Call number E467.1 .P57 P35 1913
(Davis Library, UNC-CH)
The electronic edition is
a part of the UNC-CH
digitization project,
Documenting the American South,
or, The Southern Experience in
19th-century America.
Any hyphens occurring in
line breaks have been removed,
and the trailing part of a word has been joined to the preceding line.
All quotation marks and
ampersand have been transcribed as
entity references.
All double right and left
quotation marks are encoded
as " and "
respectively.
All single right and left
quotation marks are encoded as
' and ' respectively.
Indentation in lines has
not been preserved.
Running titles have not
been preserved.
Spell-check and
verification made against printed
text using Author/Editor (SoftQuad) and Microsoft
Word spell check programs.
Library of Congress Subject Headings,
19th edition, 1996
LC Subject Headings:
Pickett, George E. -- (George Edward), -- 1825-1875 -- Correspondence.
Pickett, La Salle Corbell, -- 1848-1931 -- Correspondence.
Generals -- Confederate States of America -- Correspondence.
Confederate States of America. Army -- Military life.
United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Campaigns.
Virginia -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Personal narratives.
United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Personal
narratives,
Confederate.
Gettysburg (Pa.), Battle of, 1863
1998-08-31,
Natalia Smith,
project manager,
finished TEI-conformant encoding and final proofing.
1998-06-28,
Jordan Davis
finished TEI/SGML encoding
1998-05-10,
Ji Hae Yoon
finished scanning (OCR) and proofing.
The HEART of a
SOLDIER
As revealed in the
Intimate Letters of
Genl. GEORGE E. PICKETT
C.S.A.
Copyright 1913by Seth Moyle (Inc.) Copyright
1912by
the Pictorial Review Company Copyright
1908
by The S.S. McClure Company
FOREWORD
FOR half a century these letters have lain
locked away from the world, the lines
fading upon the yellowed pages, their every
word enshrined in the heart of the noble
woman to whom they were written. To her
they came filled with the thunder of guns,
the lightning of unsheathed swords, the
tumultuous rage in the heart of the storm; but
through them all the radiance of a pure
devotion outshone the battle flash and the lyric
of a great love rose above the cannon's roar.
To their possessor, naturally, these letters
are sacred and they are given to the world
with great reluctance. It is only the thought
of the inspiration that they can bring to
lives less glorious than that of him who
penned them, of the courage they can instill
into hearts less brave, that has led their
owner to share them with the world.
Through the medium of this volume,
which is hereby dedicated to the Great
Soldier and True Man who supplied its
contents, these letters are given, out of the
hands of one who has cherished them
tenderly for many years, into the keeping of all
those who honor courage, loyalty and the
love of man for woman.
An Introductory Chapter
from the One to Whom these Letters
were Written
EARLY in life's morning I knew and
loved him, and from my first meeting
with him to the end, I always called him
"Soldier"—"My Soldier." I was a wee bit
of a girl at that first meeting. I had been
visiting my grandmother, when whooping-cough
broke out in the neighborhood, and she
took me off to Old Point Comfort to visit her
friend, Mrs. Boykin, the sister of John Y.
Mason. I could dance and sing and play
games and was made much of by the other
children and their parents there, till I suddenly
developed the cough, then I was shunned
and isolated.
I could not understand the change. I
would press my face against the ball-room
window-panes and watch the merry-making
inside and my little heart would almost break.
One morning, while playing alone on the
beach, I saw an officer lying on the sand
reading, under the shelter of an umbrella. I had
noticed him several times, always apart from
the others, and very sad. I could imagine but
one reason for his desolation and in pity for
him, I crept under his umbrella to ask him
if he, too, had the whooping-cough. He
smiled and answered no; but as I still persisted
he drew me to him, telling me that he
had lost someone who was dear to him and
he was very lonely.
And straightway, without so much as a by-your-leave,
I promised to take the place of his
dear one and to comfort him in his loss.
Child as I was, I believe I lost my heart to
him on the spot. At all events, I crept from
under the umbrella pledged to Lieutenant
George E. Pickett, U. S. A., for life and death,
and I still hold most sacred a little ring and
locket that he gave me on that day.
him is among the most vivid still; the memory
of him as he lay stretched in the shade of
the umbrella, not tall, and rather slender, but
very graceful, and perfect in manly beauty.
With childish appreciation, I particularly noticed his
very small hands and feet. He had
beautiful gray eyes that looked at me through
sunny lights—eyes that smiled with his lips.
His mustache was gallantly curled. His hair
was exactly the color of mine, dark brown,
and long and wavy, in the fashion of the time.
The neatness of his dress attracted even a
child's admiration. His shirt-front of the
finest white linen, was in soft puffs and ruffles, and
the sleeves were edged with hem-stitched
thread cambric ruffles. He would
never, to the end of his life, wear the stiff linen
collars and cuffs and stocks which came into
fashion among men. While he was at West
Point he paid heavily in demerits for
obstinacy in refusing to wear the regulation
stock. Only when the demerits reached the
danger-point would he temporarily give up
his soft necktie.
It was under that umbrella, in the days that
followed, that I learned, while he guided my
hand, to make my first letters and spell my
first words. They were "Sally" and "Soldier."
I remember, too, the songs he used to
sing me in the clear, rich voice of which his
soldiers were so fond, frequently accompanying
himself on the guitar. He kept a diary
of those days and after the war it was returned
to him from San Juan by the British officer
who occupied the island conjointly with him
before the opening of the war. I have it now
in my possession.
Three years after our first meeting I saw
my Soldier again. He had just received his
commission as captain, and was recruiting his
company at Fortress Monroe, before sailing
for San Juan. The first real sorrow of my
life was when I watched the St. Louis go out
to sea with my Soldier on board, bound
around the Horn to Puget Sound, where he
was stationed at Fort Bellingham, which I
thought must be farther than the end of the
world. Forty thousand Indians had risen
against the settlers. For two years he was in
the thick of it, and greatly distinguished himself,
but he did even better after the Indians
were suppressed, for he made them his friends,
learned their languages, built school-houses
for them and taught them, and they called
him Nesika Tyee—Our Chief. One old Indian
chief insisted upon making him a present of one
of his children. He translated the
Lord's Prayer and some of our hymns and patriotic
songs into their jargon and taught the
Indians to sing them. He taught me some of
them afterward. Years later, one night after
the Civil War, while we were exiles in Montreal,
General Pickett and I were singing a
hymn in Chinook to put our baby to sleep,
when a voice in the next room joined us. At
the close of the hymn a stranger came and
spoke to my Soldier in Chinook. When he
left, he invited us to the theater where he was
playing. He was William Florence, and he
gave me my first taste of the pleasures of the
drama.
Following the Indian war, the quarrel with
the British over the ownership of San Juan
Island reached a white heat, and on the night
of July 26, 1859, my Soldier, with sixty-eight
men, was sent from the mainland to take possession.
They were none too soon, for when
morning dawned there were five British warships
off the coast, with nineteen hundred and
forty men ready to land. They proposed
joint occupation, but Captain Pickett replied:
"I cannot allow joint occupation until so
ordered by my commanding general."
The English captain said: "I have a
thousand men ready to land to-night."
Captain Pickett replied: "Captain, if you
undertake it, I will fight you as long as I have
a man."
"I shall land at once," said the British officer.
"If you will give me forty-eight hours, till
I hear from my commanding officer, my orders
may be countermanded. If you don't
you must be responsible for the bloodshed that
will follow."
"Not one minute," was the English captain's reply.
My Soldier gave orders for the drawing up
of his men in lines on the hill facing the beach
where the English must land.
"We will make a Bunker Hill of it, and
don't be afraid of their big guns," he said.
In his official report General Harney said:
"So satisfied were the British officers that Captain
Pickett would carry out this course, that
they hesitated."
The United States retained the Island and
my Soldier remained in command until the
outbreak of the Civil War. But when Virginia
passed the Ordinance of Secession he resigned
his commission and recognizing the
claims of his native state, joined his fortunes
with those of the Southland, although, like
many others who fought as bravely against the
national government as in happier times they
had fought for it, he loved the Union and
every star in that flag which he had so often
borne to victory.
My Soldier reached Richmond September
13, 1861, and at once enlisted as a private.
The next day he was given a commission as
captain, a short time later promoted to a colonelcy,
and early in 1862 received his commission
as brigadier-general. In June, while
leading his brigade in a charge at Gaines's
Mill, he was severely wounded in the shoulder,
but refused to leave the field, ordering
Dr. Chancellor to extract the bullet on the
field. The surgeon remonstrated, but he said:
"My men need me here, Doctor. Fix me
now."
He was finally carried off, but was back
with his brigade two months before he was
able to draw a sleeve over the wounded arm.
Time has not lessened the fame of Pickett's
Charge at Gettysburg, and it never will; for
the changes that have taken place in the science
of war leave no possibility that future
history will produce its counterpart. Truly,
"the first day of the terrible three at Gettysburg
was an accident, the second a blunder"
and the third the greatest tragedy that has
ever been played upon the stage of war.
With its imperishable glory—overshadowing
all other events in martial history, notwithstanding
its appalling disaster—is linked forever
the name of my Soldier.
Down the slope into the smoke-filled valley
the devoted men followed him as he rode in
advance upon his black war-horse. Their
ranks were thinned and torn and shattered by
the tempest of lead which from every side
was turned on them. Smoke and flame
surrounded them. But from the rear the men
sprang to fill the gaps in front as they pressed
after their leader through the tempest of iron.
Five thousand Virginians followed him at
the start; but when the Southern flag floated
on the ridge, in less than half an hour, not two
thousand were left to rally beneath it, and
those for only one glorious, victory-intoxicated
moment. They were not strong enough
to hold the position they had so dearly won;
and, broken-hearted, even at the very moment
of his immortal triumph, my Soldier led his
remaining men down the slope again. He
dismounted and walked beside the stretcher
upon which General Kemper, one of his officers,
was being carried, fanning him and
speaking cheerfully to comfort him in his suffering.
When he reached Seminary Ridge
again and reported to General Lee, his face
was wet with tears as he pointed to the crimson
valley and said:
"My noble division lies there!"
"General Pickett," said the commander,
"you and your men have covered yourselves
with glory."
"Not all the glory in the world, General
Lee," my Soldier replied, "could atone for the
widows and orphans this day has made."
