XXXVI. — YELLOW TAVERN, MAY 11, 1864.
Yellow Tavern! At the mention of that name, a sort of tremor agitates me even to-day, when nearly four years have passed.
In my eyes, the locality is cursed. A gloomy cloud seems ever hanging over it. No birds sing in the trees. The very sunshine of the summer days is sad there.
But I pass to my brief description of the place, and the event which made it one of the black names in Southern history.
Yellow Tavern is an old dismantled hostelry, on the Brook road, about six miles from Richmond. Nothing more dreary than this desolate wayside inn can be imagined. Its doors stand open, its windows are gone, the rotting floor crumbles beneath the heel, and the winds moan through the paneless sashes, like invisible spirits hovering near and muttering some lugubrious secret. “This is the scene of some deed of darkness!” you are tempted to mutter, as you place your feet upon the threshold. When you leave the spot behind you, a weight seems lifted from your breast—you breathe freer.
Such was the Yellow Tavern when I went there in the spring of 1864. Is it different to-day? Do human beings laugh there? I know not; but I know that nothing could make it cheerful in my eyes. It was, and is, and ever will be, a thing accursed!
For the military reader, however, a few words in reference to the topographical features of the locality are necessary.
Yellow Tavern is at the forks of the Telegraph and Mountain roads, six miles from Richmond. The Telegraph road runs north and south—over this road Stuart marched. The Mountain road comes into it from the northwest. By this road Sheridan was coming.
Open the left hand, with the palm upward; the index finger pointing north. The thumb is the Mountain road; the index-finger the Telegraph road; where the thumb joins the hand is the Yellow Tavern in open fields; and Richmond is at the wrist.
Toward the head of the thumb is a wood. Here Wickham, commanding Stuart’s right, was placed, his line facing the Mountain road so as to strike the approaching enemy in flank.
From Wickham’s left, or near it, Stuart’s left wing, under Lomax, extended along the Telegraph road to the Tavern—the two lines thus forming an obtuse angle.
On a hill, near Lomax’s right, was Breathed with his guns.
The object of this disposition of Stuart’s force will be seen at a glance. Lomax, commanding the left, was across the enemy’s front; Wickham, commanding the right, was on their flank; and the artillery was so posted as to sweep at once the front of both Stuart’s wings.
The enemy’s advance would bring them to the first joint of the thumb. There they would receive Lomax’s fire in front; Wickham’s in flank; and Breathed’s transversely. The cross fire on that point, over which the enemy must pass, would be deadly. Take a pencil, reader, and draw the diagram, and lines of fire. That will show Stuart’s excellent design.
Stuart had reached Yellow Tavern, and made his dispositions before the arrival of Sheridan, who was, nevertheless, rapidly advancing by the Mountain road. Major McClellan, adjutant-general, had been sent to General Bragg, with a suggestion that the latter should attack from the direction of the city, at the moment when the cavalry assailed the Federal flank. All was ready.
It was the morning of May 11th, 1864.
Never was scene more beautiful and inspiring. The men were jaded, like their horses; but no heart shrank from the coming encounter. Stretching in a thin line from the tavern into the woods on the right of the Mountain road, the men sat their horses, with drawn sabres gleaming in the sun; and the red battle-flags waved proudly in the fresh May breeze, as though saluting Stuart, who rode in front of them.
Such was the scene at Yellow Tavern. The moment had come. At about eight, a stifled hum, mixed with the tramp of hoofs, was heard. Then a courier came at a gallop, from the right, to Stuart. The enemy were in sight, and advancing rapidly.
Stuart was sitting his horse near Yellow Tavern when that intelligence reached him. He rose in his saddle, took his field-glasses from their leathern case, and looked through them in the direction of the woods across the Mountain road.
Suddenly, quick firing came on the wind—then, loud shouts. Stuart lowered his glasses, shut them up, replaced them in their case, and drew his sabre.
Never had I seen him present an appearance more superb. His head was carried proudly erect, his black plume floated, his blue eyes flashed—he was the beau ideal of a soldier, and as one of his bravest officers{1} afterward said to me, looked as if he had resolved on “victory or death.” I had seen him often aroused and strung for action. On this morning he seemed on fire, and resembled a veritable king of battle.
{Footnote 1: Breathed.}
Suddenly, the skirmish line of the enemy appeared in front of the woods, and a quick fire was opened on Stuart’s sharp-shooters under Colonel Pate, in the angle of the two roads; Stuart hastened to take the real initiative. He posted two guns on a rising ground in the angle, and opened a heavy fire; and galled by this fire, the enemy suddenly made a determined charge upon the guns.
Stuart rose in his stirrups and gazed coolly at the heavy line advancing upon him, and forcing Pate’s handful back.
“Take back the guns!” he said.
They were limbered up, and went off rapidly.
