XXVII. — THE NIGHT BEFORE THE SURRENDER.
Throughout that strange night of the eighth of April, 1865, I was in the saddle, carrying orders.
Those who saw it will remember how singularly brilliant it was. The moon and stars shone. The light clouds sweeping across the sky scarcely obscured the mournful radiance. All was still. The two armies—one surrounded and at bay, the other ready to finish the work before it—rested silently on their arms, waiting for that day which would bring the thunder.
Every arrangement had been made by Lee to break through the force in his front, and gain Lynchburg, from which he could retreat to the southwest.
The column of infantry to open the way was about one thousand six hundred men, under Gordon. The cavalry, numbering two or three thousand, was commanded by Fitzhugh Lee. The artillery, consisting of three or four battalions, was placed under that brave spirit, Colonel Thomas H. Carter.
For the tough work, Lee had selected three braves.
I saw them all that night, and read in their eyes the fire of an unalterable resolution.
You know those men, reader. If you do not, history knows them. It was their immense good fortune to bear the red cross banner in the last charge on the enemy, and with their handful of followers to drive the Federal forces back nearly a mile, half an hour before Lee’s surrender.
I had just left General Fitzhugh Lee, near Appomattox Court-House, and was riding through the pines, when a sonorous voice halted me.
“Who goes there?” said the voice.
“Surry, Mordaunt!”
For I had recognized the voice of the general of cavalry. We have seen little of him, reader, in this rapid narrative; but in all the long hard battles from the Rapidan to this night, I had everywhere found myself thrown in collision with the great soldier—that tried and trusty friend of my heart. The army had saluted him on a hundred fields. His name had become the synonym of unfaltering courage. He was here, on the verge of surrender now, looking as calm and resolute as on his days of victory.
“Well, old friend,” said Mordaunt, grasping my hand and then leaning upon my shoulder; “as the scriptures say, what of the night?”
“Bad, Mordaunt.”
“I understand. You think the enemy’s infantry is up.”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll have hard work; but we are used to that, Surry.”
“The work is nothing. It is death only. But something worse than death is coming Mordaunt.”
“What?”
“Surrender.”
Mordaunt shook his head.
“I am not going to surrender,” he said. “I have sworn to one I love more than my life—you know whom I mean, Surry—that I would come back, or die, sword in hand; and I will keep my oath.”
The proud face glowed. In the serene but fiery eyes I could read the expression of an unchangeable resolution.
“Another friend of ours has sworn that too,” he said.
“Who?”
“Mohun.”
“And just married! His poor, young wife, like yours, is far from him.”
“You are mistaken; she is near him. She went ahead of the army, and is now at the village here.”
“Is it possible? And where is Mohun?”
“He is holding the advance skirmish line, on the right of Gordon. Look! Do you see that fire, yonder, glimmering through the woods? I left him there half an hour since.”
“I will go and see him. Do nothing rash, to-morrow, Mordaunt. Remember that poor Old Virginia, if no one else, needs you yet!”
“Be tranquil, Surry,” he replied, with a cool smile. “Farewell; we shall meet at Philippi!”
And we parted with a pressure of the hand.
I rode toward the fire. Stretched on his cape, beside it, I saw the figure of Mohun. He was reading in a small volume, and did not raise his head until I was within three paces of him.
“What are you reading, Mohun?”
He rose and grasped my hand.
“The only book for a soldier,” he said, with his frank glance and brave smile—“the book of books, my dear Surry—that which tells us to do our duty, and trust to Providence.”
I glanced at the volume, and recognized it. I had seen it in the hands of Georgia Conway, at Five Forks. On the fly leaf, which was open, her name was written.
“That is her Bible,” I said, “and doubtless you have just parted with her.”
“Yes, I see you know that she is here, not far from me.”
“Mordaunt told me. It must be a great delight to you, Mohun.”
He smiled, and sighed.
“Yes,” he replied, “but a sort of sorrow, too.”
“Why a sorrow?”
Mohun was silent. Then he said:—-
“I think I shall fall to-morrow.”
“Absurd!” I said, trying to laugh, “Why should you fancy such a thing?”
“I am not going to surrender, Surry. I swore to Chambliss, my old comrade, that I would never surrender, and he swore that to me. He was killed in Charles City—he kept his word; I will not break mine, friend.”
My head sank. I had taken my seat on Mohun’s cape, and gazed in silence at the fire.
“That is a terrible resolution, Mohun,” I said at length.
“Yes,” he replied, with entire calmness, “especially in me. It is hard to die, even when we are old and sorrowful—when life is a burden. Men cling to this miserable existence even when old age and grief have taken away, one by one, all the pleasures of life. Think, then, what it must be to die in the flush of youth, and health, and happiness! I am young, strong, happy beyond words. The person I love best in all the world, has just given me her hand. I have before me a long life of joy, if I only live! But I have sworn that oath, Surry! Chambliss kept his; shall I break mine? Let us not talk further of this, friend.”
And Mohun changed the conversation, refusing to listen to my remonstrances.
Half an hour afterward I left him, with a strange sinking of the heart.
Taking my way back to the Court-House, I passed through the little village, rode on for a mile, and then, overwhelmed by fatigue, lay down by a camp fire in the woods, and fell asleep.
I was waked by a single gun, sending its dull roar through the gray dawn.
Rising, I buttoned my cape around me, mounted my horse, and rode toward the front.
As I ascended the hill, upon which stands Appomattox Court-House, a crimson blush suddenly spread itself over the fields and woods.
I looked over my shoulder. In the east, on the summit of the forest, the newly risen sun was poised, like a great shield bathed in blood.
Such was the spectacle which ushered in the ninth of April, 1865, at Appomattox Court-House.