Reminiscences of Lee and Gordon at Appomattox Courthouse.
By A private soldier.
Having served during the late unpleasantness only as a private, sometimes in the rear and at other times in the front rank, I have no official report to make; but there are incidents of the war which come up before me now as vivid as when they occurred fifteen and eighteen years ago. Perhaps some of these might serve to punctuate or help to emphasize the many admirable “official reports” which are now appearing in the Southern Historical Papers. These reports must in a great measure make up the correct history of our lost cause — that history in which we, the makers of it, and our children feel so lively an interest. The leading acts of the great drama, the movements of armies, causes, effects, &c., must be obtained from those whose high official positions enabled them to take in the whole field. I purpose only to allude to small events which came under my own observation, but such events as seldom find a place — indeed, would be out of place — in official reports. Among the first troops to leave the State of Alabama was the Third regiment, which proceeded by rail to Lynchburg, Virginia, and was there mustered in by Kirby Smith; thence to Norfolk, where we remained in camp twelve months. During that time we had leisure to meditate upon the situation, criticise field operations, visit pleasant acquaintances, and many of the boys, as the sequel proved, made serious love to the girls, for when the orders to march came there were those who vainly pleaded the Scriptural excuse of having “married a wife and could not go.” Nevertheless we marched, and there was many a tearful leave-taking — for from the cordial reception given us by the noble women of Norfolk had grown many sincere friendships, and I recall no other occasion of the war which so much resembled the home-partings as the day our regiment left the city. To many of us our sojourn there was the oasis in the social desert of the war. Next, to Seven Pines, the Seven Days to Malvern Hill, and Mahone's “bandbox brigade” (as the veterans of Manassas jocularly taunted us) were part and parcel of the Army of Northern Virginia, under the direction of the great leader of war and his lieutenant, whose dash always won the hearts of his men. But I will at once pass over the three years which followed — years of hard marches, “hard-tack,” short fare and short wear, [38] victories and reverses — to the 9th of April at Appomattox — years pregnant with the unfinished history of a people whose efforts in support of principles can only be appreciated by those a generation removed from the prejudices of the hour — a people whose endurance and fame will be the theme for poetry and romance until the celebration of the next centennial. The 9th of April, 1865, was Sunday. The morning sun shone bright and lovely. The last charge of the last day, of Rodes' division, had been made under the lead of Brigadier-General Cox, of North Carolina (General Grimes having been wounded), directed by General Gordon, and the solid blue ranks had given way before the tattered, half-starved line of gray. But all at once the firing ceased, and the division was withdrawn to a ravine crossing the main road along which General Lee was moving towards Appomattox Court-house. The contour of the ground was such that from my point of observation the advance of both armies, and each movement made, could be distinctly seen. Not the least observant private but knew something extraordinary had happened. A white flag passed! “Surrendered” was softly suggested by some, and the idea indignantly spurned by others. Groups of officers and men began to gather along the road, and in a few minutes the painful fact was realized that the army of General Lee had been “compelled to yield to overwhelming numbers and resources.” Just at this moment, General Pendleton and staff rode past us. He was endeavoring to console one of his aids, as we supposed, who deliberately broke his sword over his knee and threw it away. This strong man, who but an hour before had braved death at the cannon's mouth, now wept at the thought of final defeat. It was now known that General Lee had gone to meet General Grant (under the mythical apple tree?), and anxious inquiries as to the terms of surrender were heard from every side. Some officers, fearful of harsh treatment by the Federals, tore off their insignia of rank, but received a quiet rebuke from Colonel Hobson, commanding a brigade, whose promotion to a colonelcy had been too recent to admit of his adding another star to his collar. He quietly clipped a star from one side of his collar and pinned it to the other, remarking that he was “ready to meet the consequences of his offending, whatever they might be.” But we were not long in suspense. Soon Gordon came galloping down the road from the direction of the Federal lines and announced the terms of surrender as he passed, and asked the [39] men to give General Lee, who was following him, “a hearty cheer, for he was feeling greatly depressed.” By this time the men had so pressed into the road that the speed of the General and staff had slackened to a walk, and as the men gave, in good old battle style, “three cheers for General Lee,” he lifted his hat (Traveler stopped) and bestowed upon them only such a look as a father could upon his suffering and disappointed children! In a single tear was the expression of volumes of sorrow, pity and sympathy. The old hero wore his best coat, sword and sash, and never appeared grander to his army during the trying struggle than on that occasion. Again strong men wept. As soon as the confusion incident to the first day after the surrender had subsided, General Gordon assembled his corps to give them a parting talk. I was near enough to hear him, and shall never forget his calm, philosophical, not to say prophetic manner, as he addressed his troops. Clouds had gathered, a light rain had fallen, and a storm threatened to break upon us. His opening words were: “Fellow soldiers, our hearts are as heavy as the murky clouds above us; yet we must not despair. Our duties in the field and camp are ended.” He then admonished them to observe the conditions of their paroles; that grave responsibilities as citizens would now devolve upon them, and if faithfully met, would only make their heroism as soldiers shine the brighter. As for himself, “hope hath not departed forever.” He believed in the righteousness of our cause, and could not doubt but that the blood which had been so freely shed in defence of the right would in time spring up and bear its fruits, and that “many now within hearing of my voice will live to see my hopes verified. It may be ten, it may be twenty years, perhaps longer; but the day will surely come when history will vindicate the sincerity of our actions and the justice of our cause.” This was, perhaps, Gordon's last review in soldier's uniform. I have never seen him since; but the utterances of his well-grounded faith seemed to carry in them a personal prophecy — since strikingly fulfilled in his own election to the United States Senate, where the same energy that bouyed the hope of the warrior, from Manassas to Appomattox, is none the less conspicuous in the career of the statesman. If such reminiscences — minus, of course, of both exordium and peroration — find favor with and a place in the Historical Papers, there may be others from one who served four years in the Third Alabama regiment as--A private.