At the same moment Colonel Pate appeared, his men obstinately contesting every foot of ground as they fell back toward the Telegraph road, where a deep cut promised them advantage.
Colonel Pate was a tall, fair-haired officer, with a ready smile, and a cordial bearing. He and Stuart had bitterly quarrelled, and the general had court-martialed the colonel. It is scarcely too much to say that they had been deadly enemies.
For the first time now, since their collision, they met. But on this day their enmity seemed dead. The two men about to die grasped each other’s hands.
“They are pressing you back, colonel!” exclaimed Stuart.
“Yes, general, I have but three skeleton squadrons! and you see their force.”
“You are right. You have done all that any man could. Can you hold this cut?”
“I will try, general.”
Their glances crossed. Never was Stuart’s face kinder.
“If you say you will, you will do it! Hold this position to the last, colonel.”
“I’ll hold it until I die, general."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
With a pressure of the hand they parted.
Fifteen minutes afterward, Pate was dead. Attacked at once in front and on both flanks in the road, his little force had been cut to pieces. He fell with three of his captains, and his handful were scattered.
Stuart witnessed all, and his eye grew fiery.
“Pate has died the death of a hero!”{1} he exclaimed.
{Footnote 1: His words.}
“Order Wickham to dismount his brigade, and attack on the right!” he added to Lieutenant Garnett, aid-de-camp. Twenty minutes afterward, Wickham’s men were seen advancing, and driving the enemy before them. This relieved the left, and Wickham continued to push on until he struck up against a heavy line behind rail breastworks in the woods.
He then fell back, and each side remained motionless, awaiting the movement of the other.
Such was the preface to the real battle of Yellow Tavern,—the species of demonstration which preluded the furious grapple.
Stuart’s melancholy had all vanished. He was in splendid spirits. He hastened back his artillery to the point from which it had been driven, and soon its defiant roar was heard rising above the woods.
At the same moment a courier galloped up.
“What news?”
“A dispatch from Gordon, general.”
Stuart took it and read it with high good humor.
“Gordon has had a handsome little affair this morning,” he said; “he has whipped them.”
And looking toward the northwest—
“I wish Gordon was here,"{1} he said.
{Footnote 1: His words.}
The guns continued to roar, and the enemy had not again advanced. It was nearly four o’clock. Night approached.
But the great blow was coming.
Stuart was sitting his horse near the guns, with Breathed beside him. Suddenly the edge of the woods on the Mountain road swarmed with blue horsemen. As they appeared, the long lines of sabres darted from the scabbards; then they rushed like a hurricane toward the guns.
The attack was so sudden and overpowering, that nothing could stand before it. For a short time the men fought desperately, crossing sabres and using their pistols. But the enemy’s numbers were too great. The left was driven back. With triumphant cheers, the Federal troopers pressed upon them to drive them completely from the field.
Suddenly, as the men fell back, Stuart appeared, with drawn sabre, among them, calling upon them to rally. His voice rose above the fire, and a wild cheer greeted him.
The men rallied, the enemy were met again, sabre to sabre, and the field became a scene of the most desperate conflict.
Stuart led every charge. I shall never forget the appearance which he presented at that moment; with one hand he controlled his restive horse, with the other he grasped his sabre; in his cheeks burned the hot blood of the soldier.
“Breathed!” he exclaimed.
“General!”
“Take command of all the mounted men in the road, and hold it against whatever may come! If this road is lost, we are gone!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
Breathed darted to the head of the men and shouted:—
“Follow me!”
His sword flashed lightning, and digging the spur into his horse, he darted ahead of the column, disappearing in the middle of a swarm of enemies.
A superb sight followed. Breathed was seen in the midst of the Federal cavalry defending himself, with pistol and sabre, against the blows which were aimed at him on every side.
He cut one officer out of the saddle; killed a lieutenant with a pistol ball; was shot slightly in the side, and a sabre stroke laid open his head. But five minutes afterward he was seen to clear a path with his sabre, and reappear, streaming with blood.{1}
{Footnote: This incident, like all here related as attending this battle, is rigidly true.}
The momentary repulse effected nothing. The enemy re-formed their line, and again charged the guns, which were pouring a heavy fire upon them. As they rushed forward, the hoofs of their horses shook the ground. A deafening cheer arose from the blue line.
Stuart was looking at them, and spurred out in front of the guns. His eyes flashed, and, taking off his brown felt hat, he waved it and cheered.
Then he wheeled to take command of a column of Lomax’s men, coming to meet the charge.
