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.