The war was truly over and General Lee was departing for his home to devote the remainder of his life in peaceful pursuits. We continued with him a short distance in Buckingham County where the party halted. General Lee rode up to Lieutenant Lovell and thanked him for the escort, and saluted as he went his way, while we returned to Appomattox. At night the army of Northern Virginia was gone. The Union army was preparing to take up the line of march for their homes. The years of achievement and sacrifice have been commented on by eloquent orators. I have endeavored to pen a simple narrative to mention events as they appeared to me.
When the army started from Appomattox they were rejoiced to contemplate changed conditions. At night camp fires were burning. The dangerous duty of picket and scouting and fighting was a thing of the past. Everybody felt elated and happy.
The news of President Lincoln’s assassination came, and quiet and sadness reigned. It seemed a great pity that this should come to put a nation in mourning, at a time when rejoicing for the Nation redeemed, was universal. Our detachment returned to Richmond and we remained with our regiment, doing duty in restoring order in and around Petersburg and Richmond until late in the fall of 1865 when we were mustered out, the last Massachusetts Volunteer Regiment to return home.
Death of the War Horse
The Death of the Old War Horse which Col Tilden of the Sixteenth Maine rode during the war, prompted the Rev. Nathaniel Butler to write the following lines.
The sentiment expressed naturally appeals to anyone and especially to a soldier who rode a horse during the war to maintain the Union.
Farewell, my horse! thy work is done,
Thy splendid form lies low,
Thy limbs of steel have lost their strength,
Thy flashing eye its glow.
No more thy quivering nostrils sniff
The battle from afar,
No more beneath thy flying feet
The plains with thunder jar.
For thou wert born a hero soul,
In days when heroes fought,
When men, borne by thy glorious strength,
Immortal laurels sought.
Seated upon thy nerve-strung form,
Another life was mine,
And well I knew the same high thrill
Ran through my soul and thine.
A throne thou wert to sit upon,
And true as steel within,
Whene’er I felt thy brave heart beat,
My own has braver been.
And when the bugle’s call to Charge
Over the column ran,
Thy arching crest, “with thunder clothed,”
Loved best to lead the van.
Upon the march, with tireless feet,
Through mountain, gorge and plain,
When others strayed thy place was kept,
Through all the long campaign.
But now, thy last, long halt is made:
Thy last campaign is o’er;
The bugle call, the battle shout
Shall thrill thee never more.
Where art thou gone—old friend and true?
What place hast thou to fill?
For it may be thy spirit form
Somewhere is marching still.
Here there are those whom we call men,
Whose souls full well I know
Another life may not deserve
One-half so well as thou.
And natures such as thine has been
Another life may claim,
And God may have a place for them
Within his wide domain.
His armies tread their glorious march
Over the eternal plain,
Their leader rides a snow white steed,
Who follow in his train?
We may not ever meet again;
But, wheresoe’er I go,
A cherished place within my heart
Thou’lt have, old friend, I know.
God made us both, and we have marched
Firm friends whilst thou wert here;
I only know I shall not blush
To meet thee anywhere.
Transcriber’s Notes: