains and artillery of the retreating army, a number of heavy guns became bogged and the horses were unable to drag them. My men, weary with the march and belonging to a different arm of the service, of course felt that it was a trying position to be compelled to halt and attempt to move this artillery, with the Union advance pressing so closely upon them. But they were tugging with good grace when I rode up from the extreme rear. An extraordinary effort, however, was required to save the guns. As I dismounted from my horse and waded into the deep mud and called on them to save the artillery, they raised a shout and crowded around the wheels. Not a gun or caisson was lost, and there was never again among those brave men a moment's hesitation about leaping into the mud and water whenever it became necessary on any account.

        At another time on this march I found one of my youngest soldiers--he was a mere lad--lying on the roadside, weeping bitterly. I asked him what was the matter. He explained that his feet were so sore that he could not walk any farther and that he knew he would be captured. His feet were in a dreadful condition. I said to him, "You shall not be captured," and ordered him to mount my horse and ride forward until he could get into an ambulance or wagon, and to tell the quartermaster to send my horse back to me as soon as possible. He wiped his eyes, got into my saddle, and rode a few rods to where the company of which he was a member had halted to rest. He stopped his horse in front of his comrades, who were sitting for the moment on the roadside, and straightening himself up, he lifted his old slouch-hat with all the dignity of a commander-in-chief and called out: "Attention, men! I 'm about to bid

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you farewell, and I want to tell you before I go that I am very sorry for you. I was poor once myself!" Having thus delivered himself, he galloped away, bowing and waving his hat to his comrades in acknowledgment of the cheers with which they greeted him.

        After a few hours' pause and a brief but sharp engagement at Williamsburg, General Johnston continued his retreat to his new lines near the city of Richmond. On the banks of the Chickahominy, if the Chickahominy can be said to have banks, both armies prepared for the desperate struggles which were soon to follow and decide the fate of the Confederate capital. "On the Chickahominy!" Whatever emotions these words may awaken in others, they bring to me some of the saddest memories of those four years, in which were crowded the experiences of an ordinary lifetime. Standing on picket posts in the dreary darkness and sickening dampness of its miasmatic swamps, hurrying to the front through the slush and bogs that bordered it, fighting hip-deep in its turbid waters, I can see now the faces of those brave men who never faltered at a command, whatever fate obedience to it might involve.

        During the weary days and nights preceding these battles, the Southern troops, as they returned from outpost duty, kept the camp in roars of laughter with soldier "yarns" about their experiences at night at the front: how one man, relieved temporarily from guard duty by his comrade of the next relief, lay down on a log to catch a brief nap, and dreaming that he was at home in his little bed, turned himself over and fell off the log into the water at its side; how another, whose imagination had been impressed by his surroundings, made the outpost hideous with his frog-like croaking or snoring; and so on in almost endless variety. I recall one private who had a genius for drawing, and whose imaginative, clever caricatures afforded much amusement

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in camp. He would represent this or that comrade with a frog-like face and the body and legs of a frog, standing in the deep water, with knapsack high up on his back, his gun in one hand and a "johnny-cake" in the other--the title below it being Bill or Bob or Jake "on picket in the Chickahominy." A characteristic story is told of a mess that was formed, with the most remarkable regulations or by-laws. The men were to draw straws to ascertain who should be the cook. The bylaws further provided that the party thus designated should continue to cook for the mess until some one complained of his cooking, whereupon the man who made the first complaint should at once be initiated into the office and the former incumbent relieved. Of course, with this chance of escape before him, a cook had no great incentive to perfect himself in the culinary art. The first cook was not long in forcing a complaint. Calling his mess to supper spread on an oil-cloth in the little tent, he confidently awaited the result. One after another tasted and quickly withdrew from the repast. One member, who was very hungry and outraged at the character of the food, asked: "Joe, what do you call this stuff, anyhow?"

        "That? Why, that's pie," said Joe. "Well," replied the hungry member, "if you call that pie, all I 've got to say is, it 's the - - - est pie that I ever tasted."

        Then, suddenly remembering that the penalty for complaining was to take Joe's place, he quickly added, "But it 's all right, Joe; I like it, but I am not hungry tonight." This after-thought came too late, however. The by-laws were inflexible, and Joe's supper had won his freedom. The poor complainant whose indignant stomach had slaughtered his prudence was quietly but promptly inducted into the position of chef for the mess.

        Whatever rank may be assigned in history to the battle of Seven Pines, or Fair Oaks, as the Union men

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call it, it was to my regiment one of the bloodiest of my war experience. Hurled, in the early morning, against the breastworks which protected that portion of McClellan's lines, my troops swept over and captured them, but at heavy cost. As I spurred my horse over the works with my men, my adjutant, who rode at my side, fell heavily with his horse down the embankment, and both were killed. Reforming my men under a galling fire, and ordering them forward in another charge upon the supporting lines, which fought with the most stubborn resistance, disputing every foot of ground, I soon found that Lieutenant-Colonel Willingham, as gallant a soldier as ever rode through fire and who was my helper on the right, had also been killed and his horse with him. Major Nesmith, whose towering form I could still see on the left, was riding abreast of the men and shouting in trumpet tones: "Forward, men, forward!" but a ball soon silenced his voice forever. Lieutenant-colonel, major, adjutant, with their horses, were all dead, and I was left alone on horseback, with my men dropping rapidly around me. My soldiers declared that they distinctly heard the command from the Union lines, "Shoot that man on horseback." In both armies it was thought that the surest way to demoralize troops was to shoot down the officers. Nearly or quite half the line officers of the twelve companies had by this time fallen, dead or wounded. General Rodes, the superb brigade-commander, had been disabled. Still I had marvellously escaped, with only my clothing pierced. As I rode up and down my line, encouraging the men forward, I passed my young brother, only nineteen years old, but captain of one of the companies. He was lying with a number of dead companions near him. He had been shot through the lungs and was bleeding profusely. I did not stop; I could not stop, nor would he permit me to stop. There was no time for that--no time for anything

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except to move on and fire on. At this time my own horse, the only one left, was killed. He could, however, have been of little service to me any longer, for in the edge of this flooded swamp, heavy timber had been felled, making an abatis quite impassable on horseback, and I should have been compelled to dismount. McClellan's men were slowly being pressed back into and through the Chickahominy swamp, which was filled with water; but at almost every step they were pouring terrific vollies into my lines. My regiment had been in some way separated from the brigade, and at this juncture seemed to reach the climax of extremities. My field officers and adjutant were all dead. Every horse ridden into the fight, my own among them, was dead. Fully one half of my line officers and half my men were dead or wounded. A furious fire still poured from the front, and reënforcements were nowhere in sight. The brigade-commander was disabled, and there was no horse or means at hand of communication with his headquarters or any other headquarters, except by one of my soldiers on foot, and the chances ten to one against his living to bear my message. In water from knee- to hip-deep, the men were fighting and falling, while a detail propped up the wounded against stumps or trees to prevent their drowning. Fresh troops in blue were moving to my right flank and pouring a raking fire down my line, and compelling me to change front with my companies there. In ordering Captain Bell, whom I had placed in command of that portion of my line, I directed that he should beat back that flanking force at any cost. This faithful officer took in at a glance the whole situation, and, with a courage that never was and never will be surpassed, he and his Spartan band fought until he and nearly all his men were killed; and the small remnant, less than one fifth of the number carried into the battle, were fighting still when the order came at last for me to withdraw. Even in the

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withdrawal there was no confusion, no precipitancy. Slowly moving back, carrying their wounded comrades with them, and firing as they moved, these shattered remnants of probably the largest regiment in the army took their place in line with the brigade.

        The losses were appalling. All the field officers except myself had been killed. Of forty-four officers of the line, but thirteen were left for duty. Nearly two thirds of the entire command were killed or wounded. My young brother, Captain Augustus Gordon, who had been shot through the lungs, was carried back with the wounded. He recovered, and won rapid promotion by his high soldierly qualities, but fell at the head of his regiment in the Wilderness with his face to the front, a grape-shot having penetrated his breast at almost the same spot where he had been formerly struck.

        The disabling of General Rodes left the brigade temporarily without a commander; but movement was succeeding movement and battle following battle so rapidly that some one had to be placed in command at once. This position fell to my lot. It was not only unexpected, but unwelcome and extremely embarrassing; for, of all the regimental commanders in the brigade, I was the junior in commission and far the youngest in years. My hesitation became known to my brother officers. With entire unanimity and a generosity rarely witnessed in any sphere of life, they did everything in their power to lessen my embarrassment and uphold my hands. No young man with grave responsibilities suddenly placed upon him ever had more constant or more efficient support than was given to me by these noble men.

        I close this chapter by quoting a few sentences penned after the battle by Major John Sutherland Lewis in reference to the terrific strain upon Mrs. Gordon's sensibilities as she sat in sound of that battle's roar. Major Lewis was Mrs. Gordon's uncle, an elderly gentleman of

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rare accomplishments. As he was without a family of his own, and was devoted to his niece, he naturally watched over her with the tender solicitude of a father, when it was possible for him to be near her during the war. He died in very old age some years after the close of hostilities, but he left behind him touching tributes to his cherished niece, with whose remarkable adventures he was familiar, and whose fortitude had amazed and thrilled him. I quote only a few sentences from his pen in this connection:

        The battle in which Mrs. Gordon's husband was then engaged was raging near the city with great fury. The cannonade was rolling around the horizon like some vast earthquake on huge crashing wheels. Whether the threads of wedded sympathy were twisted more closely as the tremendous perils gathered around him, it was evident that her anxiety became more and more intense with each passing moment. She asked me to accompany her to a hill a short distance away. There she listened in silence. Pale and quiet, with clasped hands, she sat statue-like, with her face toward the field of battle. Her self-control was wonderful; only the quick-drawn sigh from the bottom of the heart revealed the depth of emotion that was struggling there. The news of her husband's safety afterward and the joy of meeting him later produced the inevitable reaction. The intensity of mental strain to which she had been subjected had overtasked her strength, and when the excessive tension was relaxed she was well-nigh prostrated; but a brief repose enabled her to bear up with a sublime fortitude through the protracted and trying experiences which followed the seven days' battles around Richmond.


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CHAPTER V

PRESENTIMENTS AND FATALISM AMONG SOLDIERS

        Wonderful instances of prophetic foresight--Colonel Lomax predicts his death--The vision of a son dying two days before it happened--General Ramseur's furlough--Colonel Augustus Gordon's calm announcement of his death--Instances of misplaced fatalism-- General D. H. Hill's indifference to danger.

        AT the time of this battle I had brought to my immediate knowledge, for the first time, one of those strange presentiments or revelations, whatever they may be called, which so often came to soldiers of both armies. Colonel Tennant Lomax, of Alabama, was one of the leading citizens of that State. He was a man of recognized ability and the most exalted character. With a classic face and superb form, tall, erect, and commanding, he would have been selected among a thousand men as the ideal soldier. His very presence commanded respect and inspired confidence. None who knew him doubted his certain promotion to high command if his life were spared. The very embodiment of chivalry, he was among the first to respond to the call to arms, and, alas! he was among the earliest martyrs to the cause he so promptly espoused. As he rode into the storm of lead, he turned to me and said: "Give me your hand, Gordon, and let me bid you good-by. I am going to be killed in this battle. I shall be dead in half an hour." I endeavored to remove this impression from his mind, but nothing I could say changed or appeared to modify

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it in any degree. I was grieved to have him go into the fight with such a burden upon him, but there was no tremor in his voice, no hesitation in his words, no doubt on his mind. The genial smile that made his face so attractive was still upon it, but he insisted that he would be dead in half an hour, and that it was "all right." The half-hour had scarcely passed when the fatal bullet had numbered him with the dead.

        Doubtless there were many of these presentiments which were misleading, but I am inclined to believe that those which were never realized were not such clear perceptions of coming fate as in this case. They were probably the natural and strong apprehensions which any man is liable to feel, indeed must feel if he is a reasonable being, as he goes into a consuming fire. There were many cases, however, which seemed veritable visions into futurity.

        General J. Warren Keifer, of Springfield, Ohio, a prominent Union officer in the war between the States and Major-General of Volunteers in the recent war with Spain, gave me in a letter of January 18, 1898, an account of the accurate predictions made by two of his officers as to approaching death. The first case was that of Colonel Aaron W. Ebright, of the One Hundred and Twenty-sixth Ohio Regiment, who was killed at Opequan, Virginia, September 19, 1864. General Keifer encloses me this memorandum, written at some previous date:

        Colonel Ebright had a premonition of his death. A few moments before 12 M. he sought me, and coolly told me he would be killed before the battle ended. He insisted upon telling me that he wanted his remains and effects sent to his home in Lancaster, Ohio, and I was asked to write his wife as to some property in the West which he feared she did not know about. He was impatient when I tried to remove the thought of imminent death from his mind. A few moments later the time for another advance came and the interview with Colonel Ebright closed.

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In less than ten minutes, while he was riding near me, he fell dead from his horse, pierced in the breast by a rifle-ball. His apprehension of death was not prompted by fear. He had been through the slaughters of the Wilderness and Cold Harbor, had fought his regiment in the dead-angle of Spottsylvania, and led it at Monocacy. It is needless to say I complied with his request.


        Another remarkable presentiment to which General Keifer has called my attention was that of Captain William A. Hathaway, who served on General Keifer's staff as assistant adjutant-general. At Monocacy, Maryland, July 9, 1864, where my division did the bulk of the fighting for the Confederates, Captain Hathaway assured his brother officers of the certainty of his early death. Turning a deaf ear to their efforts to drive the presentiment from his mind, he rode bravely into the storm, and fell at almost the first deadly volley.

        Colonel Warren Akin was one of Georgia's leading lawyers before the war. He was a Whig and a Union man and opposed to secession, but followed his State, when she left the Union. Although he was neither by profession nor practice a politician, his recognized ability, and the universal confidence of the people in his integrity as well as in his fidelity to every trust, caused his power to be felt in the State, and led a great political party to nominate him before the war as candidate for governor. Few men of his day were better known or more loved and respected. He was a Christian without cant, and his courage, while conspicuous, had in it none of the elements of wanton recklessness. He was a thoughtful, brave, and balanced man. In 1861 and 1863 he was Speaker of the Georgia House of Representatives. During the remainder of the war he was a member from Georgia of the Confederate House of Representatives, where he was an ardent and faithful champion of President Davis and his administration.

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        A revelation or soul-sight so strange and true came to him shortly before Lee's surrender that it seems necessary to accompany its insertion here by this hasty analysis of his exalted mental and moral characteristics. Just before day on the morning of February 8, 1865, while in Richmond, he had a vision-- whether an actual dream or some inexplicable manifestation akin thereto he never knew. In this vision he saw his eldest son lying on his back at the foot of a chinaberry-tree on the sidewalk in front of the home he then occupied in Elberton, Georgia, his head in a pool of blood. He ran to him, found him not dead but speechless and unconscious, raised him up by his left hand, and the blood ran out of his right ear. With a start, Colonel Akin came to full consciousness, inexpressibly disturbed. He immediately decided to leave for home, telegraphic communication being cut off. But in a few minutes be received a cheerful letter from his wife, stating that all were well, and this reassured him. On the afternoon of the second day after, this son was thrown from a horse against this same chinaberry-tree, at the foot of which he lay, unconscious and speechless; and a neighbor, seeing him fall, ran up to him, grasped him by his left hand, and lifted him from the pool of blood which ran from his right ear. On the third day after the boy died, unconscious to the end. Colonel Akin knew nothing of his death until about three weeks later, no intelligence of the sad event reaching him sooner because of interrupted mails. Thus happened, two days after he foresaw it, a tragedy which from its nature was wholly unexpected, and which occurred in minutest detail exactly as Colonel Akin had seen it in his vision of the night.

        Major-General Ramseur, of North Carolina, was an officer whose record was equalled by few in the Confederate army. He had won his major-general's stars and wreath by his notable efficiency on the march and in the

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camp, as well as in battle. Of the men of high rank in the army with whom I was intimately associated, none were further removed from superstition or vain and unreal fancies. He had been married since the war began, and there had been born to him, at his home in North Carolina, a son whom he had never seen. On the night preceding the great battle of Cedar Creek, the corps which I commanded, and in which he commanded a division, was filing slowly and cautiously in the darkness along the dim and almost impassable trail around the point, and just over the dangerous precipices of Massanutten Mountain. General Ramseur and I sat on the bluff overlooking the field on which he was soon to lay down his life. He talked most tenderly and beautifully of his wife and baby boy, whom he so longed to see. Finally, a little before dawn, the last soldier of the last division had passed the narrow defile, and the hour for the advance upon the Union forces had arrived. As General Ramseur was ready to ride into battle at the head of his splendid division, he said to me, "Well, general, I shall get my furlough to-day." I did not know what he meant. I did not ask what he meant. It was not a time for questions. But speedily the message came, and his furlough was granted. It came not by mail or wire from the War Department at Richmond, but from the blue lines in his front, flying on the bullet's wing. The chivalric soldier, the noble-hearted gentleman, the loving husband, had been furloughed--forever furloughed from earth's battles and cares.

        My younger brother, Augustus Gordon, captain and later lieutenant-colonel, furnished another illustration of this remarkable foresight of approaching death. Brave and lovable, a modest though brilliant young soldier, he was rapidly winning his way to distinction. A youth of scarcely twenty-one years, he was in command of the Sixth Regiment of Alabama. Before going into the fight

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in the Wilderness, he quietly said: "My hour has come." I joked and chided him. I told him that he must not permit such impressions to affect or take hold upon his imagination. He quickly and firmly replied: "You need not doubt me. I will be at my post. But this is our last meeting." Riding at the head of his regiment, with his sword above him, the fire of battle in his eye and words of cheer for his men on his lips, the fatal grape-shot plunged through his manly heart, and the noble youth slept his last sleep in that woful Wilderness.

        It would require a volume simply to record without comment the hundreds of such presentiments in both the Union and Confederate armies during the war. The few here noted will suffice, however, to raise the inquiry as to what they meant. Who shall furnish a satisfactory solution? What were these wonderful presentiments? They were not the outpourings of a disordered brain. They came from minds thoroughly balanced, clear and strong--minds which worked with the precision of perfect machinery, even amid the excitement and fury of battle. They were not the promptings of an unmanly fear of danger or apprehension of death; for no men ever faced both danger and death with more absolute self-poise, sublimer courage, or profounder consecration. Nor were these presentiments mere speculations as to chances. They were perceptions. There was about them no element of speculation. Their conspicuous characteristic was certainty. The knowledge seemed so firmly fixed that no argument as to possible mistake, no persuasion, could shake it. Where did that knowledge come from? It seems to me there can be but one answer, and that answer is another argument for immortality. It was the whispering of the Infinite beyond us to the Infinite within us--a whispering inaudible to the natural ear, but louder than the roar of battle to the spirit that heard it.

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        There was another class of soldiers who had a sort of blind faith in their own invulnerability; but it differed wholly, radically, from the presentiments which I am considering. Several of these cases came also under my immediate observation. In one case, this blind faith, as I term it, was the result of long army experience of the man whose remarkable escape from wounds in several wars had left upon his mind its natural effect. In another case it was a highly developed belief in the doctrine of predestination, which gave great comfort to its possessor, adding to the courage that was inherent in him another element which rendered him indifferent, apparently, to exposure to fire or protection from it.

        The first illustration was that of a soldier under my command-- Vickers of the Sixth Alabama Regiment. There was no better soldier in either army than Vickers. He had passed unscathed through two previous wars, in Mexico, I believe, and in Nicaragua. He was in every battle with his regiment in our Civil War until his death, and always at the front. The greater the danger, the higher his spirits seemed to soar. The time came, however, when his luck, or fate, in whose fickle favor he so implicitly trusted, deserted him. At Antietam--Sharpsburg--I called for some one who was willing to take the desperate chances of carrying a message from me to the commander on my right. Vickers promptly volunteered, with some characteristic remark which indicated his conviction that he was not born to be killed in battle. There was a cross-fire from two directions through which he had to pass and of which he had been advised; but he bounded away with the message almost joyously. He had not gone many steps from my side when a ball through his head, the first and last that ever struck him, had placed this brave soldier beyond the possibility of realizing, in this world at least, the treachery of that fate on which he depended.

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        The other case was that of Lieutenant-General D. H. Hill, and the particular occasion which I select, and which aptly illustrates his remarkable faith, was the battle of Malvern Hill. At that time he was major-general of the division in which I commanded Rodes's brigade. He was my friend. The personal and official relations between us, considering the disparity in our ages, were most cordial and even intimate. He was closely allied to Stonewall Jackson, and in many respects his counterpart. His brilliant career as a soldier is so well known that any historical account of it, in such a book as I am writing, would be wholly unnecessary. I introduce him here as a most conspicuous illustration of a faith in Providence which, in its steadiness and strength and in its sustaining influence under great peril, certainly touched the margin of the sublime. At Malvern Hill, where General McClellan made his superb and last stand against General Lee's forces, General Hill took his seat at the root of a large tree and began to write his orders. At this point McClellan's batteries from the crest of a high ridge, and his gunboats from the James River, were ploughing up the ground in every direction around us. The long shells from the gunboats, which our men called "McClellan's gate-posts," and the solid shot from his heavy guns on land, were knocking the Confederate batteries to pieces almost as fast as they could be placed in position. The Confederate artillerists fell so rapidly that I was compelled to detail untrained infantry to take their places. And yet there sat that intrepid officer, General D. H. Hill, in the midst of it all, coolly writing his orders. He did not place the large tree between himself and the destructive batteries, but sat facing them. I urged him to get on the other side of the tree and avoid such needless and reckless exposure. He replied, "Don't worry about me; look after the men. I am not going to be killed until my time comes." He had

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scarcely uttered these words when a shell exploded in our immediate presence, severely shocking me for the moment, a portion of it tearing through the breast of his coat and rolling him over in the newly ploughed ground. This seemed to convert him to a more rational faith; for he rose from the ground, and, shaking the dirt from his uniform, quietly took his seat on the other side of the tree.

        As for myself, I was never in a battle without realizing that every moment might be my last; but I never had a presentiment of certain death at a given time or in a particular battle. There did come to me, on one occasion, a feeling that was akin to a presentiment. It was, however, the result of no supposed perception of certain coming fate, but an unbidden, unwelcome calculation of chances--suggested by the peculiar circumstances in which I found myself at the time. It was at Winchester, in the Valley of Virginia. My command was lying almost in the shadow of a frowning fortress in front, in which General Milroy, of the Union army, was strongly intrenched with forces which we had been fighting during the afternoon. In the dim twilight, with the glimmer of his bayonets and brass howitzers still discernible, I received an order to storm the fortress at daylight the next morning. To say that I was astounded at the order would feebly express the sensation which its reading produced; for on either side of the fort was an open country, miles in width, through which Confederate troops could easily pass around and to the rear of the fort, cutting off General Milroy from the base of his supplies, and thus forcing him to retire and meet us in the open field. There was nothing for me to do, however, but to obey the order. As in the night I planned the assault and thought of the dreadful slaughter that awaited my men, there came to me, as I have stated, a calculation as to chances, which resulted in the conclusion that I

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had not one chance in a thousand to live through it. The weary hours of the night had nearly passed, and by the dim light of my bivouac fire I wrote, with pencil, what I supposed was my last letter to Mrs. Gordon, who, as usual, was near me. I summoned my quartermaster, whose duties did not call him into the fight, and gave him the letter, with directions to deliver it to Mrs. Gordon after I was dead. Mounting my horse, my men now ready, I spoke to them briefly and encouraged them to go with me into the fort. Before the dawn we were moving, and soon ascending the long slope. At every moment I expected the storm of shell and ball that would end many a life, my own among them; but on we swept, and into the fort, to find not a soldier there! It had been evacuated during the night.

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CHAPTER VI

BATTLE OF MALVERN HILL

        Continuous fighting between McClellan's and Lee's armies--Hurried burial of the dead--How "Stonewall" Jackson got his name--The secret of his wonderful power--The predicament of my command at Malvern Hill--A fruitless wait for reënforcements-- Character the basis of true courage-- Anecdote of General Polk.

        AFTER the bloody encounter at Seven Pines, or Fair Oaks, the dead of both armies were gathered, under a flag of truce, for burial. An inspection of the field revealed a scene sickening and shocking to those whose sensibilities were not yet blunted by almost constant contact with such sights. It would not require a very vivid imagination to write of Chickahominy's flooded swamps as "incarnadined waters," in which floated side by side the dead bodies clad in blue and in gray. All over the field near the swamp were scattered in indiscriminate confusion the motionless forms and ghastly faces of fellow-countrymen who had fallen bravely fighting each other in a battle for principles-- enemies the day before, but brothers then in the cold embrace of an honorable death. Dying at each other's hands in support of profoundly cherished convictions, their released spirits had ascended together on the battle's flame to receive the reward of the unerring tribunal of last appeal.

        The fighting between the armies of McClellan and Lee was so nearly continuous, and engagement succeeded engagement so rapidly, that at some points the killed

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were hurriedly and imperfectly buried. I myself had a most disagreeable reminder of this fact. The losses in Rodes's brigade, which I was then commanding, had been so heavy that it was held with other troops as a reserved corps. Our experiences, however, on the particular day of which I now speak had been most trying, and after nightfall I was directed to move to a portion of the field where the fighting had been desperate on the preceding day, and to halt for the night in a woodland. Overcome with excessive fatigue, as soon as the designated point was reached I delivered my horse to a courier and dropped down on the ground for a much-needed rest. In a few moments I was sound asleep. A slightly elevated mound of earth served for a pillow. Frequently during the night I attempted to brush away from my head what I thought in my slumber was a twig or limb ,of the underbrush in which I was lying. My horror can be imagined when I discovered, the next morning, that it was the hand of a dead soldier sticking out above the shallow grave which had been my pillow and in which he had been only partly covered.

        Up to this period my association with General Jackson (Stonewall) had not been sufficiently close for me clearly to comprehend the secret of his wonderful success, but I learned it a few days later at Malvern Hill. The sobriquet "Stonewall" was applied to him during the first great engagement of the war at Manassas, or Bull Run. His brigade was making a superb stand against General McDowell's column, which had been thrown with such momentum upon the Southern flank as to threaten the destruction of the whole army. General Bee, of South Carolina, whose blood was almost the earliest sprinkled on the Southern altar, determined to lead his own brigade to another charge, and looking across the field, he saw Jackson's men firmly, stubbornly resisting the Federal advance. General Bee, in order to

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kindle in the breasts of his men the ardor that glowed in his own, pointed to Jackson's line and exclaimed: "See, there stands Jackson like a stone wall!" Bee himself fell in the charge, but he had christened Jackson and his brigade by attaching to them a peculiar and distinctive name which will live while the history of our Civil War lives.

        I have said that at Malvern Hill I learned the secret of Jackson's wonderful power and success as a soldier. It was due not only to his keen and quick perception of the situation in which he found himself at each moment in the rapidly changing scenes as the battle progressed or before it began, but notably to an implicit faith in his own judgment when once made up. He would formulate that judgment, risk his last man upon its correctness, and deliver the stunning blow, while others less gifted were hesitating and debating as to its wisdom and safety. Whatever this peculiar power may be called, this mental or moral gift, whether inspiration or intuition, it was in him a profound conviction that he was not mistaken, that the result would demonstrate that the means he employed must necessarily attain the end which he thought to accomplish. The incident to which I refer was trivial in itself, but it threw a flood of light upon his marvellous endowment. I sat on my horse, facing him and receiving instructions from him, when Major-General Whiting, himself an officer of high capacity, rode up in great haste and interrupted Jackson as he was giving to me a message to General Hill. With some agitation, Whiting said: "General Jackson, I find, sir, that I cannot accomplish what you have directed unless you send me some additional infantry and another battery"; and he then proceeded to give the reasons why the order could not be executed with the forces at his disposal. All this time, while Whiting explained and argued, Jackson sat on his horse like a stone

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statue. He looked neither to the right nor the left. He made no comment and asked no questions; but when Whiting had finished, Jackson turned his flashing eyes upon him and used these words, and only these: "I have told you what I wanted done, General Whiting"; and planting his spurs in his horse's sides, he dashed away at a furious speed to another part of the field. Whiting gazed at Jackson's disappearing figure in amazement, if not in anger, and then rode back to his command. The result indicated the accuracy of Jackson's judgment and the infallibility of his genius, for Whiting did accomplish precisely what Jackson intended, and he did it with the force which Jackson had placed in his hands.

        Returning, after my interview with Jackson, to my position on the extreme right, I found General Hill in a fever of impatience for the advance upon McClellan's troops, who were massed, with their batteries, on the heights in our front. The hour for the general assault which was to be made in the afternoon by the whole Confederate army had come and passed. There had been, however, the delays usual in all such concerted movements. Some of the divisions had not arrived upon the field; others, from presumably unavoidable causes, had not taken their places in line: and the few remaining hours of daylight were passing. Finally a characteristic Confederate yell was heard far down the line. It was supposed to be the beginning of the proposed general assault. General Hill ordered me to lead the movement on the right, stating that he would hurry in the supports to take their places on both my flanks and in rear of my brigade. I made the advance, but the supports did not come. Indeed, with the exception of one other brigade, which was knocked to pieces in a few minutes, no troops came in view. Isolated from the rest of the army and alone, my brigade moved across this shell-ploughed plain toward the heights, which were perhaps

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more than half a mile away. Within fifteen or twenty minutes the centre regiment (Third Alabama), with which I moved, had left more than half of its number dead and wounded along its track, and the other regiments had suffered almost as severely. One shell had killed six or seven men in my immediate presence. My pistol, on one side, had the handle torn off; my canteen, on the other, was pierced, emptying its contents--water merely--on my trousers; and my coat was ruined by having a portion of the front torn away: but, with the exception of this damage, I was still unhurt. At the foot of the last steep ascent, near the batteries, I found that McClellan's guns were firing over us, and as any further advance by this unsupported brigade would have been not only futile but foolhardy, I halted my men and ordered them to lie down and fire upon McClellan's standing lines of infantry. I stood upon slightly elevated ground in order to watch for the reënforcements, or for any advance from the heights upon my command. In vain I looked behind us for the promised support. Anxiously I looked forward, fearing an assault upon my exposed position. No reënforcements came until it was too late. As a retreat in daylight promised to be almost or quite as deadly as had been the charge, my desire for the relief which nothing but darkness could now bring can well be imagined. In this state of extreme anxiety a darkness which was unexpected and terrible came to me alone. A great shell fell, buried itself in the ground, and exploded near where I stood. It heaved the dirt over me, filling my face and ears and eyes with sand. I was literally blinded. Not an inch before my face could I see; but I could think, and thoughts never ran more swiftly through a perplexed mortal brain. Blind! Blind in battle! Was this to be permanent? Suppose reënforcements now came, what was I to do? Suppose there should be an assault upon my command from the front?

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Such were the unspoken but agonizing questions which throbbed in my brain with terrible swiftness and intensity. The blindness, however, was of short duration. The delicate and perfect machinery of the eye soon did its work. At last came, also, the darkness for which I longed, and under its thick veil this splendid brigade was safely withdrawn.

        Large bodies of troops had been sent forward, or rather led forward, by that intrepid commander, General Hill; but the unavoidable delay in reaching the locality, and other intervening difficulties, prevented them from ever reaching the advanced position from which my men withdrew. In the hurry and bustle of trying to get them forward, coming as they did from different directions, there was necessarily much confusion, and they were subjected to the same destructive fire through which my troops had previously passed. In the darkness, even after the firing had ceased, there occurred, in the confusion, among these mixed up bodies of men, many amusing mistakes as to identity, and some altercations between officers which were not so amusing and not altogether complimentary. One of my men ran to me and asked, "Did you hear - - - say to - - - that he and his men," etc.--I forbear to quote the remaining part of the question. I replied that I had not heard it, but if it had occurred as reported to me we would probably hear of it again--and we did. Early the next morning a challenge was sent, but the officer who had given the offence was in a playful mood when the challenge reached him; so, instead of accepting it, or answering it in the formal style required by the duelling code, he replied in about these words:

        MY DEAR - - -: I did not volunteer to fight you or any other Confederate, but if you and your men will do better in the next battle I will take back all I said to you last night. In the meantime, I am,

Very truly yours,

- - -.


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        These officers are both dead now, and I give this incomplete account of the incident to show how easy it was to get up a fight along in the sixties, if one were so disposed, either in a general mêlée with the blue-coated lines, or single-handed with a gray-clad comrade.