They were too late. In a moment the enemy were trampling among the guns. All but one were captured, and that piece was saved only by the terror of the drivers. They lashed their horses into a gallop, and rushed toward the Chickahominy, followed by the cannoneers who were cursing them, and shouting:—
“For God’s sake, boys, let’s go back! They’ve got Breathed! Let’s go back to him!”{1}
{Footnote 1: Their words.}
That terror of the drivers, which the cannoneers cursed so bitterly, ended all. The gun, whirling on at wild speed, suddenly struck against the head of the column advancing to meet the enemy. A war-engine hurled against it could not have more effectually broken it. Before it could re-form the enemy had struck it, forced it back; and then the whole Federal force of cavalry was hurled upon Stuart.
His right, where Fitz Lee commanded in person, was giving back. His left was broken and driven. The day was evidently lost; and Stuart, with a sort of desperation, rushed into the midst of the enemy, calling upon his men to rally, and firing his pistol in the faces of the Federal cavalrymen.
Suddenly, one of them darted past him toward the rear, and as he did so, placed his pistol nearly on Stuart’s body, and fired.
As the man disappeared in the smoke, Stuart’s hand went quickly to his side, he reeled in the saddle, and would have fallen had not Captain Dorsay, of the First Virginia Cavalry, caught him in his arms.
The bullet had passed through his side into the stomach, and wounded him mortally. In its passage, it just grazed a small Bible in his pocket. The Bible was the gift of his mother—but the Almighty had decreed that it should not turn the fatal bullet.
Stuart’s immense vitality sustained him for a moment. Pale, and tottering in the saddle, he still surveyed the field, and called on the men to rally.
“Go back,” he exclaimed, “and do your duty, as I have done mine! And our country will be safe!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
A moment afterward he called out again to the men passing him:—
“Go back! go back! I’d rather die than be whipped!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
The old lightning flashed from his eyes as he spoke. Then a mist passed over them; his head sank upon his breast; and, still supported in the saddle, he was led through the woods toward the Chickahominy.
Suddenly, Fitzhugh Lee, who had been stubbornly fighting on the right, galloped up, and accosted Stuart. His face was flushed, his eyes moist.
“You are wounded!” he exclaimed.
“Badly,” Stuart replied, “but look out, Fitz! Yonder they come!”
A glance showed all. In the midst of a wild uproar of clashing sabres, quick shots, and resounding cries, the Federal cavalry were rushing forward to overwhelm the disordered lines.
Stuart’s eye flashed for the last time. Turning to General Fitzhugh Lee, he exclaimed in a full, sonorous voice:—
“Go ahead, Fitz, old fellow! I know you will do what is right!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
This was the last order he ever gave upon the field. As he spoke, his head sank, his eyes closed, and he was borne toward the rear.
There was scarcely time to save him from capture. His wound seemed to have been the signal for his lines to break. They had now given way everywhere—the enemy were pressing them with loud shouts. Fighting with stubborn desperation, they fell back toward the Chickahominy, which they crossed, hotly pressed by the victorious enemy.
Stuart had been placed in an ambulance and borne across the stream, where Dr. Randolph and Dr. Fontaine made a brief examination of his wound. It was plainly mortal—but he was hastily driven, by way of Mechanicsville, into Richmond.
His hard fighting had saved the city. When Sheridan attacked, he was repulsed.
But the capital was dearly purchased. Twenty-four hours afterward Stuart was dead.
{Illustration: DEATH OF STUART}
The end of the great cavalier had been as serene as his life was stormy. His death was that of the Christian warrior, who bows to the will of God, and accepts whatever His loving hand decrees for him.
He asked repeatedly that his favorite hymns should be sung for him; and when President Davis visited him, and asked:—
“General, how do you feel?”
“Easy, but willing to die,” he said, “if God and my country think I have fulfilled my destiny, and done my duty."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
As night came, he requested his physician to inform him if he thought he would live till morning. The physician replied that his death was rapidly approaching, when he faintly bowed his head, and murmured:—
“I am resigned, if it be God’s will. I should like to see my wife, but God’s will be done."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
When the proposed attack upon Sheridan, near Mechanicsville, was spoken of in his presence, he said:—
“God grant that it may be successful. I wish I could be there.” *
Turning his face toward the pillow, he added, with tears in his eyes, “but I must prepare for another world."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
Feeling now that his end was near, he made his last dispositions.
“You will find in my hat,” he said to a member of his staff, “a little Confederate flag, which a lady of Columbia, South Carolina, sent me, requesting that I would wear it on my horse in battle, and return it to her. Send it to her."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
He gave then the name of the lady, and added:—
“My spurs—those always worn in battle—I promised to give to Mrs. Lily Lee, at Shepherdstown. My sabre I leave to my son.”
His horses and equipments were then given to his staff—his papers directed to be sent to his wife.
A prayer was then offered by the minister at his bedside: his lips moved as he repeated the words. As the prayer ended he murmured:—
“I am going fast now—I am resigned. God’s will be done!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
As the words escaped from his lips, he expired.