Soon after the great battle my Soldier confided
to his corps commander his intention of
marrying, and asked for a furlough. General
Longstreet replied that they were not
granting furloughs then, but added, with the
twinkle in his eye which those who knew him
so well will remember: "I might detail you
for special duty and you could, of course, stop
off and get married if you wanted to."
In old St. Paul's Church in Petersburg,
September 15, 1863, we were married, while
the bells rang out the chimes that still make
music from that old belfry and are yet known
as "Pickett's Chimes." In the throng which
crowded the church and extended to the sidewalk
were hundreds whose mourning garb attested
to the costly sacrifice which Petersburg
had given to the South. Many hands were
reached out to greet my Soldier, and from the
lips of many a black-robed mother came the
words: "My son was with you at Gettysburg
- God bless you!" A salute of a hundred
guns announced the marriage; cheers followed
us, and chimes and bands and bugles played
as we left for our wedding reception in Richmond.
The food supply of the South was reduced
to narrow limits then. Salt was reclaimed
from the earth under smoke-houses. Guests
at distinguished functions were regaled with
ice-cream made of frozen buttermilk sweetened
with sorghum. But friends of the general
had almost worked miracles to prepare
a wedding supper. It was sora season, and
those little birds had been killed at night with
paddles—the South being not much richer in
ammunition than in edibles—and contributed
so lavishly to our banquet that it was always
afterward known as "the wedding sora supper."
Our wedding present from Mrs. Lee
was a fruit-cake, and Bishop Dudley's mother
sent a black cake she had been saving for her
golden wedding. Little bags of salt and
sugar were sent as presents. The army was
in camp near by, and all the men at the reception,
except President Davis, his cabinet,
and a few clergymen, came in full uniform,
officers and privates as well. We returned
without delay to Petersburg, that being my
Soldier's headquarters.
In early May, General Butler, with thirty
thousand men, came down upon Petersburg,
defended by only six hundred. They held
the place till half-starved and ragged
reinforcements were hurried in from every
direction. We women carried the despatches,
and cooked the food and took it to the men at
the guns. The roar of the cannon and the
shriek of shot and shell filled our ears day and
night. At train-time we would go to the station
and send up cheer after cheer to welcome
the train from its short trip out into the country,
hoping to blind the Yankees to the fact
that it brought in only the half-starved railroad
men. During the entire week, until he had
Butler safely "bottled up at Petersburg," my
Soldier did not sleep, and the only times I saw
him were when I carried his bread and soup
and coffee out to him. It was just as it had
been when he started for Cemetery Hill at
Gettysburg. He would never stop till he had
accomplished his work. After Pickett's Division
had retaken Bermuda Hundred the following
summer, General Anderson, commanding
Longstreet's Corps, wrote to General Lee:
"We tried very hard to stop Pickett and his
men from capturing the breastworks of the
enemy, but we could not do it."
The devotion of General Pickett's men to
him has often been recounted as something
phenomenal. It was equaled only by his devotion
to them. Very near the end of the war,
when the army had subsisted on nothing but
corn for many days, as my Soldier was riding
toward Sailor's Creek, a woman ran out of
a house and handed him something to eat.
He carried it in his hand as he rode on. Presently
he came upon a soldier lying behind a
log, and spoke to him. The man looked up,
revealing a boyish face, scarcely more than a
child's—thin and pale.
"What's the matter?" asked my Soldier.
"I'm starving, General," the boy replied.
"I couldn't help it. I couldn't keep up, so I
just lay down here to die."
"Take this," handing the boy his luncheon;
"and when you have eaten and rested, go on
back home. It would only waste another life
for you to go on."
The boy took the food eagerly, but replied:
"No, Marse George. If I get strength
enough to go at all, I'll follow you to the last."
He did, for he was killed a few days later
at Sailor's Creek.
I was in Richmond when my Soldier fought
the awful battle of Five Forks, Richmond
surrendered, and the surging sea of fire swept
the city. News of the fate of Five Forks had
reached us, and the city was full of rumors
that General Pickett was killed. I did not
believe them. I knew he would come back,
he had told me so. But they were very anxious
hours. The day after the fire, there was
a sharp rap at the door. The servants had
all run away. The city was full of northern
troops, and my environment had not taught
me to love them. The fate of other cities had
awakened my fears for Richmond. With my
baby on my arm, I answered the knock, opened
the door and looked up at a tall, gaunt, sad-faced
man in ill-fitting clothes. who, with the
accent of the North, asked:
"Is this George Pickett's place?"
"Yes, sir," I answered, "but he is not here."
"I know that, ma'am," he replied, "but I
just wanted to see the place. I am Abraham
Lincoln."
"The President!" I gasped.
The stranger shook his head and said:
"No, ma'am; no, ma'am; just Abraham Lincoln;
George's old friend."
"I am George Pickett's wife and this is his
baby," was all I could say. I had never seen
Mr. Lincoln but remembered the intense love
and reverence with which my Soldier always
spoke of him.
My baby pushed away from me and reached
out his hands to Mr. Lincoln, who took him
in his arms. As he did so an expression
of rapt, almost divine, tenderness and love
lighted up the sad face. It was a look that
I have never seen on any other face. My
baby opened his mouth wide and insisted upon
giving his father's friend a dewy infantile kiss.
As Mr. Lincoln gave the little one back to me,
shaking his finger at him playfully, he said:
"Tell your father, the rascal, that I forgive
him for the sake of that kiss and those bright
eyes."
He turned and went down the steps, talking
to himself, and passed out of my sight forever,
but in my memory those intensely human
eyes, that strong, sad face, have a perpetual
abiding place—that face which puzzled
all artists but revealed itself to the intuitions
of a little child, causing it to hold out
its hands to be taken and its lips to be kissed.
It was through Mr. Lincoln that my Soldier,
as a lad of seventeen, received his appointment
to West Point. Mr. Lincoln was
at that time associated in law practice with
George Pickett's uncle, Mr. Andrew Johnston,
a distinguished lawyer and scholar, who
was very anxious that his nephew should follow
in his footsteps and study for the law—
an ambition which, it is needless to say, my
Soldier did not share. He confided his perplexities
to Mr. Lincoln, who was very fond
of the boy; and the great statesman went at
once to work to secure his appointment.
After Richmond's fall I anxiously awaited
my Soldier's return, and at last one morning
I caught the familiar clatter of the hoofs of
his little thoroughbred chestnut which he always
rode when he came home, and the sound
of his voice saying: "Whoa, Lucy, whoa, little
girl."
He gave his staff a farewell breakfast at our
home. They did not once refer to the past,
but each wore a blue strip tied like a sash
around his waist. It was the old headquarter's
flag, which they had saved from the surrender
and torn into strips, that each might
keep one in sad memory. After breakfast he
went to the door, and from a white rose-bush
which his mother had planted cut a bud for
each. He put one in my hair and pinned
one to the coat of each of his officers. Then
for the first time the tears came, and the men
who had been closer than brothers for four
fearful years, clasped hands in silence and
parted.
Ever since the Mexican War General Grant
had been a dear friend of my Soldier. At
the time our first baby was born the two
armies were encamped facing each other and
they often swapped coffee and tobacco under
flags of truce. On the occasion of my son's
birth bonfires were lighted in celebration all
along Pickett's line. Grant saw them and
sent scouts to learn the cause. When they reported,
he said to General Ingalls:
"Haven't we some kindling on this side of
the line? Why don't we strike a light for the
young Pickett?"
In a little while bonfires were flaming from
the Federal line. A few days later there was
taken through the lines a baby's silver service,
engraved: "To George E. Pickett, Jr., from
his father's friends, U. S. Grant, Rufus Ingalls,
George Suckley."
It was through their courtesy, at the close
of the war, that we were taken from Richmond
down the James to my father's old
home at Chuckatuck. But we were not allowed
to remain long at peace. General Ingalls
warned my Soldier that General Butler
was making speeches against him in Congress,
and urged that he would be safer on foreign
ground. Though he did not believe it, he
reluctantly consented to go. He mounted
Lucy and rode to the station. It was a pathetic
incident that, just as the train moved
out, the chestnut thoroughbred lay down and
died.
We had been in Canada almost a year when
General Grant, learning of our exile, wrote
to us to return, saying that his cartel with
General Lee should be kept, if it required another
war to make it good. We went back
to our dear old place, Turkey Island, on the
James River, and built a little cottage in the
place of the magnificent mansion which had
been sacked and burned by order of General
Butler. I once asked my Soldier why it was
called Turkey Island. He replied that there
were two good reasons; one was that it was
not an island, the other that there were never
any turkeys there. Everything, even the
monument in the family cemetery, had been
destroyed, but it was home. We loved it.
My Soldier was always passionately fond of
flowers, and our garden was an unfailing delight
to us both.
He tried to turn his sword into a plow-share,
but he was not expert with plowshares;
and, worse, he constantly received applications
for employment from old comrades no
more skilled than he. All were made welcome,
though they might not be able to distinguish
a rake from a rail fence or tell
whether potatoes grew on trees or on trellised
vines. They would rise at any hour that
pleased them, linger over breakfast, and then
go out to the fields. If the sun were too hot
or the wind too cold, they would come back,
to sit on the veranda or around the fire till
dinner was ready. There were generals, colonels,
majors, captains, lieutenants, privates—all
of one rank now; and he who desired a
graphic history of the four years' war needed
only to listen to the conversation of the agricultural
army at Turkey Island. But the inevitable came;
resources were in time exhausted, and proprietor and
assistants were forced to seek other fields.
The Khedive of Egypt offered my Soldier
the position of general in his army, but he declined.
When General Grant became President,
he entertained us as his guests at the
White House, and one of my keenest memories
is of President Grant and my Soldier as
they stood facing each other in the White
House office the last day of our visit. Grant's
hand was on the shoulder of my Soldier, and
they were looking earnestly into each other's
eyes. Grant, ever faithful to his friends, had
been urging my Soldier to accept the marshal-ship
of the State of Virginia. Pickett, sorely
as he needed the appointment, knew the demands
upon Grant, and that his acceptance
would create criticism and enemies for the
President. He shook his head, saying:
"You can't afford to do this for me, Sam,
and I can't afford to take it."
"I can afford to do anything I please," said
Grant. My Soldier still shook his head, but
the deep emotion of his heart shone in his tear-dimmed
eyes, and in Grant's, as they silently
grasped each other's hands and then walked
away in opposite directions and looked out of
separate windows, while I stole away.
My Soldier was urged to accept the position
with Generals Beauregard and Early
in connection with the Louisiana Lottery.
