To make the thread of narrative continuous and intelligible, it deserves to be mentioned, however, that it has been necessary to allude to portions of the history of those eventful times in which the Grays were only generally interested, which the circumstance will justify.
The writer closes this, his last chapter, with the consciousness that he has been actuated by the very kindest feelings to all, and that if an intimation has escaped him which may have injuriously touched the feelings of any one, none such was intended. How he has performed his work, the reader will judge. This much he will say for himself, that he has attempted to do it faithfully and—lovingly.
But little more now remains to be said. The morning of the 9th of April presented a spectacle never to be forgotten by those who saw it. General Gordon was at the front with a meagre two thousand men; behind us smoked the remnants of the wagon-trains; in the rear, drawn up and ready again to strike, was the shattered wreck of Longstreet's once grand and noble command. About ten o'clock dispositions were made for attack, when Gordon was ordered to advance.
In vain! Alas, in vain! Ye gallant few! Suddenly a halt was called, a flag of truce appeared upon the scene, hostilities ceased, and a dreamy sadness filled the April air. The grand old Army of Northern Virginia was environed! "I have done what I thought best for you," "the gray-headed man" said to his men. "My heart is too full to speak, but I wish you all health and happiness."
The negotiations relating to the surrender had been instituted on the 7th by a note from General Grant to General Lee. The correspondence was continued until the 9th, when the terms proposed by General Grant were accepted.
On the 10th, General Lee issued his farewell address to his army. On the afternoon of the 11th, the gallant Gordon spoke most eloquently to the little remnant massed in the open field.
The sun hid his face in sullen sympathy behind the clouds, night settled drearily over the camp, and the brave old army fell asleep.
"Hushed was the roll of the Rebel drum,
The sabres were sheathed and the cannon was dumb;
And Fate, with pitiless hand, had furled