        I believe it was in this battle that was first perpetrated that rustic witticism which afterward became so famous in the army. Through one of the wide gaps made in the Confederate lines by McClellan's big guns as they sent their death-dealing missiles from hill and river, there ran a panic-stricken rabbit, flying in terror to the rear. A stalwart mountaineer noticed the speed and the direction which the rabbit took to escape from his disagreeable surroundings. He was impressed by the rabbit's prudence, and shouted, so that his voice was heard above the din of the battle: "Go it, Molly Cottontail! I wish I could go with you!" One of his comrades near by caught up the refrain, and answered: "Yes, and, 'y golly, Jim, I 'd go with Molly, too, if it was n't for my character."

        "Character." What a centre shot this rough soldier had fired in that short sentence! He had analyzed unconsciously but completely the loftiest type of courage. He felt like flying to the rear, as "Molly" was flying, but his character carried him forward. His sense of the awful dangers, the ominous hissing of the deadly Minié balls, and the whizzing of the whirling shells tearing through the ranks and scattering the severed limbs of his falling comrades around him, all conspired to bid him fly to the rear; but his character, that noblest of human endowments, commanded, "Forward!" and forward he went.

        In this connection I am reminded of the commonplace but important truth that the aggregate character of a people of any country depends upon the personal character of its individual citizens; and that the stability of

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popular government depends far more upon the character, the individual personal character of its people, than it does upon any constitution that could be adopted or statutes that could be enacted. What would safeguards be worth if the character of the people did not sustain and enforce them? The constitution would be broken, the laws defied; riot and anarchy would destroy both, and with them the government itself. I am not assuming or suggesting that this country is in any present danger of such an experience; but of all the countries on earth this one, with its universal suffrage, its divergent and conflicting interests, its immense expanse of territory, and its large population, made up from every class and clime, and still to be increased in the coming years, is far more dependent than any other upon the character of its people. It is a great support to our hope for the future and to our confidence in the stability of this government to recall now and then some illustration of the combination of virtues which make up character, as they gleam with peculiar lustre through the darkest hours of our Civil War period. That war not only gave the occasion for its exhibition, but furnished the food upon which character fed and grew strong. There were many thousands of men in both armies who did not say in words, but said by deeds, that "character" would not let them consult their fears or obey the impulse of their heels. I could fill this book with such cases, and yet confine myself to either one of the armies.

        I received the particulars of another incident illustrating this truth from a Union officer who was present when the desperate and successful effort was made to hold the little fort at Altoona, Georgia, against the assault by the Confederates. They had surrounded it and demanded its surrender. The demand was refused, whereupon an awful and consuming fire was opened upon the small force locked up in the little fortress.

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        Steadily and rapidly the men fell in the fort. No place could be found within its dirt walls where even the wounded could be laid, so as to protect them from the galling Confederate fire; but still they fought and refused to surrender. Finally, in utter despair, some one proposed to raise the white flag. Instantly there rang around the fort a chorus of indignant protest: "Who says surrender? Shoot the man who proposes it!" In the face of the fact that at every moment the men were dying, and that apparently certain destruction awaited all, what was it that inspired that protest against surrender? There is but one answer. It was character. Those men had been ordered there to hold that fort. A grave responsibility had been imposed; a trust of most serious nature had been committed to them; and although their commander had been shot down, all the officers killed or wounded, and the ammunition nearly exhausted, yet their manhood, their fidelity, their character bade them fight on. They had no "Molly," with its white cotton-tail, bidding them fly to the rear, but they did have the suggestion of the white flag. Around them, as around the high-spirited Confederate at Malvern Hill, the storm of death in wildest fury was raging; and in both cases, as in ten thousand other cases, they turned a deaf ear to all suggestions of personal danger. The answer to such suggestions, though differing in phraseology, was the same in both cases--character.

        While the heroic men at Altoona were rapidly falling but still fighting, with chances of successful resistance diminishing as each dreadful moment passed, the signal-flag from a spur of Kennesaw Mountain sent them that famous message from General Sherman: "Hold the fort. I am coming."

        During a visit to northern Pennsylvania, in recent years, an officer of the signal corps stated incidentally that they had succeeded in interpreting the Confederate

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signals, and that while General Johnston's army was at Kennesaw this Union corps caught the signal message announcing that Lieutenant-General Polk had just been killed, and that the fact was announced in the Northern papers as soon, or perhaps before, it was announced to the Southern troops. It is probable that the signal corps of the Southern armies were at times able to interpret the signals of the other side. In one way or another, the high secrets of the two sides generally leaked out and became the property of the opponents by right of capture.

        The reference to General's Polk's death recalls an anecdote told of him in the army, which aptly illustrates the great enthusiasm with which he fought, and which he never failed to impart to his splendid corps. General Leonidas Polk was a prince among men and an officer of marked ability. He was a bishop of the Episcopal Church. His character was beautiful in its simplicity and its strength. He was an ardent admirer of General Cheatham, who was one of the most furious fighters of Johnston's army. Cheatham, when the furor of battle was on him, was in the habit of using four monosyllables which were more expressive than polished, but in his case they expressed with tremendous emphasis the "gloria certaminis." These four monosyllables, which became notable in the army as "Cheatham's expression," were: "Give 'em hell, boys!" General Polk, as I have said, was an ardent admirer of General Cheatham as a soldier, and on one occasion, as the bishop-general rode along his lines, when they were charging the works in front, and as the rebel yell rang out his natural enthusiasm carried him, for the moment, off his balance. In the exhilaration of the charge the bishop was lost in the soldier, and he shouted: "Give it to 'em, boys! Give 'em what General Cheatham says!"

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CHAPTER VII

ANTIETAM

        Restoration of McClellan to command of the Federals--My command at General Lee's centre--Remarkable series of bayonet charges by the Union troops--How the centre was held--Bravery of the Union commander--A long struggle for life.

        THE war had now assumed proportions altogether vaster than had been anticipated by either the North or the South. No man at the North, perhaps no man on either side, had at its beginning a clearer perception of the probable magnitude of the struggle than General W. T. Sherman. Although he was regarded even then by his people as an officer of unusual promise, and a typical representative of the courage and constancy of the stalwart sons of the great West, yet he called upon himself and his prophecy the criticism of those whose views did not accord with his predictions. However uncomfortable these criticisms may have been to his friends, they did not seem to disturb his equanimity or force him to modify his opinion that it would require a vastly larger army than was generally supposed necessary to penetrate the heart of the South. He seemed to have, at that early period, a well-defined idea of the desperate resistance to be made by the Southern people. Possibly this ability to look into the future may have been in some measure due to a superior knowledge of the characteristics of the Southern people acquired during his former residence among them; but whatever the

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source of his information, General Sherman lived to see the correctness of his opinions abundantly verified. Some years after the war, when General Sherman visited Atlanta, the brilliant and witty Henry W. Grady, in a speech made to him on his arrival, playfully referred to the former visit of the general, and to the condition in which that visit had left the city. Grady said: "And they do say, general, that you are a little careless about fire." General Sherman must have felt compensated for any allusions to the marks he had left when "marching through Georgia" by the courtesies shown him while in Atlanta, as well as by the people's appreciation of the remarkably generous terms offered by him to General Johnston's army at the surrender in North Carolina. Those terms were rejected in Washington because of their liberality.

        Like two mighty giants preparing for a test of strength, the Union and Confederate armies now arrayed themselves for still bloodier encounters. In this encounter the one went down, and in that the other; but each rose from its fall, if not with renewed strength, at least with increased resolve. In the Southwest, as well as in Virginia, the blows between the mighty contestants came fast and hard. Both were in the field for two and a half years more of the most herculean struggle the world has ever witnessed.

        At Antietam, or Sharpsburg, as the Confederates call it, on the soil of Maryland, occurred one of the most desperate though indecisive battles of modern times. The Union forces numbered about 60,000, the Confederates about 35,000. This battle left its lasting impress upon my body as well as upon my memory.

        General George B. McClellan, after his displacement, had been again assigned to the command of the Union forces. The restoration of this brilliant soldier seemed to have imparted new life to that army. Vigorously

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following up the success achieved at South Mountain, McClellan, on the 16th day of September, 1862, marshalled his veteran legions on the eastern hills bordering the Antietam. On the opposite slopes, near the picturesque village of Sharpsburg, stood the embattled lines of Lee. As these vast American armies, the one clad in blue and the other in gray, stood contemplating each other from the adjacent hills, flaunting their defiant banners, they presented an array of martial splendor that was not equalled, perhaps, on any other field. It was in marked contrast with other battle-grounds. On the open plain, where stood these hostile hosts in long lines, listening in silence for the signal summoning them to battle, there were no breastworks, no abatis, no intervening woodlands, nor abrupt hills, nor hiding-places, nor impassable streams. The space over which the assaulting columns were to march, and on which was soon to occur the tremendous struggle, consisted of smooth and gentle undulations and a narrow valley covered with green grass and growing corn. From the position assigned me near the centre of Lee's lines, both armies and the entire field were in view. The scene was not only magnificent to look upon, but the realization of what it meant was deeply impressive. Even in times of peace our sensibilities are stirred by the sight of a great army passing in review. How infinitely more thrilling in the dread moments before the battle to look upon two mighty armies upon the same plain, "beneath spread ensigns and bristling bayonets," waiting for the impending crash and sickening carnage!

        Behind McClellan's army the country was open and traversed by broad macadamized roads leading to Washington and Baltimore. The defeat, therefore, or even the total rout of Union forces, meant not necessarily the destruction of that army, but, more probably, its temporary disorganization and rapid retreat through a country

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abounding in supplies, and toward cities rich in men and means. Behind Lee's Confederates, on the other hand, was the Potomac River, too deep to be forded by his infantry, except at certain points. Defeat and total rout of his army meant, therefore, not only its temporary disorganization, but its possible destruction. And yet that bold leader did not hesitate to give battle. Such was his confidence in the steadfast courage and oft-tested prowess of his troops that he threw his lines across McClellan's front with their backs against the river. Doubtless General Lee would have preferred, as all prudent commanders would, to have the river in his front instead of his rear; but he wisely, as the sequel proved, elected to order Jackson from Harper's Ferry, and, with his entire army, to meet McClellan on the eastern shore rather than risk the chances of having the Union commander assail him while engaged in crossing the Potomac.

        On the elevated points beyond the narrow valley the Union batteries were rolled into position, and the Confederate heavy guns unlimbered to answer them. For one or more seconds, and before the first sounds reached us, we saw the great volumes of white smoke rolling from the mouths of McClellan's artillery. The next second brought the roar of the heavy discharges and the loud explosions of hostile shells in the midst of our lines, inaugurating the great battle. The Confederate batteries promptly responded; and while the artillery of both armies thundered, McClellan's compact columns of infantry fell upon the left of Lee's lines with the crushing weight of a land-slide. The Confederate battle line was too weak to withstand the momentum of such a charge. Pressed back, but neither hopelessly broken nor dismayed, the Southern troops, enthused by Lee's presence, reformed their lines, and, with a shout as piercing as the blast of a thousand bugles, rushed in counter-charge upon the exulting Federals, hurled them back in confusion,

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and recovered all the ground that had been lost. Again and again, hour after hour, by charges and counter-charges, this portion of the field was lost and recovered, until the green corn that grow upon it looked as if it had been struck by a storm of bloody hail.

        Up to this hour not a shot had been fired in my front. There was an ominous lull on the left. From sheer exhaustion, both sides, like battered and bleeding athletes, seemed willing to rest. General Lee took advantage of the respite and rode along his lines on the right and centre. He was accompanied by Division Commander General D. H. Hill. With that wonderful power which he possessed of divining the plans and purposes of his antagonist, General Lee had decided that the Union commander's next heavy blow would fall upon our centre, and those of us who held that important position were notified of this conclusion. We were cautioned to be prepared for a determined assault and urged to hold that centre at any sacrifice, as a break at that point would endanger his entire army. My troops held the most advanced position on this part of the field, and there was no supporting line behind us. It was evident, therefore, that my small force was to receive the first impact of the expected charge and to be subjected to the deadliest fire. To comfort General Lee and General Hill, and especially to make, if possible, my men still more resolute of purpose, I called aloud to these officers as they rode away: "These men are going to stay here, General, till the sun goes down or victory is won." Alas! many of the brave fellows are there now.

        General Lee had scarcely reached his left before the predicted assault came. The day was clear and beautiful, with scarcely a cloud in the sky. The men in blue filed down the opposite slope, crossed the little stream (Antietam), and formed in my front, an assaulting column four lines deep. The front line came to a "charge

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bayonets," the other lines to a "right shoulder shift." The brave Union commander, superbly mounted, placed himself in front, while his band in rear cheered them with martial music. It was a thrilling spectacle. The entire force, I concluded, was composed of fresh troops from Washington or some camp of instruction. So far as I could see, every soldier wore white gaiters around his ankles. The banners above them had apparently never been discolored by the smoke and dust of battle. Their gleaming bayonets flashed like burnished silver in the sunlight. With the precision of step and perfect alignment of a holiday parade, this magnificent array moved to the charge, every step keeping time to the tap of the deep-sounding drum. As we stood looking upon that brilliant pageant, I thought, if I did not say, "What a pity to spoil with bullets such a scene of martial beauty!" But there was nothing else to do. Mars is not an aesthetic god; and he was directing every part of this game in which giants were the contestants. On every preceding field where I had been engaged it had been my fortune to lead or direct charges, and not to receive them; or else to move as the tides of battle swayed in the one direction or the other. Now my duty was to move neither to the front nor to the rear, but to stand fast, holding that centre under whatever pressure and against any odds.

        Every act and movement of the Union commander in my front clearly indicated his purpose to discard bullets and depend upon bayonets. He essayed to break through Lee's centre by the crushing weight and momentum of his solid column. It was my business to prevent this; and how to do it with my single line was the tremendous problem which had to be solved, and solved quickly; for the column was coming. As I saw this solid mass of men moving upon me with determined step and front of steel, every conceivable plan of meeting

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and repelling it was rapidly considered. To oppose man against man and strength against strength was impossible; for there were four lines of blue to my one of gray. My first impulse was to open fire upon the compact mass as soon as it came within reach of my rifles, and to pour into its front an incessant hail-storm of bullets during its entire advances across the broad, open plain; but after a moment's reflection that plan was also discarded. It was rejected because, during the few minutes required for the column to reach my line, I could not hope to kill and disable a sufficient number of the enemy to reduce his strength to an equality with mine. The only remaining plan was one which I had never tried but in the efficacy of which I had the utmost faith. It was to hold my fire until the advancing Federals were almost upon my lines, and then turn loose a sheet of flame and lead into their faces. I did not believe that any troops on earth, with empty guns in their hands, could withstand so sudden a shock and withering a fire. The programme was fixed in my own mind, all horses were sent to the rear, and my men were at once directed to lie down upon the grass and clover. They were quickly made to understand, through my aides and line officers, that the Federals were coming upon them with unloaded guns; that not a shot would be fired at them, and that not one of our rifles was to be discharged until my voice should be heard from the centre commanding "Fire!" They were carefully instructed in the details. They were notified that I would stand at the centre, watching the advance, while they were lying upon their breasts with rifles pressed to their shoulders, and that they were not to expect my order to fire until the Federals were so close upon us that every Confederate bullet would take effect.

        There was not artillery at this point upon either side, and not a rifle was discharged. The stillness was literally

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oppressive, as in close order, with the commander still riding in front, this column of Union infantry moved majestically in the charge. In a few minutes they were within easy range of our rifles, and some of my impatient men asked permission to fire. "Not yet," I replied. "Wait for the order." Soon they were so close that we might have seen the eagles on their buttons; but my brave and eager boys still waited for the order. Now the front rank was within a few rods of where I stood. It would not do to wait another second, and with all my lung power I shouted "Fire!"

        My rifles flamed and roared in the Federals' faces like a blinding blaze of lightning accompanied by the quick and deadly thunderbolt. The effect was appalling. The entire front line, with few exceptions, went down in the consuming blast. The gallant commander and his horse fell in a heap near where I stood--the horse dead, the rider unhurt. Before his rear lines could recover from the terrific shock, my exultant men were on their feet, devouring them with successive volleys. Even then these stubborn blue lines retreated in fairly good order. My front had been cleared; Lee's centre had been saved; and yet not a drop of blood had been lost by my men. The result, however, of this first effort to penetrate the Confederate centre did not satisfy the intrepid Union commander. Beyond the range of my rifles he reformed his men into three lines, and on foot led them to the second charge, still with unloaded guns. This advance was also repulsed; but again and again did he advance in four successive charges in the fruitless effort to break through my lines with the bayonets. Finally his troops were ordered to load. He drew up in close rank and easy range, and opened a galling fire upon my line.

        I must turn aside from my story at this point to express my regret that I have never been able to ascertain the name of this lion-hearted Union officer. His indomitable

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will and great courage have been equalled on other fields and in both armies; but I do not believe they have ever been surpassed. Just before I fell and was borne unconscious from the field, I saw this undaunted commander attempting to lead his men in another charge.

        The fire from these hostile American lines at close quarters now became furious and deadly. The list of the slain was lengthened with each passing moment. I was not at the front when, near nightfall, the awful carnage ceased; but one of my officers long afterward assured me that he could have walked on the dead bodies of my men from one end of the line to the other. This, perhaps, was not literally true; but the statement did not greatly exaggerate the shocking slaughter. Before, I was wholly disabled and carried to the rear, I walked along my line and found an old man and his son lying side by side. The son was dead, the father mortally wounded. The gray-haired hero called me and said: "Here we are. My boy is dead, and I shall go soon; but it is all right." Of such were the early volunteers.

        My extraordinary escapes from wounds in all the previous battles had made a deep impression upon my comrades as well as upon my own mind. So many had fallen at my side, so often had balls and shells pierced and torn my clothing, grazing my body without drawing a drop of blood, that a sort of blind faith possessed my men that I was not to be killed in battle. This belief was evidenced by their constantly repeated expressions: "They can't hurt him." "He's as safe one place as another." "He's got a charmed life."

        If I had allowed these expressions of my men to have any effect upon my mind the impression was quickly dissipated when the Sharpsburg storm came and the whizzing Miniés, one after another, began to pierce my body.

        

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        The first volley from the Union lines in my front sent a ball through the brain of the chivalric Colonel Tew, of North Carolina, to whom I was talking, and another ball through the calf of my right leg. On the right and the left my men were falling under the death-dealing crossfire like trees in a hurricane. The persistent Federals, who had lost so heavily from repeated repulses, seemed now determined to kill enough Confederates to make the debits and credits of the battle's balance-sheet more nearly even. Both sides stood in the open at short range and without the semblance of breastworks, and the firing was doing a deadly work. Higher up in the same leg I was again shot; but still no bone was broken. I was able to walk along the line and give encouragement to my resolute riflemen, who were firing with the coolness, and steadiness of peace soldiers in target practice. When later in the day the third ball pierced my left arm, tearing asunder the tendons and mangling the flesh, they caught sight of the blood running down my fingers, and these devoted and big-hearted men, while still loading their guns, pleaded with me to leave them and go to the rear, pledging me that they would stay there and fight to the last. I could not consent to leave them in such a crisis. The surgeons were all busy at the field-hospitals in the rear, and there was no way, therefore, of stanching the blood, but I had a vigorous constitution, and this was doing me good service.

        A fourth ball ripped through my shoulder, leaving its base and a wad of clothing in its track. I could still stand and walk, although the shocks and loss of blood had left but little of my normal strength. I remembered the pledge to the commander that we would stay there till the battle ended or night came. I looked at the sun. It moved very slowly; in fact, it seemed to stand still. I thought I saw some wavering in my line, near the extreme right, and Private Vickers, of Alabama, volunteered

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to carry any orders I might wish to send. I directed him to go quickly and remind the men of the pledge to General Lee, and to say to them that I was still on the field and intended to stay there. He bounded away like an Olympic racer; but he had gone less than fifty yards when he fell, instantly killed by a ball through his head. I then attempted to go myself, although I was bloody and faint, and my legs did not bear me steadily. I had gone but a short distance when I was shot down by a fifth ball, which struck me squarely in the face, and passed out, barely missing the jugular vein. I fell forward and lay unconscious with my face in my cap; and it would seem that I might have been smothered by the blood running into my cap from this last wound but for the act of some Yankee, who, as if to save my life, had at a previous hour during the battle, shot a hole through the cap, which let the blood out.

        I was borne on a litter to the rear, and recall nothing more till revived by stimulants at a late hour of the night. I found myself lying on a pile of straw at an old barn, where our badly wounded were gathered. My faithful surgeon, Dr. Weatherly, who was my devoted friend, was at my side, with his fingers on my pulse. As I revived, his face was so expressive of distress that I asked him: "What do you think of my case, Weatherly?" He made a manly effort to say that he was hopeful. I knew better, and said: "You are not honest with me. You think I am going to die; but I am going to get well." Long afterward, when the danger was past, he admitted that this assurance was his first and only basis of hope.

        General George B. Anderson, of North Carolina, whose troops were on my right, was wounded in the foot, but, it was thought, not severely. That superb man and soldier was dead in a few weeks, though his wound was supposed to be slight, while I was mercifully sustained

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through a long battle with wounds the combined effect of which was supposed to be fatal. Such are the mysterious concomitants of cruel war.

        Mrs. Gordon was soon with me. When it was known that the battle was on, she had at once started toward the front. The doctors were doubtful about the propriety of admitting her to my room; but I told them to let her come. I was more apprehensive of the effect of the meeting upon her nerves than upon mine. My face was black and shapeless--so swollen that one eye was entirely hidden and the other nearly so. My right leg and left arm and shoulder were bandaged and propped with pillows. I knew she would be greatly shocked. As she reached the door and looked, I saw at once that I must reassure her. Summoning all my strength, I said: "Here's your handsome (?) husband; been to an Irish wedding." Her answer was a suppressed scream, whether of anguish or relief at finding me able to speak, I do not know. Thenceforward, for the period in which my life hung in the balance, she sat at my bedside, trying to supply concentrated nourishment to sustain me against the constant drainage. With my jaw immovably set, this was exceedingly difficult and discouraging. My own confidence in ultimate recovery, however, was never shaken until erysipelas, that deadly foe of the wounded, attacked my left arm. The doctors told Mrs. Gordon to paint my arm above the wound three or four times a day with iodine. She obeyed the doctors by painting it, I think, three or four hundred times a day. Under God's providence, I owe my life to her incessant watchfulness night and day, and to her tender nursing through weary weeks and anxious months.

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CHAPTER VIII

CHANCELLORSVILLE

        A long convalescence--Enlivened by the author of "Georgia Scenes" --The movement upon Hooker's army at Chancellorsville--Remarkable interview between Lee and Stonewall Jackson--The secret of Jackson's character--The storming of Marye's Heights--Some famous war-horses.

        IT was nearly seven months after the battle of Antietam, or Sharpsburg, before I was able to return to my duties at the front. Even then the wound through my face had not healed; but Nature, at last, did her perfect work, and thus deprived the army surgeons of a proposed operation. Although my enforced absence from the army was prolonged and tedious, it was not without its incidents and interest. Some of the simple-hearted people who lived in remote districts had quaint conceptions of the size of an army. One of these, a matron about fifty years of age, came a considerable distance to see me and to inquire about her son. She opened the conversation by asking: "Do you know William?"

        "What William, madam?"

        "My son William."

        I replied: "Really, I do not know whether I have ever met your son William or not. Can you tell me what regiment or brigade or division or corps he belongs to?"

        She answered: "No, I can't, but I know he belongs to Gin'al Lee's company."

        I think the dear old soul left with the impression that

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I was something of a fraud because I did not know every man in "Gin'al Lee's company"--especially William.

        After I had begun to convalesce, it was my privilege to be thrown with the author of "Georgia Scenes," Judge Augustus Baldwin Longstreet, who was widely known in the Southern States as an able jurist, a distinguished educator, and an eminent Methodist divine, as well as a great humorist and wit. His book, "Georgia Scenes," is now rarely seen, and it may be interesting to those who have never known of Judge Longstreet or his famous stories to give an instance here of the inimitable fun of this many-sided genius, who aided me in whiling away the time of my enforced absence from the army. Judge Longstreet was at that time an old man, but still full of the fire of earlier years, and of that irresistible humor with which his conversation sparkled. On one occasion, when a number of gentlemen were present, I asked the judge to give us the facts which led him to write that remarkable story called "The Debating Society." He said that Mr. McDuffie, who afterward became one of the South's great statesmen, was his classmate and roommate at school. Both were disposed to stir into the monotony of school days a little seasoning of innocent fun. During one of the school terms, they were appointed a committee to select and propose to the society a suitable subject for debate. As they left the hall, Longstreet said to his friend, "Now, McDuffie, is our chance. If we could induce the society to adopt for debate some subject which sounds well, but in which there is no sense at all, would n't it be a great joke?" McDuffie's reply was a roar of laughter. They hastened to their room to begin the selection of the great subject for debate. They agreed that each should write all the high-sounding phrases he could think of, and then by comparing notes, and combining the best of both, they

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could make up their report. They sat up late, conferring and laughing at the suggestions, and at last concocted the question, "Whether at public elections should the votes of faction predominate by internal suggestions, or the bias of jurisprudence?" With boyish glee they pronounced their work well done, and laughed themselves to sleep. On the next morning their report was to be submitted, and the society was to vote as to its adoption. They arose early, full of confidence in their ability to palm off this wonderful subject on the society; for they reasoned thus: no boy will be willing to admit that he is less intelligent or less able to comprehend great public questions or metaphysical subjects than the committee, and therefore each one of them will at once pretend to be delighted at the selection, and depend upon reading and investigation to prepare himself for the following week's debate upon it. They had not miscalculated the chances of success, nor underestimated the boyish pride of their schoolmates. The question was unanimously adopted.

        It is impossible to give any conception of Judge Longstreet's description of the debate upon the question; of how he and McDuffie led off with thoroughly prepared speeches full of resounding rhetoric and rounded periods, but as devoid of sense as the subject itself, the one arguing the affirmative, the other the negative of the proposition. Nor shall I attempt any description of Judge Longstreet's wonderful mimicry of the boys, many of whom became men of distinction in after years; of how they stammered and struggled and agonized in the effort to rise to the height of the great argument; and finally, of the effort of the president of the society, who was, of course, one of the schoolboys, to sum up the points made and determine on which side were the weightiest and most cogent arguments. Suffice it to say that I recall with grateful pleasure the hours spent during my convalescence

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in the presence of this remarkable man. His inimitable and delicate humor was the sunshine of his useful and laborious life, and will remain a bright spot in my recollections of the sixties.

        On my return to the army, I was assigned to the command of perhaps the largest brigade in the Confederate army, composed of six regiments from my own State, Georgia. No more superb material ever filled the ranks of any command in any army. It was, of course, a most trying moment to my sensibilities when the time came for my parting from the old command with which I had passed through so many scenes of bitter trial; but these men were destined to come back to me again. It is trite, but worth the repetition, to say that there are few ties stronger and more sacred than those which bind together in immortal fellowship men who with unfaltering faith in each other have passed through such scenes of terror and blood.

        Years afterward, my daughter met a small son of one of these brave comrades, and asked him his name.

        "Gordon Wright," was his prompt reply.

        "And for whom are you named, Gordon?"

        "I don't know, miss," he answered, "but I believe my mamma said I was named for General Lee."

        I had been with my new command but a short time when the great battle of Chancellorsville occurred. It was just before this bloody engagement that my young brother had so accurately and firmly predicted his own death, and it was here the immortal Jackson fell. I never write or pronounce this name without an impulse to pause in veneration for that American phenomenon. The young men of this country cannot study the character of General Jackson without benefit to their manhood, and for those who are not familiar with his characteristics I make this descriptive allusion to him.

        As to whether he fell by the fire of his own men or

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from that of the Union men in his front, will perhaps never be definitely determined. The general, the almost universal, belief at the South is that he was killed by a volley from the Confederate lines; but I have had grave doubts of this raised in my own mind by conversations with thoughtful Union officers who were at the time in his front and near the point where be was killed. It seems to me quite possible that the fatal ball might have come from either army. This much-mooted question as to the manner of his death is, however, of less consequence than the manner of his life. Any life of such nobility and strength must always be a matter of vital import and interest.

        At the inception of the movement upon General Hooker's army at Chancellorsville, a remarkable interview occurred between General Lee and General Jackson, which is of peculiar interest because it illustrates, in a measure, the characteristics of both these great soldiers.

        It was repeated to me soon after its occurrence, by the Rev. Dr. Lacey, who was with them at the time Jackson rode up to the Commander-in-Chief, and said to him: "General Lee, this is not the best way to move on Hooker."

        "Well, General Jackson, you must remember that I am compelled to depend to some extent upon information furnished me by others, especially by the engineers, as to the topography, the obstructions, etc., and these engineers are of the opinion that this is a very good way of approach."

        "Your engineers are mistaken, sir."

        "What do you know about it, General Jackson? You have not had time to examine the situation."

        "But I have, sir; I have ridden over the whole field."

        And he had. Riding with the swiftness of the wind and looking with the eye of an eagle, he had caught the

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strong and weak points of the entire situation, and was back on his panting steed at the great commander's side to assure him that there was a better route.

        "Then what is to be done, General Jackson?"

        "Take the route you yourself at first suggested. Move on the flank--move on the flank."

        "Then you will at once make the movement, sir."

        Immediately and swiftly, Jackson's "foot cavalry," as they were called, were rushing along a byway through the dense woodland. Soon the wild shout of his charge was heard on the flank and his red cross of battle was floating over General Hooker's breastworks.

        General Hooker, "Fighting Joe," as he was proudly called by his devoted followers, and whom it was my pleasure to meet and to know well after the war, was one of the brilliant soldiers of the Union army. He was afterward hailed as the hero of the "Battle of the Clouds" at Lookout Mountain, and whatever may be said of the small force which he met in the fight upon that mountain's sides and top, the conception was a bold one. It is most improbable that General Hooker was informed as to the number of Confederates he was to meet in the effort to capture the high and rugged Point Lookout, which commanded a perfect view of the city of Chattanooga and the entire field of operations around it. His movement through the dense underbrush, up the rocky steeps, and over the limestone cliffs was executed with a celerity and dash which reflected high credit upon both the commander and his men. Among these men, by the way, was one of those merrymakers--those dispensers of good cheer--found in both the Confederate and Union armies, who were veritable fountains of good-humor, whose spirits glowed and sparkled in all situations, whether in the camp, on the march, or under fire. The special rôle of this one was to entertain his comrades with song, and as Hooker's men were struggling

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up the sides of Lookout Mountain, climbing over the huge rocks, and being picked off them by the Confederate sharpshooters, this frolicsome soldier amused and amazed his comrades by singing, in stentorian tones, his droll camp-song, the refrain of which was "Big pig, little pig, root hog or die." The singer was H. S. Cooper, now a prominent physician of Colorado.

        But to return to the consideration of General Jackson's character. Every right-minded citizen, as well as every knightly soldier, whatever the color of his uniform, will appreciate the beauty of the tribute paid by General Lee, to General Jackson, when he received the latter's message announcing the loss of his left arm. "Go tell General Jackson," said Lee, "that his loss is small compared to mine; for while he loses his left arm, I lose the right arm of my army." No prouder or juster tribute was ever paid by a great commander to a soldier under him.

        But a truth of more importance than anything I have yet said of Jackson may be compassed, I think, in the observation that he added to a marvellous genius for war a character as man and Christian which was absolutely without blemish. His childlike trust and faith, the simplicity, sincerity, and constancy of his unostentatious piety, did not come with the war, nor was it changed by the trials and dangers of war. If the war affected him at all in this particular, it only intensified his religious devotion, because of the tremendous responsibilities which it imposed; but long before, his religious thought and word and example were leading to the higher life young men intrusted to his care, at the Virginia Military Institute. In the army nothing deterred or diverted him from the discharge of his religious duties, nor deprived him of the solace resulting from his unaffected trust. A deep-rooted belief in God, in His word and His providence, was under him and over him and through him, permeating every fibre of his being,

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dominating his every thought, controlling his every action. Wherever he went and whatever he did, whether he was dispensing light and joy in the family circle; imparting lessons of lofty thought to his pupils in the schoolroom at Lexington; planning masterful strategy in his tent; praying in the woods for Heaven's guidance; or riding like the incarnate spirit of war through the storm of battle, as his resistless legions swept the field of carnage with the fury of a tornado--Stonewall Jackson was the faithful disciple of his Divine Master. He died as he had lived, with his ever-active and then fevered brain working out the problems to which his duty called him, and, even with the chill of death upon him, his loving heart prompted the message to his weary soldiers, "Let us cross over the river and rest in the shade of the trees." That his own spirit will eternally rest in the shade of the Tree of Life, none who knew him can for one moment doubt.