There was a large salary attached to it, but
he said there was not money enough in the
world to induce him to lend his name to it.
When he was offered the governorship of
Virginia, he said that he never again wanted
to hold any office, and would be glad to see
Kemper, his old brigadier, made governor.
Kemper was the only one of Pickett's brigadiers
who came out of the battle of Gettysburg,
and he was wounded and maimed for
life. He was elected governor, and as he was
a bachelor, my Soldier and I often assisted
him at his receptions.
For himself, my Soldier finally accepted
the general agency for the South of the Washington
Life Insurance Company, and held the
office till his death. The headquarters were
at Richmond. I always went with him on
his trips, and we spent our summers in the
Virginia mountains.
External conditions as well as natural instincts
made my Soldier's life one of deep and
tragic earnestness. He was always grave and
dignified, but he was fond of jokes, especially
if they were on me. Once, when he was leaving
home for an absence of some length, he
asked how much money I would need. I
made a laborious calculation, and named a
sum which he promptly doubled. He had
not been gone long when I remembered an
obligation, and telegraphed him that I had
underestimated the amount. By the next
mail came a check carefully made payable to
"Mrs. Oliver Twist." I had to indorse it in
that way, and he always carried the cheque in
his pocket afterward for my benefit. I have
it now.
At the wedding breakfast given for General
Magruder's niece at the mansion of the
governor-general of Canada, the governor
asked my Soldier to what he attributed the
failure of the Confederates at Gettysburg.
With a twinkle in his eyes, he replied, "Well,
I think the Yankees had a little something to
do with it."
In the summer of 87, when we were
prepared to start for White Sulphur Springs, my
Soldier was suddenly called to Norfolk.
Very much against his advice, I insisted on
accompanying him. It was fortunate, for
after two days of anxious work he fell ill, and
died there. The evening he was dying, the
doctor wanted to give him an anodyne, but he
said:
"Doctor, you say that I must die. I want
to go in my right mind. I would rather suffer
pain and know. Please leave me now. I
do not want anybody but my wife."
The longest procession of mourners ever
known in Virginia followed him to his grave
on Gettysburg Hill, in beautiful Hollywood.
General Longstreet has written of my Soldier:
"I first met him as a cadet at West Point, in the heyday
of his bright young manhood, in 1842. Upon graduating,
he was assigned to the regiment to which I had been promoted,
the Eighth United States Infantry, and Lieutenant
Pickett served gallantly with us continuously until, for
meritorious service, he was promoted captain in 1856. He
served with distinguished valor in all the battles of General
Scott in Mexico, including the siege of Vera Cruz, and
was always conspicuous for gallantry. He was the first
to scale the parapets of Chapultepec on the 13th of September,
1847, and was the brave American who unfurled
our flag over the castle as the enemy's troops retreated,
firing at the splendid Pickett as he floated our victorious
colors.
"In memory I can see him, of medium height, of graceful
build, dark, glossy hair, worn almost to his shoulders
in curly waves, of wondrous pulchritude and magnetic
presence, as he gallantly rode from me on that memorable
third day of July, 1863, saying, in obedience to the imperative
order to which I could only bow assent, 'I will lead
my division forward, General Longstreet.' He was devoted
to his martial profession . . .
"His greatest battle was really at Five Forks, April 1,
1865, where his plans and operations were masterful and
skillful. If they had been executed as he designed them
there might have been no Appomattox, and despite the
disparity of overwhelming numbers, a brilliant victory
would have been his if reinforcements which he had every
reason to expect had opportunely reached him; but they
were not ordered in season and did not join the hard-pressed
Pickett until night, when his position had long
since been attacked by vastly superior numbers with repeating
rifles.
"He was of an open, frank, and genial temperament, but
he felt very keenly the distressing calamities entailed upon
the beloved sunny South by the results of the war; yet,
with the characteristic fortitude of a soldier, he bowed with
resignation to the inevitable, gracefully accepted the situation,
recognized the duty of the unfortunate to accept the
results in no querulous spirit, and felt his obligation to
share its effects.
"No word of blame, or censure even, of his superior
officers ever escaped Pickett's lips, but he nevertheless felt
profoundly the sacrifice of his gallant soldiers whom he so
loved. At Five Forks he had a desperate but a fighting
chance, and if any soldier could have snatched victory
from defeat, it was the intrepid Pickett, and it was cruel
to leave that brilliant and heroic leader and his Spartan
band to the same hard straits they so nobly met at Gettysburg.
At Five Forks Pickett lost more men in thirty
minutes than we lost, all told, in the recent Spanish-American
war from bullets, wounds, sickness, or any other
casualty, showing the unsurpassed bravery with which
Pickett fought, and the tremendous odds and insuperable
disadvantages under and against which this incomparable
soldier so bravely contended; but with George E. Pickett,
whether fighting under the stars and stripes at Chapultepec,
or under the stars and bars at Gettysburg, duty was his
polar star, and with him duty was above consequences, and
at a crisis, he would throw them overboard."
General McClellan has said:
"Perhaps there is no doubt that he was the best infantry
soldier developed on either side during the Civil War.
His friends and admirers are by no means confined to the
Southern people or soldiers to whom he gave his heart and
best affections and of whom he was so noble a type, but
throughout the North and on the Pacific coast, where he
long served, his friends and lovers are legion.
"He was of the purest type of the perfect soldier, possessing
manly beauty in the highest degree; a mind large
and capable of taking in the bearings of events under all
circumstances; of that firm and dauntless texture of soul
that no danger or shock of conflict could appall or confuse;
full of that rare magnetism which could infuse itself into
masses of men and cause any mass under his control to act
as one; his perception clear; his courage of that rare proof
which rose to the occasion; his genius for war so marked
that his companions all knew that his mind worked clearer
under fire and in the 'deadly and imminent breach,' than
even at mess-table or in the merry bivouac, where his genial
and kindly comradeship and his perfect breeding as a gentleman
made him beloved of his friends.
"He will live in history as nearer to Light Horse Harry,
of the Revolution, than any other of the many heroes produced
by Old Virginia—his whole history, when told, as
it will be by some of the survivors of Pickett's men, will
reveal a modern type of the Chevalier Bayard, sans peur et
sans reproche. . . .
"Could he have had his wish, he had died amid the roar
of battle. No man of our age has better illustrated the
aptitude for war of his class of our country, and with these
talents for war was united the truest and sweetest nature.
No man of his time was more beloved of women, of men
and of soldiers. He was to the latter a rigid disciplinarian
and at the same time the soldier's friend. Virginia will
rank him in her roll of fame with Lee, with Johnston,
with Jackson they love as Stonewall; and mourners for the
noble and gallant gentleman, the able and accomplished
soldier, are legion."
These were the tributes of friend and enemy
- if any man, though he fought him on
the field of battle, could be called his enemy.
Rivers of blood did not quench the flames of
the campfires of Mexico and the West. My
Soldier's comrades under the old flag were
still his comrades through the crucial test of
that most deadly warfare, a conflict between
the opposing sections of the same country.
To me the legacy of love that he left in his
letters and in the memories of his daily life
is greater than any riches earth could give.
The nobility of soul with which he met the
problems that come to men in the arena of
the world is a treasured possession in my
heart even greater than his magnificent heroism
on the field of battle. The radiance of
the stars in the blue sky of peace eclipse the
crimson glow of the fiery comet of war. The
heart of "My Soldier" is mine to-day as it was
AT the time when
these letters begin,
the General (then Captain Pickett,
U.S.A.) was stationed at Fort Bellingham
in the northwest. Before leaving
Virginia, he had become engaged to
"Little Miss Sally" Corbell, who during
his absence was fitting herself at school
to be a soldier's wife. The summons to
arms in the cause of the seceding states
was late in reaching the Captain at his
far-away post, and he, being in the dark
as to the course of events, was even more
tardy to respond; but when the news came
telling of the withdrawal of his native
state from the Union he resigned his commission
immediately and cast his lot with
that of the Confederacy.
The letters in this part give many vivid
glimpses of the armies in action as they
do of the lighter side of a soldier's life,
during the first year and a half of the
War. There are lapses of weeks—even
months—between them, due to the fact
that some are missing; others, whose
pages time has stained, are undecipherable,
and in still other instances the fortunes
of war kept the General so near his
sweetheart that letters were not needed
to carry to her the tale of his love.
THE HEART OF A SOLDIER
I
In Which the General Tells Why He Sided
With the South
SEVERAL weeks ago I wrote quite a long
letter from far-away San Francisco to
a very dear little girl, and told her that a certain
soldier who wears one of her long, silken
ringlets next his heart was homeward bound
and that he hoped a line of welcome would
meet him on his arrival in his native state.
He told her of the difficulties he had experienced
in being relieved from his post, of how
sorry he was to sheathe the sword which had
helped to bring victory to the country for
which he had fought, and how sorry he was
to say good-by to his little command and to
part from his faithful and closest companion,
his dog, and his many dear friends; but sorrier
still for the existing circumstances which
Page 34
made this severance necessary. He told her
many things for which, with him, she will be
sorry, and some of which he hopes will make
her glad. He is troubled by finding no answer
to this long letter which, having at that
time no notion of the real conditions here, he
is afraid was written too freely by far.
No, my child, I had no conception of the
intensity of feeling, the bitterness and hatred
toward those who were so lately our friends
and are now our enemies. I, of course, have
always strenuously opposed disunion, not as
doubting the right of secession, which was
taught in our text-book at West Point, but as
gravely questioning its expediency. I believed
that the revolutionary spirit which infected
both North and South was but a passing
phase of fanaticism which would perish under
the rebuke of all good citizens, who would
surely unite in upholding the Constitution;
but when that great assembly, composed of
ministers, lawyers, judges, chancellors, statesmen,
mostly white haired men of thought, met
in South Carolina and when their districts
were called crept noiselessly to the table in
the center of the room and affixed their signatures
to the parchment on which the ordinance
of secession was inscribed, and when in deathly
silence, spite of the gathered multitude,
General Jamison arose and without preamble
read: "The ordinance of secession has
been signed and ratified; I proclaim the State
of South Carolina an independent sovereignty,"
and lastly, when my old boyhood's
friend called for an invasion, it was evident
that both the advocates and opponents of secession
had read the portents aright.
