XXVIII. — THE LAST CHARGE OF THE OLD GUARD.
I rode on rapidly to the front.
It was the morning of the ninth of April, 1865. Since that time three years, day for day, nearly hour for hour have passed; for these lines are written on the morning of the ninth of April, 1868.
Gordon had formed his line of battle across the road just beyond the court-house—and supported by Fitzhugh Lee’s cavalry, and Carter’s artillery on his right, was advancing with measured steps to break through the enemy.
It was a spectacle to make the pulse throb. The little handful was going to death unmoved. The red light of morning darted from the burnished gun-barrels of the infantry, the sabres of the cavalry, and the grim cannon following, in sombre lightnings.
Gordon, the “Bayard of the army,” was riding in front of his line. The hour and the men had both come. Steadily the old guard of the army of Northern Virginia advanced to its last field of battle.
{Illustration: THE LAST CHARGE}
Suddenly, in front of them, the woods swarmed with the enemy’s infantry, cavalry, and artillery. The great multitude had evidently employed the hours of night well. Grant’s entire army seemed to have massed itself in Gordon’s front.
But the force was not the question. Gordon’s one thousand six hundred men were in motion. And when Gordon moved forward he always fought, if he found an enemy.
In five minutes the opponents had closed in, in stubborn fight, and the woods roared with musketry, cannon, and carbines.
Then a resounding cheer rose. The enemy had recoiled before Gordon, and he pressed forward, sweeping every thing in his path for nearly a mile beyond the court-house.
On his right Fitzhugh Lee’s horsemen thundered forward on the retiring enemy; and Carter’s guns advanced at a gallop, taking positions—Starke to the left and Poague to the right of the road—from which they opened a rapid fire upon the Federal line of battle.
I had accompanied the advance and looked on with positive wonder. A miracle seemed about to be enacted before my very eyes. Gordon’s poor little skirmish-line of less than two thousand men, with the half-equipped horsemen of Fitzhugh Lee, on their broken-down animals, seemed about to drive back the whole Federal army, and cut their way through in safety.
Alas! the hope was vain. In front of the handful were eighty thousand men! It was not Sheridan’s cavalry only—that would have speedily been disposed of. During the night, General Grant’s best infantry had pressed forward, and arrived in time to place itself across Lee’s path. What Gordon and Fitzhugh Lee encountered was the Federal army.
Right and left, as in front, were seen dense blue columns of infantry, heavy masses of cavalry, crowding batteries, from which issued at every instant that quick glare which precedes the shell.
From this multitude a great shout arose; and was taken up by the Federal troops for miles. From the extreme rear, where Longstreet stood stubbornly confronting the pursuers, as from the front, where Gordon was trying to break through the immense obstacles in his path, came that thunder of cheers, indicating clearly that the enemy at last felt that their prey was in their clutch.
The recoil was brief. The great Federal wave which had rolled backward before Gordon, now rolled forward to engulf him. The moment seemed to have come for the old guard of the army of Northern Virginia to crown its victories with a glorious death.
The Federal line rushed on. From end to end of the great field, broken by woods, the blue infantry delivered their fire, as they advanced with wild cheers upon the line of Gordon and Lee.
The guns of Carter thundered in vain. Never were cannon fought more superbly; the enemy were now nearly at the muzzle of the pieces.
Gordon was everywhere encouraging his men, and attempting to hold them steady. With flaming eyes, his drawn sword waving amid the smoke, his strident voice rising above the din of battle, Gordon was superb.
But all was of no avail. The Federal line came on like a wave of steel and fire. A long deafening crash, mingled with the thunder of cannon, stunned the ear; above the combatants rose a huge smoke-cloud, from which issued cheers and groans.
Suddenly an officer of General Lee’s staff passed by like lightning; was lost in the smoke; then I saw him speaking to Gordon. At the few words uttered by the officer, the latter turned pale.
A moment afterward a white flag fluttered—the order to surrender had come.
What I felt at that instant I can not describe. Something seemed to choke me. I groaned aloud, and turned toward the cavalry.
At fifty paces from me I saw Mordaunt, surrounded by his officers and men.
His swarthy face glowed—his eyes blazed. Near him, General Fitzhugh Lee—with Tom Herbert, and some other members of his staff—was sitting his horse, pale and silent.
“What will you do, general?” said Mordaunt, saluting with drawn sabre.
Fitzhugh Lee uttered a groan.
“I don’t wish to be included in the surrender,” he said. “Come, let’s go. General Lee no longer requires my poor services!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
Mordaunt saluted again, as General Lee and his staff officers turned away.
“We’ll go out sword in hand!” Mordaunt said. “Let who will, follow me!”
A wild cheer greeted the words. The men formed column and charged.
As they moved, a second cheer was heard at fifty paces from us. I turned my head, and saw Mohun, in front of about fifty cavalrymen, among whom I recognized Nighthawk.
In an instant I was at Mohun’s side.
“You are going to charge!” I said.
“And die, Surry! A gentleman gives his word but once!”
And, following Mordaunt with long leaps, Mohun and his horsemen burst upon the enemy.
Then was presented a spectacle which made the two armies hold their breath.
The column of cavalry under Mordaunt and Mohun, had struck the Federal line of battle.
For an instant, you could see little, hear little, in the smoke and uproar. A furious volley unhorsed at least half of the charging column, and the rest were seen striking with their sabres at the blue infantry, who stabbed with their bayonets at the rearing horses.
Then a thundering shout rose. The smoke was swept away by the wind, and made all clear.
Mordaunt had cut his way through, and was seen to disappear with a dozen followers.
Mohun, shot through the breast, and streaming with blood, had fallen from the saddle, his foot had caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged by his frightened animal toward the Confederate lines.
The horse came on at a headlong gallop, but suddenly a cavalier came up with him, seized the bridle, and threw him violently on his haunches.
The new-comer was Nighthawk.
Leaping to the ground, he seized the body of Mohun in his arms, extricated his foot from the stirrup, and remounted his own horse, with the form of his master still clasped to his breast.
Then, plunging the spurs into his animal, he turned to fly. But his last hour had come.
A bullet, fired at fifty paces, penetrated his back, and the blood spouted. He fell from the flying animal to the earth, but his arms still clasped the body of Mohun, whose head lay upon his breast.
A loud cheer rose, and the blue line rushed straight upon him. Nighthawk’s head rose, and he gazed at them with flashing eyes—then he looked at Mohun and groaned.
Summoning his last remains of strength, he drew from his breast a pencil and a piece of paper, wrote some words upon the paper, and affixed it to Mohun’s breast.
This seemed to exhaust him. He had scarcely finished, when his head sank, his shoulders drooped, and falling forward on the breast of Mohun, he expired.
An hour afterward, all was still. On the summit of the Court-House hill a blue column was stationary, waving a large white flag.
General Lee had surrendered.