        An incident during this battle illustrates the bounding spirits of that great cavalry leader, General "Jeb" Stuart. After Jackson's fall, Stuart was designated to lead Jackson's troops in the final charge. The soul of this brilliant cavalry commander was as full of sentiment as it was of the spirit of self-sacrifice. He was as musical as he was brave. He sang as he fought. Placing himself at the head of Jackson's advancing lines and shouting to them "Forward," he at once led off in that song, "Won't you come out of the wilderness?" He changed the words to suit the occasion. Through the dense woodland, blending in strange harmony with the rattle of rifles, could be distinctly heard that song and words, "Now, Joe Hooker, won't you come out of the wilderness?" This dashing Confederate lost his life later in battle near Richmond.

        While the battle was progressing at Chancellorsville, near which point Lee's left rested, his right extended to

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or near Fredericksburg. Early's division held this position, and my brigade the right of that division; and it was determined that General Early should attempt, near sunrise, to retake the fort on Marye's Heights, from which the Confederates had been driven the day before. I was ordered to move with this new brigade, with which I had never been in battle, and to lead in that assault; at least, such was my interpretation of the order as it reached me. Whether it was my fault or the fault of the wording of the order itself, I am not able to say; but there was a serious misunderstanding about it. My brigade was intended, as it afterward appeared, to be only a portion of the attacking force, whereas I had understood the order to direct me to proceed at once to the assault upon the fort; and I proceeded. As I was officially a comparative stranger to the men of this brigade, I said in a few sentences to them that we should know each other better when the battle of the day was over; that I trusted we should go together into that fort, and that if there were a man in the brigade who did not wish to go with us, I would excuse him if he would stop to the front and make himself known. Of course, there was no man found who desired to be excused, and I then announced that every man in that splendid brigade of Georgians had thus declared his purpose to go into the fortress. They answered this announcement by a prolonged and thrilling shout, and moved briskly to the attack. When we were under full headway and under fire from the heights, I received an order to halt, with the explanation that the other troops were to unite in the assault; but the order had come too late. My men were already under heavy fire and were nearing the fort. They were rushing upon it with tremendous impetuosity. I replied to the order that it was too late to halt then, and that a few minutes more would decide the result of the charge. General Early playfully but earnestly remarked,

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after the fort was taken, that success had saved me from being court-martialed for disobedience to orders.

        During this charge I came into possession of a most remarkable horse, whose fine spirit convinced me that horses now and then, in the furor of fight, were almost as sentient as their riders. This was especially true of the high-strung thoroughbreds. At least, such was my experience with a number of the noble animals I rode, some of which it was my painful fortune to leave on the field as silent witnesses of the storm which had passed over it. At Marye's Heights, the horse which I had ridden into the fight was exhausted in my effort to personally watch every portion of my line as it swept forward, and he had been in some way partially disabled, so that his movements became most unsatisfactory. At this juncture the beautiful animal to which I have referred, and from which a Union officer had just been shot, galloped into our lines. I was quickly upon her back, and she proved to be the most superb battle-horse that it was my fortune to mount during the war. For ordinary uses she was by no means remarkable--merely a good saddle animal, which Mrs. Gordon often rode in camp, and which I called "Marye," from the name of the hill where she was captured. Indeed, she was ordinarily rather sluggish, and required free use of the spur. But when the battle opened she was absolutely transformed. She seemed at once to catch the ardor and enthusiasm of the men around her. The bones of her legs were converted into steel springs and her sinews into india-rubber. With head up and nostrils distended, her whole frame seemed to thrill with a delight akin to that of foxhounds when the hunter's horn summons them to the chase. With the ease of an antelope, she would bound across ditches and over fences which no amount of coaxing or spurring could induce her to undertake when not under the excitement of

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battle. Her courage was equal to her other high qualities. She was afraid of nothing. Neither the shouting of troops, nor the rattle of rifles, nor the roar of artillery, nor their bursting shells, intimidated her in the slightest degree. In addition to all this, she seemed to have a charmed life, for she bore me through the hottest fires and was never wounded.

        I recall another animal of different temperament, turned over to me by the quartermaster, after capture, in exchange, as usual, for one of my own horses. In the Valley of Virginia, during the retreat of the Union General, Milroy, my men captured a horse of magnificent appearance and handsomely caparisoned. He was solid black in color and dangerously treacherous in disposition. He was brought to me by his captors with the statement that he was General Milroy's horse, and he was at once christened "Milroy" by my men. I have no idea that he belonged to the general, for that officer was too true a soldier to have ridden such a beast in battle--certainly not after one test of his cowardice. His fear of Minié balls was absolutely uncontrollable. He came near disgracing me in the first and only fight in which I attempted to ride him. Indeed, if it had chanced to be my first appearance under fire with my men, they would probably have followed my example as they saw me flying to the rear on this elephantine brute. He was an immense horse of unusually fine proportions, and had behaved very well under the cannonading; but as we drew nearer the blue lines in front, and their musketry sent the bullets whistling around his ears, he wheeled and fled at such a rate of speed that I was powerless to check him until he had carried me more than a hundred yards to the rear. Fortunately, some of the artillerymen aided me in dismounting, and promptly gave me a more reliable steed, on whose back I rapidly returned in time to redeem my reputation. My obligations

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to General Milroy were very great for having evacuated at night the fort at Winchester (near which this horse was captured), and for permitting us to move over its deserted and silent ramparts in perfect security; but if this huge black horse were really his, General Milroy, in leaving him for me, had cancelled all the obligations under which he had placed me.

        This Georgia brigade, with its six splendid regiments, whose war acquaintance I had made at Marye's Heights, contributed afterward from their pittance of monthly pay, and bought, without my knowledge, at a fabulous price, a magnificent horse, and presented him to me. These brave and self-denying men realized that such a horse would cost more than I could pay. He gave me great comfort, and I hoped that, like "Marye," he might go unscathed through successive battles; but at Monocacy, in Maryland, he paid the forfeit of his life by coming in collision with a whizzing missile, as he was proudly galloping along my lines, then advancing upon General Lew Wallace's forces. I deeply regretted this splendid animal's death, not only because of his great value at the time, but far more because he was the gift of my gallant men.

        In one of the battles in the Wilderness, in 1864, and during a flank movement, a thoroughbred bay stallion was captured--a magnificent creature, said to have been the favorite war-horse of General Shaler, whom we also captured. As was customary, the horse was named for his former master, and was known by no other title than "General Shaler." My obligations to this horse are twofold and memorable: he saved me from capture, when I had ridden, by mistake, into Sedgwick's corps by night; and at Appomattox he brought me enough greenbacks to save me from walking back to Georgia. He was so handsome that a Union officer, who was a judge of horses, asked me if I wished to sell him. I at once assured

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this officer that I would be delighted to sell the horse or anything else I possessed, as I had not a dollar except Confederate money, which, at that period of its history, was somewhat below par. The officer, General Curtin, of Pennsylvania, generously paid me in greenbacks more than I asked for the horse. I met this gentleman in 1894, nearly thirty years afterward, at Williamsport, Pennsylvania. He gratified me again by informing me that he had sold "General Shaler" for a much higher price than he paid me for him. 1

        If there is a hereafter for horses, as there is a heaven for the redeemed among men, I fear that the old black traitor that ran away with me from the fight will never reach it, but the brave and trusty steeds that so gallantly bore their riders through our American Civil War will not fail of admittance.

        Job wrote of the war-horse that "smelleth the battle from afar off." Alexander the Great had his "Bucephalus," that dashed away as if on wings as his daring master mounted him. Zachary Taylor had his "Old Whity," from whose mane and tail the American patriots pulled for souvenirs nearly all the hairs, as he grazed on the green at the White House. Lee had his "Traveller," whose memory is perpetuated in enduring bronze. Stonewall Jackson had his high-mettled "Old Sorrel," whose life was nursed with tenderest care long after the death of his immortal rider; but if I were a poet I would ignore them all and embalm in song my own glorious "Marye," whose spirit I would know was that of Joan of Arc, if the transmigration of souls were true.


        1 Since writing this chapter, I have learned that this horse was a noted animal in the Union army, and had been named "Abe," for President Lincoln.

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CHAPTER IX

WAR BY THE BRAVE AGAINST THE BRAVE

        The spirit of good-fellowship between Union and Confederate soldiers-- Disappearance of personal hatred as the war progressed--The Union officer who attended a Confederate dance--American chivalry at Vicksburg--Trading between pickets on the Rappahannock--Incidents of the bravery of color-bearers on both sides--General Curtis's kindness--A dash for life cheered by the enemy.

        THAT inimitable story-teller, Governor Robert Taylor, of Tennessee, delights his hearers by telling in charming style of a faithful colored man, Allen, a slave of his father's. Both Allen and his owner were preachers, and Allen was in the habit each Saturday afternoon of going to his master and learning from him what his text for the following day's sermon would be. On this occasion the Rev. Dr. Taylor informed the Rev. Allen that his text for the morrow would be the words, "And he healed them of divers diseases." "Yes, sir," said Allen; ["]dat's a mighty good tex', and hit will be mine for my Sunday sarmon." Sunday came and Allen was ready. He announced his "tex' " in these words: "And he healed 'em of all sorts of diseases, and even of dat wust of complaints called de divers." Proceeding to an elucidation of his text, he described with much particularity the different kinds of diseases that earthly doctors could cure, and then, with deepest unction, said: "But, my congregation, if de divers ever gits one of you, jest make up your mind you's a gone nigger, 'cep'in' de Lord save you."

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        In 1861 a disorder had taken possession of the minds of the people in every section of the country. Internecine war, contagious, infectious, confluent, was spreading, and destined to continue spreading until nearly every home in the land was affected and hurt by it. This dreadful disease had about it some wonderful compensations. No one went through it from a high sense of duty without coming out of it a braver, a better, and a more consecrated man. It is a great mistake to suppose that war necessarily demoralizes and makes obdurate those who wage it. Doubtless wars of conquest, for the sake of conquest, for the purpose of despoiling the vanquished and enriching the victors, and all wars inaugurated from unhallowed motives, do demoralize every man engaged in them, from the commanding general to the privates. But such was not the character of our Civil War. On the contrary, it became a training-school for the development of an unselfish and exalted manhood, which increased in efficiency from its opening to its close. At the beginning there was personal antagonism and even bitterness felt by individual soldiers of the two armies toward each other. The very sight of the uniform of an opponent aroused some trace of anger. But this was all gone long before the conflict had ceased. It was supplanted by a brotherly sympathy. The spirit of Christianity swayed the hearts of many, and its benign influence was perhaps felt by the great majority of both armies. The Rev. Charles Lane, recently a member of the faculty of the Georgia Technological Institute, told me of a soldier who could easily have captured or shot his antagonist at night; but the religious devotion in which that foe at the moment was engaged shielded him from molestation, and he was left alone in communion with his God. That knightly soldier of the Confederacy, whose heart so promptly sympathized with his devout antagonist, was also a "soldier of the cross."

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        The same spirit was shown in the case of a Pennsylvania soldier who was attracted by the songs in a Confederate prayer-meeting, and, without the slightest fear of being detained or held as prisoner, attempted in broad daylight to cross over and join the Confederates in their worship. He was ordered back by his own pickets; but his officers appreciated his impulse and he was not subjected to the slightest punishment. In a European army he most likely would have been shot for attempted desertion, although he had made no effort whatever to conceal his movements or his purposes.

        The broadening of this Christian fellowship was plainly seen as the war progressed. The best illustration of this fact which I now recall is the contrast between the impulses which moved the two soldiers just mentioned, and that which inspired the quaint prayer of a devout Confederate at the beginning of the war and at the grave of his dead comrade. He concluded his prayer in about these words: "And now, Lord, we commit the body of our comrade to the grave, with the hope of meeting him again, with all the redeemed, in that great day and in the home prepared for thy children. For we are taught to believe that thy true followers shall come from the East and West as well as from the South; and we cannot help hoping, Lord, that a few will come even from the North."

        It was not alone in the religious life of the army that these evidences of expanding brotherhood were exhibited. I should, perhaps, not exaggerate the number or importance of these evidences if I said that there were thousands of them which are perhaps the brightest illustrations and truest indices of the American soldier's character.

        In 1896 an officer of the Union army told me the following story, which is but a counterpart of many which came under my own observation. A lieutenant of a Delaware regiment was officer of the picket-line on the

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banks of the Rappahannock. The pickets of the two armies were, as was usual at that time, very near each other and in almost constant communication. It was in midwinter and no movements of the armies were expected. The Confederate officer of pickets who was on duty on the opposite bank of the narrow stream asked the Union lieutenant if he would not come over after dark and go with him to a farm-house near the lines, where certain Confederates had invited the country girls to a dance. The Union officer hesitated, but the Confederate insisted, and promised to call for him in a boat after dark, and to lend him a suit of citizen's clothes, and pledged his honor as a soldier to see him safely back to his own side before daylight the next morning. The invitation was accepted, and at the appointed hour the Confederate's boat glided silently to the place of meeting on the opposite bank. The citizen's suit was a ludicrous fit, but it served its purpose. The Union soldier was introduced to the country girls as a new recruit just arrived in camp. He enjoyed the dance, and, returning with his Confederate escort, was safely landed in his own lines before daylight. Had the long roll of the kettledrum summoned the armies to battle on that same morning, both these officers would have been found in the lines under hostile ensigns, fighting each other in deadly conflict.

        In Kansas City recently an ex-Confederate recorded his name upon the hotel register. Mr. James Locke, of Company E, One Hundredth Pennsylvania Volunteers, was in the same hotel, and observed the name on the register. Locke had lost a leg at the second Manassas, and a Confederate had carried him out of the railroad cut in which he lay suffering, and had ministered to his wants as best he could. Locke had asked this soldier in gray before leaving him to write his name in his (Locke's) war diary. The Confederate did so,

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and was then compelled to hurry forward with his command. He had, however, in the spirit of a true soldier, provided the suffering Pennsylvanian with a canteen of water before he left him. There was nothing unmanly in the moistened eyes of these brave men when they so unexpectedly and after so many years met in Kansas City for the first time since they parted at the railroad cut on a Virginia battle-field.

        This spirit of American chivalry was exhibited almost everywhere on the wonderful retreat of Joseph E. Johnston before General Sherman from Dalton to Atlanta. At Resaca, at Kennesaw, along the banks of Peachtree Creek, and around Atlanta, between the lines that encircled the doomed city, the same friendly greetings were heard between the pickets, and the same evidences of comradeship shown before the battles began and after they had ended. In the trenches around Vicksburg, and during its long and terrible bombardment, the men in the outer lines would call to each other to stop firing for a while, that they "wanted to get out into fresh air!" The call was always heeded, and both sides poured out of their bomb-proofs like rats from their holes when the cats are away. And whenever an order came to open fire, or the time had expired, they would call: "Hello, there, Johnnie," or "Hello, there, Yank," as the case might be. "Get into your holes now; we are going to shoot."

        What could have been more touchingly beautiful than that scene on the Rapidan when, in the April twilight, a great band in the Union army suddenly broke the stillness with the loved strains of "Hail Columbia, Happy Land," calling from the Union camps huzzas that rolled like reverberating thunders on the evening air. Then from the opposite hills and from Confederate bands the answer came in the thrilling strains of "Dixie." As it always does and perhaps always will, "Dixie" brought

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from Southern throats an impassioned response. Then, as if inspired from above, came the union of both in that immortal anthem, "Home, Sweet Home." The solemn and swelling cadence of these old familiar notes was caught by both armies, and their joint and loud acclamations made the climax of one of the most inspiring scenes ever witnessed in war.

        The talking and joking, the trading and "swapping," between the pickets and between the lines became so prevalent before the war closed as to cause no comment and attract no special attention, except when the intercourse led the commanding officers to apprehend that important information might be unwittingly imparted to the foe. On the Rapidan and Rappahannock, into which the former emptied, this rollicking sort of intercourse would have been alarming in its intimacy but for the perfect confidence which the officers of both sides had in their men. Even officers on the opposite banks of this narrow stream would now and then declare a truce among themselves, in order that they might bathe in the little river. Where the water was shallow they would wade in and meet each other in the center and shake hands, and "swap" newspapers and barter Southern tobacco for Yankee coffee. Where the water was deep, so that they could not wade in and "swap," they sent the articles of traffic across in miniature boats, laden on the Southern shore with tobacco and sailed across to the Union side. These little boats were unloaded by the Union soldiers, reloaded, and sent back with Yankee coffee for the Confederates. This extraordinary international commerce was carried on to such an extent that the commanders of both armies concluded it was best to stop it. General Lee sent for me on one occasion and instructed me to break up the traffic. Riding along the lines, as I came suddenly and unexpectedly around the point of a hill upon one of the Confederate posts, I discovered an

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unusual commotion and confusion. I asked: "What is the matter here? What is all this confusion about?"

         "Nothing at all, sir. It 's all right here, general."

        I expressed some doubt about its being all right, when the spokesman for the squad attempted to connect some absurd explanation as to their effort to get ready to "present arms" to me as I came up. Of course I was satisfied that this was not true; but I could see no evidence of serious irregularity. As I started, however, I looked back and discovered the high weeds on the bank shaking, and wheeling my horse, I asked:

        "What 's the matter with those weeds?"

        "Nothing at all, sir," he declared; but I ordered him to break the weeds down. There I found a soldier almost naked. I asked:

        "Where do you belong?"

        "Over yonder," he replied, pointing to the Union army on the other side.

        "And what are you doing here, sir?"

        "Well, general," he said, "I did n't think it was any harm to come over and see the boys just a little while."

        "What boys?" I asked.

        "These Johnnies," he said.

        "Don't you know, sir, that there is war going on in this country?" I asked.

        "Yes, general," he replied; "but we are not fighting now."

        The fact that a battle was not then in progress given as an excuse for social visiting between opposing lines was so absurd that it overturned my equilibrium for the moment. If my men could have known my thoughts they would have been as much amused at my discomfiture as I was at the Union visitor's reasoning. An almost irresistible impulse to laugh outright was overcome, however, by the necessity for maintaining my official dignity. My instructions from General Lee had been to

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break up that traffic and intercourse; and the slightest lowering of my official crest would have been fatal to my mission. I therefore assumed the sternest aspect possible under the circumstances, and ordered the Union soldier to stand up; and I said to him: "I am going to teach you, Sir, that we are at war. You have no rights here except as prisoner of war, and I am going to have you marched to Richmond, and put you in prison."

        This terrible threat brought my own men quickly and vigorously to his defense, and they exclaimed: "Wait a minute, general. Don't send this man to prison. We invited him over here, and we promised to protect him, and if you send him away it will just ruin our honor."

        The object of my threat had been accomplished. I had badly frightened the Northern guest and his Southern hosts. Turning to the scantily clad visitor, I said:

        "Now, Sir, if I permit you to go back to your own side, will you solemnly promise me, on the honor of a soldier, that - - -" But without waiting for me to finish my sentence, and with an emphatic "Yes, Sir," he leaped like a bullfrog into the river and swam back.

        I recall several incidents which do not illustrate precisely the same elements of character, but which show the heroism found on both sides, of which I know few, if any, parallels in history. After the battle of Sharpsburg, there was sent to me as an aide on my staff a very young soldier, a mere stripling. He was at that awkward, gawky age through which all boys seem to pass. He bore a letter, however, from the Hon. Thomas Watts, of Alabama, who was the Attorney-General of the Confederate States, and who assured me that this lad had in him all the essentials of a true soldier. It was not long before I found that Mr. Watts had not mistaken the mettle of his young friend, Thomas G. Jones. Late one evening, near sunset, I directed Jones to carry a message from me to General Lee or to my immediate

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superior. The route was through pine thickets and along dim roads or paths not easily followed. The Union pickets were posted at certain points in these dense woods; but Jones felt sure that he could go through safely. Alone on horseback he started on his hazardous ride. Darkness overtook him before he had emerged from the pine thicket, and he rode into a body of Union pickets, supposing them to be Confederates. There were six men on that post. They seized the bridle of Jones's horse, levelled their rifles at him, and ordered him to dismount. As there was no alternative, one can imagine that Jones was not slow in obeying the order. His captors were evidently new recruits, for they neglected to deprive him of the six-shooter at his belt. Jones even then had in him the oratorical power which afterward won for him distinction at the bar and helped to make him governor of the great State of Alabama. He soon engaged his captors in the liveliest conversation, telling them anecdotes and deeply enlisting their interest in his stories. The night was cold, and before daylight Jones adroitly proposed to the "boys" that they should make a fire, as there was no reason for shivering in the cold with plenty of pine sticks around them. The suggestion was at once accepted, and Jones began to gather sticks. The men, unwilling for him to do all the work, laid down their guns and began to share in this labor. Jones saw his opportunity, and burning with mortification at his failure to carry through my message, he leaped to the pile of guns, drew his revolver, and said to the men: "I can kill every one of you before you can get to me. Fall into line. I will put a bullet through the first man who moves toward me!" He delivered those six prisoners at my headquarters.

        I do not now recall the name of the Confederate who was selected, on account of his conspicuous courage, as the color-bearer of his regiment, and who vowed as he

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received the flag that he would never surrender it. At Gaines's Mill he fell in the forefront of the fight with a mortal wound through his body. Raising himself on his elbow, he quietly tore his battle-flag from the staff, folded it under him, and died upon it.

        At Big Falls, North Carolina, there lived in 1897 a one-armed soldier whose heroism will be cited by orators and poets as long as heroism is cherished by men. He was a color-bearer of his regiment, the Thirteenth North Carolina. In a charge during the first day's battle at Gettysburg, his right arm, with which he bore the colors, was shivered and almost torn from its socket. Without halting or hesitating, he seized the falling flag in his left hand, and, with his blood spouting from the severed arteries and his right arm dangling in shreds at his side, he still rushed to the front, shouting to his comrades: "Forward, forward!" The name of that modest and gallant soldier is W. F. Faucette.

        At Gettysburg a Union color-bearer of one of General Barlow's regiments, which were guarding the right flank of General Meade's army, exhibited a similar dauntless devotion in defence of his colors. As my command charged across the ravine and up its steep declivity, along which were posted the Union troops, the fight became on portions of the line a hand-to-hand struggle. This lion-hearted color-bearer of a Union regiment stood firmly in his place, refusing to fly, to yield his ground, or to surrender his flag. As the Confederates crowded around him and around the stalwart men who still stood firmly by him, he became engaged in personal combat with the color-bearer of one of my Georgia regiments. What his fate was I do not now recall, but I trust and believe that his life was spared.

        I sincerely pity the man who calls himself an American and who does not find in these exhibitions of American manhood on either side, a stimulant to his pride as an

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American citizen and a support to his confidence in the American Republic. The true patriot must necessarily feel a glow of sincere pride in the record of the Republic's great and heroic sons from every section. There is no inconsistency, however, between a special affection for one's birthplace and a general love for one's entire country. There is nothing truer than that the love of the home is the unit, and that the sum of these units is aggregated patriotism. What would be thought of the patriotism of a son of New England or of the Old Dominion whose heart did not warm at the mention of Plymouth Rock or of Jamestown?

        An incident in the war experience of General Newton M. Curtis, a leading and influential Republican member of Congress from New York, is worthy of record. A finer specimen of physical manhood it would be difficult to find. Six feet six inches in height, erect as the typical Indian, he weighs two hundred and thirty-two pounds; but if he were six feet twelve and weighed twice as much his body would not be big enough to contain the great soul which inhabits it. He had one eye shot out by a Confederate bullet, but if he had lost both his lofty spirit would have seen as clearly as now that the war was fought in defence of inherited belief, and that when it ended the Union was more closely cemented than ever.

        Near Fairfax Court-House, during the war in that portion of Virginia which had been devastated by both armies, biting want necessarily came to many families near the border, particularly to those whose circumstances made it impossible for them to remove to a distant part of the State. From within the Union lines there came into the Union camps, one chilly day, a Virginia lady. She was weak and pale and thinly clad, and rode an inferior horse, with a faithful old negro as her only escort. She had come to solicit from the commissary department of the Union army supplies with which

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to feed her household. The orders to the commissary department in the field were necessarily stringent. The supplies did not belong to the officer in charge, but were the property of the government. That officer, therefore, had no right to donate anything even to the most deserving case of charity, except according to the orders; and the orders required all applicants for supplies to take the oath of allegiance to the United States before such supplies could be furnished. This hungry and wan woman was informed that she could have the necessaries, for which she asked upon subscribing to that oath. What was she to do? Her kindred, her husband and son, were soldiers in the Confederate army. If she refused to take the oath, what would become of her and those dependent upon her? If she took the oath, what was to become of her own convictions and her loyalty to the cause of those she loved? It is not necessary to say that her sense of duty and her fidelity to the Southern cause triumphed. Sad and hungry, she turned away, resolved to suffer on. But General Curtis was in that camp. He had no power to change the orders, and no disposition to change them, and he would have scorned to violate a trust; for there was no braver or more loyal officer in the Union army. He had, however, in his private purse some of the money which he had earned as a soldier, and he illustrated in his character that native knighthood which ennobles its possessor while protecting, befriending, and blessing the weak or unfortunate. It is enough to add that this brave and suffering Virginia woman did not leave the Union camp empty-handed. I venture the opinion that General Curtis would not exchange the pleasure which that act gave him at the time, and has given him for the thirty years since, for the amount of money expended multiplied many times over.

        In 1863, when General Longstreet's forces were investing

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the city of Knoxville, Tennessee, there occurred an incident equally honorable to the sentiment and spirit of Confederate and Federal. During a recent visit to that city, a party representing both sides in that engagement accompanied me to the great fort which General Longstreet's forces assailed but were unable to capture. These representatives of both armies united in giving me the details of the incident. The Southern troops had made a bold assault upon the fort. They succeeded in reaching it through a galling fire, and attempted to rush up its sides, but were beaten back by the Union men, who held it. Then in the deep ditch surrounding the fortress and at its immediate base, the Confederates took their position. They were, in a measure, protected from the Union fire; but they could neither climb into the fort nor retreat, except at great sacrifice of life. The sun poured its withering rays upon them and they were famishing with thirst. A bold and self-sacrificing young soldier offered to take his life in his hands and canteens on his back and attempt to bring water to his fainting comrades. He made the dash for life and for water, and was unhurt; but the return--how was that to be accomplished? Laden with the filled and heavy canteens, he approached within range of the rifles in the fort and looked anxiously across the intervening space. He was fully alive to the fact that the chances were all against him; but, determined to relieve his suffering comrades or die in the effort, he started on his perilous run for the ditch at the fort. The brave Union soldiers stood upon the parapet with their rifles in hand. As they saw this daring American youth coming, with his life easily at their disposal, they stood silently contemplating him for a moment. Then, realizing the situation, they fired at him a tremendous volley--not of deadly bullets from their guns, but of enthusiastic shouts from their throats. If the annals of war record any incident between hostile

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armies which embodies a more beautiful and touching tribute by the brave to the brave, I have never seen it.

        And now what is to be said of these incidents? How much are the few recorded in this chapter worth? To the generations that are to follow, what is their value and the value of the tens of thousands which ought to be chronicled? Do they truly indicate that the war did lift the spirit of the people to better things? Was it really fought in defense of cherished convictions, and did it bury in its progress the causes of sectional dissensions? Did it develop a higher manhood in the men, and did it reveal in glorious light the latent but ever-living heroism of our women? The heroines of Sparta who gave their hair for bow-strings have been immortalized by the muse of history; but what tongue can speak or pen indite a tribute worthy of that Mississippi woman who with her own hands applied the torch to more than half a million dollars' worth of cotton, reducing herself to poverty, rather than have that cotton utilized against her people? The day will come, and I hope and believe it is rapidly approaching, when in all the sections will be seen evidences of appreciation of these inspiring incidents; when all lips will unite in expressing gratitude to God that they belong to such a race of men and women; when no man who loves his country will be found grovelling among the embers and ignoble passions of the past, but will aid in developing a still nobler national life, by inviting the youth of our country to a contemplation of the true glories of this memorable war.

        In my boyhood I witnessed a scene in nature which it now seems to me fitly symbolizes that mighty struggle and the view of it which I seek to present. Standing on a mountain-top, I saw two storm-clouds lowering in the opposite horizon. They were heavily charged with electric fires. As they rose and approached each other they

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extended their length and gathered additional blackness and fury. Higher and higher they rose, their puffing wind-caps rolling like hostile banners above them; and when nearing each other the flashing lightning blazed along their front and their red bolts were hurled into each other's bosoms. Finally in mid-heavens they met, and the blinding flashes and fearful shocks filled my boyish spirit with awe and terror. But God's hand was in that storm, and from the furious conflict copious showers were poured upon the parched and thirsty earth, which refreshed and enriched it.

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CHAPTER X

RETROSPECTIVE VIEW OF LEADERS AND EVENTS

        Confederate victories up to the winter of 1863--Southern confidence in ultimate independence--Progress of Union armies in the West--Fight for the control of the Mississippi--General Butler in possession of New Orleans-- The new era in naval construction--Significance of the battle of the Monitor and Merrimac--Great leaders who had come into prominence in both armies-- The death of Albert Sidney Johnston--General Lee the most unassuming of great commanders.

        THE next promontories on the war's highway which come into view are Gettysburg, Vicksburg, and Chickamauga; and these suggest a retrospective view of the entire field over which the armies had been marching, and of the men who had been leading them.

        The battles of 1861-62 and of the winter of 1863 had left the South still confident of success in securing her independence and the North still fully resolved on maintaining the integrity of the Union. In Virginia the Confederates had won important victories at Bull Run, in the seven days' battles around Richmond, at Harper's Ferry, with the surrender of the Union forces to Jackson, at second Manassas, at Fredericksburg, in the Valley, and at Chancellorsville, and had claimed a drawn battle at Sharpsburg--Antietam. Kirby Smith had marched nearly across Kentucky, threatening Cincinnati, and success of more or less importance had attended Southern arms in other localities.

        In the West the Union arms had won at Fort Donelson, Fort Henry, and in the battle for the possession of

Illustration

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eastern Kentucky, where the Confederate commander Zollicoffer was killed, and the Union commander, George H. Thomas, won his first great victory. The Confederates had suffered severely at Pea Ridge in Arkansas, although no material advantage was gained on either side. McCulloch, the noted Texas ranger, fell, and the picturesque Albert Pike, with his two thousand Indians, lent additional interest to the scene. On both sides of the Mississippi the Union forces were advancing. Kentucky and all northern Tennessee and Missouri and northern Arkansas had been abandoned to Union occupation. The possession of the Mississippi River from its source to its mouth, and the cutting in twain of the Confederate territory, became for the Southwest the dominating policy of the Union authorities--the logical sequence of which would be to cut off Confederate food-supplies from Texas and the trans-Mississippi. The success of this policy was becoming assured by rapidly recurring and decisive blows. Island Number Ten, above Memphis, fell, forcing the evacuation of Fort Pillow and of Memphis, thus breaking Confederate control of this great waterway at every point north of Vicksburg. Farragut, the brilliant admiral, had battered his way through Confederate gunboats and forts from the Mississippi's mouth to New Orleans. This foremost genius of the Union navy, whose father was a friend of Andrew Jackson's, and whose mother was a North Carolina woman, had learned his first lesson in heroism from this Southern mother as she stood with uplifted axe in the door of their cabin home, defending her children from the red savages of the mountains.

         General Benjamin F. Butler, who had advocated the nomination of Jefferson Davis for President in the Charleston Convention (1860), had marched his troops into New Orleans and taken possession of the city. Along the Atlantic coast, point after point held by Confederates

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was falling before the mighty naval armament of the United States. No Confederate navy existed to dispute its progress. General Burnside, in his expedition to North Carolina, had captured Fort Macon and Newbern. The cities of Fernandina and Jacksonville, Florida, were unable to stand against the fire from the fleet of Commodore Dupont. In Hampton Roads, Virginia, had occurred the first battle of perfected ironclads in the world's history, and one of the most furious in the annals of naval engagements. The Confederate Virginia and the United States Monitor in a few days had revolutionized the theories of scientific seamen, and made the ironclad the future monarch of the water. The United States frigate Merrimac, which had been scuttled and sunk by its former crew, was raised from its deep grave by the Confederates and remodelled under the direction of Captain J. M. Brooke, of Virginia. It was covered with a sloping roof of railroad iron, plastered over with plumbago and tallow, and rechristened Virginia. From this roof of greased iron the heaviest solid shot of the most powerful guns glanced like india-rubber balls from a mound of granite and whizzed harmlessly into the air. With its steel-pointed prow the Virginia crashed into the side of the United States war-ship Cumberland, tearing a huge hole through which the rushing waters poured into her hull, carrying her to the bottom with the gallant Federals who had manned her. Under the belching fires of this floating volcano, with its crater near the water's surface and its base-line three feet below it, the United States frigate Congress was forced to surrender. The most thrilling scene, however, in this great struggle of naval monsters, was that witnessed when the Union ironclad Monitor, designed by Captain John Ericsson, engaged the ironclad Virginia at close quarters. The pointed beak of the Virginia could make no impression upon the armor of the Monitor. The heaviest shots

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of each bounded off from the sides of the other, doing no practical damage even when at closest range. These two heralds of the new era in naval construction and naval battles were buried at last in that element the warfare upon which they had completely revolutionized--the Virginia in the James River, the Monitor in the Atlantic off Hatteras.