You know, my little lady, some of those
cross-stitched mottoes on the cardboard samplers
which used to hang on my nursery wall,
such as, "He who provides not for his own
household is worse than an infidel" and
"Charity begins at home," made a lasting impression
upon me; and while I love my neighbor,
i.e., my country, I love my household,
i. e., my state, more, and I could not be an infidel
and lift my sword against my own kith
and kin, even though I do believe, my most
wise little counselor and confidante, that
the measure of American greatness can be
achieved only under one flag, and I fear, alas,
there can never again reign for either of us the
true spirit of national unity whether divided
under two flags or united under one.
We did not tarry even for a day in 'Frisco,
but under assumed names my friend, Sam
Barron, and I sailed for New York, where we
arrived on the very day that Sam's father,
Commodore Barron, was brought there a prisoner,
which fact was proclaimed aloud by the
pilot amid cheers of the passengers and upon
our landing heralded by the newsboys with
more cheers. Poor Sam had a hard fight to
hide his feelings and to avoid arrest. We
separated as mere ship acquaintances, and
went by different routes to meet again, as arranged,
at the house of Doctor Paxton, a
Southern sympathizer and our friend.
On the next day we left for Canada by the
earliest train. Thence we made our perilous
way back south again, barely escaping arrest
several times, and finally arrived in dear old
Richmond, September 13th, just four days
ago. I at once enlisted in the army and the
following day was commissioned Captain.
But so bitter is the feeling here that my being
unavoidably delayed so long in avowing my
allegiance to my state has been most cruelly
and severely criticized by friends—yes, and
even relatives, too.
Now, little one, if you had the very faintest
idea how happy a certain captain in the C.S.A.
(My, but that "C" looks queer!) would be
to look into your beautiful, soul-speaking eyes
and hear your wonderfully musical voice, I
think you would let him know by wire where
he could find you. I shall almost listen for
the electricity which says, "I am at—.
Come." I know that you will have mercy on
your devoted
II
Written After a Light Skirmish With the
Enemy
YOUR welcome note gladdened my drooping
spirits last evening. How can I
thank you for the token?
1 I shall always
cherish it, my darling. I sent a short note to
you via Petersburg to Wakefield. I sincerely
trust you received it, as in it I advised you not
to come down into this part of the country.
The Yankees are burning everything they can
reach, and God only knows what excesses they
may commit on the defenseless, should they
have the power. So much troubled am I
about you, that I send this by a courier of my
own, that he may deliver it to you in person
(how I wish I were the courier). I'm afraid
you will only expose yourself needlessly to
harm. I don't know when I shall see you,
but I should be nearly as far from you as at
present. At any rate, I should be worse than
miserable did I know you were so near these
now apparently infuriated beings.
Alas, my darling, as the Indian says when
despondent, "My heart is on the ground."
The enemy has been strongly reënforced, and
the town is one network of batteries and
entrenchments. I have had two little brushes with
them, running them into their works both
times—the first one yesterday week. I was
ordered to make a reconnaissance in force,
which was done by a part of Armistead's Brigade,
and in so doing we got under a concentrated
fire of about sixteen guns and had
as jolly a little time of it for about fifteen
minutes as I ever saw. Parrot and round
shot were about as thick as the ticks are, and
their name is legion. However, the object
was effected, and we have lost altogether
only about seventy-five men from my
division.
Haven't you some relatives living this side
of the Blackwater—a Captain Phillips of the
3rd? Write me, my dearest. Two long,
III
Concerning Legitimate Warfare, Secession
and the Mishaps of an Old Major of
Artillery
MY heart beat with joy this morning when
Captain Peacock returned to camp,
bringing me your beautiful letter—beautiful
because it was the echo of a pure spirit and a
radiant soul. I am humbly grateful, my
little girl, for this loyal devotion which you
give me—your Soldier. Let us pray to our
dear Heavenly Father to spare us to each
other and give us strength to bear cheerfully
this enforced separation. I know that it cannot
be long, and that sooner or later our flag
will float over the seas of the world, for our
cause is right and just.
Why, my Sally, all that we ask is a separation
from people of contending interests, who
love us as a nation as little as we love them,
the dissolution of a union which has lost its
holiness, to be let alone and permitted to sit
under our own vine and fig tree and eat our
figs peeled and dried or fresh or pickled, just
as we choose. The enemy is our enemy because
he neither knows nor understands us,
and yet will not let us part in peace and be
neighbors, but insists on fighting us to make
us one with him, forgetting that both slavery
and secession were his own institutions. The
North is fighting for the Union, and we—for
home and fireside. All the men I know and
love in the world—comrades and friends, both
North and South—are exposed to hardships
and dangers, and are fighting on one side or
the other, and each for that which he knows
to be right.
Speaking of fighting, Captain Peacock this
morning brings us the news that the daring,
fearless—has again won—shall I say, a victory?
No, not victory. Victory is such a
glorious, triumphant word. I cannot use it
in speaking of warfare that is illegal to many
of us. Marse Robert's 1
approval and commendation
of this illegitimate mode is a source
of surprise, for, like many of us, the dear old
"Tyee" was reared and schooled in honorable
warfare.
Well, as Trenholm said, only those who
have enlisted for this whole war, with muskets
on their shoulders and knapsacks on their
backs, have a right to criticize; but I reserve
even from these the right, and acknowledge
myself wrong in criticizing. An old army
story, though hardly illustrative enough to be
justifiable in telling, occurs to me:
An old major of artillery, who was always
deploring the fact that he couldn't use his own
favorite arm against the Indians, determined
one day to try the moral effect of it upon a
tribe of friendly ones nearby. So he took one
of the small howitzers which defended the
fort and securely strapped it to the back of an
army mule, with the muzzle projecting over
the mule's tail, and then proceeded with the
captain, sergeant and orderly to the bluff on
the bank of the Missouri where the Indians
were encamped. The gun was loaded and
primed, the fuse inserted and the mule backed
to the very edge of the bluff.
The mule with his wonted curiosity, hearing
the fizzing, turned his head to see what
unusual thing was happening to him. The
next second his feet were bunched up together,
making forty revolutions a minute, the gun
threatening with instant destruction everything
within a radius of five miles. The captain
climbed a tree, the sergeant and orderly
following suit. The fat major, too heavy to
climb, rolled over on the ground, alternately
praying to God and cursing the mule. When
the explosion came, the recoil of the gun and
the wild leap of the terrified mule carried
both over the bluff and to the bottom of
the river. The captain, the sergeant and the
poor, crestfallen, discomfited major, with the
mule and the gun to account for, returned to
the fort, soon to be waited on by the Indian
chiefs, who had held a hurried council. The
high chief, bowing his head up and down,
said:
"Injun go home. Injun ver' brave. Injun
love white man. Injun help white man. Injun
heap use gun, use knife, heap use bow-arrow;
but when white man shoot off whole
jackass, Injun no think right—no can understand.
Injun no help white man fight that
way. Injun go home."
So, my Sally, if you will forgive your
Soldier for telling this old-time story and let
him say that he does not approve of fighting
in the way in which- fights, he will bid
you good-by and eat his breakfast, which the
cook says is getting cold. Will you come, my
darling, and have some coffee with your
Soldier? It is some we captured, and is real
coffee.
Come! The tin cup is clean and shining;
but the corn-bread is greasy and smoked.
And the bacon—that is greasy, too, but it is
good and tastes all right, if it will only hold
out till our Stars and Bars wave over the land
of the free and the home of the brave, and
we have our own home. Nevermore we'll
hear of wars, but only love and life with its
eternal joys.
IV
In Which Are Given Certain Important Details
of the Battle of Seven Pines
A VIOLENT storm was raging, flooding
the level ground, as I wrote you last,
followed the next day by one of fire and blood
- the Battle of Seven Pines.
I pray that you accepted the invitation of
your mountain chum, and that your beautiful
eyes and tender heart have been spared the
horrors of war which this battle must have
poured into sad Richmond. Three hundred
and fifty of your Soldier's brigade, 1,700
strong, were killed or wounded, and all fought
as Virginians should, fighting as they did for
the right, for love, honor, home and state—
principles which they had been taught from
the mothers' knees, the schoolroom and the
pulpit.
at daylight and reported to D. H. Hill, near
Seven Pines. Hill directed me to ride over
and communicate with Hood. I started at
once with Charlie and Archer, of my staff, to
obey this order, but had gone only a short distance
when we met a part of the Louisiana
Zouaves in panic. I managed to seize and detain
one fellow, mounted on a mule that
seemed to have imbibed his rider's fear and
haste. The man dropped his plunder and
seizing his carbine threatened to kill me unless
I released him at once, saying that the
Yankees were upon his heels. We galloped
back to Hill's headquarters—Archer bringing
up the rear with the Zouave, who explained
that the enemy were advancing in force and
were within a few hundred yards of us. Hill
ordered me to attack at once, which I did,
driving them through an abatis over a crossroad
leading to the railroad.
As we were nearing the second abatis, I, on
foot at the time, noticed that Armistead's Brigade
had broken, and sent a courier back post-haste
to Hill for troops. A second and third
message were sent and then a fourth, telling
him that if he would send me more troops and
ammunition we could drive the enemy across
the Chickahominy. But alas, Hill, as brave,
as great, as heroic a soldier as he is, has, since
the fall of Johnston, been so bothered and annoyed
with countermanding orders that he
was, if I may say so, confused and failed to
respond. After this delay nothing was left for
us but to withdraw. Hill sent two regiments
of Colston's Brigade and ordered Mahone's
Brigade on my right, and at one o'clock at
night, under his orders, we withdrew in perfect
order and the enemy retreated to their
bosky cover.
Thus, my darling, was ended the Battle of
Seven Pines. No shot was fired afterward.
How I wish I could say it ended all battles
and that the last shot that will ever be heard
was fired on June first, 1862. What a change
love does make! How tender all things become
to a heart touched by love—how beautiful
the beautiful is and how abhorrent is evil!
See, my darling, see what power you have—
guard it well.
I have heard that my dear old friend, McClellan,
is lying ill about ten miles from here.
May some loving, soothing hand minister to
him. He was, he is and he will always be,
even were his pistol pointed at my heart, my
dear, loved friend. May God bless him and
spare his life. You, my darling, may not be
in sympathy with this feeling, for I know you
see "no good in Nazareth." Forgive me for
feeling differently from you, little one, and
please don't love me any the less. You cannot
understand the entente cordiale between us
"old fellows."
V
Containing a Presentiment of Danger—the
Night Before He was Wounded at
Gaines's Mill
ALL last night, my darling Sally, the spirit
of my dead mother seemed to hover over
me. When she was living and I used to feel
in that way, I always, as sure as fate, received
from her a letter written at the very time that
I had the sensation of her presence. I wonder
if up there she is watching over me, trying to
send me some message—some warning. I
wish I knew.
