XXIX. — THE SURRENDER.
Lee had surrendered the army of Northern Virginia.
Ask old soldiers of that army to describe their feelings at the announcement, reader. They will tell you that they can not; and I will not attempt to record my own.
It was, truly, the bitterness of death that we tasted at ten o’clock on the morning of that ninth of April, 1865, at Appomattox Court-House. Gray-haired soldiers cried like children. It was hard to say whether they would have preferred, at that moment, to return to their families or to throw themselves upon the bayonets of the enemy, and die.
In that hour of their agony they were not insulted, however. The deportment of the enemy was chivalric and courteous. No bands played; no cheers were heard; and General Grant was the first to salute profoundly his gray-haired adversary, who came, with a single officer, to arrange, in a house near the field, the terms of surrender.
They are known. On the tenth they were carried out.
The men stacked the old muskets, which they had carried in a hundred fights, surrendered the bullet-torn colors, which had waved over victorious fields, and silently returned, like mourners, to their desolate homes.
Two days after the surrender, Mohun was still alive.
Three months afterward, the welcome intelligence reached me that he was rapidly recovering.
He had made a narrow escape. Ten minutes after the death of the faithful Nighthawk, the Federal line had swept over him; and such was the agony of his wound, that he exclaimed to one of the enemy:—
“Take your pistol, and shoot me!”
The man cocked his weapon, and aimed at his heart. Then he turned the muzzle aside, and uncocking the pistol, replaced it in its holster.
“No,” he said, “Johnny Reb, you might get well!”
{Footnote: These details are all real.}
And glancing at the paper on Mohun’s breast, he passed on, muttering—
“It’s a general!”
The paper saved Mohun’s life. An acquaintance in the Federal army saw it, and speedily had him cared for. An hour afterward his friends were informed of his whereabouts. I hastened to the house to which he had been borne. Bending over him, the beautiful Georgia was sobbing hopelessly, and dropping tears upon the paper, which contained the words—
“This is the body of General Mohun, C.S.A.”
The army had surrendered; the flag was lowered: with a singular feeling of bewilderment, and a “lost” feeling that is indescribable, I set out, followed by my servant, for Eagle’s Nest.
I was the possessor of a paper, which I still keep as a strange memorial.
“The bearer,” ran this paper, “a paroled prisoner of the army of Northern Virginia, has permission to go to his home, and there remain undisturbed—with two horses!”
At the top of this document, was, “Appomattox Court-House, Va., April, 10, 1865.” On the left-hand side was, “Paroled Prisoner’s Pass.”
So, with his pass, the paroled prisoner passed slowly across Virginia to his home.
Oh! that Virginia of 1865—that desolate, dreary land! Oh! those poor, sad soldiers returning to their homes! Everywhere burned houses, unfenced fields, ruined homesteads! On all sides, the desolation of the torch and the sword! The “poor paroled prisoners,” going home wearily in that dark April, felt a pang which only a very bitter foe will laugh at.
But all was not taken. Honor was left us—and the angels of home! As the sorrowful survivors of the great army came back, as they reached their old homes, dragging their weary feet after them, or urging on their jaded horses, suddenly the sunshine burst forth for them, and lit up their rags with a sort of glory. The wife, the mother, and the little child rushed to them. Hearts beat fast, as the gray uniforms were clasped in a long embrace. Those angels of home loved the poor prisoners better in their dark days than in their bright. The fond eyes melted to tears, the white arms held them close; and the old soldiers, who had only laughed at the roar of the enemy’s guns, dropped tears on the faces of their wives and little children!