        The great military leaders on the two sides were just beginning to attract the attention of their countrymen and to fix the gaze of Christendom. George H. Thomas, who was regarded by Confederate officers as one of the ablest of the Union commanders, was steadily building that solid reputation the general recognition of which found at last popular expression in the sobriquet, "Rock of Chickamauga"--a title resembling that conferred upon Jackson at Bull Run, and for a similar service. Sheridan, who afterward became the most famous cavalryman of the North, was beginning to win the confidence of his commanders and of his Northern countrymen. McDowell, who was the classmate and friend at West Point of his opponent Beauregard, and whose ability as a soldier was recognized by Confederate leaders, had been defeated at Bull Run, the first great battle of the war, and had been supplanted by McClellan. It was my privilege to confer with General McClellan during the exciting and momentous period preceding the inauguration of President Hayes, and he impressed me then, as he had impressed his people in 1862, as a man of great personal magnetism and vivacious intellect. After the seven days' battles around Richmond, McClellan was replaced by General John Pope. That officer, who had ingloriously failed to make good his prophecy that his army would henceforth look only upon the backs of the enemy, and who, contrary to his prediction, found that even he must consider "lines of retreat" at second Manassas, had been sent to another field of service when General

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McClellan was reinstated in command. President Lincoln, however, is said to have soon desired greater activity, and to have wittily suggested that if General McClellan had no special use for the army he would like to borrow it. Whether this characteristic suggestion was ever made by the President or not, it is certain that the army was later intrusted to General Burnside, with whom I served afterward in the Senate, and who was respected by all in that chamber for his stainless record as legislator and exalted character as man and patriot. General Burnside, after his defeat by Lee at Fredericksburg, had at his own request been relieved of the command of the army. General Hooker, his successor, who as long as the war lasted fought with heroism and devotion, and after it ended entertained his Southern friends with the lavish hand of a prince, had lost the great battle of Chancellorsville. Although this admirable officer, by his devotion to his duties as commander, had so enhanced the efficiency of his army in numbers and discipline that he felt justified in pronouncing it "the finest army on the planet," he also had asked to be relieved of chief command because of some conflict of authority. His successor was General George Gordon Meade, of whom I shall have more to say in another connection.

        The reputations of Sherman and of Grant were now eclipsing those of other commanders. General Sherman, with Memphis as his base, was threatening to overrun the Confederate States on the east bank of the Mississippi, while Stephen D. Lee, a brilliant campaigner, pronounced by competent authority one of the most effective commanders on the Confederate side, was throwing his little army across General Sherman's lines of advance and retarding his progress. Sherman, however, was advancing and laying the foundations upon which he was to build the imposing structure of his future fame.

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Grant was piling victory upon victory and steadily mounting to the heights to which destiny and his country were calling him.

        On the Confederate side, a great light had gone out when Albert Sidney Johnston fell. In comparative youth he had rendered signal service to Texas in her struggle for independence. In the war with Mexico he had evoked from "Old Rough and Ready"--Zachary Taylor--the commanding general, praises that were neither few nor meagre. In Utah he had been the government's faithful friend and strong right arm. A Kentuckian by birth, he had in his veins some of the best of American blood. Like Washington and Lee, he combined those singularly attractive qualities which inspired and held the love and confidence of his soldiers, while commanding the respect and admiration of the sages of West Point. In him more than in any other man at that period were centred the hopes of the Southern people. He fell in the morning of his career, leading his steady lines through the woods at Shiloh, and in the very hour of apparently assured victory. As the rich life-current ebbed through the severed artery, he closed his eyes on this scene of his last conflict, confident of his army's triumph and with the exultant shouts of his advancing legions sounding a requiem in his ears.

        The immediate successor of Albert Sidney Johnston was Pierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard, who was an officer of ability and sincerely patriotic. Had circumstances favored it, he would have found the broadest field for usefulness at some point where his great skill as an engineer could have been utilized. During the initiative period of the war, prior to the first great battle of Bull Run, it was my privilege to serve under General Beauregard and to learn something of those cheery, debonair characteristics which helped to make him the idol of the vivacious creoles of Louisiana. After the war a Virginian,

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an ardent admirer of General Lee, was extolling the great commander-in-chief in a conversation with one of Beauregard's devoted creole adherents. The Louisianian listened for a moment to the Virginian's praise of Lee, and then replied:

        "Lee--Lee! Yes, seems to me I did hear Beauregard speak very well of Lee."

        Louisiana furnished another successor to the lamented Albert Sidney Johnston in the person of General Braxton Bragg. This officer, who was one of President Davis's special favorites, becoming late in the war a military adviser of the Confederate President, was a noted artillerist, and would possibly have done greater execution in directing the movements of field batteries, which was a specialty, than in directing the movements of an army or handling it in battle. General Bragg was undoubtedly a man of ability, but his health was bad, and unfortunately his temper was no better. His reference, though in semi-private conversation, to one of his most prominent officers as "an old woman," and his declaration that he had few men under him capable of command, were in strange contrast to the confidence felt by the country in those officers, and were especially in contrast with the spirit of Lee in assuming for himself the responsibility for defeat, while giving the honors of success to his juniors. When General Bragg was indulging in these criticisms of his officers he had under him those brilliant soldiers, the accomplished, alert, and dashing E. C. Walthall, late United States senator from Mississippi; Patrick Cleburne, whose warm Irish blood and quick Irish intellect made him conspicuous in every fight, and who in the desperate charge at Franklin, Tennessee, was killed on the defences behind which the Union army had been posted; and W. H. T. Walker, who as a boy had won his spurs fighting Indians at Okeechobee, and who was afterward desperately wounded in

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Mexico, recovering, as he said, "to spite the doctors." He lost his life at last in battle at Atlanta, and left a reputation for courage equal to that of Ney. There was also in Bragg's army at that time the accomplished and brave Bate, of Tennessee, who was repeatedly wounded, and finally maimed for life, and whose old war-horse, shot at the same time, followed his wounded owner to the hospital tent and died at its door, moaning his farewell to that gallant master. There were also Cheatham and Polk (of whom I have spoken in a former chapter), and a galaxy of able men of whom I would gladly write. There were also with Bragg the knightly cavalryman Joseph Wheeler, and N. B. Forrest, the "wizard of the saddle," who was one of the unique figures of the war, and who, in my estimation, exhibited more native untutored genius as a cavalry leader than any man of modern times. Like the great German emperor who thought the rules of grammar were not made for his Majesty, Forrest did not care whether his orders were written according to Murray or any other grammarian, so they meant to his troops "fight on, men, and keep fighting till I come."

        Lieutenant-General Hardee was also one of Bragg's corps commanders. This officer, who was an accomplished tactician, had made a record which many thought indicated abilities of a high order, fitting him for chief command of the Western Army. Another of his corps commanders was the chivalrous John B. Hood, who, at Atlanta, in 1864, was named by President Davis to succeed General Joseph E. Johnston, who was removed from chief command. In commenting on the picturesque and high-spirited Hood a whole chapter might be consumed; but I shall confine myself to a few observations in regard to him. As division or corps commander, there were very few men in either army who were superior to Hood; but his most intimate associates and

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ardent admirers in the army never regarded him as endowed with those rare mental gifts essential in the man who was to displace General Joseph E. Johnston. To say that he was as brave and dashing as any officer of any age would be the merest commonplace tribute to such a man; but courage and dash are not the sole or even the prime requisites of the commander of a great army. There are crises, it is true, in battle, like that which called Napoleon to the front at Lodi, and caused Lee to attempt to lead his men on May 6 in the Wilderness, and again at Spottsylvania (May 12, 1864), when the fate of the army may demand the most daring exposure of the commander-in-chief himself. It is nevertheless true that care and caution in handling an army, the forethought which thoroughly weighs the advantages and disadvantages of instant and aggressive action, are as essential in a commander as courage in his men. In these high qualities his battles at Atlanta and later at Franklin would indicate that Hood was lacking. I am persuaded and have reason to believe that General Lee thought Joseph E. Johnston's tactics wiser, although they involved repeated retreats in husbanding the strength and morale of his army. Bosquet said of some brilliant episode in battle: "It is magnificent, but it is not war." Hood, like Jackson, thought battle a delightful excitement; but Jackson, with all his daring and apparent relish for the fray, was one of the most cautious of men. His terrible marches were inspired largely by his caution. Instead of hurling his troops on breastworks in front, which might have been "magnificent," he preferred to wage war by heavy marching in order to deliver his blow upon the flank. His declaration that it is better to lose one hundred men in marching than a thousand in fighting is proof positive of the correctness of the estimate I place on his caution. Ewell once said that he never saw one of Jackson's staff approaching without "expecting an

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order to storm the north pole"; but if Jackson had determined to take the north pole he would have first considered whether it could be more easily carried by assaulting in front or by turning its flank.

        Hood had lost a leg in battle, and when the amputation was completed an attempt was made to console him by the announcement that a civil appointment was ready for him. With characteristic impetuosity, he replied: "No, sir; no bomb-proof place for me. I propose to see this fight out in the field." This undiminished ardor for military service calls to mind the many other soldiers of the Civil War, and of all history, whose loss of bodily activity in no way impaired their mental capacity. Ewell, with his one leg, not only rode in battle like a cow-boy on the plains, but in the whirlwind of the strife his brain acted with the precision and rapidity of a Gatling gun.

        General Daniel E. Sickles, of New York, who was an able representative in Congress, continued his active and conspicuous service in the field long after he lost the leg which was shivered by a Confederate ball as the brave men in gray rushed up the steep of Little Round Top at Gettysburg. The United States Senate, since the war, has been a conspicuous arena for one-legged Confederates. The former illustrious senators of South Carolina, Hampton and Butler, and the combative and forceful Berry of Arkansas, each stood upon his single leg, an able and aggressive champion of Democratic faith; and it is certain that the brilliant oratory of Daniel, of Virginia, is none the less Websterian because the missile in the Wilderness mangled his leg and maimed him for life. Marshal Saxe, who ran away from home and joined the army at the age of twelve, and who became one of the most famous soldiers of his day, gathered for France and his own brow the glories of Fontenoy while he was

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carried amidst his troops on a litter. The most illustrious patrician in the Republic of Venice, the sightless hero whom Lord Byron called "the blind old Dandolo," achieved for his country its most brilliant naval victories. No account, however, of the mental vigor which has distinguished many maimed soldiers would be complete without reference to a Union soldier who, lost both legs. My first meeting with "Corporal" Tanner, to whom I allude, was many years ago, on the cars between Washington and Richmond. He was on his way to the former capital of the fallen Confederacy. The exuberance of his spirits, the cordiality of his greeting, and the catholicity of his sentiments arrested my attention and won my friendship at this first meeting. In the course of the conversation I jocularly asked him if he were not afraid to go to Richmond without a bodyguard? "Well," he said, "I left both my legs buried in Virginia soil, and I think a man ought to be allowed peaceably to visit his own graveyard." A few years later I sat on a platform with Tanner before a great audience in Cooper Institute, New York. This audience had assembled for the purpose of considering ways and means to aid in the erection of a Confederate Soldiers' Home in Richmond. I had in my pocket a liberal contribution from General Grant, and after announcing this fact, with a few additional words, I called for Tanner as the speaker of the evening. He stood tremblingly on the two wooden pins that served him as legs, and began by saying: "My whole being is enlisted in this cause, from the crown of my head down to the--as far as I go." Those who were present at the great gathering of Confederates in the vast assembly-hall at Richmond during the last days of June, 1895, will not soon forget his speech on that occasion. This maimed Union veteran, surrounded by Confederates, was pressed to the front of the platform amidst the wildest acclamations of his

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former foes. Every fibre of his body quivering with emotion, Tanner poured into the ears and hearts of his auditors a torrent of patriotic eloquence that evoked a demonstration such as rarely greets any man. In his case the loss of his legs seems to have added vigor to his brain and breadth to his heart.

        The brief comments I have made upon General Hood's career as commander of an army are in no degree disparaging to his clear title to the gratitude of the Southern people. They are penned by as loyal a friend as he had in the Confederate army. No devoted Theban ever stood at the tomb of Epaminondas with keener appreciation of his great virtues than is mine of the high qualities of the great-hearted and heroic Hood. These views were not withheld from General Lee when the selection of a now commander for the Confederate army at Atlanta was in contemplation. When President Davis asked General Lee for an opinion as to the wisdom of removing General Johnston from the command of that army, General Lee did me the honor, as I presume he honored other corps commanders, to counsel with me as to the policy of such an act. I had served under General Johnston while he commanded the Army of Northern Virginia. I had learned by experience and observation how he could retreat day after day and yet retain the absolute confidence of his officers and men, who were ready at any moment to about face, and, with an enthusiasm born of that confidence, assume the offensive at his command. I therefore expressed the opinion that there was no one except General Lee himself who could take General Johnston's place without a shock to the morale of his troops that would greatly decrease the chances of checking General Sherman. Hood and others were discussed, and I ventured the suggestion that if the time should ever come for the removal of General Johnston, it would be after he had lost and not while he still

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retained, as he clearly did, the enthusiastic confidence of his army, from the commanders of corps to the privates in the ranks. I may here remark that General Lee was perhaps the most unassuming of great commanders. Responsibilities that clearly belonged to him as a soldier he met promptly and to the fullest extent; but he was the last man holding a commission in the Confederate army to assume authority about which there could be any question. Especially was this true when such authority was placed by the Constitution or laws in the hands of the President. Nothing could tempt him to cross the line separating his powers from those of the civil authorities. That line might be dim to others, but it was clear to him. This delicacy was exhibited again and again even during the desperate throes in the last death-struggle of his army. I cannot be mistaken, however, as to his opinion of the suggested removal of General Johnston and the promotion of General Hood or any one else to the chief command. While he avoided any direct reply to my suggestions, he said enough to indicate his opinions. I could not forget his expressions, and I give, I believe, the exact words he used. He said: "General Johnston is a patriot and an able soldier. He is upon the ground, and knows his army and its surroundings and how to use it better than any of us." This was the extent of his comment and ended the interview. He never again alluded to the subject. General Lee was influenced in this case, as always, by a possibly too extreme reluctance to assume powers vested in the head of the government. While there was more or less complaint and criticism of Mr. Davis's management (it could not be otherwise during the progress of so stupendous an enterprise), the confidence reposed in his ability and consecration was unshaken; and General Lee heartily shared in this confidence. The threadbare adage, "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," found

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a fit illustration of its truth in the experience of Jefferson Davis, as it did in that of George Washington and of Abraham Lincoln. In the case of Washington criticism ceased when he retired to Mount Vernon. In the case of Abraham Lincoln all carpings and all divisions were lost in the universal sorrow of the whole American people when he became the victim of the murderous bullet of an insane assassin. So Jefferson Davis when imprisoned became the representative martyr of his whole people. Every one of them was ready to share with him all responsibility for the struggle, to the chief conduct of which they had called him by their votes. I feel sure that so long as this vicarious suffering of Mr. Davis lasted, General Johnston himself would have been unwilling to publish any statements as to the controversy between them, though he might have deemed such statements necessary for his own vindication.

        The strained relations between them originated in an honest difference of opinion as to the relative rank to which General Johnston was entitled among the five full generals. It is wholly immaterial to my present purpose to inquire which was right. The position of either could be sustained by forceful arguments. From my knowledge of both President Davis and General Johnston, I feel justified in saying that the spirit which prompted them differed essentially from that which impelled the Duke of Wellington and Talleyrand each to desire the first place in the picture in which the allied sovereigns were to appear. Personal ambition played a very small part in the conduct of the serious enterprise in which the South was embarked. I could not fail to be deeply concerned, as all Southerners were, as to the effect of this alienation between the President and one of the South's ablest commanders. Honored with the close personal friendship of both after the war, I had abundant opportunity for learning the peculiarities of each. That

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trenchant truism of Plato: "No man governs well who wants to govern," finds no illustration in the lives of these patriotic men. The high positions and responsibilities of both came to them unsought. Their characteristics were cast in similar moulds and were of the most inflexible metal. While courteous in intercourse, each was tenacious in holding and emphatic in expressing convictions. The breach, therefore, once made was never healed. President Davis wished General Johnston to assume the offensive, with Dalton as a base of operations. General Johnston felt that his army, which had been beaten back from Missionary Ridge in great confusion, could not safely inaugurate the movement. The President felt that it was his right as constitutional head of the Confederate Government to know when and where his general intended to make a stand. That general, who had made a retreat from Dalton to Atlanta in which he had lost no wagons, no material of any description except four pieces of artillery, and none of the enthusiastic confidence of his officers or men, with but few killed or wounded in the almost daily skirmishes and combats, failed to give to the government at Richmond such information of his plans and such assurances of his hopes of success as were expected. A man of great caution, but of towering capabilities, General Johnston had husbanded his army's strength and resources in this long retrograde movement so as to make it one of the most memorable in military annals; but I think lie should have frankly and confidently stated where he intended to make a final stand, from which he expected most satisfactory results. Failing to do this, he will probably be judged by history as failing to meet in the fullest measure his duty to the President. On the other hand, President Davis, having placed in command this officer, who had few if any superiors in any age or in any army, should probably have imitated the example of Louis

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XV, who said to the great marshal in command of his forces that he expected all to obey, "and I will be the first to set the example."

        In the meantime, while these repeated changes in commanders were occurring in the Confederate Army of the West and in the Union Army of the East, Robert E. Lee was intrusted with supreme military control in Virginia. Once in command, he was destined to remain to the end. Supported by Jackson, by the two Hills and Hampton, by Longstreet and Stuart and the junior Lees, by Ewell and Early, by Breckinridge, Heth, Mahone, Hoke, Rodes, and Pickett; by Field and Wilcox, by Johnson, Cobb, Evans, Kershaw, and Ramseur; by Pendleton, Alexander, Jones, Long and Carter of the artillery, and by a long line of officers who have left their impress upon history, this great chieftain was concentrating largely in himself the hopes of the Southern people.

        This cursory and necessarily imperfect review of some of the noted leaders on both sides would be still less satisfactory without some reference to the men of the ranks who stood behind them--or, rather, in front of them.

        During the fall of 1896, on my tour in Ohio, a gallant officer of the Union army, after hearing some reference by me to the great debt of gratitude due the private soldiers, gave me an amusing account of a meeting held by privates and junior officers of the line in the Union camps. Brevet titles were being conferred upon many officers for meritorious conduct. A series of resolutions were passed at this meeting, with the usual whereases, by which it was declared, as the sense of the meeting, that every private who had bravely fought and uncomplainingly suffered was entitled to be brevetted as corporal, every corporal as sergeant, and every sergeant as captain. In that droll gathering some wag proposed an additional resolution, which, with solemn dignity, was

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unanimously adopted: "Whereas, the faithful mules of the army have worked hard without any complaint, each one of said mules should be promoted to the rank of horse."

        General Lee evidenced his appreciation of the privates when he said to one of them who was standing near his tent, "Come in, captain, and take a seat."

        "I 'm no captain, general; I 'm nothing but a private," said this modest soldier.

        "Come in, sir," said Lee; "come in and take a seat. You ought to be a captain."

        Although playfully uttered, these simple words reflected the real sentiment of the great chieftain. It is almost literally true that the intelligent privates in both the Confederate and Union armies were all competent to hold minor commissions after one year's service. They acquired well-defined opinions as to the wisdom and object of great movements.

        No language would be too strong or eulogy too high to pronounce upon the privates who did their duty during that long and dreadful war, who manfully braved its dangers, patiently endured its trials, cheerfully obeyed the orders; who were ready to march and to suffer, to fight and to die, without once calling in question the wisdom of the orders or the necessity for the sacrifice.

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CHAPTER XI

GETTYSBURG

        Why General Lee crossed the Potomac--The movement into Pennsylvania-- Incidents of the march to the Susquehanna--The first day at Gettysburg-- Union forces driven back--The key of the position--Why the Confederates did not seize Cemetery Ridge--A defence of General Lee's strategy--The fight at Little Round Top--The immortal charge of Pickett's men--General Meade's deliberate pursuit--Lee's request to be relieved.

        FROM Gettysburg to Appomattox; from the zenith of assurance to the nadir of despair; from the compact ranks, boundless confidence, and exultant hopes of as proud and puissant an army as was ever marshalled--to the shattered remnants, withered hopes, and final surrender of that army--such is the track to be followed describing the Confederacy's declining fortunes and ultimate death. No picture can be drawn by human hand vivid enough to portray the varying hues, the spasmodic changes, the rapidly gathering shadows of the scenes embraced in the culminating period of the great struggle.

        A brief analysis of the reasons for General Lee's crossing of the Potomac is now in order. In the logistics of defensive war, offensive movements are often the wisest strategy. Voltaire has somewhere remarked that "to subsist one's army at the expense of the enemy, to advance on their own ground and force them to retrace their steps--thus rendering strength useless by skill--is regarded as one of the masterpieces of military art."

        It would be difficult to group together words more

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concisely and clearly descriptive of General Lee's purposes in crossing the Potomac, both in '62 and '63. It must be added, however, that while the movement into Maryland in 1862, and into Pennsylvania in 1863, were each defensive in design, they differed in some particulars as to the immediate object which General Lee hoped to accomplish. Each sought to force the Union army to retrace its steps; "each sought to render strength useless by skill"; but in 1862 there was not so grave a necessity for subsisting his army on Union soil as in 1863. The movement into Maryland was of course a more direct threat upon Washington. Besides, at that period there was still a prevalent belief among Southern leaders that Southern sentiment was strong in Maryland, and that an important victory within her borders might convert the Confederate camps into recruiting-stations, and add materially to the strength of Lee's army. But the Confederate graves which were dug in Maryland's soil vastly outnumbered the Confederate soldiers recruited from her citizens. It would be idle to speculate as to what might have been the effect of a decisive victory by Lee's forces at South Mountain, or Boonsboro, or Antietam (Sharpsburg). The poignancy of disappointment at the small number recruited for our army was intensified by the recognition of the splendid fighting qualities of Maryland soldiers who had previously joined us.

        The movement into Pennsylvania in 1863 was also, in part at least, a recruiting expedition. We did not expect, it is true, to gather soldiers for our ranks, but beeves for our commissary. For more than two years the effort to fill the ranks of the Southern armies had alarmingly reduced the ranks of Southern producers, with no appreciable diminution in the number of consumers. Indeed, the consumers had materially increased; for while we were not then seeking to encourage Northern immigration, we had a large number of visitors from

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that and other sections, who were exploring the country under such efficient guides as McClellan, Hooker, Grant, Sherman, Thomas, and others. We had, therefore, much need of borrowing supplies from our neighbors beyond the Potomac. The bill of fare of some commands was already very short and by no means appetizing. General Ewell, having exhausted the contents of his larder, thought to replenish it from the surrounding country by a personal raid, and returned after a long and dusty hunt with a venerable ox, which would not have made a morsel, on division, for one per cent. of his command. Ewell's ox had on him, however, that peculiar quality of flesh which is essential in feeding an army on short rations. It was durable--irreducible.

        The whole country in the Wilderness and around Chancellorsville, where both Hooker's and Lee's armies had done some foraging, and thence to the Potomac, was well-nigh exhausted. This was true, also, of a large portion of the Piedmont region and of the Valley of Virginia beyond the Blue Ridge Mountains; while the lower valley, along the Shenandoah, had long been the beaten track and alternate camping-ground of both Confederate and Union armies. It had contributed to the support of both armies until it could contribute no more. How to subsist, therefore, was becoming a serious question. The hungry hosts of Israel did not look across Jordan to the vine-clad hills of Canaan with more longing eyes than did Lee's braves contemplate the yellow grain-fields of Pennsylvania beyond the Potomac.

        Again, to defend Richmond by threatening Washington and Baltimore and Philadelphia was perhaps the most promising purpose of the Confederate invasion. Incidentally, it was hoped that a defeat of the Union army in territory so contiguous to these great cities would send gold to such a premium as to cause financial panic in the commercial centres, and induce the great

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business interests to demand that the war should cease. But the hoped-for victory, with its persuasive influence, did not materialize. Indeed, the presence of Lee's army in Pennsylvania seemed to arouse the North to still greater efforts, as the presence of the Union armies in the South had intensified, if possible, the decision of her people to resist to the last extremity.

        The appearance of my troops on the flank of General Meade's army during the battle of Gettysburg was not our first approach into that little city which was to become the turning-point in the Confederacy's fortunes. Having been detached from General Lee's army, my brigade had, some days prior to the great battle, passed through Gettysburg on our march to the Susquehanna. Upon those now historic hills I had met a small force of Union soldiers, and had there fought a diminutive battle when the armies of both Meade and Lee were many miles away. When, therefore, my command--which penetrated farther, I believe, than any other Confederate infantry into the heart of Pennsylvania--was recalled from the banks of the Susquehanna to take part in the prolonged and stupendous struggle, I expressed to my staff the opinion that if the battle should be fought at Gettysburg, the army which held the heights would probably be the victor. The insignificant encounter I had had on those hills impressed their commanding importance upon me as nothing else could have done.

        The Valley of Pennsylvania, through which my command marched from Gettysburg to Wrightsville on the Susquehanna, awakened the most conflicting emotions. It was delightful to look upon such a scene of universal thrift and plenty. Its broad grain-fields, clad in golden garb, were waving their welcome to the reapers and binders. Some fields were already dotted over with harvested shocks. The huge barns on the highest grounds meant to my sore-footed marchers a mount, a

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ride, and a rest on broad-backed horses. On every side, as far as our alert vision could reach, all aspects and conditions conspired to make this fertile and carefully tilled region a panorama both interesting and enchanting. It was a type of the fair and fertile Valley of Virginia at its best, before it became the highway of armies and the ravages of war had left it wasted and bare. This melancholy contrast between these charming districts, so similar in other respects, brought to our Southern sensibilities a touch of sadness. In both these lovely valleys were the big red barns, representing in their silent dignity the independence of their owners. In both were the old-fashioned brick or stone mansions, differing in style of architecture and surroundings as Teutonic manners and tastes differ from those of the Cavalier. In both were the broad green meadows with luxuriant grasses and crystal springs.

        One of these springs impressed itself on my memory by its great beauty and the unique uses to which its owner had put it. He was a staid and laborious farmer of German descent. With an eye to utility, as well as to the health and convenience of his household, he had built his dining-room immediately over this fountain gushing from a cleft in an underlying rock. My camp for the night was near by, and I accepted his invitation to breakfast with him. As I entered the quaint room, one half floored with smooth limestone, and the other half covered with limpid water bubbling clear and pure from the bosom of Mother Earth, my amazement at the singular design was perhaps less pronounced than the sensation of rest which it produced. For many days we had been marching on the dusty turnpikes, under a broiling sun, and it is easier to imagine than to describe the feeling of relief and repose which came over me as we sat in that cool room, with a hot breakfast served from one side, while from the other the frugal housewife

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dipped cold milk and cream from immense jars standing neck-deep in water.

        We entered the city of York on Sunday morning. A committee, composed of the mayor and prominent citizens, met my command on the main pike before we reached the corporate limits, their object being to make a peaceable surrender and ask for protection to life and property. They returned, I think, with a feeling of assured safety. The church bells were ringing, and the streets were filled with well-dressed people. The appearance of these church-going men, women, and children, in their Sunday attire, strangely contrasted with that of my marching soldiers. Begrimed as we were from head to foot with the impalpable gray powder which rose in dense columns from the macadamized pikes and settled in sheets on men, horses, and wagons, it is no wonder that many of York's inhabitants were terror-stricken as they looked upon us. We had been compelled on these forced marches to leave baggage-wagons behind us, and there was no possibility of a change of clothing, and no time for brushing uniforms or washing the disfiguring dust from faces, hair, or beard. All these were of the same hideous hue. The grotesque aspect of my troops was accentuated here and there, too, by barefooted men mounted double upon huge horses with shaggy manes and long fetlocks. Confederate pride, to say nothing of Southern gallantry, was subjected to the sorest trial by the consternation produced among the ladies of York. In my eagerness to relieve the citizens from all apprehension, I lost sight of the fact that this turnpike powder was no respecter of persons, but that it enveloped all alike--officers as well as privates. Had I realized the wish of Burns, that some power would "the giftie gie us, to see oursels as ithers see us," I might have avoided the slight panic created by my effort to allay a larger one. Halting on the main street, where the sidewalks

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were densely packed, I rode a few rods in advance of my troops, in order to speak to the people from my horse. As I checked him and turned my full dust-begrimed face upon a bevy of young ladies very near me, a cry of alarm came from their midst; but after a few words of assurance from me, quiet and apparent confidence were restored. I assured these ladies that the troops behind me, though ill-clad and travel-stained, were good men and brave; that beneath their rough exteriors were hearts as loyal to women as ever beat in the breasts of honorable men; that their own experience and the experience of their mothers, wives, and sisters at home had taught them how painful must be the sight of a hostile army in their town; that under the orders of the Confederate commander-in-chief both private property and non-combatants were safe; that the spirit of vengeance and of rapine had no place in the bosoms of these dust-covered but knightly men; and I closed by pledging to York the head of any soldier under my command who destroyed private property, disturbed the repose of a single home, or insulted a woman.

        As we moved along the street after this episode, a little girl, probably twelve years of age, ran up to my horse and handed me a large bouquet of flowers, in the centre of which was a note, in delicate handwriting, purporting to give the numbers and describe the position of the Union forces of Wrightsville, toward which I was advancing. I carefully read and reread this strange note. It bore no signature, and contained no assurance of sympathy for the Southern cause, but it was so terse and explicit in its terms as to compel my confidence. The second day we were in front of Wrightsville, and from the high ridge on which this note suggested that I halt and examine the position of the Union troops, I eagerly scanned the prospect with my field-glasses, in order to verify the truth of the mysterious

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communication or detect its misrepresentations. There, in full view before us, was the town, just as described, nestling on the banks of the Susquehanna. There was the blue line of soldiers guarding the approach, drawn up, as indicated, along an intervening ridge and across the pike. There was the long bridge spanning the Susquehanna and connecting the town with Columbia on the other bank. Most important of all, there was the deep gorge or ravine running off to the right and extending around the left flank of the Federal line and to the river below the bridge. Not an inaccurate detail in that note could be discovered. I did not hesitate, therefore, to adopt its suggestion of moving down the gorge in order to throw my command on the flank, or possibly in the rear, of the Union troops and force them to a rapid retreat or surrender. The result of this movement vindicated the strategic wisdom of my unknown and--judging by the handwriting--woman correspondent, whose note was none the less martial because embedded in roses, and whose evident genius for war, had occasion offered, might have made her a captain equal to Catherine.

        As I have intimated, the orders from General Lee for the protection of private property and persons were of the most stringent character. Guided by these instructions and by my own impulses, I resolved to leave no ruins along the line of my march through Pennsylvania; no marks of a more enduring character than the tracks of my soldiers along its superb pikes. I cannot be mistaken in the opinion that the citizens who then lived and still live on these highways will bear me out in the assertion that we marched into that delightful region, and then marched out of it, without leaving any scars to mar its beauty or lessen its value. Perhaps I ought to record two insignificant exceptions.

        Going into camp in an open country and after dark,

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it was ascertained that there was no wood to be had for even the limited amount of necessary cooking, and I was appealed to by the men for permission to use a few rails from an old-fashioned fence near the camp. I agreed that they might take the top layer of rails, as the fence would still be high enough to answer the farmer's purpose. When morning came the fence had nearly all disappeared, and each man declared that he had taken only the top rail! The authorized (?) destruction of that fence is not difficult to understand! It was a case of adherence to the letter and neglect of the spirit; but there was no alternative except good-naturedly to admit that my men had gotten the better of me that time.