This morning my brigade moved from its
cantonments on the Williamsburg road and
by daybreak was marching along the Mechanicsville
turnpike, leading north of Richmond.
The destination and character of the expedition,
my darling, is unknown; but the position
of other troops indicates a general movement.
This evening we crossed the Chickahominy
and are bivouacked on our guns in the road
in front of Mechanicsville, from which point
I am blessing my spirit and refreshing my soul
by sending a message to my promised wife.
I am tired and sleepy, several times to-day
going to sleep on my horse.
This war was really never contemplated in
earnest. I believe if either the North or the
South had expected that their differences
would result in this obstinate struggle, the
cold-blooded Puritan and the cock hatted
Huguenot and Cavalier would have made a
compromise. Poor old Virginia came oftener
than Noah's dove with her olive branch.
Though she desired to be loyal to the Union
of States, she did not believe in the right of
coercion, and when called upon to furnish
troops to restrain her sister states she refused,
and would not even permit the passage of an
armed force through her domain for that purpose.
With no thought of cost, she rolled up
her sleeves, ready to risk all in defense of a
principle consecrated by the blood of her
fathers. And now, alas, it is too late. We
must carry through this bitter task unto the
end. May the end be soon!
VI
At His Old Home Recovering From His
Wound
IT is only when you are here with me, my
darling, that I am not chafing, fretting,
under my enforced absence from my command.
As poor a marksman as the Yankee
was who shot me, I wish he had been poorer
still, aiming, as he must have been, either at
my head or my heart and breaking my wing.
He was frightened, too, I suspect, and had,
besides, too much powder in his load. What
did you want with that shot-smoked, burnt
coat sleeve? The arm it held is yours to work
for and shield you, my love, for always.
Impatient and restive as I am to get back
to the field, letters and reports just received
show me that I am not missed and that my
gallant old brigade is proving its valor as
loyally under its new leader as when it so fearlessly
followed your Soldier. It held Waterloo
Bridge against Pope while Jackson crossed
the Rappahannock, and on the afternoon
of the 30th received and repelled the onset
of Fitz John Porter, magnificently clearing
the field and winning a victory for our
arms.
The news came, too, this morning of the
death of Kearny, one of the most brilliant generals
of the Federal Army, a man whose fame
as a soldier is world-wide. I knew him first
in Mexico, where, as you know, he lost an arm
at the siege of Mexico City. In Algeria he
won the Cross of the Legion of Honor. He
fought with the French in the battles of
Magenta and Solferino and received also from
Napoleon Third the decoration of the Legion
of Honor. I wish we had taken him prisoner
instead of shooting him. I hate to have such
a man as Kearny killed. Marse Robert, who
was his old friend, sent his body to Pope under
a flag of truce. I am glad he did that—poor
old Kearny!
The same courier, brought the sad news
that our Ewell had lost a leg and our Talliaferro
had been wounded. And these are the
horrors to which, when away from you, my
beautiful darling, your soldier is impatient to
return.
Never, never did men, since the world began,
fight like ours. The Duke of Somerset,
who sneeringly laughed when he saw our
ragged, dirty, barefooted soldiers—"Mostly
beardless boys," as he said—took off his hat in
reverence when he saw them fight.
VII
Mostly Concerning Bob, His Body-Servant
HOW I shall miss your visit to-day, my
darling! I wish you had not gone.
Don't stay. Doctor Minnegerode asked me
this morning when he called, "Who sent the
beautiful flowers?" Bob, to save me from
answering, said, "De same young lady sont de
flowers, Marse Doctor, dat 'broidered dat cape
fer Marse George, en 'broidered dem dar
slippers he's got on, en sont him de 'broidered
stars dat he w'ars on his coat when he w'ars
it; but dat young lady ain't de onlyest young
lady dat sends Marse George flowers en
things. No, Suh."
The dear old doctor understood; he winked
at me and changed the subject. He is as loyal
to the South, dear old fellow, as if his ancestors
had landed at Jamestown. When he
asked after my wound he said he would like
to pray with me, though the dear old man
pronounced it, with his German accent,
"bray," and that reminded me of a story, and
instead of having my thoughts and my heart
set upon his beautiful prayer as I should have
- miserable sinner that I was—I began thinking
of Tom August, who said that one Sunday
someone meeting him coming out of Old St.
Paul's asked him what was the matter. He
replied, "Oh, nothing. I'm not a jackass and
I'm not going to bray, and old Doctor Minnegerode
not only insists that I, but that his
whole congregation, shall 'bray.' I, for one,
will not do it and I don't want to make a row
about it; so I came out. I wonder what the
effect would be if we took him literally and
did all 'bray'?"
Now, my darling, forgive this foolish story.
I learned to like story-telling, listening as a
boy to the best story-teller in the world, Mr.
Lincoln.
Even the bird knows you are not coming
to-day, for he doesn't sing. I shall hold you
to the last line of your sweet note, which says,
"I'll come to you, my Soldier, before the
flowers die." When Bob asked me, "Is Miss
Sallie comin' dis ebenin' er in de mornin'?"
I answered, "She does not mention any set
time, Bob. She only says she'll come before
the flowers die." "De flowers ain't waxinated
flowers, is dey, Marse George?" he asked.
"Den if dey ain't waxinated 'twon't be long fo'
she is here."
When I asked him to hold the paper while
I wrote, he humbly, beseechingly asked,
"Please, Suh, Marse George, ef hit ain't axin'
too much, when you comes ter writin' er dem
dar words lak love en honey en darlin', er any
er dem poetry rhymes 'bout roses red en
violets blue, won't you please, Suh, show 'em
ter me?" I didn't promise him, my sweetheart.
I only said, "Hold that paper steady,
Sir, and don't let it slip." But when I did
call you "darling" or tell you I loved you, I
felt so guilty that the rascal knew it and
grinned.
VIII
Written Upon His Return to His Old Command
DARLING, my heart turns to you with a
love so great that pain follows in its
wake. You cannot understand this, my beautiful,
bright-eyed, sunny-hearted princess.
Your face, is the sweetest face in all the world,
mirroring, as it does, all that is pure and unselfish,
and I must not cast a shadow over it by
the fears that come to me, in spite of myself.
No, a soldier should not know fear of any
kind. I must fight and plan and hope, and
you must pray. Pray for a realization of all
our beautiful dreams, sitting beside our own
hearthstone in our own home—you and I, you
my goddess of devotion, and I your devoted
slave. May God in his mercy spare my life
and make it worthy of you!
My shoulder and arm are still quite stiff,
and I cannot yet put my sleeve on the wounded
arm. I have on one sleeve, and my coat is
thrown over my other shoulder and other arm.
I can reach my mouth with my hand by bending
my neck way over; so I am not helpless.
Bob still buttons my collar and does some
other little services. Until I have more control
of my arm, however, I shall confine myself
to riding old Black and not venture on
Lucy. Enough of so small a matter.
My boys are delighted to welcome me back,
showing their affection for me in many, many
ways. Garnett is still in command of my dear
old brigade, which was temporarily turned
over to him when I was wounded and which,
under his gallant leadership, has sustained its
old reputation for fearlessness and endurance.
I miss dear, familiar faces, for many of the
brave fellows have been killed and wounded.
You have heard me speak of Colonel Strange
- a gallant soldier. He was wounded and
left behind. After he was shot the plucky old
chap called out in a loud, clear voice, "Stand
firm, boys; stand firm."
Well, the Yankees won the battle, but McClellan's
delay in winning enabled Old Jack 1
to seize Harper's Ferry, so it was not so great
a victory for them after all. Old Jack's note
to Marse Robert, telling him of his success,
was characteristic in both brevity and diction.
He said, "Through God's mercy Harper's
Ferry and its garrison are to be surrendered."
The seventeenth following is recorded in letters
of blood for both armies, and in its wake
came Lincoln's great political victory, proving
the might of the pen, in his Emancipation
Proclamation—winning with it the greatest
victory yet for the North. It will behoove us
now to heed well the old story of "The Lark
and the Husbandman," for it will be farewell
to all foreign intervention unless Greek meets
Greek and we fight fire with fire and we, too,
issue an Emancipation Proclamation. I pray
God that the powers that reign will have the
wisdom and foresight to see this in its true
and all-pervading light. It would end the
war, and I should assume as soon as practicable
the rôle of schoolmaster and husband to
the brightest little pupil and the sweetest little
wife in all the world.
YOUR SOLDIER.
P.S. Have been placed temporarily in
command of a division.
IX
On the Occasion of His Promotion to the Rank
of Major-General—Telling of Jackson and
Garnett
TO-DAY I was officially promoted to the
rank of Major-General and permanently
placed in command of a division. My dear
old brigade, which I love and which was with
me in the battles of Williamsburg, Seven Pines
and Gaines's Mill, was assigned to General
Garnett and there comes somehow, in spite of
everything, a little "kind of curious" feeling
within when I hear it called "Garnett's Brigade,"
even though he has been in command
of it almost ever since I was wounded and has
won for it distinction and from it love and
respect.
Old Dick is a fine fellow, a brave, splendid
soldier. He was in the Mexican war and was
wounded in the battle of Mexico. He commanded
a brigade under Old Jack and was
for a time in command of the famous old
"Stonewall Brigade." You have not met him,
my sweetheart; but I want you to know him.
He is as sensitive and proud as he is fearless
and sweet-spirited, and has felt more keenly
than most men would Old Jack's censure of
him at the battle of Kernstown, when all his
ammunition gave out and he withdrew his
brigade from the field, for which Old Jack
had him arrested and relieved from duty.
Old Jack told Lawton that in arresting Garnett
he had no reference to his want of daring,
which was surprising for Old Jack to say, who
never explains anything.
Lawton, who is one of his generals, says Old
Jack holds himself as the god of war, giving
short, sharp commands, distinctly, rapidly and
decisively, without consultation or explanation
and disregarding suggestions and remonstrances.
Being himself absolutely fearless,
and having unusual mental and moral, as
well as physical, courage, he goes ahead on his
own hook, asking no advice and resenting interference.
