Hear a Northern writer, a wearer of blue, but too honest not to give brave men their due:—
“Having gained the White Oak road, Warren changed front again to the right, and advanced westward, so continually to take in flank and rear whatever hostile force still continued to hold the right of the Confederate line. This had originally been about three miles in extent, but above two-thirds of it were now carried. Yet, vital in all its parts, what of the two divisions remained, still continued the combat with unyielding mettle. Parrying the thrusts of the cavalry from the front, this poor scratch of a force threw back its left in a new and short crochet, so as to meet the advance of Warren, who continued to press in at right angles to the White Oak road. When the infantry, greatly elated with their success, but somewhat disorganized by marching and fighting so long in the woods, arrived before this new line, they halted and opened an untimely fusillade, though there had been orders not to halt. The officers, indeed, urged their men forward, but they continued to fire without advancing. Seeing this hesitation, Warren dashed forward, calling to those near him to follow. Inspired by his example, the color-bearers and officers all along the front, sprang out, and without more firing, the men charged at the pas de course, capturing all that remained of the enemy. The history of the war presents no equally splendid illustration of personal magnetism.... A charge of the cavalry completed the rout, and the remnants of the divisions of Pickett and Johnson fled westward from Five Forks, pursued for many miles, and until long after dark, by the mounted divisions of Merritt and McKenzie.”
That is picturesque, is it not? It is amusing, too—though so tragic.
You can see that “poor scratch of a force” fighting to the death, can you not? You can see the poor little handful attacked by Sheridan’s crack cavalry corps in front, and then suddenly by Warren’s superb infantry corps in both their flank and rear. You can see them, game to the last, throwing back their left in the crochet to meet Warren; see that good soldier cheering on his men “greatly elated,” but “somewhat disorganized,” too—so much so that they suddenly halt, and require the “personal magnetism” of the general to inspire them, and bring them up to the work. Then the little scratch gives way—they are a handful, and two corps are pressing them. They have “continued the combat with unyielding mettle,” as long as they could—now they are driven; and on rushes the thundering cavaliers to destroy them! Sound the bugles! Out with sabres! charge! ride over them! “Hurra!” So’the little scratch disappears.
General Warren, who won that fight, was a brave man, and did not boast of it. Tell me, general—you are honest—is any laurel in your hardwon wreath, labelled “Five Forks?” It would be insulting that other laurel labelled “Gettysburg,” where you saved Meade!
In that bitter and desperate fight, Corse’s infantry brigade and Lee’s cavalry won a renown which can never be taken from them. The infantry remained unbroken to the last moment; and a charge of Lee’s cavalry upon Sheridan’s drove them back, well nigh routed.
But nothing could avail against such numbers. The Confederate infantry, cavalry, and artillery at last gave way. Overwhelmed by the great force, they were shattered and driven. Night descended upon a battlefield covered with heaps of dead and wounded, the blue mingled with the gray.
Among those wounded, mortally to all appearances, was Willie Davenant. He had fought with the courage of the bull-dog which lay perdu under the shy bearing of the boy. All the army had come to recognize it, by this time; and such was the high estimate which General R.E. Lee placed upon him, that it is said he was about to be offered the command of a brigade of infantry. Before this promotion reached him, however, the great crash came; and the brave youth was to fall upon the field of Five Forks, where he fought his guns obstinately to the very last.
It was just at nightfall that he fell, with a bullet through his breast.
The enemy were pressing on hotly, and there was no time to bring off the wounded officer. It seemed useless, too. He lay at full length, in a pool of blood, and was breathing heavily. To attempt to move him, even if it were possible, threatened him with instant death.