        The other case of insignificant damage inflicted by our presence in the Valley of Pennsylvania was the application of the Confederate "conscript law" in drafting Pennsylvania horses into service. That law was passed by the Confederate Congress in order to call into our ranks able-bodied men at the South, but my soldiers seemed to think that it might be equally serviceable for the ingathering of able-bodied horses at the North. The trouble was that most of these horses had fled the country or were in hiding, and the owners of the few that were left were not submissive to Southern authority. One of these owners, who, I believe, had not many years before left his fatherland and was not an expert in the use of English, attempted to save his favorite animal by a verbal combat with my quartermaster. That officer, however, failing to understand him, sent him to me. The "Pennsylvania Dutchman," as his class was known in the Valley, was soon firing at me his broken English, and opened his argument with the announcement: "You be's got my mare." I replied, "It is not at all improbable, my friend, that I have your mare, but the game we are now playing is what was called in my boyhood'tit for tat' "; and I endeavored to explain to him that the

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country was at war, that at the South horses were being taken by the Union soldiers, and that I was trying on a small scale to balance accounts. I flattered myself that this statement of the situation would settle the matter; but the explanation was far more satisfactory to myself than to him. He insisted that I had not paid for his mare. I at once offered to pay him--in Confederate money; I had no other. This he indignantly refused. Finally I offered to give him a written order for the price of his mare on the President of the United States. This offer set him to thinking. He was quite disposed to accept it, but, like a dim ray of starlight through a rift in the clouds at night, there gradually dawned on him the thought that there might possibly be some question as to my authority for drawing on the President. The suggestion of this doubt exhausted his patience, and in his righteous exasperation, like his great countryman hurling the inkstand at the devil, he pounded me with expletives in so furious a style that, although I could not interpret them into English, there was no difficulty in comprehending their meaning. The words which I did catch and understand showed that he was making a comparison of values between his mare and his "t'ree vifes." The climax of his argument was in these words: "I 've been married, sir, t'ree times, and I vood not geef dot mare for all dose voomans."

        With so sincere an admirer of woman as myself such an argument could scarcely be recognized as forcible; but I was also a great lover of fine horses, and this poor fellow's distress at the loss of his favorite mare was so genuine and acute that I finally yielded to his entreaties and had her delivered to him.

        When General Early reached York a few days later, he entered into some business negotiations with the officials and prominent citizens of that city. I was not advised as to the exact character of those negotiations, but

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it was rumored through that portion of the army at the time that General Early wanted to borrow, or secure in some other way, for the use of his troops, a certain amount of greenbacks, and that he succeeded in making the arrangement. I learned afterward that the only promise to repay, like that of the Confederate notes, was at some date subsequent to the establishment of Southern independence.

        It will be remembered that the note concealed in the flowers handed me at York had indicated a ravine down which I could move, reaching the river not far from the bridge. As my orders were not restricted, except to direct me to cross the Susquehanna, if possible, my immediate object was to move rapidly down that ravine to the river, then along its right bank to the bridge, seize it, and cross to the Columbia side. Once across, I intended to mount my men, if practicable, so as to pass rapidly through Lancaster in the direction of Philadelphia, and thus compel General Meade to send a portion of his army to the defence of that city. This programme was defeated, first, by the burning of the bridge, and second, by the imminent prospect of battle near Gettysburg. The Union troops stationed at Wrightsville had, after their retreat across it, fired the bridge which I had hoped to secure, and had then stood in battle line on the opposite shore. With great energy my men labored to save the bridge. I called on the citizens of Wrightsville for buckets and pails, but none were to be found. There was, however, no lack of buckets and pails a little later, when the town was on fire. The bridge might burn, for that incommoded, at the time, only the impatient Confederates, and these Pennsylvanians were not in sympathy with my expedition, nor anxious to facilitate the movement of such unwelcome visitors. But when the burning bridge fired the lumber-yards on the river's banks, and the burning lumber fired the town, buckets

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and tubs and pails and pans innumerable came from their hiding-places, until it seemed that, had the whole of Lee's army been present, I could have armed them with these implements to fight the rapidly spreading flames. My men labored as earnestly and bravely to save the town as they did to save the bridge. In the absence of fire-engines or other appliances, the only chance to arrest the progress of the flames was to form my men around the burning district, with the flank resting on the river's edge, and pass rapidly from hand to hand the pails of water. Thus, and thus only, was the advancing, raging fire met, and at a late hour of the night checked and conquered. There was one point especially at which my soldiers combated the fire's progress with immense energy, and with great difficulty saved an attractive home from burning. It chanced to be the home of one of the most superb women it was my fortune to meet during the four years of war. She was Mrs. L. L. Rewalt, to whom I refer in my lecture, "The Last Days of the Confederacy," as the heroine of the Susquehanna. I met Mrs. Rewalt the morning after the fire had been checked. She had witnessed the furious combat with the flames around her home, and was unwilling that those men should depart without receiving some token of appreciation from her. She was not wealthy, and could not entertain my whole command, but she was blessed with an abundance of those far nobler riches of brain and heart which are the essential glories of exalted womanhood. Accompanied by an attendant, and at a late hour of the night, she sought me, in the confusion which followed the destructive fire, to express her gratitude to the soldiers of my command and to inquire how long we would remain in Wrightsville. On learning that the village would be relieved of our presence at an early hour the following morning, she insisted that I should bring with me to breakfast at her house as many as could find places

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in her dining-room. She would take no excuse, not even the nervous condition in which the excitement of the previous hours had left her. At a bountifully supplied table in the early morning sat this modest, cultured woman, surrounded by soldiers in their worn, gray uniforms. The welcome she gave us was so gracious, she was so self-possessed, so calm and kind, that I found myself in an inquiring state of mind as to whether her sympathies were with the Northern or Southern side in the pending war. Cautiously, but with sufficient clearness to indicate to her my object, I ventured some remarks which she could not well ignore and which she instantly saw were intended to evoke some declaration upon the subject. She was too brave to evade it, too self-poised to be confused by it, and too firmly fixed in her convictions to hesitate as to the answer. With no one present except Confederate soldiers who were her guests, she replied, without a quiver in her voice, but with womanly gentleness: "General Gordon, I fully comprehend you, and it is due to myself that I candidly tell you that I am a Union woman. I cannot afford to be misunderstood, nor to have you misinterpret this simple courtesy. You and your soldiers last night saved my home from burning, and I was unwilling that you should go away without receiving some token of my appreciation. I must tell you, however, that, with my assent and approval, my husband is a soldier in the Union army, and my constant prayer to Heaven is that our cause may triumph and the Union be saved."

        No Confederate left that room without a feeling of profound respect, of unqualified admiration, for that brave and worthy woman. No Southern soldier, no true Southern man, who reads this account will fail to render to her a like tribute of appreciation. The spirit of every high-souled Southerner was made to thrill over and over again at the evidence around him of the more

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than Spartan courage, the self-sacrifices and devotion, of Southern women, at every stage and through every trial of the war, as from first to last, they hurried to the front, their brothers and fathers, their husbands and sons. No Southern man can ever forget the words of cheer that came from these heroic women's lips, and their encouragement to hope and fight on in the midst of despair. When I met Mrs. Rewalt in Wrightsville, the parting with my own mother was still fresh in my memory. Nothing short of death's hand can ever obliterate from my heart the impression of that parting. Holding me in her arms, her heart almost bursting with anguish, and the tears running down her cheeks, she asked God to take care of me, and then said : "Go, my son; I shall perhaps never see you again, but I commit you freely to the service of your country." I had witnessed, as all Southern soldiers had witnessed, the ever-increasing consecration of those women to their cause. No language can fitly describe their saintly spirit of martyrdom, which grew stronger and rose higher when all other eyes could see the inevitable end of the terrific struggle slowly but surely approaching.

        Returning from the banks of the Susquehanna, and meeting at Gettysburg, July 1, 1863, the advance of Lee's forces, my command was thrown quickly and squarely on the right flank of the Union army. A more timely arrival never occurred. The battle had been raging for four or five hours. The Confederate General Archer, with a large portion of his brigade, had been captured. Heth and Scales, Confederate generals, had been wounded. The ranking Union commander on the field, General Reynolds, had been killed, and Hancock was assigned to command. The battle, upon the issue of which hung, perhaps, the fate of the Confederacy, was in full blast. The Union forces, at first driven

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back, now reënforced, were again advancing and pressing back Lee's left and threatening to envelop it. The Confederates were stubbornly contesting every foot of ground, but the Southern left was slowly yielding. A few moments more and the day's battle might have been ended by the complete turning of Lee's flank. I was ordered to move at once to the aid of the heavily pressed Confederates. With a ringing yell, my command rushed upon the line posted to protect the Union right. Here occurred a hand-to-hand struggle. That protecting Union line once broken left my command not only on the right flank, but obliquely in rear of it. Any troops that were ever marshalled would, under like conditions, have been as surely and swiftly shattered. There was no alternative for Howard's men except to break and fly, or to throw down their arms and surrender. Under the concentrated fire from front and flank, the marvel is that any escaped. In the midst of the wild disorder in his ranks, and through a storm of bullets, a Union officer was seeking to rally his men for a final stand. He, too, went down, pierced by a Minié ball. Riding forward with my rapidly advancing lines, I discovered that brave officer lying upon his back, with the July sun pouring its rays into his pale face. He was surrounded by the Union dead, and his own life seemed to be rapidly ebbing out. Quickly dismounting and lifting his head, I gave him water from my canteen, asked his name and the character of his wounds. He was Major-General Francis C. Barlow, of New York, and of Howard's corps. The ball had entered his body in front and passed out near the spinal cord, paralyzing him in legs and arms. Neither of us had the remotest thought that he could possibly survive many hours. I summoned several soldiers who were looking after the wounded, and directed them to place him upon a litter and carry him to the shade in the rear. Before parting,

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he asked me to take from his pocket a package of letters and destroy them. They were from his wife. He had but one request to make of me. That request was that if I should live to the end of the war and should ever meet Mrs. Barlow, I would tell her of our meeting on the field of Gettysburg and of his thoughts of her in his last moments. He wished me to assure her that he died doing his duty at the front, that he was willing to give his life for his country, and that his deepest regret was that he must die without looking upon her face again. I learned that Mrs. Barlow was with the Union army, and near the battle-field. When it is remembered how closely Mrs. Gordon followed me, it will not be difficult to realize that my sympathies were especially stirred by the announcement that his wife was so near him. Passing through the day's battle unhurt, I despatched at its close, under flag of truce, the promised message to Mrs. Barlow. I assured her that if she wished to come through the lines she should have safe escort to her husband's side. In the desperate encounters of the two succeeding days, and the retreat of Lee's army, I thought no more of Barlow, except to number him with the noble dead of the two armies who had so gloriously met their fate. The ball, however, had struck no vital point, and Barlow slowly recovered, though this fact was wholly unknown to me. The following summer, in battle near Richmond, my kinsman with the same initials, General J. B. Gordon of North Carolina, was killed. Barlow, who had recovered, saw the announcement of his death, and entertained no doubt that he was the Gordon whom he had met on the field of Gettysburg. To me, therefore, Barlow was dead; to Barlow, I was dead. Nearly fifteen years passed before either of us was undeceived. During my second term in the United States Senate, the Hon. Clarkson Potter, of New York, was a member of the House of Representatives.

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He invited me to dinner in Washington to meet a General Barlow who had served in the Union army. Potter knew nothing of the Gettysburg incident. I had heard that there was another Barlow in the Union army, and supposed, of course, that it was this Barlow with whom I was to dine. Barlow had a similar reflection as to the Gordon he was to meet. Seated at Clarkson Potter's table, I asked Barlow: "General, are you related to the Barlow who was killed at Gettysburg?" He replied: "Why, I am the man, sir. Are you related to the Gordon who killed me?" "I am the man, sir," I responded. No words of mine can convey any conception of the emotions awakened by those startling announcements. Nothing short of an actual resurrection from the dead could have amazed either of us more. Thenceforward, until his untimely death in 1896, the friendship between us which was born amidst the thunders of Gettysburg was greatly cherished by both.

        No battle of our Civil War--no battle of any war--more forcibly illustrates the truth that officers at a distance from the field cannot, with any wisdom, attempt to control the movements of troops actively engaged. On the first day neither General Early nor General Ewell could possibly have been fully cognizant of the situation at the time I was ordered to halt. The whole of that portion of the Union army in my front was in inextricable confusion and in flight. They were necessarily in flight, for my troops were upon the flank and rapidly sweeping down the lines. The firing upon my men had almost ceased. Large bodies of the Union troops were, throwing down their arms and surrendering, because in disorganized and confused masses they were wholly powerless either to check the movement or return the fire. As far down the lines as my eye could reach the Union troops were in retreat. Those at a distance were

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still resisting, but giving ground, and it was only necessary for me to press forward in order to insure the same results which invariably follow such flank movements. In less than half an hour my troops would have swept up and over those hills, the possession of which was of such momentous consequence. It is not surprising, with a full realization of the consequences of a halt, that I should have refused at first to obey the order. Not until the third or fourth order of the most peremptory character reached me did I obey. I think I should have risked the consequences of disobedience even then but for the fact that the order to halt was accompanied with the explanation that General Lee, who was several miles away, did not wish to give battle at Gettysburg. It is stated on the highest authority that General Lee said, sometime before his death, that if Jackson had been there he would have won in this battle a great and possibly decisive victory.

        The Rev. J. William Jones, D.D., writing of this statement of General Lee's, uses these words: "General Lee made that remark to Professor James J. White and myself in his office in Lexington one day when we chanced to go in as he was reading a letter making some inquiries of him about Gettysburg. He said, with an emphasis that I cannot forget, and bringing his hand down on the table with a force that made things rattle:'If I had had Stonewall Jackson at Gettysburg, I would have won that fight, and a complete victory there would have given us Washington and Baltimore, if not Philadelphia, and would have established the independence of the Confederacy.' "

        No soldier in a great crisis ever wished more ardently for a deliverer's hand than I wished for one hour of Jackson when I was ordered to halt. Had he been there, his quick eye would have caught at a glance the entire situation, and instead of halting me he would have urged

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me forward and have pressed the advantage to the utmost, simply notifying General Lee that the battle was on and he had decided to occupy the heights. Had General Lee himself been present this would undoubtedly have been done. General Lee, as he came in sight of the battle-field that afternoon, sent Colonel Walter H. Taylor, of the staff (he makes this statement clearly in his book, "Four Years with Lee"), with an order to General Ewell to "advance and occupy the heights." General Ewell replied that he would do so, and afterward explained in his official report that he did not do so because of the report from General William Smith that the enemy was advancing on his flank and rear, the supposed enemy turning out to be General Edward Johnson's Confederate division. Absent as General Lee necessarily was, and intending to meet General Meade at another point and in defensive battle, he would still have applauded, when the facts were made known, the most aggressive movements, though in conflict with his general plan. From the situation plainly to be seen on the first afternoon, and from facts that afterward came to light as to the position of the different corps of General Meade's army, it seems certain that if the Confederates had simply moved forward, following up the advantages gained and striking the separated Union commands in succession, the victory would have been Lee's instead of Meade's. 1

        I should state here that General Meade's army at that hour was stretched out along the line of his march for

        1 I give here the numbers engaged. The figures are taken from the highest authorities:

         FEDERAL.--Return, June 30, 1863, effective infantry and artillery (cavalry not reported), Army of the Potomac, 84,158 (Official Records, Vol. XXVII, Part I, p. 151). To which add cavalry (given by "Battles and Leaders" as 13,144), making a total of 97,302.

         Estimates, at the battle: "Battles and Leaders," 93,500 (Vol. III, p. 440). Doubleday, 82,000 (he accepts estimate of the Count of Paris). Boynton, 87,000. Meade, in testifying before Commission on Conduct of War, gives 95,000 (Second Series, Vol. I, p. 337). Livermore's "Numbers and Losses in Civil War," 83,000 pp. 102, 103).

         CONFEDERATE.--Confederate returns, May 31, 1863, effective force, 68,352 (Official Records, Vol. XXV, Part I, pp. 845, 846).

         Estimates, at the battle: "Battles and Leaders," 70,000 (Vol. IV, p. 440). Doubleday, 73,500 (he accepts estimate of the Count of Paris). Boynton, 80,000. Taylor's "Four Years with Lee," 62,000 (p. 113). Livermore's "Numbers and Losses," 75,054 (pp. 102, 103).
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nearly thirty miles. General Lee's was much more concentrated. General Hancock's statement of the situation is true and pertinent: "The rear of our troops were hurrying through the town, pursued by Confederates. There had been an attempt to reform some of the Eleventh Corps as they passed over Cemetery Hill, but it had not been very successful." And yet I was halted!

        My thoughts were so harrowed and my heart so burdened by the fatal mistake of the afternoon that I was unable to sleep at night. Mounting my horse at two o'clock in the morning, I rode with one or two staff officers to the red barn in which General Ewell and General Early then had their headquarters. Much of my time after nightfall had been spent on the front picket-line, listening to the busy strokes of Union picks and shovels on the hills, to the rumble of artillery wheels and the tramp of fresh troops as they were hurried forward by Union commanders and placed in position. There was, therefore, no difficulty in divining the scene that would break on our view with the coming dawn. I did not hesitate to say to both Ewell and Early that a line of heavy earthworks, with heavy guns and ranks of infantry behind them, would frown upon us at daylight. I expressed the opinion that, even at that hour, two o'clock, by a concentrated and vigorous night assault we could carry those heights, and that if we waited till morning it would cost us 10,000 men to take them. There was a disposition to yield to my suggestions, but

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other counsels finally prevailed. Those works were never carried, but the cost of the assault upon them, the appalling carnage resulting from the effort to take them, far exceeded that which I had ventured to predict.

        Late in the afternoon of this first day's battle, when the firing had greatly decreased along most of the lines, General Ewell and I were riding through the streets of Gettysburg. In a previous battle he had lost one of his legs, but prided himself on the efficiency of the wooden one which he used in its place. As we rode together, a body of Union soldiers, posted behind some buildings and fences on the outskirts of the town, suddenly opened a brisk fire. A number of Confederates were killed or wounded, and I heard the ominous thud of a Minié ball as it struck General Ewell at my side. I quickly asked: "Are you hurt, sir?" "No, no," he replied; "I 'm not hurt. But suppose that ball had struck you: we would have had the trouble of carrying you off the field, sir. You see how much better fixed for a fight I am than you are. It don't hurt a bit to be shot in a wooden leg."

        Ewell was one of the most eccentric characters, and, taking him all in all, one of the most interesting that I have ever known. It is said that in his early manhood he had been disappointed in a love affair, and had never fully recovered from its effects. The fair young woman to whom he had given his affections had married another man; but Ewell, like the truest of knights, carried her image in his heart through long years. When he was promoted to the rank of brigadier or major-general, he evidenced the constancy of his affections by placing upon his staff the son of the woman whom he had loved in his youth. The meddlesome Fates, who seem to revel in the romances of lovers, had decreed that Ewell should be shot in battle and become the object of solicitude and tender nursing by this lady, who had been for many years a widow--Mrs. Brown. Her gentle ministrations

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soothed his weary weeks of suffering, a marriage ensued, and with it came the realization of Ewell's long-deferred hope. It was most interesting to note the change that came over the spirit of this formerly irascible old bachelor. He no longer sympathized with General Early, who, like himself, was known to be more intolerant of soldiers' wives than the crusty French marshal who pronounced them the most inconvenient sort of baggage for a soldier to own. Ewell had become a husband, and was sincerely devoted to Mrs. Ewell. He never seemed to realize, however, that her marriage to him had changed her name, for he proudly presented her to his friends as "My wife, Mrs. Brown, sir."

        Whatever differences of opinion may now or hereafter exist as to the results which might have followed a defeat of the Union arms at Gettysburg, there is universal concurrence in the judgment that this battle was the turning-point in the South's fortunes. The point where Pickett's Virginians, under Kemper, Garnett, and Armistead, in their immortal charge, swept over the rock wall, has been appropriately designated by the Government as "the high-water mark of the Rebellion." To the Union commander, General George Gordon Meade, history will accord the honor of having handled his army at Gettysburg with unquestioned ability. The record and the results of the battle entitle him to a high place among Union leaders. To him and to his able subordinates and heroic men is due the credit of having successfully met and repelled the Army of Northern Virginia in the meridian of its hope and confidence and power. This much seems secure to him, whether his failure vigorously to follow General Lee and force him to another battle is justified or condemned by the military critics of the future. General Meade's army halted, it is true, after having achieved a victory. The victory, however, was not of

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so decisive a character as to demoralize Lee's forces. The great Bonaparte said that bad as might be the condition of a victorious army after battle, it was invariably true that the condition of the defeated army was still worse. If, however, any successful commander was ever justified in disregarding this truism of Bonaparte's, General Meade was that commander; for a considerable portion of Lee's army, probably one third of it, was still in excellent fighting trim, and nearly every man in it would have responded with alacrity to Lee's call to form a defensive line and deliver battle.

        It was my pleasure to know General Meade well after the war, when he was the Department Commander or Military Governor of Georgia. An incident at a banquet in the city of Atlanta illustrates his high personal and soldierly characteristics. The first toast of the evening was to General Meade as the honored guest. When this toast had been drunk, my health was proposed. Thereupon, objection was made upon the ground that it was "too soon after the war to be drinking the health of a man who had been fighting for four years in the Rebel army." It is scarcely necessary to say that this remark came from one who did no fighting in either army. He belonged to that curious class of soldiers who were as valiant in peace as they were docile in war; whose defiance of danger became dazzling after the danger was past. General Meade belonged to the other class of soldiers, who fought as long as fighting was in order, and was ready for peace when there was no longer any foe in the field. This chivalric chieftain of the Union forces at Gettysburg was far more indignant at the speech of the bomb-proof warrior than I was myself. The moment the objection to drinking my health was suggested, General Meade sprang to his feet, and with a compliment to myself which I shall not be expected to repeat, and a rebuke to the objector, he held high his

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glass and said, with significant emphasis: "I propose to drink, and drink now, to my former foe, but now my friend, General Gordon, of Georgia."

        It will not be expected that any considerable space be devoted to the unseemly controversy over those brilliant but disastrous Confederate charges which lost the day at Gettysburg. I could scarcely throw upon the subject any additional light nor bring to its elucidation any material testimony not already adduced by those who have written on the one side or the other. A sense of justice, however, to say nothing of loyalty to Lee's memory, impels me to submit one observation; and I confidently affirm that nearly every soldier who fought under him will sympathize with the suggestion. It is this: that nothing that occurred at Gettysburg, nor anything that has been written since of that battle, has lessened the conviction that, had Lee's orders been promptly and cordially executed, Meade's centre on the third day would have been penetrated and the Union army overwhelmingly defeated. Lee's hold upon the confidence of his army was absolute. The repulse at Gettysburg did not shake it. I recall no instance in history where a defeated army retained in its retreating commander a faith so complete, and gave to him subsequent support so enthusiastic and universal.

        General Longstreet is undoubtedly among the great American soldiers who attained distinction in our Civil War; and to myself, and, I am sure, to a large majority of the Southern people, it is a source of profound regret that he and his friends should have been brought into such unprofitable and ill-tempered controversy with the friends of his immortal chieftain. 1


        1 It now seems certain that impartial military critics, after thorough investigation, will consider the following as established:

         1. That General Lee distinctly ordered Longstreet to attack early the morning of the second day, and if he had done so, two of the largest corps of Meade's army would not have been in the fight; but Longstreet delayed the attack until four o'clock in the afternoon, and thus lost his opportunity of occupying Little Round Top, the key to the position, which he might have done in the morning without firing a shot or losing a man.

         2. That General Lee ordered Longstreet to attack at daybreak on the morning of the third day, and that he did not attack until two or three o'clock in the afternoon, the artillery opening at one.

         3. That General Lee, according to the testimony of Colonel Walter Taylor, Colonel C. S. Venable, and General A. L. Long, who were present when the order was given, ordered Longstreet to make the attack on the last day, with the three divisions of his corps, and two divisions of A. P. Hill's corps, and that instead of doing so he sent fourteen thousand men to assail Meade's army in his strong position, and heavily intrenched.

         4. That the great mistake of the halt on the first day would have been repaired on the second, and even on the third day, if Lee's orders had been vigorously executed, and that General Lee died believing (the testimony on this point is overwhelming) that he lost Gettysburg at last by Longstreet's disobedience of orders.
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        A third of a century has passed since, with Lee's stricken but still puissant army, I turned my back upon the field of Gettysburg, on which nearly 40,000 Americans went down, dead or wounded, at the hands of fellow-Americans. The commanders-in-chief and nearly all the great actors upon it are dead. Of the heroes who fought there and survived the conflict, a large portion have since joined the ranks of those who fell. A new generation has taken their places since the battle's roar was hushed, but its thunders are still reverberating through my memory. No tongue, nor pen, can adequately portray its vacillating fortunes at each dreadful moment. As I write of it now, a myriad thrilling incidents and rapidly changing scenes, now appalling and now inspiring, rush over my memory. I hear again the words of Barlow: "Tell my wife that I freely gave my life for my country." Yonder, resting on his elbow, I see the gallant young Avery in his bloody gray uniform among his brave North Carolinians, writing, as he dies: "Tell father that I fell with my face to the foe." On the opposite hills, Lee and Meade, surrounded by staff and couriers and

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with glasses in hand, are surveying the intervening space. Over it the flying shells are plunging, shrieking, bursting. The battered Confederate line staggers, reels, and is bent back before the furious blast. The alert Federals leap from the trenches and over the walls and rush through this thin and wavering line. Instantly, from the opposite direction, with deafening yells, come the Confederates in countercharge, and the brave Federals are pressed back to the walls. The Confederate banners sweep through the riddled peach orchard; while farther to the Union left on the gory wheat-field the impacted forces are locked in deadly embrace. Across this field in alternate waves rolls the battle's tide, now from the one side, now from the other, until the ruthless Harvester piles his heaps of slain thicker than the grain shocks gathered by the husbandman's scythe. Hard by is Devil's Den. Around it and over it the deadly din of battle roars. The rattle of rifles, the crash of shells, the shouts of the living and groans of the dying, convert that dark woodland into a harrowing pandemonium. Farther to the Union left, Hood, with his stalwart Texans, is climbing the Round Tops. For a moment he halts to shelter them behind the great boulders. A brief pause, for rest, and to his command, "Forward!" they mount the huge rocks reddened with blood--and Hood's own blood is soon added. He falls seriously wounded; but his intrepid Alabamians under Law press forward. The fiery brigades of McLaws move to his aid. The fiercest struggle is now for the possession of Little Round Top. Standing on its rugged summit like a lone sentinel is seen an erect but slender form clad in the uniform of a Union officer. It is Warren, Meade's chief of engineers. With practised eye, he sees at a glance that, quickly seized, that rock-ribbed hill would prove a Gibraltar amidst the whirling currents of the battle, resisting its heaviest shocks. Staff and couriers are summoned, who swiftly

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bear his messages to the Union leaders. Veterans from Hancock and Sykes respond at a "double-quick." Around its base, along its sides, and away toward the Union right, with the forces of Sickles and Hancock, the gray veterans of Longstreet are in herculean wrestle. Wilcox's Alabamians and Barksdale's Mississippians seize a Union battery and rush on. The Union lines under Humphreys break through a Confederate gap and sweep around Barksdale's left. Wright's Georgians and Perry's Floridians are hurled against Humphreys and break him in turn. Amidst the smoke and fury, Sickles with thighbone shivered, sickens and falls from his saddle into the arms of his soldiers. Sixty per cent. of Hancock's veterans go down with his gallant Brigadiers Willard, Zook, Cross, and Brooke. The impetuous Confederate leaders, Barksdale and Semmes, fall and die, but their places are quickly assumed by the next in command. The Union forces of Vincent and Weed, with Hazlett's artillery, have reached the summit, but all three are killed. The apex of Little Round Top is the point of deadliest struggle. The day ends, and thus ends the battle. As the last rays of the setting sun fall upon the summit, they are reflected from the batteries and bayonets of the Union soldiers still upon it, with the bleeding Confederates struggling to possess it. The embattled hosts sleep upon their arms. The stars look down at night upon a harrowing scene of pale faces all over the field, and of sufferers in the hospitals behind the lines--an army of dead and wounded numbering over twenty thousand.

        The third day's struggle was the bloody postscript to the battle of the first and second. There was a pause. Night had intervened. It was only a pause for breath. Of sleep there was little for the soldiers, perhaps none for the throbbing brains of the great chieftains. Victory to Lee meant Southern independence. Victory to

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Meade meant an inseparable Union. The life of the Confederacy, the unity of the Republic--these were the stakes of July 3. Meade decided to defend; Lee resolved to assault. The decisive blow at Meade's left centre was planned for the early morning. The morning came and the morning passed. The Union right, impatient at the Confederate delay, opens fire on Lee's left. The challenge is answered by a Confederate charge under Edward Johnson. The Union trenches are carried. Ruger's Union lines sweep down from the heights on Johnson's left and recover these trenches. High noon is reached, but the assault on the left centre is still undelivered. With every moment of delay, Lee's chances are diminishing with geometrical progression. At last the heavy signal-guns break the fatal silence and summon the gray lines of infantry to the charge. Pickett's Virginians are leading. The tired veterans of Heth and Wilcox and Pettigrew move with them. Down the long slope and up the next the majestic column sweeps. With Napoleonic skill, Meade's artillerists turn the converging, galling fire of all adjacent batteries upon the advancing Confederates. The heavy Southern guns hurl their solid shot and shell above the Southern lines and into the Union ranks on the summit. The air quivers and the hills tremble. Onward, still onward, the Southern legions press. Through a tempest of indescribable fury they rush toward the crest held by the compact Union lines. The Confederate leaders, Garnett, Trimble, and Kemper, fall in the storm--the first dead, the others down and disabled. On the Union side, Hancock and Gibbon are borne bleeding to the rear. Still onward press the men in gray, their ranks growing thinner, their lines shorter, as the living press toward the centre to fill the great gaps left by the dead. Nearly every mounted officer goes down. Riderless horses are flying hither and thither. Above the battle's

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roar is heard the familiar Southern yell. It proclaims fresh hope, but false hope. Union batteries are seen to limber up, and the galloping horses carry them to the rear. The Confederate shout is evoked by a misapprehension. These guns are not disabled. They do not fly before the Confederate lines from fear of capture. It is simply to cool their heated throats. Into their places quickly wheel the fresh Union guns. Like burning lava from volcanic vents, they pour a ceaseless current of fire into the now thin Confederate ranks. The Southern left is torn to fragments. Quickly the brilliant Alexander, his ammunition almost exhausted, flies at a furious gallop with his batteries to the support of the dissolving Confederate infantry. Here and there his horses and riders go down and check his artillery's progress. His brave gunners cut loose the dead horses, seize the wheels, whirl the guns into position, and pour the hot grape and canister into the faces of the Federals. The Confederates rally under the impulse, and rush onward. At one instant their gray jackets and flashing bayonets are plainly seen in the July sun. At the next they disappear, hidden from view as the hundreds of belching cannon conceal and envelop them in sulphurous smoke. The brisk west wind lifts and drives the smoke from the field, revealing the Confederate banners close to the rock wall. Will they go over? Look! They are over and in the Union lines. The left centre is pierced, but there is no Union panic, no general flight. The Confederate battle-flags and the Union banners are floating side by side. Face to face, breast to breast, are the hostile hosts. The heavy guns are silent. The roar of artillery has given place to the rattle of rifles and crack of pistol-shots, as the officers draw their side arms. The awful din and confusion of close combat is heard, as men batter and brain each other with clubbed muskets. The brave young Pennsylvanian, Lieutenant

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Cushing, shot in both thighs, still stands by his guns. The Confederates seize them; but he surrenders them only with his life. One Southern leader is left; it is the heroic Armistead. He calls around him the shattered Southern remnants. Lifting his hat on the point of his sword, he orders "Forward!" on the second line, and falls mortally wounded amidst the culminating fury of Gettysburg's fires.

        The collision had shaken the continent. For three days the tumult and roar around Cemetery Heights and the Round Tops seemed the echo of the internal commotion which ages before had heaved these hills above the surrounding plain.

        It is a great loss to history and to posterity that General Lee did not write his own recollections as General Grant did. It was his fixed purpose to do so for some years after the war ended. From correspondence and personal interviews with him, I know that he was profoundly impressed with the belief that it was his duty to write, and he expended much time and labor in getting the material for such a work. From his reports, which are models of official papers, were necessarily excluded the free and full comments upon plans, movements, men, failures, and the reasons for such failures, as they appeared to him, and of which he was the most competent witness. To those who knew General Lee well, and who added to this knowledge a just appreciation of his generous nature, the assumption by him of entire responsibility for the failure at Gettysburg means nothing except an additional and overwhelming proof of his almost marvellous magnanimity. He was commander-in-chief, and as such and in that sense he was responsible; but in that sense he was also responsible for every act of every officer and every soldier in his army. This, however, is not the kind of responsibility

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under discussion. This is not the standard which history will erect and by which he will be judged. If by reason of repeated mistakes or blunders he had lost the confidence and respect of his army, and for this cause could no longer command its cordial and enthusiastic support, this fact would fix his responsibility for the failure. But no such conditions appertained. As already stated, the confidence in him before and after the battle was boundless. Napoleon Bonaparte never more firmly held the faith of Frenchmen, when thrones were trembling before him, than did Lee hold the faith of his devoted followers, amidst the gloom of his heaviest disasters.