He places no value on human life,
caring for nothing so much as fighting,
unless it be praying. Illness, wounds and all
disabilities he defines as inefficiency and
indications of a lack of patriotism. Suffering
from insomnia, he often uses his men as a sedative,
and when he can't sleep calls them out,
marches them out a few miles; then marches
them back. He never praises his men for gallantry,
because it is their duty to be gallant
and they do not deserve credit for doing their
duty. Well, my own darling, I only pray that
God may spare him to us to see us through.
If General Lee had Grant's resources he would
soon end the war; but Old Jack can do it without
resources.
Bless your heart, here I am talking of these
old war-horses to my flower queen. Well, she
knows how entirely I love her and how I have
left in her keeping my soul's all.
X
From the Field of Fredericksburg
HERE we are, my darling, at Fredericksburg,
on the south side of the Rappahannock,
half-way between Richmond and Washington,
fortified for us by the hand of the
Great Father.
I penciled you a note by
old Jackerie 1 on the
12th from the foot of the Hills between Hazel
Run and the Telegraph Road. In it I sent
a hyacinth—given me by a pretty lady who
came out with beaten biscuit—and some unwritten
and written messages from Old Peter
and Old Jack, Hood, Ewell, Stuart, and your
"brothers," to the "someone" to whom I was
writing.
My division, nine thousand strong, is in fine
shape. It was on the field of battle, as a division,
for the first time yesterday, though only
one brigade, Kemper's, was actively engaged.
What a day it was, my darling—this ever to be
remembered by many of us thirteenth of
December—dawning auspiciously upon us clad
in deepest, darkest mourning! A fog such as
would shame London lay over the valley, and
through the dense mist distinctly came the uncanny
commands of the unseen opposing officers.
My men were eager to be in the midst of
the fight, and if Hood had not been so cautious
they would probably have immortalized themselves.
Old Peter's orders were that Hood and
myself were to hold our ground of defense unless
we should see an opportunity to attack the
enemy while engaged with A. P. Hill on the
right. A little after ten, when the fog had
lifted and Stuart's cannon from the plain of
Massaponax were turned upon Meade and
when Franklin's advance left the enemy's flank
open, I went up to Hood and urged him to
seize the opportunity; but he was afraid to assume
so great a responsibility and sent for permission
to Old Peter, who was with Marse
Robert in a different part of the field. Before
his assent and approval were received, the opportunity,
alas, was lost!
suppose it is—it is a very cruel one. Your
Soldier's heart almost stood still as he watched
those sons of Erin fearlessly rush to their
death. The brilliant assault on Marye's
Heights of their Irish Brigade was beyond
description. Why, my darling, we forgot
they were fighting us, and cheer after cheer
at their fearlessness went up all along our
lines. About fifty of my division sleep their
last sleep at the foot of Marye's Heights.
I can't help feeling sorry for Old Burnside
- proud, plucky, hard-headed old dog. I always
liked him, but I loved little Mac, 1 and it
was a godsend to the Confederacy that he was
relieved.
Oh, my darling, war and its results did not
seem so awful till the love for you came.
Now—now I want to love and bless and help
everything, and there are no foes—no enemies
just love for you and longing for you.
DURING the period
covered by the
letters in this part the burdens of
the war fell heavily upon the soul of
the General's little sweetheart, as they
did upon the whole South. Lee's campaign
into Pennsylvania carried his army
for many months into the country of the
enemy. It was a land that was strange
to the men and stranger still to the imagination
of the sorrowing ones who
stayed behind. And at the end of it came
Gettysburg, where more than five thousand
sons and husbands and lovers laid
down their lives for the cause they thought
to be just.
Pickett's charge at Gettysburg is one
of those deeds of arms that are immortal.
When it was over—ending in defeat as
it did, on account of the lack of promised
supports—two-thirds of his beloved division
lay sleeping on the slope of Cemetary
Ridge and the heart of their fearless
commander was crushed by the thought of
their sacrifice and the suffering that it
meant to the Southland.
XI
From the General's Old Home On the Suffolk
Expedition
TO-DAY I rode on ahead of my division,
stopped for a moment at our old home,
ran into the garden and gathered for my darling
some lilies of the valley, planted by my
sweet mother, which I knew were now in the
full glory of their blossoming. As I plucked
them one by one, I thought of the dear mother
who had planted them and the sweet bride-to-be
who would receive them, and my heart
went up in gratitude for the great love given
me by both.
While I am writing to you, Braxton and
the cook and the whole household, in fact,
are busy getting a lunch for me and preparing
to load up my courier and my boy, Bob, with
as many more lunches as they can carry, to be
distributed as far as they will go. My little
sister is making a paper box to hold my lilies
for you, and I am writing a love-letter to stand
sentinel over them and guard the sweet, sacred
messages entrusted to them. Old Jackerie
will take them to you and will also bring you,
with my sister's love, a box of her own home-made
dulces.
Perhaps, sweetheart, perhaps I say, you will
see your Soldier sooner than you think. You
know that since the capture of Roanoke Island
and our abandonment of Norfolk and Suffolk,
all that section of the country has been in the
hands of the enemy. Now in the extreme
northeast corner of North Carolina are stored
away large quantities of corn and bacon. Old
Peter, our far-seeing, slow but sure, indefatigable,
plodding old war-horse, has planned to
secure some of these sorely needed supplies for
our poor, half fed army—and there never was
such an army, such an uncomplaining, plucky
body of men—never.
Why, my darling, during these continuous
ten days' march, the ground snowy and sleety,
the feet of many of these soldiers covered only
with improvised moccasins of raw beef hide,
and hundreds of them without shoes or blankets
or overcoats, they have not uttered one
word of complaint, nor one murmuring tone;
but cheerily, singing or telling stories, they
have tramped—tramped—tramped. To
crown it all, after having marched sixty miles
over half frozen, slushy roads they passed today
through Richmond, the home of many of
them, without a halt, with not a straggler—
greeted and cheered by sweethearts, wives,
mothers and friends. "God bless you, my
darling," "God bless you, my son," "Hello,
old man," "Howdy, Charley," rang all along
the line. Lunches, slices of bread and meat,
bottles of milk or hot coffee were thrust into
grateful hands by the dear people of Richmond,
who thus brought comfort and cheer
to many a hungry one besides their very own,
as the men hurriedly returned the greetings
and marched on. You would hardly recognize
these ragged, barefoot soldiers as the
trim, tidy boys of two years ago in their handsome
gray uniforms, with shining equipment
and full haversacks and knapsacks.
Be brave and help me to be brave, my darling,
and to trust in God. I won't say, "Keep
XII
In Which He Urges his Betrothed to Marry
Him at Once THIS morning I awakened from a beautiful
dream, and while its glory still over-shadows
the waking and fills my soul with
radiance I write to make an earnest request—
entreating, praying, that you will grant it.
You know, my darling, we have no prophets
in these days to tell us how near or how far is
the end of this awful struggle. If "the battle
is not to the strong" then we may win; but
when all our ports are closed and the world
is against us, when for us a man killed is a
man lost, while Grant may have twenty-five
of every nation to replace one of his, it seems
that the battle is to the strong. So often already
has hope been dashed to the winds.
Why, dear, only a little while since, the
Army of the Potomac recrossed the Rappahannock,
defeated, broken in spirit, the men
deserting, the subordinate officers so severe in
their criticism of their superiors that the great
Commander-in-Chief of the Army, Mr. Lincoln,
felt it incumbent upon him to write a
severe letter of censure and rebuke. Note the
change and hear their bugle-call of hope.
Hooker, who is alleged to have "the finest
army on the planet," is reported to be on the
eve of moving against Richmond. My division
and that of Hood, together with the
artillery of Dearing and Henry, have been
ordered to a point near Petersburg to meet this
possible movement.
Now, my darling, may angels guide my pen
and help me to write—help me to voice this
longing desire of my heart and intercede for
me with you for a speedy fulfillment of your
promise to be my wife. As you know, it is
imperative that I should remain at my post
and absolutely impossible for me to come for
you. So you will have to come to me. Will
you, dear? Will you come? Can't your
beautiful eyes see beyond the mist of my
eagerness and anxiety that in the bewilderment
of my worship—worshiping, as I do, one so
divinely right, and feeling that my love is returned
- how hard it is for me to ask you to
overlook old-time customs, remembering only
that you are to be a soldier's wife? A week, a
day, an hour as your husband would engulf in
its great joy all my past woes and ameliorate
all future fears.
So, my Sally, don't let's wait; send me a line
back by Jackerie saying you will come. Come
at once, my darling, into this valley of the
shadow of uncertainty, and make certain the
comfort that if I should fall I shall fall as your
husband.
You know that I love you with a devotion
that absorbs all else—a devotion so divine that
when in dreams I see you it is as something
too pure and sacred for mortal touch. And if
you only knew the heavenly life which thrills
me through when I make it real to myself that
you love me, you would understand. Think,
my dear little one, of the uncertainty and dangers
of even a day of separation, and don't let
the time come when either of us will look back
and say, "It might have been."
If I am spared, my dear, all my life shall be
devoted to making you happy, to keeping all
that would hurt you far from you, to making
all that is good come near to you. Heaven
will help me to be ever helpful to you and
will bless me to bless you. If you knew how
every hour I kneel at your altar, if you could
hear the prayers I offer to you and to our
Heavenly Father for you, if you knew the incessant
thought and longing and desire to
make you blessed, you would know how much
your answer will mean to me and how, while
I plead, I am held back by a reverence and a
sensitive adoration for you. For, my Sally,
you are my goddess and I am only
Your devoted,
SOLDIER.
In Camp, April 15, 1863.
NOTE:
To those who recall the rigid system of social
training in which a girl of that period was reared, it will
not seem strange that a maiden, even in war times, could
not seriously contemplate the possibility of leaving home
and being married by the wayside in that desultory and
unstudied fashion. So, though my heart responded to
the call, what could I do but adhere to the social laws,
more formidable than were ever the majestic canons of
the ecclesiasts? My Soldier admitted that I was right,
and we agreed to await a more favorable time.
XIII
Warning Her to Leave the Danger Zone
HOPING, my darling, that you heeded
your Soldier's admonition, and are now
safe across the "Black Water," I am taking
the risk of sending to you at Ivor, by my boy
servant, Bob, a little box of dulces and a note
filled with adoration.
My orders to follow Hood's Division have
been countermanded. Hood was hurried on
from the "Black Water" by rail to rejoin
Marse Robert, who has just gained a great
victory at Chancellorsville. I am ordered instead
to proceed at once with three of my brigades
to Petersburg, via the "Jerusalem-Plank-Road,"
to intercept a cavalry raid.
