XXVII. — THE GREAT MOMENT OF A GREAT LIFE.
I was gazing gloomily at the field covered with detachments limping back amid a great whirlwind of shell, when a mounted officer rode out of the smoke. In his right hand he carried his drawn sword—his left arm was thrown around a wounded boy whom he supported on the pommel of his saddle.
In the cavalier I recognized General Davenant, whom I had seen near the village of Paris, and who was now personally known to me. In the boy I recognized the urchin, Charley, with the braided jacket and jaunty cap.
I spurred toward him.
“Your son—!” I said, and I pointed to the boy.
“He is dying I think, colonel!” was the reply in a hoarse voice. The gray mustache trembled, and the eye of the father rested, moist but fiery, on the boy.
“Such a child!” I said. “Could he have gone into the charge?”
“I could not prevent him!” came, in a groan, almost from the old cavalier. “I forbade him, but he got a musket somewhere, and went over the breastworks with the rest. I saw him then for the first time, and heard him laugh and cheer. A moment afterward he was shot—I caught and raised him up, and I have ridden back through the fire, trying to shield him—but he is dying! Look! his wound is mortal, I think—and so young—a mere child—never was any one braver than my poor child—!”
A groan followed the words: and bending down the old cavalier kissed the pale cheek of the boy.
I made no reply; something seemed to choke me.
Suddenly a grave voice uttered some words within a few paces of us, and I turned quickly. It was General Lee—riding calmly amid the smoke, and re-forming the stragglers. Never have I seen a human being more composed.
General Davenant wheeled and saluted.
“We are cut to pieces, general!” he said, with something like a fiery tear in his eye. “We did our best, and we drove them!—but were not supported. My brigade—my brave old brigade is gone! This is my boy—I brought him out—but he is dying too!”
The hoarse tones and fiery tears of the old cavalier made my heart beat. I could see a quick flush rise to the face of General Lee. He looked at the pale face of the boy, over which the disordered curls fell, with a glance of inexpressible sympathy and sweetness. Then stretching out his hand, he pressed the hand of General Davenant, and said in his deep grave voice:—
“This has been a sad day for us, general—a sad day, but we cannot expect always to gain victories. Never mind—all this has been my fault. It is I who have lost this fight, and you must help me out of it in the best way you can."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
As he uttered these measured words, General Lee saluted and disappeared in the smoke.
General Davenant followed, bearing the wounded boy still upon his saddle.
Ten minutes afterward, I was riding to find General Stuart, who had sent me with a message just before the charge.
I had gloomy news for him. The battle of Gettysburg was lost.