        If his plan of battle was faulty, then for this he is responsible; but if his general plan promised success, and if there was a lack of cheerful, prompt, and intelligent coöperation in its execution, or if there were delays that General Lee could not foresee nor provide against, and which delays or lack of coöperation enabled General Meade to concentrate his reserves behind the point of contemplated attack, then the responsibility is shifted to other shoulders.

        There was nothing new or especially remarkable in General Lee's plans. Novelties in warfare are confined rather to its implements than to the methods of delivering battle. To Hannibal and Caesar, to Frederick and Napoleon, to Grant and Lee, to all great soldiers, the plan was familiar. It was to assault along the entire line and hold the enemy to hard work on the wings, while the artillery and heaviest impact of infantry penetrated the left centre. Cooperation by every part of his army was expected and essential. However well trained and strong may be the individual horses in a team, they will never move the stalled wagon when one pulls forward while the other holds back. They must all pull together, or the heavily loaded wagon will never be carried

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to the top of the hill. Such coöperation at Gettysburg was only partial, and limited to comparatively small forces. Pressure--hard, general, and constant pressure--Meade's right would have called him to its defence and weakened his centre. That pressure was only spasmodic and of short duration. Lee and his plan could only promise success on the proviso that the movement was both general and prompt. It was neither. Moments in battle are pregnant with the fate of armies. When the opportune moment to strike arrives, the blow must fall; for the next instant it may be futile. Not only moments, but hours, of delay occurred. I am criticising officers for the lack of complete coöperation not for unavoidable delays. I am simply stating facts which must necessarily affect the verdict of history. Had all the commands designated by General Lee coöperated by a simultaneous assault, thus preventing Meade from grouping his troops around his centre, and had the onset upon that centre occurred in the early morning, as intended by Lee, it requires no partiality to see that this great commander's object would have been assuredly achieved. That the plan involved hazard is undoubtedly true. All battles between such troops as confronted each other at Gettysburg are hazardous and uncertain. If the commanders of the Confederate and Union armies had waited for opportunities free of hazard and uncertainty, no great battle would have been fought and the war never would have ended. The question which history will ask is this: Was General Lee justified in expecting success? The answer will be that, with his experience in meeting the same Union army at Fredericksburg, at the second Manassas, in the seven-days, battles around Richmond, and at Chancellorsville; with an army behind him which he believed well-nigh invincible, and which army believed its commander well-nigh infallible; with a victory for his troops on the first day at Gettysburg, the completeness

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of which had been spoiled only by an untimely and fatal halt; with the second day's battle ending with alternate successes and indecisive results; and with the expectation of prompt action and vigorous united coöperation, he was abundantly justified in confidently expecting success.

        Wellington at Waterloo and Meade at Gettysburg, each held the highlands against his antagonist. Wellington on Mont-Saint-Jean, and Meade on Cemetery Ridge, had the bird's-eye view of the forces of attack. The English batteries on the plateau and the Union batteries on Cemetery Heights commanded alike the intervening undulations across which the charging columns must advance. Behind Mont- Saint-Jean, to conceal Wellington's movements from Napoleon's eye, were the woodlands of Soignies. Behind Cemetery Ridge, to conceal Meade's movements from the field-glasses of Lee, was a sharp declivity, a protecting and helpful depression. As the French under Napoleon at Waterloo, so the Confederates under Lee at Gettysburg, held the weaker position. In both cases the assailants sought to expel their opponents from the stronger lines. I might add another resemblance in the results which followed. Waterloo decreed the destiny of France, of England, of Europe. Gettysburg, not so directly or immediately, but practically, decided the fate of the Confederacy.

        There were points of vast divergence. The armies, which met at Waterloo were practically equal. This was not true of the armies that met at Gettysburg.1 Napoleon's artillery far exceeded that of Wellington. Lee's was far inferior to Meade's, in the metal from which the

        1 General Lee's army at Gettysburg, according to most reliable estimates [see note, pp. 155 and 156], was about 60,000 or 62,000; General Meade's is placed by different authorities at figures ranging from 82,000 to 105,000. Appleton's Cyclopedia of American Biography places the numbers of Lee at 69,000 and Meade's between 82,000 and 84,000.
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guns were moulded, as well as in number. Waterloo was a rout, Gettysburg a repulse. Napoleon, in the ensuing panic, was a deserted fugitive. Lee rode amidst his broken lines calmly majestic, the idol of his followers. With no trace of sympathy for Napoleon's selfish aims, with righteous condemnation of his vaulting ambition, one cannot fail to realize the profound pathos of his position on that dismal night of wildest panic and lonely flight. Abandoned by fortune, deserted by his army, discrowned and doomed, he is described by Hugo as having not an organized company to comfort him, not even his faithful Old Guard to rally around him. In Lee's army there was neither panic nor precipitate retreat. There was no desertion of the great commander. Around him still stood his heroic legions, with confidence in him unshaken, love for him unabated, ready to follow his lead and to fight under his orders to the last extremity.

        General Meade evidently, perhaps naturally, expected far greater confusion and disorganization in Lee's army, from the terrific repulse to which it had been subjected. He wisely threw his cavalry upon Lee's flank in order to sweep down upon the rear and cut to pieces or capture the fragments of Southern infantry, in case of general retreat or demoralization. As the Union bugles sounded the charge, however, for the gallant horsemen under Farnsworth, Lee's right was ready to receive them. Proudly they rode, but promptly were they repulsed. Many saddles were emptied by Confederate bullets. The intrepid commander, General Farnsworth himself, lost his life in the charge. On the other flank, and with similar design, Lee had placed Stuart with his dashing Confederate riders. Stuart was to attack when Lee's infantry had pierced Meade's centre, and when the Union army was cut in twain and in rapid retreat. This occasion never came to Stuart, but he found all the opportunity be could reasonably desire for the exercise of his men

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and horses in a furious combat with Gregg's five thousand Union troopers.

        The introduction of gunpowder and bullets and of long-range repeating rifles has, in modern warfare, greatly lessened the effectiveness of cavalry in general battle with infantry, and deprived that great arm of the service of the terror which its charges once inspired. In wars of the early centuries, the swift horsemen rode down the comparatively helpless infantry and trampled its ranks under the horses' feet. For ages after the dismemberment of the Roman Empire, it was the vast bodies of cavalry that checked and changed the currents of battles and settled the fate of armies and empires. This is not true now--can never be true again; but a cavalry charge, met by a countercharge of cavalry, is still, perhaps, the most terrible spectacle witnessed in war. If the reader has never seen such a charge, he can form little conception of its awe-inspiring fury. Imagine yourself looking down from Gettysburg's heights upon the open, wide-spreading plain below, where five thousand horses are marshalled in battle line. Standing beside them are five thousand riders, armed, booted and spurred, and ready to mount. The bugles sound the "Mount!" and instantly five thousand plumes rise above the horses as the riders spring into their saddles. In front of the respective squadrons the daring leaders take their places. The fluttering pennants or streaming guidons, ten to each regiment, mark the left of the companies. On the opposite slope of the same plain are five thousand hostile horsemen clad in different uniforms, ready to meet these in countercharge. Under those ten thousand horses are their hoofs, iron-shod and pitiless, beneath whose furious tread the plain is soon to quiver. Again on each slope of the open field the bugles sound. Ten thousand sabres leap from scabbards and glisten in the

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sun. The trained horses chafe their restraining bits, and, as the bugle notes sound the charge, their nostrils dilate and their flanks swell in sympathetic impulse with the dashing riders. "Forward!" shouts the commander. Down the lines and through the columns in quick succession ring the echoing commands, "Forward, forward!" As this order thrills through eager ears, sabres flash and spurs are planted in palpitating flanks. The madly flying horses thunder across the trembling field, filling the air with clouds of dust and whizzing pebbles. Their iron-rimmed hoofs in remorseless tread crush the stones to powder and crash through the flesh and bones of hapless riders who chance to fall. As front against front these furious riders plunge, their sweeping sabres slashing edge against edge, cutting a way through opposing ranks, gashing faces, breaking arms, and splitting heads, it is a scene of wildest war, a whirling tempest of battle, short-lived but terrible.

        Ewell's Corps, of which my command was a part, was the last to leave Gettysburg, and the only corps of either army, I believe, that forded the Potomac. Reaching this river, we found it for the time an impassable barrier against our further progress southward. The pontoons had been destroyed. The river was deep and muddy, swollen and swift. We were leaving Pennsylvania and the full granaries that had fed us. Pennsylvania was our Egypt whither we had "gone to buy corn." We regretted leaving, although we had found far less favor with the authorities of this modern Egypt than had Joseph and his brethren with the rulers of the ancient land of abundance.

        The fording of the Potomac in the dim starlight of that 13th of July night, and early morning of the 14th, was a spectacular phase of war so quaint and impressive as to leave itself lastingly daguerreotyped on the

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memory. To the giants in the army the passage was comparatively easy, but the short-legged soldiers were a source of anxiety to the officers and of constant amusement to their long-legged comrades. With their knapsacks high up on their shoulders, their cartridge-boxes above the knapsacks, and their guns lifted still higher to keep them dry, these little heroes of the army battled with the current from shore to shore. Borne down below the line of march by the swiftly rolling water, slipping and sliding in the mud and slime, and stumbling over the boulders at the bottom, the marvel is that none were drowned. The irrepressible spirit for fun-making, for jests and good-natured gibes, was not wanting to add to the grotesque character of the passage. Let the reader imagine himself, if he can, struggling to hold his feet under him, with the water up to his armpits, and some tall, stalwart man just behind him shouting, "Pull ahead, Johnny; General Meade will help you along directly by turning loose a battery of Parrott guns on you." Or another, in his front, calling to him: "Run here, little boy, and get on my back, and I 'll carry you over safely." Or still another, with mock solemnity, proposing to change the name of the corps to "Lee's Waders," and this answered by a counter-proposition to petition the Secretary of War to imitate old Frederick the Great and organize a corps of "Six-footers" to do this sort of work for the whole army. Or still another offering congratulations on this opportunity for being washed, "The first we have had, boys, for weeks, and General Lee knows we need it."

        Most of our wounded and our blue-coated comrades who accompanied us as prisoners were shown greater consideration--they were ferried across in boats. The only serious casualty connected with this dangerous crossing occurred at the point least expected. From the pontoon-bridge, which had been repaired, and which

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was regarded as not only the most comfortable but by far the safest method of transit, the horses and a wagon loaded with sick and wounded were plunged into the river. By well-directed effort they were rescued, not one of the men, I believe, being lost.

        General Meade was deliberate in his pursuit, if not considerate in his treatment of us. He had induced us to change our minds. Instead of visiting Philadelphia, on this trip, he had persuaded us to return toward Richmond. He doubtless thought that the last day's fight at Gettysburg was fairly good work for one campaign, and that if he attempted to drive us more rapidly from Pennsylvania, the experiment might prove expensive. As previously intimated, he was probably correct in this opinion. Had he left his strong position while Lee stood waiting for him to come out on the Fourth of July at Gettysburg and to assume the offensive, the chances are at least even that his assault would have been repelled and might have led to a Union disaster. One of the wisest adages in war is to avoid doing what your antagonist desires, and it is beyond dispute that, from General Lee down through all the grades, even to the heroic privates in the ranks, there was a readiness if not a desire to meet General Meade should he advance upon us. Meade's policy after the Confederate repulse at Gettysburg did not differ materially from that of Lee after the Union repulse at Fredericksburg. General Halleck, as he surveyed the situation from Washington, did not like General Meade's deliberation and pelted him with telegrams extremely nettling to that proud soldier's sensibilities. In the citadel of the War Office at Washington, General Halleck could scarcely catch so clear a view of the situation as could General Meade from the bloody and shivered rocks of the Round Tops. No one doubts General Halleck's ability or verbal impetuosity. To Southern apprehension, however, there was far more serious work

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to be expected from the silent Grant and the undemonstrative Meade than from the explosive Halleck or fulminating Pope.

        It is one of the curious coincidences of the war that the results at Gettysburg furnished the occasion for the tender of resignation by each of the commanders-in-chief. Lee offered to resign because he had not satisfied himself ; Meade because he had not satisfied his Government. Lee feared discontent among his people; Meade found it with General Halleck. Relief from command was denied to Lee; it was granted at last to Meade.

        It would have been a fatal mistake, a blunder, to have accepted General Lee's resignation. There was no other man who could have filled his place in the confidence, veneration, and love of his army. His relief from command in Virginia would have brought greater dissatisfaction, if not greater disaster, than did the removal from command of General Joseph E. Johnston in Georgia. The Continental Congress might as safely have dispensed with the services of Washington as could the Confederacy with those of Lee. Looking back now over the records of that Titanic sectional struggle in the light of Lee's repeated successes prior to the Gettysburg battle and of his prolonged resistance in 1864-65, with depleted ranks and exhausted resources, how strangely sounds the story of his self-abnegation and desire to turn over his army to some "younger and abler man"! How beautiful and deeply sincere the words, coming from his saddened heart, in which he characterized his devoted followers in that official letter tendering his resignation! Speaking of the new commander, whose selection he was anxious should at once be made, he said: "I know he will have as gallant and brave an army as ever existed to second his efforts, and it will be the happiest day of my life to see at its head a worthy leader--one who can accomplish

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more than I can hope to perform, and all that I have wished." He urged with characteristic earnestness as his reason for asking the selection of another commander, "the desire to serve my country, and to do all in my power to insure the success of her righteous cause." He had no grievances to ventilate; no scapegoat to bear the burden of his responsibilities; no puerile repinings at the fickleness of Fortune; no complaints to lodge against the authorities above him for the paucity of the resources they were able to provide. Of himself, and of himself only, did he complain; and he was the only man in his army who would have made such complaint. General Lee might criticise himself, but criticisms of him by any other officer would have been answered by an indignant and crushing rebuke from the whole Confederate army. The nearest approach he made to fault-finding was his statement that his own sight was not perfect, and that he was so dull that, in attempting to use the eyes of others, he found himself often misled.

        To General Lee's request to be relieved, and to have an abler man placed in his position, Mr. Davis very pointedly and truthfully replied that to request him to find some one "more fit for command, or who possessed more of the confidence of the army, or of the reflecting men of the country, is to demand an impossibility."

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CHAPTER XII

VICKSBURG AND HELENA

        The four most crowded and decisive days of the war--Vicksburg the culmination of Confederate disaster--Frequent change of commanders in the Trans-Mississippi Department--General Grant's tunnel at Fort Hill--Courage of Pemberton's soldiers--Explosion of the mine--Hand-to-hand conflict-- The surrender.

        IF called upon to select in the four years of war, from April, 1861, to April, 1865, four consecutive days into which were crowded events more momentous and decisive than occurred in any other like period, I should name the 1st, 2d, 3d, and 4th of July, 1863. During the first three we were engaged at Gettysburg in a struggle which might decide the fate of the Federal capital, of Baltimore, and possibly of Philadelphia, if not of the Union itself. On the 4th General Grant received the surrender at Vicksburg of 35,000 Confederates under General Pemberton.

        There were other days which will always be conspicuous in the records of that war; but I do not believe that any other four days, consecutive or isolated, so directly and decidedly dashed the hopes of the Southern people. The double disaster to our arms--the Gettysburg failure and the fall of Vicksburg--occurring at distant points and almost simultaneously, was a blow heavy enough to have effectually dispirited any army that was ever marshalled. It is, however, a remarkable fact that the morale of the Confederate army was not affected--at

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least, was not perceptibly lowered by it. The men endured increasing privations with the same cheerfulness and fought with the same constancy and courage after those events as they did before. In proof, I need only summon as witnesses the fields of Chickamauga, Resaca, Atlanta, and Jonesboro in Georgia; Franklin in Tennessee; Monocacy in Maryland; and the Wilderness, Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor, Bermuda Hundred, and Petersburg in Virginia. To Southern thought this wonderfully persistent courage of the Southern troops is easily understood on the theory that the independence of the South was as consecrated a cause as any for which freemen ever fought; but it is probably true that such steadfastness and constancy under such appalling conditions will remain to analytical writers of later times one of the unsolved mysteries of that marvellous era of internecine strife.

        The capture by General Grant of Pemberton and his men at Vicksburg was preceded by no great victories in the West for either side. The Confederates, however, had been successful in their efforts to hold some points on the Mississippi River, thus preventing its entire control by the Union army and the complete isolation of the Confederate forces in the Trans-Mississippi Department. On the very day (Fourth of July, 1863) when General Grant was receiving the surrender of Vicksburg and its starving army, the Confederates on the other side of the Mississippi were fighting for the possession of the river at Helena, Arkansas. General Sterling Price ("Old Pap," as he was affectionately called by his men, who felt for him the devotion of children for a father) had captured one of the leading forts which crowned the hill at Helena, and was halting in the fort for Generals Joe Shelby and Walker, under Marmaduke, to capture the most northern fort and then sweep down upon the Union lines held by Colonel Clayton. Shelby was wounded, and Walker did

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not assail the Union lines because he was waiting under orders until the fort was captured by Shelby. Out of this affair grew that unfortunate quarrel between Generals Walker and Marmaduke which ended in a challenge to a duel, and the killing of Walker by Marmaduke.

        While Price was thus waiting for the movement under Marmaduke, General Holmes, who was the commander-in-chief of the Confederate forces, rode to the captured fort. He ordered General Price at once to assault an infinitely stronger fort, one heavily manned and practically impregnable. The forces which Price could bring against it were utterly inadequate, and the assault failed, disastrously failed, adding to the discomfiture of the Confederacy.

        As illustrating the trials which beset both the Confederate and United States governments in their efforts to select able and efficient chiefs for their armies, I may note the fact that the Trans-Mississippi Department changed commanders about as often as the Union army in Virginia changed leaders in its repeated marches upon Richmond. General Holmes was not successful in his effort to command the support or the good-will of his officers and men. Disagreements with his officers were not rare, and arrests were not infrequent. On a notable occasion General Joe Shelby, of Missouri, one of the noted cavalry officers of the Civil War, was placed under arrest and ordered to report to the Commanding General. Shelby, in his cavalry operations, was compelled to depend largely upon his own efforts among the people to furnish supplies for his men and horses. Necessarily, under such circumstances, there were occasional collisions between his appointed foragers and the suffering citizens. Such disagreements could not be avoided, although the citizens were patriotic and generous, and the large body of Shelby's men were of the law-abiding and leading classes of northern Missouri. When these disagreements

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occurred between the soldiers and the citizens, complaints were made to General Holmes. Without waiting to investigate the charges, he at once ordered Shelby under arrest. When the dashing cavalryman appeared before his commanding general to learn the reason for his arrest, the irascible General Holmes opened upon him a battery of invective. His first discharge was: "General Shelby, you are charged with being a robber, sir, and your men with being thieves."

        "Who made these charges, General Holmes?"

        "Everybody, sir; everybody!"

        "And you believe them, do you, General Holmes?"

        "Certainly I do, sir. How can I help believing them?"

        Joe Shelby, justly proud of his splendid command, was deeply indignant at the wrong done both to himself and his high-spirited men. He was also not a little amused by this remarkable procedure and by the fiery invectives of the aged commander. He quietly replied:

        "Well, General Holmes, I will be more just to you than you have been to me and my men. Everybody says that you are a damned old fool; but I do not believe it."

        This ended the interview, and in the ensuing battles nothing more was heard of the arrest or the charges. General Shelby died recently while holding the office of United States Marshal for his State and the position of Commander of the United Confederate Veterans of Missouri.

        Among these Missouri Confederates was Dick Lloyd, a private in Price's command who deserves a place among American heroes. In a furious battle Dick Lloyd had both arms shot off below the elbow. He recovered, however, and refused to be retired from service. Without hands he still did his duty as a soldier to the end of the war, acting as courier, and guiding and successfully managing his horse by tying the bridle-reins around the crook in his elbow. He lives now in

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Helena, and has supported his family for years by riding horseback, carrying mail through country districts.

        The commander of the Union forces at Helena on this fourth day of July, 1863, was the gallant General Prentiss, who made so enviable a record at Shiloh, where he was captured. In that battle the position which for hours was held by his men was raked by so deadly a fire that it was called by the Federals "The Hornet's Nest" and he "The Hero of the Hornet's Nest." At Helena, July, 1863, he repulsed Shelby at the flanking fort, Feagin at Fort Hindman, and Price at Fort Curtis, after that brave old Missourian had captured the fortress upon Graveyard Hill. Prentiss was, therefore, enabled to join General Grant in celebrating the Fourth of July over another victory for the Union armies. The roaring guns on the opposite banks of the Mississippi proclaimed the opening of the river from the source to its mouth--news as depressing to the Confederates as it was inspiring to the Union armies. To the Southern heart and hope this final capture and complete control of the great waterway severing the Confederate territory and isolating the great storehouse beyond the Mississippi, while recognized as a great calamity, was perhaps less depressing and galling than the surrender at Vicksburg of Pemberton's splendid army of 35,000 men. The imperial Roman, Caesar Augustus, after the crushing defeat of his vicegerent Varus in Germany, which involved the destruction of his army and the dragging of his proud Eagles in the dust, lamented more the loss of that valiant body of Roman soldiery than he did the breaking of his dominion over German territory. In his grief over this irreparable disaster, Augustus is said to have murmured to himself as he gazed into vacancy, "Varus, Varus, give me back my legions." It is no exaggeration to say that if General Pemberton could have saved his army, could have

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given back to the Confederacy those splendid "legions" which had so long and so bravely fought and starved in the trenches around Vicksburg, the fall of that Mississippi city would have been stripped of more than half its depressing effects. General Grant knew this. He knew that the Confederate government could not replace those soldiers, who were among its best; and he decided, therefore, to circumvent, if possible, all efforts at escape and every movement to rescue them.

        General Johnston, then chief in command of the Army of the West, had anticipated the siege of Vicksburg and had persistently endeavored to prevent General Pemberton being hemmed in. But there was no other avenue open to General Pemberton, as General Grant had closed all other lines of retreat.

        The shock of Vicksburg's fall was felt from one end of the Confederacy to the other. Following so closely on the repulse of the Confederates at Gettysburg, it called from the press and people thoughtless and unfair criticisms. In a peculiarly sensitive mood, the public sought some other explanation than the real one, and great injustice was done General Pemberton. But this brave officer's loyalty and devotion were tested--thoroughly tested. At a sacrifice almost measureless, he had separated from his own kindred, and in obedience to his profound convictions had drawn his sword for Southern independence. He did not cut his way out of Vicksburg because his army was not strong enough; he did not hold the city longer because his troops and the population could not live without food. That great soldier, General Joseph E. Johnston, with all his skill in manoeuvre and as strategist, failed to afford the needed relief. At Raymond, on May 12, General Johnston had been forced back upon Jackson, Mississippi. On the 14th he fought the heavy battle of Jackson. On the 16th,

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Pemberton moved out and fought, grandly fought, at Champion Hill. Three days later he made another stand against Grant's advance at Black River; holding the weaker lines and with inferior forces, he was driven into the trenches at Vicksburg. On the 22d of May, three days later, General Grant invested the fated city. Thenceforward to July 4th Pemberton and his men held those works against the combined fire of small arms, artillery, and gunboats, sinking a Union monitor on the river, making sorties to the front, resisting efforts to scale the works, rallying around the breach made by the explosion at Fort Hill, rushing upon and crushing the Union columns as they pressed into that breach, and holding the city against every assault, save that of starvation.

        Scarcely had General Grant settled in his lines around the city when his intrepid men were standing in the dim starlight on the margin of the ditches which bordered the Confederate earthworks. With scaling-ladders on their shoulders, they made ready to mount the parapets and fight hand to hand with the devoted Confederate defenders. These great ditches were deep and wide; the scaling-ladders were too short. Upon the top of the earthworks stood Pemberton's men, pouring a galling fire down on the Union heads below. Under that fire the Union ranks melted, some falling dead upon the bank, others tumbling headlong into the ditches, still others leaping voluntarily sixteen feet downward to its bottom to escape the consuming blast, and the remainder abandoning the futile effort in precipitate retreat.

        The commanding position along the line of defensive works was the fortress on the lofty eminence called Fort Hill. Toward this fortress, with the purpose of undermining it and blowing it skyward, General Grant began early in June to drive his zigzag tunnel. The

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task was not herculean in the amount of labor required to accomplish it, but was a most tedious one, as but few men could be employed at the work, and every pound of earth had to be carried out at the tunnel's mouth. Day and night the work was pressed. Nearer and nearer the tunnel approached the point where mother earth was to receive into her innocent bosom the explosives that would hurl the fort high into the air and bury in the ruins the brave men who defended it. While such explosions failed to accomplish important results during this war, the knowledge that they were to occur, and the uncertainty as to when or where, filled the minds of soldiers with an indescribable apprehension. The high-spirited volunteers of both armies could meet without a tremor the most furious storms and agony of battle in the open field, where they could see the foe and meet fire with fire; if need be, they could face the pelting hail of bullets without returning a shot, and meet death as Napoleon's great marshal proposed to meet it when, in the endeavor to hold his troops in a withering fire without returning it, he stepped to their front and, folding his arms, said to them, "Soldiers of France, see, how a marshal can die in discharge of his duty!" But to walk the silent parapets in the gloom of night, above the magazine of death which they know was beneath them, to stand in line along the threatened battlements, with only the dull tread of the sentinel sounding in the darkness, while the imagination pictured the terrors of the explosion which was coming perhaps that night, perhaps that hour or that moment, or the next: this was a phase of war which taxed the nerve of any soldier, even the most phlegmatic.

        Pemberton's soldiers, faint with hunger and in full knowledge that they were standing above a death-dealing magazine, endured such harrowing suspense night after night for weeks. As each regiment was

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successively assigned to the awful duty, they wondered whether the tunnel was yet complete, whether the barrels of powder had been placed beneath them, whether it was to be their fate or the fate of the next regiment to be whirled upward with tons of earth and torn limb from limb. Bravely, grandly, they took their posts without a murmur. No hyperbole can exaggerate the loftiness of spirit that could calmly await the moment and manner of such a martyrdom. Every one of those emaciated Southern soldiers who trod that fated ground should have his name recorded in history. Beside them in American war annals should be placed the names of those Union soldiers who, amidst the explosions and conflagration at Yorktown, Virginia, in December, 1863, won the gratitude of their people. During those trying scenes, in the effort to prevent the escape of the Confederate prisoners, Private Michael Ryan of the Sixteenth New York, his leg shivered by a shell, remained on his knees at his post with his musket in hand. Private Healey, One Hundred and Forty-eighth New York, stood at the gate, almost parched by the flames, until the explosion hurled the gate and his own body high into the air.

        On the night of June 26, 1863, the long-dreaded hour came to Pemberton's faithful and fated watchers. General Grant had finished his tunnel. Under the fortress at Fort Hill he had piled the tons of powder, and had run through this powder electric wires whose sparks of fire were to wake the black Hercules to the work of death. As Pemberton's Confederates stood around the silent battlements, the moments were lengthened into hours by the intensity of their apprehension; and as Grant's veterans crept and formed in the darkness behind the adjacent hills, waiting for the earthquake shock to summon them to the breach, the clock in the sleeping city struck the hour of ten. The electric messengers,

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flew along the wires. The loaded magazines responded with the convulsive roar of a thousand unchained thunderbolts. The hills quivered, shaking from roof to foundation-stone every Vicksburg home. High above its highest turret flew the trampled floor of the fortress, with the bodies of its gray-clad defenders. Into its powder-blackened and smoking ruins quickly rushed the charging columns of Grant, led by the Thirty-second Regiment of Illinois; Pemberton's Confederates from the right and left and rear of the demolished fort piled into the breach at the same instant. Hand to hand over the upheaved and rugged earth they grappled with the invaders in the darkness. This Illinois regiment, after desperately fighting and holding the breach for two hours, was overpowered. Again and again in rapid succession came the Union charges. Pemberton's veterans, from the broken rim of the fortress, poured upon them an incessant fire from small arms, and, carrying loaded shells with burning fuses in their hands, rolled them down the crater's banks to explode among the densely packed attacking forces. For six hours this furious combat raged in the darkness. From ten at night till four in the morning the resolute Federals held the breach, but could make no headway against the determined Confederate resistance. The tunnel had been driven, the magazine exploded, and the fort demolished. The long agony of Confederate suspense was over. The desperate effort of the Union commander to force his column through the breach had failed. The heaps of his dead and wounded, more than a thousand in number, piled in that narrow space, had given to this spot among his surviving men the name of "Logan's Slaughter Pen." In the terrific explosion a Confederate negro, who chanced to be in the fort at the time, was thrown a considerable distance toward the Union line without being fatally hurt. Picking himself up half dead, half

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alive, he found around him the Union soldiers moving on the smoking crater.

        "How did you get here?" he was asked.

        "Don't know, boss. Yestidy I was in de Confed'acy; but, bless de Lawd, last night somethin' busted and blowed me plum' into de Union."

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CHAPTER XIII

FROM VICKSBURG AND GETTYSBURG TO CHICKAMAUGA

        Lee's army again headed toward Washington--He decides not to cross the Potomac at the opening of winter--Meade's counter-attack--Capture of a redoubt on the Rappahannock--A criticism of Secretary Stanton--General Bragg's strategy--How Rosecrans compelled the evacuation of Chattanooga.

        IN the autumn of 1863 both Lee's and Meade's armies had returned from Pennsylvania and were again camping or tramping on the soil of Virginia. The Union forces were in complete and easy communication with the great storehouses and granaries of the North and West. The Confederates were already in a struggle for meagre subsistence. Meade began another march on Richmond. Lee patched up his army as best he could, threw it across Meade's path, and halted him at the Rapidan. Thenceforward for weeks and months, these two commanders were watching each other from opposite sides of the Rapidan, moving up and down the river and the roads, seeking an opportunity for a blow and never finding it. Lee made the first move. On October 9,1863, he headed his army again toward Washington and the Potomac, passing Meade's right, and threatening to throw the Confederates between the Union forces and the national capital. Lee at one time was nearer to Washington than Meade, but as there was no longer any green corn in the fields for the Southern soldiers to subsist upon, the difficulty of feeding them checked Lee's march

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and put Meade ahead of him and nearer to the defences around Washington. Lee then debated whether he should assail Meade on or near the old field of Bull Run or recross the Potomac into Maryland and Pennsylvania. He decided not to attack, because he found Meade's position too strong and too well intrenched. He declined to cross again the Potomac at the opening of winter, because, as he said, "Thousands of our men are barefooted, thousands with fragments of shoes, all without overcoats, blankets, or warm clothing. I cannot bear to expose them to certain suffering on an uncertain issue." We were not able then, as formerly, to furnish to each soldier strips of rawhide, which he might tie on, with the hair side next his feet, and thus make rude sandals; and these picturesque foot-coverings, if obtainable, would scarcely have been sufficient for long marches in the coming freezes. So Lee returned to his camps behind the Rapidan and Rappahannock.

        Some spirited engagements of minor importance occurred between detached portions of the two armies, in which the honors were about equally divided between the two sides. Stuart's Southern horsemen had the better of the fight at Buckland, and the Confederates were successful on the Rapidan; but Warren's Union forces captured five pieces of artillery and between four and five hundred prisoners from A. P. Hill.

        As Lee moved back, Meade followed, and the programme of marching after each other across the river was resumed. Just one month, lacking two days, after Lee's move toward Washington, Meade turned his columns toward Richmond. His first dash, made at a redoubt which stood in his way on the north bank of the Rappahannock, was a brilliant success. The redoubt was occupied by a portion of Early's troops, and was carried just before nightfall by a sudden rush. I sat on my horse, with a number of officers, on the opposite side of the little

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river, almost within a stone's throw of the spot. General Early did not seem to consider it seriously threatened, nor did any one else, although the Union artillery was throwing some shells, one of which lowered the perch of a visiting civilian at my side by shortening the legs of his horse. The dash upon the redoubt was made by Maine and Wisconsin regiments--troops of Russell and Upton, under Sedgwick, who was regarded by the Confederates as one of the best officers in the Union army. Personally I had great reason to respect Sedgwick, for it was my fortune in the ensuing campaign to be pitted against him on several occasions. Though nothing like so serious to the Confederates in its results, this brilliant little episode on the Rappahannock resembled in character the subsequent great charge of Hancock over the Bloody Angle at Spottsylvania on May 12, 1864. Both assaults were so unexpected and made with such a rush that the defending troops had no time to fire. Only a few shots were discharged at Hancock's men at Spottsylvania, and in the capture of this redoubt by Russell and Upton only six Union men were killed. It was justly considered by General Meade as most creditable to his troops; and he sent General Russell himself to bear the eight captured Confederate flags to Washington. Mr. Stanton may have been a great Secretary of War, and I must suppose him such; but if he treated General Russell as he is reported to have treated him, he had as little appreciation of the keen sensibilities of a high-strung soldier as old Boreas has for the green summer glories of the great oak. The Secretary, it is said, was "too busy" to see General Russell. The proposition will scarcely be questioned, I think, that a Secretary of War, who is not called upon to endure the hardships of the field and meet the dangers of battle, should never be "too busy" to meet a gallant soldier who is defending his Rag at the front, and who calls to lay before him the

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trophies of victory. Perhaps the Secretary thought that General Russell and his men had only done their duty. So they had; but "Light Horse Harry" Lee, the father of General Robert E. Lee, only did his duty when he planned and executed the brilliant dash upon Paulus Hook and captured it. The Continental Congress, however, thought it worth its while to turn from its regular business and make recognition of the handsome work done by voting the young officer a gold medal. All the wreaths ever conferred at the Olympic games, all the decorations of honor ever bestowed upon the brave, all the swords and the thanks ever voted to a soldier, were designed to make the same impress upon their recipients which three minutes of the busy Secretary's time and a few gracious words would have produced on the mind and spirit of General Russell and his comrades.