Perhaps, my darling, I shall have met these
raiders ere this reaches you. Who knows
how many of us may then hear the roll-call
from the other side and be sorry? But sorry
for whom? For the comrades who answer to
their names and are reported present, or for
those spirit voices, just born, have not
yet gained the power to reach the ear of the
orderly and who are reported dead, even
though they, too, answer, "Here"? For, my
darling, there is no death, and you must feel
- must know—now and always, that whether
here or there, at the roll-call your Soldier
answers, "Here."
Now, adieu, my beloved. Close your
brown eyes and feel my arms around you, for
I am holding you close—oh, so close!
XIV
Written When Lee Crossed the Potomac
EACH day, my darling, takes me farther
and farther away from you, from all I
love and hold dear. We have been guarding
the passes of the Blue Ridge. To-day, under
orders from Marse Robert, we cross the Potomac.
McLaws' and Hood's Divisions and
the three brigades of my division follow on
after Hill. May our Heavenly Father bless
us with an early and a victorious return. But
even then, the price of it—the price of it, my
little one—the blood of our countrymen!
God in His mercy temper the wind to us!
As I returned the salute of my men, many
of them beardless boys, the terrible responsibility
as their Commander almost overwhelmed
me, and my heart was rent in prayer
for guidance and help. Oh, the desolate
homes—the widows and orphans and heartbroken
mothers that this campaign will make!
How many of them, so full of hope and cheer
now, will cross that other river which lands
them at the Eternal Home.
Have faith, my little one; keep up a
"skookum
tum-tum." 1
Your soldier feels that
he will return to claim his bride—his beautiful,
glorious bride. And then we shall be so
happy, my darling, that all our days to come,
we will show our loving gratitude to our
Father for His mercy in sparing us to each
other.
Now, my Sally, how I hate to say it—
adieu. Do you remember how many times
we said good-by that last evening? And then
as I heard the latch of the gate click and shut
me out, I was obliged to go back. I could not
stand the cruelty of the sound of that latch—
it seemed to knife my soul. I turned back and
said, "Good night!" The door was open; I
came in. You thought I had gone. I can't
just remember how many times I said good
night. I know I did not close the gate as I
went out again. Keep another gate open for
the good morning, my precious bride-to-be.
Oh, the bliss to be—the bliss to be then for
XV
On the Way Through Pennsylvania
I NEVER could quite enjoy being a "Conquering
Hero." No, my dear, there is something radically
wrong about my Hurrahism.
I can fight for a cause I know to be just,
can risk my own life and the lives of those in
my keeping without a thought of the consequences;
but when we've conquered, when
we've downed the enemy and won the victory,
I don't want to hurrah. I want to go off all
by myself and be sorry for them—want to lie
down in the grass, away off in the woods somewhere
or in some lone valley on the hillside
far from all human sound, and rest my soul
and put my heart to sleep and get back something—I
don't know what—but something I
had that is gone from me—something subtle
and unexplainable—something I never knew
I had till I had lost it—till it was gone—gone
- gone!
through the little town of Greencastle,
the bands all playing our glorious, soul inspiring,
southern airs: "The Bonny Blue Flag,"
"My Maryland," "Her Bright Smile Haunts
Me Still," and the soldiers all happy, hopeful,
joyously keeping time to the music, many following
it with their voices and making up for
the want of the welcome they were not receiving
in the enemy's country by cheering themselves
and giving themselves a welcome. As
Floweree's band, playing "Dixie," was passing
a vine-bowered home, a young girl rushed out
on the porch and waved a United States flag.
Then, either fearing that it might be taken
from her or finding it too large and unwieldy,
she fastened it around her as an apron, and
taking hold of it on each side and waving it in
defiance, called out with all the strength of her
girlish voice and all the courage of her brave
young heart:
"Traitors—traitors—traitors, come and take
this flag, the man of you who dares!"
Knowing that many of my men were from a
section of the country which had been within
the enemy's lines, and fearing lest some might
forget their manhood, I took off my hat and
bowed to her, saluted her flag and then turned,
facing the men who felt and saw my unspoken
order. And don't you know that they were
all Virginians and didn't forget it, and that
almost every man lifted his cap and cheered
the little maiden who, though she kept on waving
her flag, ceased calling us traitors, till
letting it drop in front of her she cried out:
"Oh, I wish I wish I had a rebel flag; I'd
wave that, too."
The picture of that little girl in the vine-covered
porch, beneath the purple morning
glories with their closed lips and bowed heads
waiting and saving their prettiness and bloom
for the coming morn—of course, I thought of
you, my darling. For the time, that little
Greencastle Yankee girl with her beloved flag
was my own little promised-to-be-wife, receiving
from her Soldier and her Soldier's soldiers
the reverence and homage due her.
We left the little girl standing there with the
flag gathered up in her arms, as if too sacred
to be waved now that even the enemy had done
it reverence.
XVI
Lines Penned on the Road to Gettysburg
WE crossed the Potomac on the 24th at
Williamsport and went into bivouac on
the Maryland side, from which place I sent my
Lady-Love a long letter and some flowers
gathered on the way. We then went on to
Hagerstown, where we met A. P. Hill's Corps,
which had crossed the river farther down.
From Hagerstown I sent to the same and only
Lady-Love another letter, which was not only
freighted with all the adoration and devotion
of her Soldier's heart, but contained messages
from the staff and promises to take care of him
and bring him safely back to her.
We made no delay at Hagerstown, but passing
through in the rear of Hill's Corps moved
on up Cumberland Valley and bivouacked at
Greencastle, where the most homesick letter of
all yet written was sent to—well, guess whom
this time. Why, to the same Lady-Love, the
sweetest, loveliest flower that ever blossomed to
bless and make fairer a beautiful world—for it
is beautiful, betokening in its loveliness nothing
of this deadly strife between men who
should be brethren of a great and common
cause, as they are the heritage of a great and
common country.
The officers and men are all in excellent
condition, bright and cheerful, singing songs
and telling stories, full of hope and courage,
inspired with absolute faith and confidence in
our success. There is no straggling, no disorder,
no dissatisfaction, no plundering, and
there are no desertions. Think of it, my darling—an
army of sixty thousand men marching
through the enemy's country without the
least opposition! The object of this great
movement is, of course, unknown to us. Its
purpose and our destination are known at
present only to the Commanding General and
his Chief Lieutenants. The men generally
believe that the intention is to entirely surround
the Army of the Potomac and place
Washington and Baltimore within our grasp.
They think that Marse Robert is merely
threatening the northern cities, with the view
of suddenly turning down the Susquehanna,
cutting off all railroad connections, destroying
all bridges, throwing his army north of Baltimore
and cutting off Washington, and that
Beauregard is to follow on directly from Richmond
via Manassas to Washington, in rear
of Hooker, who of course will be in pursuit
of Marse Robert.
Nous verrons.
We reached here this morning, June 27th,
the anniversary of the battle of Gaines's Mill,
where your Soldier was wounded. We
marched straight through the town of Chambersburg,
which was more deserted than Goldsmith's
village. The stores and houses were
all closed, with here and there groups of uncheerful
Boers of Deutschland descent, earnestly
talking, more sylvan shadows than smiles
wreathing their faces. I had given orders that
the bands were not to play; but as we were
marching through the northeastern part of
the city, some young ladies came out onto the
veranda of one of the prettiest homes in the
town and asked:
So the command was given and the band
played "Home Sweet Home," "Annie Laurie,"
"Her Bright Smile Haunts Me Still," "Nellie
Gray" and "Hazel Dell." The young ladies
asked the next band that passed if they
wouldn't play "Dixie"; but the band instead
struck up "The Old Oaken Bucket," "The
Swanee River," "The Old Arm Chair," "The
Lone Rock by the Sea" and "Auld Lang
Syne."
"Thought you was rebels. Where'd you
come from anyhow? Can't play 'Dixie,' none
of you," they called out. We marched
straight on through the city and are camped
four miles beyond the town on the York River
road.
To-morrow, if you'll promise not to divulge
it to a human soul, I'll tell you a great secret.
No, my darling, I can't wait till to-morrow.
I'll tell you right now. So listen and cross
your heart that you won't tell. I love you—love
you—love you, and oh, little one, I want
to see you so! That is the secret.
XVII
During a Halt in the Long March
I WISH, my darling, you could see this
wonderfully rich and prosperous country,
abounding in plenty, with its great, strong,
vigorous horses and oxen, its cows and crops
and verdantly thriving vegetation—none of
the ravages of war, no signs of devastation—
all in woeful contrast to the land where we lay
dreaming. All the time I break the law
"Thou shalt not covet," for every fine horse
or cow I see I want for my darling, and all
the pretty things I see besides. Never mind,
she shall have everything some day, and I
shall have the universe and heaven's choicest
gift when she is my wife—all my very own.
At Chambersburg, Marse Robert preached
us a sermon, first instructing us in the meaning
of "meum" and "teum," and then taking as his
text, "Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord." I
observed that the mourners' bench was not
overcrowded with seekers for conversion.
The poor fellows were thinking of their own
despoiled homes, looted of everything, and
were not wildly enthusiastic as they acquiesced
obediently to our beloved Commander's order.
The Yanks have taken into the mountains
and across the Susquehanna all the supplies
they could, and we pay liberally for
those which we are compelled to take, paying
for them in money which is paid to us,
our own Confederate script. Some of us
have a few pieces of gold with which to purchase
some keepsake or token for the dear
ones at home. Alas, my little one, how many
of us will be blessed with the giving of them?
God in His mercy be our Commander-in-Chief!
We have not a wide field for selection here,
as we once had at Price's dry goods store or
John Tyler's jewelry establishment in Richmond;
but it seems quite magnificent to us
now, since the Richmond counters are so bare
as to offer not even a wedding ring or a yard
of calico. We are guying General who,
after long and grave deliberation, bought
three hoop skirts as a present for his betrothed.
All that makes life dear is the thought of
seeing you and being with you. And oh, what
an eternity it seems since I said good night!
Oh, my darling, love me, pray for me, hold
me in your thoughts, keep me in your heart!
Our whole army is now in Pennsylvania,
north of the river. There were rumors that
Richmond was threatened from all sides—Dix
from Old Point, Getty from Hanover,
Keyes from Bottom's Bridge, and so on—and
that we might be recalled. It turned out to
be Munchausen, and we are still to march forward.
Every tramp—tramp—tramp is a
thought—thought—thought of my darling,
every halt a blessing invoked, every command
a loving caress; and the thought of you and
prayer for you make me strong, make me better,
give me courage, give me faith. Now,
my dearest, let my soul speak to yours.
Listen—listen—listen! You hear—I am answered.
XVIII
Written While He Awaited the Order to
Charge at Gettysburg
CAN my prettice do patchwork? If she
can, she must piece together these penciled
scraps of soiled paper and make out of
them, not a log-cabin quilt, but a wren's nest,
cement it with love and fill it with blue and
golden and speckled eggs of faith and hope,
to hatch out greater love yet for us.
Well, the long, wearying march from
Chambersburg, through dust and heat beyond
compare, brought us here yesterday (a few
miles from Gettysburg). Though my poor
men were almost exhausted by the march in
the intense heat, I felt that the exigencies demanded
my assuring Marse Robert that we
had arrived and that, with a few hours' rest,
my men would be equal to anything he might
require of them. I sent Walter with my message
and rode on myself to Little Round Top
to see Old Peter, who, I tell you, dearest, was
mighty glad to see me. And now, just think
of it, though the old war-horse was watching
A. P. Hill's attack upon the center and Hood
and McLaws of his own corps, who had
struck Sickles, he turned and before referring
to the fighting or asking about the march inquired
after you, my darling! While we
were watching the fight Walter came back
with Marse Robert's reply to my message,
which was in part: "Tell Pickett I'm glad
that he has come, that I can always depend
upon him and his men, but that I shall not
want him this evening."
We have been on the qui vive, sweetheart,
since midnight and as early as three o'clock
were on the march. About half past three,
Gary's pistol signaled the Yankees' attack
upon Culp's Hill, and with its echo a wail of
regret went up from my very soul that the
other two brigades of my old division had
been left behind. Oh, God, if only I had
them—a surety for the honor of Virginia, for
I can depend upon them, little one. They
know your Soldier and would follow him into
the very jaws of death—and he will need
them, right here, too, before he's through.
At early dawn, darkened by the threatening
rain, Armistead, Garnett, Kemper and
your Soldier held a heart-to-heart powwow.
All three sent regards to you, and Old
Lewis pulled a ring from his little finger and
making me take it, said, "Give this little token,
George, please, to her of the sunset eyes, with
my love, and tell her the 'old man' says since
he could not be the lucky dog he's mighty
glad that you are."
Dear old Lewis—dear old "Lo," as Magruder
always called him, being short for
Lothario. Well, my Sally, I'll keep the ring
for you, and some day I'll take it to John
Tyler and have it made into a breastpin and
set around with rubies and diamonds and
emeralds. You will be the pearl, the other
jewel. Dear old Lewis!
Just as we three separated to go our different
ways after silently clasping hands, our
fears and prayers voiced in the "Good luck,
old man," a summons came from Old Peter,
and I immediately rode to the top of the ridge
where he and Marse Robert were making a
reconnaissance of Meade's position. "Great
God!" said Old Peter as I came up. "Look,
General Lee, at the insurmountable difficulties
between our line and that of the Yankees—the
steep hills, the tiers of artillery, the
fences, the heavy skirmish line—and then
we'll have to fight our infantry against their
batteries. Look at the ground we'll have to
charge over, nearly a mile of that open ground
there under the rain of their canister and
shrapnel."
"The enemy is there, General Longstreet,
and I am going to strike him," said Marse
Robert in his firm, quiet, determined voice.
About 8 o'clock I rode with them along
our line of prostrate infantry. They had
been told to lie down to prevent attracting
attention, and though they had been forbidden
to cheer they voluntarily arose and lifted
in reverential adoration their caps to our beloved
commander as we rode slowly along.
Oh, the responsibility for the lives of such
men as these! Well, my darling, their fate
and that of our beloved Southland will be
settled ere your glorious brown eyes rest on
these scraps of penciled paper—your Soldier's
last letter, perhaps.
Our line of battle faces Cemetery Ridge.
Our detachments have been thrown forward
to support our artillery which stretches over
a mile along the crests of Oak Ridge and
Seminary Ridge. The men are lying in the
rear, my darling, and the hot July sun pours
its scorching rays almost vertically down upon
them. The suffering and waiting are almost
unbearable.
Well, my sweetheart, at one o'clock the awful
silence was broken by a cannon-shot and
then another, and then more than a hundred
guns shook the hills from crest to base, answered
by more than another hundred—the
whole world a blazing volcano, the whole of
heaven a thunderbolt—then darkness and absolute
silence—then the grim and gruesome,
low-spoken commands—then the forming of
the attacking columns. My brave Virginians
are to attack in front. Oh, may God in mercy
help me as He never helped before!
I have ridden up to report to Old Peter.
I shall give him this letter to mail to you and
a package to give you if—Oh, my darling,
do you feel the love of my heart, the prayer,
as I write that fatal word?
Now, I go; but remember always that I
love you with all my heart and soul, with every
fiber of my being; that now and forever I am
yours—yours, my beloved. It is almost three
o'clock. My soul reaches out to yours—my
prayers. I'll keep up a skookum tumtum for
Virginia and for you, my darling.
XIX
Relating Certain Incidents of the Great
Battle
MY letter of yesterday, my darling, written
before the battle, was full of hope
and cheer; even though it told you of the long
hours of waiting from four in the morning,
when Gary's pistol rang out from the Federal
lines signaling the attack upon Culp's Hill,
to the solemn eight-o'clock review of my men,
who rose and stood silently lifting their hats
in loving reverence as Marse Robert, Old
Peter and your own Soldier reviewed them—on
then to the deadly stillness of the five hours
following, when the men lay in the tall grass
in the rear of the artillery line, the July sun
pouring its scorching rays almost vertically
down upon them, till one o'clock when the
awful silence of the vast battlefield was
broken by a cannon-shot which opened the
greatest artillery duel of the world. The
Page 98
firing lasted two hours. When it ceased we
took advantage of the blackened field and in
the glowering darkness formed our attacking
column just before the brow of Seminary
Ridge.
I closed my letter to you a little before
three o'clock and rode up to Old Peter for
orders. I found him like a great lion at bay.
I have never seen him so grave and troubled.
For several minutes after I had saluted him
he looked at me without speaking. Then in
an agonized voice, the reserve all gone, he
said:
"Pickett, I am being crucified at the
thought of the sacrifice of life which this attack
will make. I have instructed Alexander
to watch the effect of our fire upon the enemy,
and when it begins to tell he must take the responsibility
and give you your orders, for I can't."
While he was yet speaking a note was
brought to me from Alexander. After reading
it I handed it to him, asking if I should
obey and go forward. He looked at me for a
moment, then held out his hand. Presently,
clasping his other hand over mine without
speaking he bowed his head upon his breast.
I shall never forget the look in his face nor
the clasp of his hand when I said:—"Then,
General, I shall lead my Division on." I had
ridden only a few paces when I remembered
your letter and (forgive me) thoughtlessly
scribbled in a corner of the envelope, "If Old
Peter's nod means death then good-by and
God bless you, little one," turned back and
asked the dear old chief if he would be good
enough to mail it for me. As he took your letter
from me, my darling, I saw tears glistening
on his cheeks and beard. The stern old
war-horse, God bless him, was weeping for his
men and, I know, praying too that this cup
might pass from them. I obeyed the silent assent
of his bowed head, an assent given against
his own convictions,—given in anguish and
with reluctance.
My brave boys were full of hope and confident
of victory as I led them forth, forming
them in column of attack, and though officers
and men alike knew what was before them,—knew
the odds against them,—they eagerly offered
up their lives on the altar of duty, having
absolute faith in their ultimate success.
Over on Cemetery Ridge the Federals beheld
a scene never before witnessed on this continent,—a
scene which has never previously been
enacted and can never take place again—an
army forming in line of battle in full view,
under their very eyes—charging across a
space nearly a mile in length over fields of
waving grain and anon of stubble and then a
smooth expanse—moving with the steadiness
of a dress parade, the pride and glory soon to
be crushed by an overwhelming heartbreak. 1
Well, it is all over now. The battle is lost,
and many of us are prisoners, many are dead,
many wounded, bleeding and dying. Your
Soldier lives and mourns and but for you, my
darling, he would rather, a million times
rather, be back there with his dead, to sleep
for all time in an unknown grave.
XX
Written in Sorrow and Defeat, Three Days
After the Struggle
ON the Fourth—far from a glorious
Fourth to us or to any with love for his
fellow-men—I wrote you just a line of heartbreak.
The sacrifice of life on that blood-soaked
field on the fatal third was too awful
for the heralding of victory, even for our victorious
foe, who I think, believe as we do, that
it decided the fate of our cause. No words
can picture the anguish of that roll-call—the
breathless waits between the responses. The
"Here" of those who, by God's mercy, had
miraculously escaped the awful rain of shot
and shell was a sob—a gasp—a knell—for the
unanswered name of his comrade. There was
no tone of thankfulness for having been
spared to answer to their names, but rather a
toll, and an unvoiced wish that they, too, had
been among the missing.
Even now I can hear them cheering as I
gave the order, "Forward!" I can feel the
thrill of their joyous voices as they called out
all along the line, "We'll follow you, Marse
George. We'll follow you—we'll follow
you." Oh, how faithfully they kept their
word—following me on—on—to their death,
and I, believing in the promised support, led
them on—on—on—Oh, God!
I can't write you a love-letter to-day, my
Sally, for with my great love for you and my
gratitude to God for sparing my life to devote
to you, comes the overpowering thought of
those whose lives were sacrificed—of the
broken-hearted widows and mothers and
orphans. The moans of my wounded boys,
the sight of the dead, upturned faces, flood my
soul with grief—and here am I whom they
trusted, whom they followed, leaving them on
that field of carnage—and guarding four
thousand prisoners across the river back to
Winchester. Such a duty for men who a few
hours ago covered themselves with glory
eternal!
Well, my darling, I put the prisoners all on
their honor and gave them equal liberties with
my own soldier boys. My first command to
them was to go and enjoy themselves the best
they could, and they have obeyed my order.
To-day a Dutchman and two of his comrades
came up and told me that they were lost and
besought me to help them find their comrades.
They had been with my men and were separated
from their own comrades. So I sent old
Floyd off on St. Paul to find out where they
belonged and deliver them.
This is too gloomy and too poor a letter for
so beautiful a sweetheart, but it seems sacrilegious,
almost, to say I love you, with the
hearts that are stilled to love on the field of
battle.