        General Meade crossed the Rappahannock and then recrossed it. He found Lee strongly posted behind Mine Run, and suddenly returned to his winter quarters. General Lee moved back to his encampment on the border of the Wilderness and along the historic banks of the Rapidan.

        Meantime, in the months intervening between the Gettysburg campaign and the hibernation of the two armies in 1863-64, a portion of Lee's forces had been sent under Longstreet to aid Bragg in his effort to check the further advance of the Union army under Rosecrans at Chickamauga. My troops were not among those sent to Georgia, and therefore took no part in that great battle which saturated with blood the soil of my native State.

        A chapter full of interest to the military critic and to the student of strategy might be written of the two armies commanded respectively by Rosecrans and Bragg, and of their movements prior to the clash in the woodlands at Chickamauga.

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        The antecedent campaign runs back in a connected chain to the battle of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, in the preceding December. Under General Bragg, at Murfreesboro, as one of his division commanders, was an ex-Vice-President of the United States, who had also been a prominent candidate for the Presidency in the campaign of 1860, and had presided over the joint session of the two houses of Congress when Abraham Lincoln was declared duly elected. This illustrious statesman, who was fast winning his way to distinction in his new rôle of Confederate soldier, was John C. Breckinridge of Kentucky. Tall, erect, and commanding in physique, he would have been selected in any martial group as a typical leader. In the campaign in the Valley of Virginia, where I afterward saw much of him, he exhibited in a marked degree the characteristics of a great commander. He was fertile in resource, and enlisted and held the confidence and affection of his men, while he inspired them with enthusiasm and ardor. Under fire and in extreme peril he was strikingly courageous, alert, and self-poised. No man in the Confederate army had surrendered a brighter political future, sacrificed more completely his personal ambition, or suffered more keenly from the perplexing conditions in his own State. With all his other trials, and before he had fairly begun his career as a soldier, General Breckinridge had been strongly tempted to challenge to personal combat his superior officer, General Bragg, who at the time was commander-in-chief of the Confederate forces in the Department of Tennessee and the West. At the battle of Murfreesboro, Tennessee (December, 1862), this brilliant soldier from the blue-grass region had led his gallant Kentuckians through a consuming fire on both flanks, losing about thirty-six per cent. of his men in less than half an hour. General Bragg, who, it seems, was not present at the point where this movement

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was made, had in some way been misinformed as to the conduct of General Breckinridge's troops, and sent to Richmond a disparaging despatch.

        These high-bred sons of Kentucky who had left home and kindred behind them had already made a record of devotion and daring, which grew in lustre to the end of the war, and which any troops of any army might envy. At this battle of Murfreesboro they had waded the river in chilly December, had charged and captured the first heights and doubled back one wing of their stubbornly fighting antagonists. They had, however, been repelled with terrific slaughter in the impossible effort to capture the still more commanding hill. In this fearful assault they had marched between converging lines of fire drawn up in the shape of the letter V, the apex of those lines formed by hills crowned with batteries. Among their killed was the dashing General Hanson, one of the foremost soldiers of Bragg's army. No troops that were ever marshalled could have succeeded under such conditions and against such odds. Had they persisted in the effort, they would simply have invited annihilation. Smarting under a sense of the injustice done themselves and their dead comrades by the commanding general's despatch to Richmond, and realizing their own inability to have the wrong righted, they appealed to General Breckinridge, their own commander, to resent the insult. Resolutions and protests were powerless to soothe their smarting sensibilities or to assuage their burning wrath. They urged General Breckinridge to resign his position in the army and call General Bragg to personal account--to challenge him to single-handed combat. General Breckinridge must have felt as keenly as they the wrong inflicted, but he was more self-contained. He sought to appease them by reminding them of the exalted motives which had impelled them to enlist in the army as volunteers, of the

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self-sacrifice which they had exhibited, and of their duty as soldiers to endure any personal wrong for the sake of the common cause. His appeal was not in vain; and when he added that if both he and General Bragg should live to the end of the war, he would not forget their request to call the commanding general to account, they gladly went forward, enduring and fighting to the end.

        The Fabian policy of General Bragg, adopted after the bloody encounter at Murfreesboro, his retreat to Chattanooga and beyond it, called from press and people fewer and milder protests than those afterward made against General Joseph E. Johnston for a like policy. It would seem that the persistent criticisms of General Johnston for not meeting General Sherman between Dalton and Atlanta in determined battle, might have been applied with equal force to General Bragg for surrendering the strong positions in the gaps of the Cumberland Mountains and the line of the Tennessee River to General Rosecrans, without more resolute resistance. It is much easier, however, to criticise a commander than to command an army. In both these cases the strong positions alluded to could have been successfully flanked and the Confederate commanders forced to retire, as the Union troops moved around toward the rear and threatened the Southern lines of communication and supplies. General Rosecrans was too able a soldier and too wise a strategist to assail General Bragg in his selected stronghold when the country was open to him on either flank. His policy, therefore, was to cross the Tennessee River, not in front of Chattanooga, where Bragg was ready to meet him, but at a distance either above or below it. Both were practicable; and he set his army in motion toward points both above and below the city, thus leaving General Bragg in doubt as to his real purpose. He sent a force to the hills just opposite Chattanooga, and opened heavy fire with his batteries upon Bragg's position. He sent

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still larger forces up the right bank of the Tennessee to a point more than forty miles above Chattanooga. Campfires were built along the brows of the mountains and on hillsides, in order to attract Bragg's attention and create the belief that the great body of the Union army was above the city. Troops were marched across open spaces exposed to view, then countermarched behind the hills, and passed again and again through the same open spaces, thus deepening the impression that large forces were marching up the river. To still further strengthen this impression upon the Confederate commander, Union drums were beat and bugles sounded for great distances along the mountain-ranges. Union axes, saws, and hammers were loud in their demonstrations of boat-building; but they were only demonstrations. The real work, the real preparation, was going forward fully fifty miles south of this noisy point. The apparent movement above Chattanooga, and the real preparation for crossing far below, were admirably planned and consummately executed by General Rosecrans, and showed a strategic ability perhaps not surpassed by any officer during the war. Behind the woods and hills men were drilled in the work of laying bridges. Trains of cars loaded with bridges and boats were unloaded at a point entirely protected from the view of the Confederate cavalry on the opposite banks of the river. Fifty of these boats, each with a capacity of fifty men, were hurried in the early morning to the river-bank and launched upon the water. This formidable fleet, carrying 2500 armed men, pulled for the other shore, which was guarded only by Confederate cavalry pickets. With this strong force of Union infantry landed on the southern bank, the pontoon-bridge soon spanned the stream. Across it were hurried all the Union infantry and artillery that could be crowded upon it. At other points canoes of enormous size were hewn out of tall poplars that grew in the lowlands. Logs were

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rolled into the stream and fastened together, and as these improvised flotillas, loaded with soldiers, were pushed from the shore, athletic swimmers, left behind, caught the enthusiasm, and piling their clothing, arms, and accoutrements upon rails lashed together, leaped into the stream and swam across, pushing the loaded rails before them. At still another point the Union cavalry rode into the river and spurred their hesitating horses into the deep water for a long swim to the other shore. As thousands of struggling, snorting horses bore these human forms sitting upright upon their backs, nothing seen above the water's surface except the erect upper portions of the riders' bodies and the puffing nostrils of the horses with their bushy tails spread out behind them, the scene must have presented the appearance of a mass of moving centaurs rather than an army of mounted soldiers. Such scenes, however, were not infrequent during the war-- especially with the noted Confederate raiders of John Morgan, Jeb Stuart, Bedford Forrest, and Mosby. With his army safely across the river, General Rosecrans pushed heavy columns across Raccoon and Lookout mountains and the intervening valley, completely turned General Bragg's position, and compelled the evacuation of Chattanooga without a skirmish.

        It would be the grossest injustice to General Bragg to hold him responsible for the failure to prevent General Rosecrans crossing the Tennessee. An army double the size of the one he commanded would have been wholly insufficient to cover the stretch of more than one hundred miles of river-frontage. The Union commander could have laid his pontoons and forced a passage at almost any point against so attenuated a line of resistance. General Bragg was not only one of the boldest fighters in the Confederate army, but he was an able commander. Retreat from Chattanooga was his only resource. This movement was made not

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an hour too soon. Rosecrans's columns were sweeping down from the eastern Lookout Bluffs, and would speedily have grasped Bragg's only line of railroad and held his only avenues of escape. As the Union officers Thomas and McCook came down the eastern slopes of the mountain and Crittenden came around its point and into Chattanooga, Bragg placed his army in position for either resisting, retreating, or advancing. He decided to assume the offensive and to attack the Union forces in their isolated positions, and crush them, if possible, in detail. Longstreet had not yet arrived; but had Bragg's plan of assault been vigorously executed, it now seems certain that he would have won a great triumph before the Union army could have been concentrated along the western bank of the Chickamauga. General Rosecrans himself and his corps commanders were fully alive to the hazardous position of his army. Bragg's aggressive front changed the policy of the Union commander from one of segregation for pursuit to one of concentration for defence. Rapidly and skilfully was that concentration effected. Boldly and promptly did the Confederates advance. The next scene on which the curtain rose was the collision, the crash, the slaughter at Chickamauga.

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CHAPTER XIV

CHICKAMAUGA

        One of the bloodiest battles of modern times--Comparison with other great battles of the world--Movements of both armies before the collision--A bird's-eye view--The night after the battle--General Thomas's brave stand--How the assault of Longstreet's wing was made-- Both sides claim a victory.

        REARED from childhood to maturity in North Georgia, I have been for fifty years familiar with that historic locality traversed by the little river Chickamauga, which has given its name to one of the bloodiest battles of modern times. Not many years after the Cherokee Indians had been transferred to their new Western home from what was known as Cherokee Georgia, my father removed to that portion of the State. Here were still the fresh relics of the redskin warriors, who had fished in Chickamauga's waters and shot the deer as they browsed in herds along its banks. Every locality now made memorable by that stupendous struggle between the Confederate and Union armies was impressed upon my boyish memory by the legends which associated them with deeds of Indian braves. One of the most prominent features of the field was the old Ross House, built of hewn logs, and formerly the home of Ross, a noted and fairly well-educated Cherokee chief. In this old building I had often slept at night on my youthful journeyings with my father through that sparsely settled region. Snodgrass Hill,

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Gordon's and Lee's Mills, around which the battle raged, the La Fayette road, across which the contending lines so often swayed, and the crystal Crawfish Spring, at which were gathered thousands of the wounded, have all been so long familiar to me that I am encouraged to attempt a brief description of the awful and inspiring events of those bloody September days in 1863. Words, however, cannot convey an adequate picture of such scenes; of the countless costly, daring assaults; of the disciplined or undisciplined but always dauntless courage; of the grim, deadly grapple in hand-to-hand collisions; of the almost unparalleled slaughter and agony.

        An American battle which surpassed in its ratio of carnage the bloodiest conflicts in history outside of this country ought to be better understood by the American people. Sharpsburg, or Antietam, I believe, had a larger proportion of killed and wounded than any other single day's battle of our war; and that means larger than any in the world's wars. Chickamauga, however, in its two days of heavy fighting, brought the ratio of losses to the high-water mark. Judged by percentage in killed and wounded, Chickamauga nearly doubled the sanguinary records of Marengo and Austerlitz; was two and a half times heavier than that sustained by the Duke of Marlborough at Malplaquet; more than double that suffered by the army under Henry of Navarre in the terrific slaughter at Coutras; nearly three times as heavy as the percentage of loss at Solferino and Magenta; five times greater than that of Napoleon at Wagram, and about ten times as heavy as that of Marshal Saxe at Bloody Raucoux. Or if we take the average percentage of loss in a number of the world's great battles--Waterloo, Wagram, Valmy, Magenta, Solferino, Zurich, and Lodi--we shall find by comparison that Chickamauga's record of blood surpassed them nearly three for one. It will not do to say

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that this horrible slaughter in our Civil War was due to the longer range of our rifles nor to the more destructive character of any of our implements of warfare; for at Chickamauga as well as in the Wilderness and at Shiloh, where these Americans fell at so fearful a rate, the woodlands prevented the hostile lines from seeing each other at great distances and rendered the improved arms no more effective than would have been rifles of short range. Some other and more reasonable explanation must be found for this great disparity of losses in American and European wars. There is but one possible explanation--the personal character and the consecrated courage of American soldiers. At Chickamauga thousands fell on both sides fighting at close quarters, their faces at times burnt by the blazing powder at the very muzzles of the guns.

        The Federal army under Rosecrans constituted the center of the Union battle line, which, in broadest military sense, stretched from Washington City to New Orleans. The fall of Vicksburg had at last established Federal control of the Mississippi along its entire length. The purpose of Rosecrans's movement was to penetrate the South's centre by driving the Confederates through Georgia to the sea. Bragg, to whom was intrusted for the time the task of resisting this movement, had retired before the Union advance from Chattanooga to a point some miles south of the Chickamauga, and the Union forces were pressing closely upon his rear. Bragg had, however, halted and turned upon Rosecrans and compelled him to retrace his steps to the north bank of the Chickamauga, which, like the Chickahominy in Virginia, was to become forever memorable in the Republic's annals.

        In order to obtain a clear and comprehensive view of the ever-shifting scenes during the prolonged battle, to secure a mental survey of the whole field as the

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marshalled forces swayed to and fro, charging and countercharging, assaulting, breaking, retreating, reforming, and again rushing forward in still more desperate assault, let the reader imagine himself on some great elevation from which he could look down upon that wooded, undulating, and rugged region.

        For forty-eight hours or more the marching columns of Bragg were moving toward Chattanooga and along the south bank of the Chickamauga in order to cross the river and strike the Union forces on the left flank. At the same time Rosecrans summoned his corps from different directions and concentrated them north of the river. Having passed, as was supposed, far below the point where the Union left rested, Bragg's columns, in the early hours of the 19th of September, crossed the fords and bridges, and prepared to sweep by left wheel on the Union flank. During the night, however, George H. Thomas had moved his Union corps from the right to this left flank. Neither army knew of the presence of the other in this portion of the woodland. As Bragg prepared to assail the Union left, Thomas, feeling his way through the woods to ascertain what was in his front, unexpectedly struck the Southern right, held by Forrest's cavalry, and thus inaugurated the battle. Forrest was forced back; but he quickly dismounted his men, sent the horses to the rear, and on foot stubbornly resisted the advance of the Union infantry. Quickly the Confederates moved to Forrest's support. The roar of small arms on this extreme flank in the early morning admonished both commanders to hurry thither their forces. Bragg was forced to check his proposed assault upon another portion of the Union lines and move to the defence of the Confederate right. Rapidly the forces of the two sides were thrown into this unexpected collision, and rapidly swelled the surging current of battle. The divisions of the Union army before whom Forrest's cavalry

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had yielded were now driven back; but other Federals suddenly rushed upon Forrest's front. The Southern troops, under Cheatham and Stewart, Polk, Buckner, and Cleburne, hurried forward in a united assault upon Thomas. Walthall's Mississippians at this moment were hurled upon King's flank, and drove his brigade in confusion through the Union lines; and as Govan's gray-clad veterans simultaneously assailed the Union forces under Scribner, that command also yielded. The Federal battery was captured, and the tide of success seemed at the moment to be with the Confederates. Fortune, however, always fickle, was especially capricious in this battle. The Union forces farther to westward held their ground with desperate tenacity. General Rosecrans, the Federal commander-in-chief, rode amidst his troops as they hurried in converging columns to the point of heaviest fire, and in person hurled them fiercely against the steadfast Confederate front. The shouts and yells and the roll of musketry swelled the din of battle to a deafening roar. The fighting was terrific. Walthall's Mississippians at this point contended desperately with attacks in front and on their flank. The Ninth Ohio, at double quick and with mighty shout, rushed upon the captured Union battery and recovered it. The Confederate gunners were killed by bayonets as they bravely stood at their posts. Hour after hour the battle raged, extending the area of its fire and the volume of its tremendous roar. Here and there along the lines a shattered command, its leading officers dead or wounded, was withdrawn, reorganized, and quickly returned to its bloody work. Still farther toward the Confederate right, Forrest again essayed to turn the Union left. Charging as infantry, he pressed forward through a tempest of shot and neared the Union flank, when the Federal batteries poured upon his entire line rapid discharges of grape, canister, and shell. Round after round on flank and

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front, these deadly volleys came until Forrest's dissolving lines disappeared, leaving heaps of dead near the mouths of the Union guns. Reforming his broken ranks, Forrest, with Cheatham's support, again rushed upon the Union left, the impetuous onset bringing portions of the hostile lines to a hand-to-hand struggle. Still there was no decisive break in the stubborn Union ranks. Coming through woods and fields from the other wings, the flapping ensigns marked the rapid concentration of both armies around this vortex of battle. As the converging columns met, bayonet clashed with bayonet and the trampled earth was saturated with blood. Here and there the Union line was broken, by the charges of Cheatham, Stewart, and Johnson, but was quickly reformed and reestablished by the troops under Reynolds. The Union commands of Carlin and Heg were swept back before the fire at short range from the Southern muskets; but as the Confederate lines again advanced and leaped into the Union trenches, they were met and checked by a headlong countercharge.

        The La Fayette road along or near which the broken lines of each army were rallied and reformed, and across which the surging currents of fire had repeatedly rolled, became the "bloody lane" of Chickamauga.

        The remorseless war-god at this hour relaxed his hold on the two armies whose life-blood had been flowing since early morning. Gradually the mighty wrestlers grew weary and faint, and silence reigned again in the shell-shivered forest. It was, however, only a lull in the storm. On the extreme Union left the restless Confederates were again moving into line for a last and tremendous effort. The curtain of night slowly descended, and the powder-blackened bayonets and flags over the hostile lines were but dimly seen in the dusky twilight. Wearily the battered ranks in gray moved again through the bullet-scarred woods, over the dead bodies of their

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brothers who fell in the early hours and whose pale faces told the living of coming fate. Nature mercifully refused to lend her light to guide the unyielding armies to further slaughter. But the blazing muzzles of the rifles now became their guides, and the first hour of darkness was made hideous by resounding small arms and their lurid flashes. Here might follow a whole chapter of profoundly interesting personal incidents. The escape of officers of high rank, who on both sides rode with their troops through the consuming blasts, was most remarkable; but here and there the missiles found them. General Preston Smith, of Tennessee, my friend in boyhood, was among the victims. A Minié ball in search of his heart struck the gold watch which covered it. The watch was shivered, but it only diverted the messenger of death to another vital point. The inverted casing, whirled for a great distance through the air, fell at the feet of a Texan, who afterward sent it to the bereaved family. Near by was found the Union General Baldwin, his blue uniform reddened with his own blood and the blood of his dead comrades around him. The carnage was appalling and sickening. "Enough of blood and death for one day!" was the language of the bravest hearts which throbbed with anguish at the slaughter of the 19th and with anxiety as to the morrow's work.

        Night after the battle! None but a soldier can realize the import of those four words. To have experienced it, felt it, endured it, is to have witnessed a phase of war almost as trying to a sensitive nature as the battle itself. The night after a battle is dreary and doleful enough to a victorious army cheered by triumph. To the two armies, whose blood was still flowing long after the sun went down on the 19th, neither of them victorious, but each so near the other as to hear the groans of the wounded and dying in the opposing ranks, the scene was indescribably

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oppressive. Cleburne's Confederates had waded the river with the water to their arm-pits. Their clothing was drenched and their bodies shivering in the chill north wind through the weary hours of the night. The noise of axe-blows and falling trees along the Union lines in front plainly foretold that the Confederate assault upon the Union breastworks at the coming dawn was to be over an abatis of felled timber, tangled brush, and obstructing tree-tops. The faint moonlight, almost wholly shut out by dense foliage, added to the weird spell of the sombre scene. In every direction were dimly burning tapers, carried by nurses and relief corps searching for the wounded. All over the field lay the unburied dead, their pale faces made ghastlier by streaks of blood and clotted hair, and black stains of powder left upon their lips when they tore off with their teeth the ends of deadly cartridges. Such was the night between the battles of the 19th and 20th of September at Chickamauga.

        At nine o'clock on that Sabbath morning, September 20, as the church bells of Chattanooga summoned its children to Sunday-school, the signal-guns sounding through the forests at Chickamauga called the bleeding armies again to battle. The troops of Longstreet had arrived, and he was assigned to the command of the Confederate left, D. H. Hill to the Confederate right. On this latter wing of Bragg's army were the troops of John C. Breckinridge, W. H. T. Walker, Patrick Cleburne, and A. P. Stewart, with Cheatham in reserve. Confronting them and forming the Union left were the blue-clad veterans under Baird, Johnson, Palmer, and Reynolds, with Gordon Granger in reserve. Beginning on the other end of the line forming the left wing of Bragg's battle array were Preston, Hindman, and Bushrod Johnson, with Law and Kershaw in reserve. Confronting these, beginning on the extreme Union right and forming the right wing of Rosecrans's army, were

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Sheridan, Davis, Wood, Negley, and Brannan, with Wilder and Van Cleve in reserve.

        The bloody work was inaugurated by Breckinridge's assault upon the Union left. The Confederates, with a ringing yell, broke through the Federal line. The Confederate General Helm, with his gallant Kentuckians, rushed upon the Union breastworks and was hurled, back, his command shattered. He was killed and his colonels shot down. Again rallying, again assaulting, again recoiling, this decimated command temporarily yielded its place in line. The Federals, in furious countercharge, drove back the Confederates under Adams, and his body was also left upon the field.

        The Chickamauga River was behind the Confederates; Missionary Ridge behind the Federals. On its slopes were Union batteries pouring a storm of shell into the forests through which Bragg's forces were bravely charging. As the Confederates under Adams and Helm were borne back, the clear ring of Pat Cleburne's "Forward!" was heard; and forward they moved, their alignment broken by tree-tops and tangled brush and burning shells. His superb troops pressed through the storm, only to recoil under the concentrated fire of artillery and the blazing muzzles of small arms from the Federals behind their breastworks. The whole Confederate right, brigade after brigade, in successive and repeated charges, now furiously assailed the Union breastworks, only to recoil broken and decimated. Walthall, with his fiery Mississippians, was repulsed, with all his field officers dead or wounded and his command torn into shreds. The gallant Georgians at once rushed into the consuming blasts, and their brilliant leader, Peyton Colquitt, fell, with many of his brave boys around him, close to the Union breastworks. The Confederates under Walker, Cleburne, and Stewart with wild shouts charged the works held by the determined forces of Reynolds, Brannan,

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and Baird. Bravely these Union troops stood to their posts, but the Southern forces at one point broke through their front as Breckinridge swept down upon flank and rear. George H. Thomas, the "Rock of Chickamauga," with full appreciation of the crisis, called for help to hold this pivotal position of the Union left. Van Derveer's moving banners indicated the quick step of his troops responding to Thomas's call; and raked by flanking fire, this dashing officer drove Breckinridge back and relieved the Union flank. At double quick and with ringing shout, the double Union lines pressed forward until, face to face and muzzle to muzzle, the fighting became fierce and desperate. Charging columns of blue and gray at this moment rushed against each other, and both were shivered in the fearful impact. The superb Southern leader, Deshler, fell at the head of his decimated command. Govan's Mississippians and Brown's Tennesseeans, were forced back, when Bate, also of Tennessee, pressed furiously forward, captured the Union artillery, and drove the Federals to their breastworks. Again and quickly the scene was changed. Fresh Union batteries and supporting infantry with desperate determination overwhelmed and drove back temporarily the Confederates led by the knightly Stewart. Still farther westward, Longstreet drove his column like a wedge into the Union right center, ripping asunder the steady line of the Federal divisions. In this whirlwind of battle, amidst its thunders and blinding flashes, the heroic Hood rode, encouraging his men, and fell desperately wounded. His leading line was shattered into fragments, but his stalwart supports pressed on over his own and the Union dead, capturing the first Union line. Halting only to reform under fearful fire, they started for the second Union position. Swaying, reeling, almost breaking, they nevertheless captured that second line, and drove up the ridge and over it the Federal fighters, who

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bravely resisted at every step. Whizzing shells from opposing batteries crossed each other as they tore through the forest, rending saplings and tumbling severed limbs and tree-tops amidst the surging ranks. Wilder's mounted Union brigade in furious charge swept down upon Manigault's Confederates, flank and rear, and drove them in wild confusion; but the Union horsemen were in turn quickly driven from the field and beyond the ridge. Battery after battery of Union artillery was captured by the advancing Confederates. The roaring tide of battle, with alternate waves of success for both sides, surged around Snodgrass House and Horseshoe Ridge. Before a furious and costly Confederate charge the whole extreme Union right was broken and driven from the field. Negley's shattered lines of blue abandoned the position and retreated to Rossville with the heavy batteries. Davis, with decimated Union lines under Carlin and Heg, moved into Negley's position; but these were driven to the right and rear. Onward, still onward, swept the Confederate columns; checked here, broken there, they closed the gaps and pressed forward, scattering Van Cleve's veterans in wild disorder. Amidst the shouting Confederates rode their leaders, Stewart, Buckner, Preston, Kershaw, and Johnson. The gallant McCook led in person a portion of Sheridan's troops with headlong fury against the Southern front; and Sheridan himself rode among his troops, rallying his broken lines and endeavoring to check the resistless Southern advance. The brave and brilliant Lytle of the Union army, soldier and poet, at this point paid to valor and duty the tribute of his heart's blood. The Confederate momentum, however, scattered these decimated Union lines and compelled them to join the retreating columns, filling the roads in the rear.

        Rosecrans, McCook, and Crittenden rode to Chattanooga to select another line for defence. In the furious

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tempest there now came one of those strange, unexpected lulls; but the storm was only gathering fresh fury. In the comparative stillness which pervaded the field its mutterings could still be heard. Its lightnings were next to flash and its thunders to roll around Horseshoe summit. Along that crest and around Snodgrass House the remaining troops of Rosecrans's left wing planted themselves for stubborn resistance--one of the most stubborn recorded in history. To meet the assault of Longstreet's wing, the brave Union General Brannan, standing upon this now historic crest, rallied the remnants of Croxton, Wood, Harker, Beatty, Stanley, Van Cleve, and Buell; but up the long slopes the exulting Confederate ranks moved in majestic march. As they neared the summit a sheet of flame from Union rifles and heavy guns blazed into their faces. Before the blast the charging Confederates staggered, bent and broke; reforming at the foot of the slope, these dauntless men in gray moved again to still more determined assault upon the no less dauntless Union lines firmly planted on the crest. Through the blinding fires they rushed to a hand-to-hand conflict, breaking here, pushing forward there, in terrible struggle. Through clouds of smoke around the summit the banners and bayonets of Hindman's Confederates were discovered upon the crest; when Gordon Granger and Steedman, with fresh troops, hurried from the Union left and, joining Van Derveer, hurled Hindman and his men from this citadel of strength and held it till the final Union retreat. With bayonets and clubbed muskets the resolute Federals pierced and beat back the charging Confederates, covering the slopes of Snodgrass Hill with Confederate dead. Roaring like a cyclone through the forest, the battlestorm raged. Battery answered battery, deepening the unearthly din and belching from their heated throats the consuming iron hail. The woods caught fire from the

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flaming shells and scorched the bodies of dead and dying. At the close of the day the Union forces had been driven from every portion of the field except Snodgrass Hill, and as the sun sank behind the cliffs of Lookout Mountain, hiding his face from one of the bloodiest scenes enacted by human hands, this heroic remnant of Rosecrans's army withdrew to the rear and then to the works around Chattanooga, leaving the entire field of Chickamauga to the battered but triumphant and shouting Confederates.

        It is not my purpose to enter the controversy as to numbers brought into action by Bragg and Rosecrans respectively. General Longstreet makes the strength of the two armies practically equal; General Boynton's figures give to Bragg superiority in numbers. It is sufficient for my purpose to show that the courage displayed by both sides was never surpassed in civilized or barbaric warfare; that there is glory enough to satisfy both; that the fighting from first to last was furious; that there was enough precious blood spilt by those charging and recoiling columns in the deadly hand-to-hand collisions on the 19th and 20th of September to immortalize the prowess of American soldiery and make Chickamauga a Mecca through all the ages.1

        The fact that both sides claim a victory is somewhat remarkable. General H. V. Boynton, who fought under General Rosecrans, to whose vigorous pen and wise labors much credit is due for the success of the great battle park at Chickamauga, and who is one of the ablest and fairest of the commentators upon this memorable struggle, has devoted much time and labor to prove that the victory was with the Union arms. With sincere

        1 Despatch of C. A. Dana: "Chickamauga is as fatal a name in our history as Bull Run." (See page 111, Confederate Military History, Vol. VIII, Tennessee; also page 179, Confederate Military History, Vol. IX, Kentucky; also page 358, Confederate Military History, Vol. X, Arkansas.)
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friendship for General Boynton as a man and a soldier, and with full appreciation of his ability and sense of justice, I must be permitted to suggest that his reasoning will scarcely stand the test of unbiassed historical criticism. His theory is that although General Rosecrans abandoned the field after two days of determined and desperate fighting in the effort to hold it, yet his retirement was not a retreat, but an advance. "At nightfall," says General Boynton, "the army advanced to Chattanooga. The Army of the Cumberland was on its way to Chattanooga, the city it set out to capture. Every foot of it [the march] was a march in advance and not retreat." History will surely ask how this retrograde movement into the trenches at Chattanooga can fairly be considered an advance, the object of which was "to capture" the city, when that city had been evacuated by Bragg and occupied by Rosecrans ten days before; when it was held by the Union forces already; and when that city was then, and had been for many days, the base of Union supplies and operations. General Boynton ignores the dominating fact that before the battle the faces of the Union army were toward Atlanta and their backs were upon Chattanooga. The battle induced Rosecrans to "about face" and go in the opposite direction. The same reasoning as that employed by General Boynton would give McClellan the victory in the seven days' battles around Richmond; for he, too, had beaten back the Confederate at certain points, and had escaped with his army to the cover of his gunboats at Harrison's Landing. From like premises the Confederates might claim a victory for Lee at Gettysburg, and that his movement to the rear was an advance. General Pope might in like manner claim that the rout at second Manassas was a victory, and his retreat to Washington an advance which saved the Capitol. To my thought, such victories are similar to that achieved by

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the doctor who was asked: "Well, doctor, how is the mother and the new baby?" "They are both dead," replied the doctor; "but I have saved the old man." The advance on Atlanta was checked; Chickamauga was lost; but, like the doctor's old man, Chattanooga was saved. General Boynton is too sensitive in this matter. All great commanders in modern times, the most consummate and successful, have had their reverses. General Rosecrans had unfortunate opposition at Washington, and his record as commander under such conditions is brilliant enough to take the sting out of his defeat at Chickamauga. His ability as strategist, his skill in manoeuvre, and his vigor in delivering battle are universally recognized. The high court of history will render its verdict in accordance with the facts. These facts are simple and indisputable. First, Bragg threw his army across Rosecrans's front, checked his advance, and forced him to take position on the north bank of the Chickamauga. Second, Bragg assailed Rosecrans in his chosen stronghold, drove him from the entire field, and held it in unchallenged possession. Third, at the end of the two days' battle, which in courage and carnage has scarcely a parallel, as the two wings of the Confederate army met on the field, their battle-flags waved triumphantly above every gory acre of it; and their ringing shouts rolled through Chickamauga's forests and rose to heaven, a mighty anthem of praise and gratitude to God for the victory.

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CHAPTER XV

MISSIONARY RIDGE--TRIUNE DISASTER

        Why General Bragg did not pursue Rosecrans after Chickamauga--Comparison of the Confederates at Missionary Ridge with the Greeks at Marathon--The Battle above the Clouds--Heroic advance by Walthall's Mississippians-- General Grant's timely arrival with reënforcements--The way opened to Atlanta.

        GENERAL LEE was not a believer in the infallibility of newspapers as arbiters of military movements. With full appreciation of their enormous power and vital agency in arousing, guiding, and ennobling public sentiment, his experience with them as military critics of his early campaigns in the West Virginia mountains had led him to question the wisdom of some of their suggestions. In a letter to Mrs. Lee he once wrote, in half-serious, half-jocular strain, that he had been reading the papers, and that he would be glad if they had entire control and could fix matters to suit themselves, adding, "General Floyd has three editors on his staff, and I hope something may be done to please them."

        General Bragg had been subjected to a somewhat similar fire from the rear for not following General Rosecrans, after the battle of Chickamauga, and driving him into the river or across it. That he did not do so, and thus make the battle of Missionary Ridge impossible and save his army from its crushing defeat there, was a disappointment not only to the watchful and expectant

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press, but to the Southern people, and to some of the leaders who fought under him at Chickamauga. A calm review of the situation, and the facts as they existed at the time, will demonstrate, I think, that his failure to follow and assault General Rosecrans in his strong works at Chattanooga was not only pardonable, but prudent and wise. The Confederate victory at Chickamauga, which was the most conspicuous antecedent of Missionary Ridge, was achieved after two days of desperate fighting and at tremendous cost. While the Confederates had inflicted heavy losses upon the Union army, they had also suffered heavy losses. Of the thirty-three thousand dead and wounded, practically one half wore gray uniforms. For every Union regiment broken and driven in disorder from the field, there was a Confederate regiment decimated and shattered in front of the breastworks. The final retreat of the Union army was immediately preceded by successful repulses and countercharges, and by the most determined stand against the desperate and repeated Confederate assaults on Snodgrass Hill. General Bragg's right wing had been partially shattered in front of the Union field works in the woods at Chickamauga, and his left wing held in check till near nightfall at Snodgrass Hill. It seems to me, therefore, that these facts constitute almost a mathematical demonstration--at least a moral assurance--that his army must have failed in an immediate march across the open plain through the network of wire spread for Confederate feet, in the face of wide-sweeping Union artillery, and against the infinitely stronger works at Chattanooga. In whatever other respects General Bragg may be regarded by his critics as worthy of blame, it seems manifestly unfair to charge that he blundered in not pursuing Rosecrans after Chickamauga. Far more just would be criticisms of General McClellan for his refusal to renew the attack in the

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open after Sharpsburg (Antietam), or of General Meade for not accepting the gauge of battle tendered him by Lee after the repulse of Gettysburg; or of General Lee himself for not pressing Burnside after Fredericksburg, Hooker after Chancellorsville, and Pope after the rout at second Manassas.

        These reflections are submitted in the interest of truth and in justice to General Bragg's memory. They are submitted after the most patient and painstaking investigation, and I must confess that they are in direct conflict with the impressions I had myself received and the opinions which I entertained before investigation.

        One other remark as to General Bragg's halt after the Confederate victory at Chickamauga. His beleaguering of the Union army for a whole month in its stronghold at Chattanooga is by no means conclusive evidence that he blundered in his failure to immediately assault General Rosecrans in his intrenchments. While admitting that, however shattered the ranks of the victor, the ranks of the beaten army are always in still worse condition, it must be remembered that assaults against breastworks, as a rule, are most expensive operations. Pemberton had been beaten in a series of engagements before he was driven into his works at Vicksburg; yet with his small force he successfully repelled for months every assault made upon those breastworks by General Grant. General Lee's hitherto victorious veterans recoiled before the natural battlements of the Round Tops and Cemetery Ridge at Gettysburg. On June 27, 1864, General Sherman assaulted with tremendous power the strong position held by General Joseph E. Johnston's retreating army; but General Sherman's loss was nearly ten for every Confederate killed or wounded. The experience of General Nathaniel P. Banks in his assault upon the Confederate forces behind their breastworks at Port Hudson furnishes possibly a still more convincing proof

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of this truth. Page after page of similar illustrations might be taken from the records of our Civil War. It may be true that Chickamauga had brought temporary demoralization to portions of Rosecrans's army; it may be true that General Grant did say to General Sherman at Chattanooga, "The men of Thomas's army have been so demoralized by the battle of Chickamauga that I fear they cannot be got out of their trenches to assume the offensive." But when he witnessed their superb assault upon Missionary Ridge he must have changed his opinion. It maybe true--it is true--that had General Bragg assailed the Union army after Chickamauga, he would have had the advantage of the momentum and ardor imparted to a column in a charge; but he would also have been compelled to overcome the feeling of security imparted to troops protected by heavy breastworks and the increased effectiveness of their fire. General Longstreet assailed the breastworks at Knoxville after the Chickamauga battle; but his superb battalions were powerless before them.

        General Bragg's mistake, therefore, it seems to me, was not his decision to besiege rather than assault the Union army in Chattanooga, but it was the weakening of his lines by detaching for other service such large bodies as to reduce his army to a mere skeleton of its former strength. While Bragg was reducing his troops to an estimated force of about 25,000 men by sending off Longstreet and Buckner and the Confederate cavalry, General Grant, who had displaced Rosecrans and assumed command at Chattanooga, was increasing his army in and around that city to 100,000 or more. By his official report it seems that after the arrival of his two corps from the East and General Sherman's army from the West, he had on the 25th of November, when the advance was ordered, about 86,000 men, armed and equipped, ready for the assault. I recall no instance in

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the history of our war, and few in any other war, where, on so contracted a field, was marshalled for battle so gigantic and puissant an army.

        More than two thousand years ago occurred a scene which Missionary Ridge recalls. On the plains of Marathon, Datis, under the orders of King Darius, assembled his army of Persian warriors, whose number did not differ widely from those commanded at Chattanooga by General Grant. Confronting Datis was the little army of the Greeks under Miltiades, the great Athenian, in whose veins ran the blood of Hercules. Posted along the Attican range of mountains, this little army of Athenians looked down upon the vast hosts assembled against them on the Marathon plain below as Bragg's small force of Confederates stood on Missionary Ridge and the slopes of Lookout Mountain, contemplating the magnificent but appalling panorama of Grant's overwhelming legions moving from their works and wheeling into lines of battle. The two scenes--the one at Marathon, the other at Chattanooga--present other strikingly similar features. The ground on which the respective armies under Datis and Grant were assembled bore a close resemblance the one to the other. Crescent-shaped Marathon, washed by the winding bay, had its counterpart in that crescent formed at Chattanooga by the Tennessee as it flows around the city.

        The Greeks at Marathon and the Confederates at Missionary Ridge were each moved by a kindred impulse of self-defence. The Athenian Republicans under Miltiades, as they stood upon the bordering bills around Marathon, realized that the spirits of departed Grecian heroes were hovering above them, and resolved not to survive the loss of Athenian freedom or the enslavement of their people. They were the foremost men of their time. The mountain on which they stood was sacred ground; every stone and scene was an inspiration.

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        The American Republicans of Southern birth and training who stood with Bragg on Missionary Ridge were imbued with an ardor none the less strong and sacred. At this point, however, appear vast contrasts. The Grecian commander was to fight Persians: the Southern leader was to meet Americans. The hireling hordes which swarmed on the plains of Marathon served not from choice but from compulsion. The Persian array was a vast conglomeration of incohesive elements, imposing in aspect but weak in determined battle: the army which Bragg was to meet was composed of patriotic volunteers, every man impelled by a thorough belief in the righteousness of his cause. At Marathon it was the resolute, compact, and self-sacrificing Grecian phalanxes against the uncertain, disjointed, and self-seeking hordes of Persian plunderers. It was heroes against hirelings, the glorious sons of Athenian freedom against the submissive serfs of triumphant wrong and of kingly power. At Missionary Ridge it was patriot against patriot, inherited beliefs against inherited beliefs, liberty as embodied in the sovereignty of the States against liberty as embodied in the perpetuity of the Union. The Persians represented organized vindictiveness. The haughty monarch Darius had resolved to wreak his vengeance on the free people of Athens. In his besotted pride and blasphemy, he implored the gods to give him strength to punish these freemen of Greece. His servants were instructed constantly to repeat to him as he gorged himself with costly viands, "Sire, remember the Athenians!" The army and commanders whom he sent to Marathon were fit agents for the execution of so diabolical a purpose. Numbers, therefore, did not count for much in the conflict with such men as Miltiades led against them. The Federals and Confederates, however, who met each other at Missionary Ridge, were of the same race and of kindred

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impulse. They gathered their strength and ardor from the memories and example of the same rebelling fathers. In such a contest numbers did tell, and gave to General Grant the moral assurance of victory even before the battle was joined.

        The Union assault on Missionary Ridge was heralded by the "Battle above the Clouds," as the fight on Lookout Mountain is called. Important events had transpired which precipitated that conflict amidst the heavy vapors around Lookout Mountain. These events rendered the capture of that citadel of strength possible, if not easy. Nearly 10,000 Federals under General Hooker had forced a passage of the Tennessee below Lookout Point, driving back the two Confederate regiments, numbering about 1000 men, commanded by the gallant Colonel Oates, of Alabama, who fell severely wounded while making a most stubborn resistance. The night battle at Wauhatchie had also been fought and the small Confederate force had been defeated. It was in this fire in the darkness that the brave little Billy Bethune of Georgia made his debut as a soldier and his exit on an Irishman's shoulder. The Irishman who was carrying Billy off the field was asked by his major, "Who is that you are carrying to the rear?" "Billy Bethune, sir." "Is he wounded?" "Yis, sir; he 's shot in the back, sir." This was more than Billy could endure, and he shouted his indignant answer to the Irishman, "Major, he 's an infernal liar; I am shot across the back, sir."

        The Hon. John Russell Young, in his book "Around the World with General Grant," states that this great Union general once said: "The battle of Lookout Mountain (the'Battle above the Clouds') is one of the romances of the war. There was no such battle, and no action worthy to be called a battle, on Lookout Mountain. It is all poetry."

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        I shall not enter into the controversy as to the rank which should be assigned to that brief but noted conflict. Whatever may be its proper designation, it was a most creditable affair to both sides. Reared among the mountains, I can readily appreciate the peculiar atmospheric conditions and the impressive character of the scenes which met those contending forces on the rugged mountain-side. Many times in my boyhood I have stood upon those mountain-tops in the clear sunlight, while below were gathered dense fogs and mists, sometimes following the winding courses of the streams, often covering the valleys like a vast sea and obscuring them from view. As stated in another chapter, General Hooker was probably not apprised of the fact that there confronted him in the forenoon only Walthall's Mississippians,--less than 1500 men against 10,000,-- and in the afternoon only the shattered remnants of this brave little brigade, joined by three regiments of Pettus and the small brigade of Moore, in all probably not more than 2500 men. The conception of moving upon an unknown force located in such a stronghold was bold and most creditable to the high soldierly qualities of General Hooker and the gallant men who moved at his command through the fogs and up the steeps, where gorges and boulders and jutting cliffs made almost as formidable barriers as those which opposed the American soldiers at Chapultepec. General Walthall, who commanded the little band of resisting Confederates, was compelled to stretch them out along the base and up the sides of the mountain until his command covered a front so long as to reduce it practically to a line of skirmishers. Far beyond the west flank of this attenuated line, Hooker's plan of battle for this unique field had placed a heavy force under enterprising and daring leaders. Up the mountain-side the troops worked their way, clutching bushes and the branches of trees in order to lift them

Illustration

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selves over the rugged ledges, firing as they rose, capturing small bodies here and there, and driving back the stubborn little band of Confederates. The Union lines in front and on Walthall's right threatened to make prisoners of his men, who retreated from ledge to ledge, pouring their fire into Hooker's troops and directing their aim only at the flashes of the Union rifles as they gleamed through the dense fog.

        The resistance of Walthall's Mississippians was pronounced by the distinguished Union leader, General George H. Thomas, "obstinate"; by General Bragg, the Confederate commander-in-chief, as "desperate," and by the brave Steedman, of the Union army, as "sublimely heroic." More emphatic than all of these well-merited tributes was the eloquent fact that but 600 were left of the 1500 carried into the fight.

        General Grant's arrival at Chattanooga with his reënforcements was as timely a relief for Thomas and his troops as the coming of Buell's forces had previously been for the succor of General Grant's army at Pittsburg Landing or Shiloh.

        The interchange of courtesies which became so common during the war at no time interfered with the stern demands of duty. As General Manderson, one of the most gallant officers of the Union army, rode near the Confederate picket-lines in front of Chattanooga, he received a salutation almost as courteous as they would have given to one of their Confederate generals; yet they were ready to empty their deadly rifles into the bosoms of his troops when they moved in battle array against them. General Manderson himself in these words gives account of the Confederate courtesy shown him: "A feeling of amity, almost fraternization, had existed between the picket-lines in front of Wood's division for many days. In the early morning of that day, being in charge of the left of our picket-line

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[Union], I received a turnout and salute from the Confederate reserve as I rode the line." This was on the very day of the great battle. On the river below, the Confederates would gladly have divided their own meagre rations with any individual soldier in Thomas's army, yet they were attempting to shoot down every team and sink every boat which sought to bring the needed supplies to the beleaguered and hungry commands suffering in the city.

        Major Nelson of Indiana, who, like all truly brave soldiers, has exhibited in peace the same high qualities which distinguished him in war, gave me the following incident, which occurred at another point, and admirably illustrates the spirit of the best men in the two armies. Major Nelson was himself in command of the Union picket-lines. The Confederate officer who stood at night, in the opposing lines near him called out:

        "Hello there, Yank! Have you got any coffee over there?"

        "Yes," replied Major Nelson. "Come over and get some."

        "We would like to come, but there are fourteen of us on this post."

        "All right, Johnny; bring them all along. We 'll divide with you. Come over, boys, and get your coffee."

        The Johnnies accepted. At two o'clock in the morning they sat down in the trenches with the boys in blue, and told war jokes on each other while drinking their coffee together. Looking at his watch, the major said:

        "It's time for you Johnnies to get away from here. The inspector will be along soon, and he will put every one of you in prison, and me, too, if he catches us at this business."

        The Confederates at once sprang to their feet and left with this salutation:

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        "Good night, Yanks; we are greatly obliged to you. We have had a nice visit and enjoyed your coffee very much. We hope you will get a good rest to-night; we are going to give you hell to-morrow."

        When General Grant arrived at Chattanooga and had surveyed the field, he sent an order to General Sherman, who was rebuilding the Memphis and Charleston Railroad, to stop this work and move his army rapidly eastward toward Chattanooga. This order, it is said, was carried in a canoe down the Tennessee River, over Muscle Shoals, and for a distance of probably two hundred miles. The daring soldier who bore it was Corporal Pike, a noted scout. On the very day of Sherman's crossing the Tennessee at Chattanooga, Grant ordered the advance upon Missionary Ridge. To this ridge the Confederates had been withdrawn from their eyry on Point Lookout, and the forces of Hooker swept down upon Bragg's left flank. Against Bragg's other flank General Sherman's army was concentrated. In General Grant's admirable plan of the battle, the movement by Hooker against the Confederate left, and the attack by Thomas upon its centre, were intended as mere demonstrations, while the heavy columns of Sherman were to turn its right flank and completely envelop it, thus making the capture of the bulk of Bragg's small army probable, or rendering his retreat extremely hazardous. But, as is often the case in battle, the unexpected transpired. Across the line of Sherman's advance, from which the greatest results were expected, was a railroad cut and tunnel from which the Confederates suddenly rushed upon the head of the Union column, checking, breaking, and routing it. In the meanwhile, Grant, who stood on Orchard Knob opposite the Confederate centre, had ordered Thomas to move at a given signal and seize the Confederate rifle-pits at the base of the ridge. As the six shots from Orchard Knob sounded the signal for the

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advance, the blue line of Thomas swept across the plain and into the rifle-pits, making prisoners of many of the advanced Confederate skirmishers. This movement, as above stated, like Hooker's upon Lookout Mountain on the previous day, was intended by General Grant only as a "demonstration," the purpose being only to take the rifle-pits as a diversion to aid Sherman in his attack upon Bragg's right. The seasoned veterans of Thomas, however, were wiser in this instance, or at least bolder, than the generals. Was it a misapprehension of orders, was it recklessness, or was it the habit acquired in battle of never halting when ordered forward under fire until their lines were broken against the solid fronts of opposing forces? General Grant was amazed when he saw those lines pass the rifle-pits in furious charge toward the crest of Missionary Ridge. Both Thomas and Granger denied having given the order for such a movement. It was, however, too late to halt the troops; and most fortunate was it for the Union army that the movement could not be recalled. Those brave men, without orders, mounted to the summit of Missionary Ridge, leaped into Bragg's intrenchments, piercing his lines in the centre, doubling them to the right and left, and forcing the front in confusion to the rear. The capture of 6000 Southern prisoners, several pieces of artillery, and many thousand stands of small arms was an irreparable loss to the Confederacy. In its exhausted condition these could not be replaced by now levies and new guns. Infinitely greater, however, was the loss of the prestige which Bragg's army had gained by the brilliant victory at Chickamauga just two months and five days before. Still greater was the loss which Missionary Ridge inflicted upon the Southern cause by opening the way to Atlanta. The bold and successful stand made after Missionary Ridge by Bragg's forces at Ringgold was but a temporary check to the advance of the Union forces.

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        As Hooker's forces moved from the mountain-top up Bragg's left, a Confederate officer, on his Kentucky thoroughbred, galloped into this portion of the Union line. It was young Breckinridge, looking for his father, General John C. Breckinridge, who was commanding a division of Confederates. Instead of his father, he found General James A. Williamson commanding Union troops. He lost his Kentucky racer and exchanged his staff position for that of prisoner of war.

        General Bragg, with patriotic purpose, and with the hope that some other commander might serve the cause more efficiently, asked to be relieved from the command of the army, and his request was granted. General Rosecrans had perhaps a still more pathetic fate. He had inaugurated and conducted against General Bragg during the summer a strategic campaign, pronounced by General Meigs "the greatest operation in our war." During the progress of this campaign General George H. Thomas and the corps commanders of the Union army seemed unanimous and enthusiastic in the commendation and support of it. Yet after its culmination General Rosecrans was removed from the command of his army. From the standpoint of unbiassed criticism the future historian will probably have some trouble in finding sufficient reasons for this removal. It is not my province to participate in the discussion of this interesting question. As a soldier, however, who fought on the Southern side, and who has studied with much interest this campaign of General Rosecrans, I wish to leave upon record two or three inquiries which it seems to me history must necessarily make.

        First, how was it possible for the transfer of Longstreet's troops from Lee to Bragg to have escaped the attention of Secretary Stanton or General Halleck? This movement was reported to General Rosecrans by General Peck of the Union army stationed in North Carolina.

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        It was suggested as probable by the Hon. Murat Halstead in the columns of his paper. General H. V. Boynton states in the most positive terms that Colonel Jacques, of the Seventy-third Illinois, tried in vain for ten days to gain admittance in Washington to communicate the fact of Longstreet's movements to Halleck and Stanton, and then, without accomplishing it, returned in time to fight with his regiment at Chickamauga.

        Another question which history will probably ask is why no reënforcements were sent to the Union army while Rosecrans was in command and when Longstreet was moving to strengthen General Bragg, and yet after Rosecrans's removal immense reënforcements were sent, although both Longstreet and Buckner had then been detached from that immediate vicinity.

        The heavy concentration of Union forces at Chattanooga, and the consequent defeat of Bragg's army at Missionary Ridge, was a master stroke; but justice to General Rosecrans seems to demand the above reflections. In the light of his previous strategic campaign and of his fight at Chickamauga, where, without reënforcements, he so stubbornly resisted Bragg's assaults while both Longstreet and Buckner were present, history will surely ask: "What would General Rosecrans probably have accomplished with his own army heavily reënforced, while Bragg's was reduced by the absence of both Longstreet's and Buckner's commands?"

        Missionary Ridge had added its quota of cloud to the Confederate firmament, and intensified the gloom of the succeeding winter. It had laid bare the Confederacy's heart to the glistening points of Union bayonets, and vastly increased the sufferings of the Confederate armies. Vicksburg, Gettysburg, Missionary Ridge! Distinct defeats to different armies in distant sections, they nevertheless constituted a common, a triune disaster

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to the Confederate cause. The great crevasses in the Mississippi's levees constitute one agency of ruin when they unite their floods and deluge the delta. So these breaks in the gray lines of defence constituted, I repeat, one common defeat to Southern arms. There is, however, this noteworthy defect in the completeness of the simile: The Mississippi levees could be rebuilt; the material for reconstructing them was inexhaustible; and the waters would soon disappear without any human effort to drive them back. The Confederacy's lines, on the contrary, could not be rebuilt. The material for reconstructing them was exhausted. The blue-crested flood which had broken those lines was not disappearing. The fountains which supplied it were exhaustless. It was still coming with an ever-increasing current, swelling higher and growing more resistless. This triune disaster was especially depressing to the people because it came like a blight upon their hopes which had been awakened by recent Confederate victories. The recoil of Lee's army from its furious impact against the blue barrier of Meade's lines at Gettysburg was the first break in the tide of its successes. Beginning with the marvellous panic and rout of McDowell's troops at Bull Run in 1861, there followed in almost unbroken succession wave after wave of Confederate triumph. The victory of Joseph E. Johnston over General McClellan at Seven Pines, or Fair Oaks; the rapidly recurring victories of Lee in the seven days' battles around Richmond over the same brilliant commander; the rout of General Pope's army at second Manassas, or second Bull Run; the bloody disaster inflicted by Lee upon Burnside's forces at Fredericksburg and upon Hooker's splendid army at Chancellorsville, together with Stonewall Jackson's Napoleonic campaign in the Valley of Virginia, had constituted a chain of Confederate successes with

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scarcely a broken link. Even at Sharpsburg, or Antietam, in 1862, the result was of so indecisive a character as to leave that battle among those that are in dispute. The Federals claim it as a Union victory on the ground that Lee finally abandoned the field to McClellan. The Confederates place it among the drawn battles of the war, and base their claim on these facts: that McClellan was the aggressor, and declined to renew his efforts, although the Confederates invited him to do so by flying their flags in his front during the whole of the following day; that although the battle-tide swayed to and fro, with alternate onsets and recoils on the different hotly contested portions of the field, yet in the main the Federal assaults were successfully repelled; that McClellan failed to drive Lee from his general line, and that whatever advance he made against Lee was more than counterbalanced by Jackson's capture of the entire Union forces which held the left of the Union army at Harper's Ferry.

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CHAPTER XVI

WINTER ON THE RAPIDAN

        In camp near Clark's Mountain--Religious awakening--Revival services throughout the camps--General Lee's interest in the movement--Southern women at work--Extracts from General Lee's letters to his wife--Influence of religion on the soldiers' character.

        THE winter of 1863-64 on the banks of the Rapidan was passed in preparation by both armies for that wrestle of giants which was to begin in May in the Wilderness and end at Appomattox in the following April.

        My camp and quarters were near Clark's Mountain, from the top of which General Lee so often surveyed with his glasses the white-tented city of the Union army spread out before us on the undulating plain below. A more peaceful scene could scarcely be conceived than that which broke upon our view day after day as the rays of the morning sun fell upon the quiet, wide-spreading Union camp, with its thousands of smoke columns rising like miniature geysers, its fluttering flags marking, at regular intervals, the different divisions, its stillness unbroken save by an occasional drum-beat and the clear ringing notes of bugles sounding the familiar calls.

        On the southern side of the Rapidan the scenes were, if possible, still less warlike. In every Confederate camp chaplains and visiting ministers erected religious altars, around which the ragged soldiers knelt and worshipped the Heavenly Father into whose keeping they committed

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themselves and their cause, and through whose all-wise guidance they expected ultimate victory. The religious revivals that ensued form a most remarkable and impressive chapter of war history. Not only on the Sabbath day, but during the week, night after night for long periods, these services continued, increasing in attendance and interest until they brought under religious influence the great body of the army. Along the mountain-sides and in the forests, where the Southern camps were pitched, the rocks and woods rang with appeals for holiness and consecration, with praises for past mercies and earnest prayers for future protection and deliverance. Thousands of these brave followers of Southern banners became consistent and devoted soldiers of the cross. General Lee, who was a deeply pious man, manifested a constant and profound interest in the progress of this religious work among his soldiers. He usually attended his own church when services were held there, but his interest was confined to no particular denomination. He encouraged all and helped all.

        Back of the army on the farms, in the towns and cities, the fingers of Southern women were busy knitting socks and sewing seams of coarse trousers and gray jackets for the soldiers at the front. From Mrs. Lee and her daughters to the humblest country matrons and maidens, their busy needles were stitching, stitching, stitching, day and night. The anxious commander thanked them for their efforts to bring greater comfort to the cold feet and shivering limbs of his half-clad men. He wrote letters expressing appreciation of the bags of socks and shirts as they came in. He said that he could almost hear, in the stillness of the night, the needles click as they flow through the meshes. Every click was a prayer, every stitch a tear. His tributes were tender and constant to these glorious women for their labor and sacrifices for Southern independence. His unselfish solicitude

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for his men was marked and unvarying. He sent to the suffering privates in the hospitals the delicacies contributed for his personal use from the meagre stores of those who were anxious about his health. If a handful of real coffee came to him, it went in the same direction, while he cheerfully drank from his tin cup the wretched substitute made from parched corn or beans. He was the idolized commander of his army and at the same time the sympathizing brother of his men.

        General Fitzhugh Lee, the brilliant nephew of the great chieftain, gives extracts from his private letters, some of which I insert in this connection because they illustrate the character of Robert E. Lee as a man. These excerpts are of greater value because they are taken from letters addressed to Mrs. Lee and meant for her eyes alone.

        In 1861, from West Virginia, General Lee concluded a letter to Mrs. Lee in these words:

        I travelled from Staunton on horseback. A part of the road I traveled over in the summer of 1840 on my return from St. Louis after bringing you home. If any one had told me that the next time I travelled that road would have been on my present errand I should have supposed him insane. I enjoyed the mountains as I rode along. The valleys are peaceful, the scenery beautiful. What a glorious world Almighty God has given us! How thankless and ungrateful we are!


        Denied the privilege of being with his family at the Christmas reunion, he wrote:

        I shall pray the great God to shower His blessings upon you and unite you all in His courts above . . . . Oh, that I were more worthy and more thankful for all that he has done and continues to do for me!


        From the southern coast in February, 1862, he wrote Mrs. Lee:

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        My constant prayer is to the Giver of all victory . . . . The contest must be long and the whole country has to go through much suffering. It is necessary we should be more humble, less boastful, less selfish, and more devoted to right and justice to all the world . . . . God, I hope, will shield us and give us success.


        After his brilliant victory over McClellan in the seven days' battles around Richmond, he wrote Mrs. Lee:

        I am filled with gratitude to our Heavenly Father for all the mercies he has extended to us. Our success has not been as complete as we could desire, but God knows what is best for us.


        If Wellington, the Iron Duke, ever said, as is reported: "A man of fine Christian sensibilities is totally unfit for the position of a soldier," he must have had in contemplation the mere soldier of fortune--the professional soldier, and not the class of men who fight only because duty compels them to fight. The lofty Christian character, the simple, earnest Christian faith, the consistent, unostentatious Christian life and humility of spirit of both Lee and Jackson, furnish an eloquent and crushing rebuke to Wellington's suggestions. Jackson fought while praying and prayed while planning. Lee's heart was full of supplication in battle, while his lips were silent. In sunshine and in storm, in victory and in defeat, his heart turned to God. Chapter after chapter might be filled with these extracts from his private letters and with accounts of acts consistent with his letters, illustrating the fact that great soldiers may be the tenderest men and the truest Christian believers. The self-denial, the stainless manhood, the unfaltering faith in the saving truths of the Bible, the enormous will power, submissive as a child to God's will,--the roundness and completeness of such a life, should be a model and an inspiration to the young men of our whole country.

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        Christian men and women, indeed all who truly love this country and realize how essential to its permanence and freedom is the character of its citizenship, must find no little comfort in the facts recorded in the last few paragraphs. The reward promised by mythology to the brave who fell in battle was a heaven, not of purity and peace, but of continued combat with their foes and a life of eternal revelry. Such a religion could only degrade the soldiers who fought and increase the depravity of the people. It was a religion of hate, of vindictiveness, of debauchery. The religious revivals which occurred in the Southern camps, on the contrary, while banishing from the heart all unworthy passions, prepared the soldiers for more heroic endurance; lifted them, in a measure, above their sufferings; nerved them for the coming battles; exalted them to a higher conception of duty; imbued them with a spirit of more cheerful submission to the decrees of Providence; sustained them with a calmer and nobler courage; and rendered them not insensible to danger, but superior to it. The life we now live is not the only life; what we call death is not an eternal sleep; the soldier's grave is not an everlasting prison, but the gateway to an endless life beyond: and this belief in immortality should be cultivated in armies, because of the potent influence it must exert in developing the best characteristics of the soldier. Aside from any regard for the purely spiritual welfare of the men, the most enlightened nations of Europe have shown a commendable worldly wisdom in making religious literature an important part of an array's equipment.

        No one, who calmly and fairly considers the conditions which surrounded the soldiers of the Confederate armies when they were disbanded and the manner in which these men met those conditions, can doubt that their profound religious convictions, which were deepened

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in the camps, had a potent influence upon their conduct in the trying years which followed the war. Reared under a government of their own choosing, born and bred under laws, State and federal, enacted by their own representatives, habituated for four years to the watchful eyes and guarding bayonets of army sentinels, accustomed to the restraints of the most rigid regulations, they found themselves at the close of the war suddenly confronted by conditions radically, totally changed. Their State governments were overthrown; State laws were in abeyance; of chosen representatives they had none. Sheriffs, other officers of the court, and the courts themselves were gone. Penniless and homeless as thousands of them were, with the whole financial system in their States obliterated, the whole system of labor revolutionized, without a dollar or the possibility of borrowing, they went bravely and uncomplainingly to work. They did not rob, they did not steal, they did not beg, they did not murmur at their fate. With all the restraints to which they had been subjected, both as citizens and soldiers, not only relaxed but entirely removed, they kept the peace, lived soberly and circumspectly, each ready to lend a helping hand to maimed and helpless comrades or to fight again for the enforcement of law or in defence of the restored Republic. Who will deny that these facts, which are in no particular and in no degree over-stated, but fall far short of the reality, demonstrate the power of religious convictions over the conduct of these disbanded soldiers transformed into citizens under conditions so changed, so trying, so desperate?

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CHAPTER XVII

THE WILDERNESS--BATTLE OF MAY 5

        Beginning of the long fight between Grant and Lee--Grant crosses the Rapidan--First contact of the two armies--Ewell's repulse--A rapid countercharge--A strange predicament--The Union centre broken--Unprecedented movement which saved the Confederate troops.

        LEE and Grant, the foremost leaders of the opposing armies, were now to begin a campaign which was to be practically a continuous battle for eleven months. Grant had come from his campaigns in the Southwest with the laurels of Fort Donelson, Shiloh, Vicksburg, and Missionary Ridge on his brow. Lee stood before him with a record as military executioner unrivalled by that of any warrior of modern times. He had, at astoundingly short intervals and with unvarying regularity, decapitated or caused the official "taking off" of the five previously selected commanders-in-chief of the great army which confronted him.

        A more beautiful day never dawned on Clark's Mountain and the valley of the Rapidan than May 5, 1864. There was not a cloud in the sky, and the broad expanse of meadow-lands on the north side of the little river and the steep wooded hills on the other seemed "apparelled in celestial light" as the sun rose upon them. At an early hour, however, the enchantment of the scene was rudely broken by bugles and kettledrums calling Lee's veterans to strike tents and "fall into line." The advent

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of spring brought intense relief to the thinly clad and poorly fed Confederates. The Army of Northern Virginia had suffered so much during the preceding winter that there was general rejoicing at its close, although every man in that army knew that it meant the opening of another campaign and the coming of Grant's thoroughly equipped and stalwart corps. The reports of General Lee's scouts were scarcely necessary to our appreciation of the fact that the odds against us were constantly and rapidly increasing: for from the highland which bordered the southern banks of the Rapidan one could almost estimate the numbers that were being added to Grant's ranks by the growth of the city of tents spreading out in full view below. The Confederates were profoundly impressed by the situation, but they rejected as utterly unworthy of a Christian soldiery the doctrine that Providence was on the side of the heaviest guns and most numerous battalions. To an unshaken confidence in their great leader and in each other there had been added during the remarkable religious revivals to which I have referred a spiritual vitality whi