University of Virginia Library

IV.
GENERAL PEGRAM ON THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS
DEATH.

1. I.

The writer's object in the present paper is to chronicle the
events of a day in the pine-woods of Dinwiddie in 1865, and
to mention a circumstance which impressed him forcibly at the
time; nearly convincing him of the truth of “presentiments,”
and warnings of approaching death.

It was early in February of the year 1865, and General
Grant had for some time been straining every nerve to force
his way to the Southside railroad—when General Lee would
be cut off from his base of supplies, and compelled to retreat
or surrender his army. Grant had exhibited a persistence
which amounted to genius; and the Federal lines had been
pushed from the Jerusalem to the Weldon road, from the
Weldon to the Vaughan and Squirrel Level roads, and thence
still westward beyond Hatcher's Run, toward the White Oak
road, running through the now well-known locality of Five
Forks. On the western bank of the run, near Burgess's Mill,
General Lee's extreme right confronted the enemy, barring his
further advance.

The Confederate right was almost unprotected by cavalry.
This unfortunate circumstance arose from the fact that after
the destruction of the Weldon Railroad as far south as Hicksford,
fifty miles from Petersburg, the cavalry was obliged to
repair to that distant point for forage. Never was anything
more unfortunate; but it was one of those misfortunes which

no generalship could prevent. By sheer force of numbers,
General Grant had effected the destruction of the road; the
Southside road could not supply forage; the cavalry horses
must go to Hicksford or starve. Such was the explanation of
the fact that General Lee's right was guarded only by a small
regiment or two of horse, on picket.

Such was the “situation.” Grant on the banks of Hatcher's
Run; the Rowanty almost unguarded; the path open for cavalry
to the Southside road; Five Forks, and the retreat of
the Confederate army, looming in the distance. The passionate
struggle which had for four years drawn to the great arena the
eyes of all the world was about to be decided amid the sombre
pines of Dinwiddie.

A few scenes in these pine woods at the crisis referred to
may interest the reader. The narrative will probably convey
a better idea of the “times as they were” than a more ambitious
record—the familiar view being generally the best.
While the infantry lines were closing in the death-grapple in
front of Petersburg, the blue and gray horsemen were hunting
each other in the Dinwiddie forests, and the game was not unexciting.
The “events of a day” are here rapidly traced, just
as they appeared to the writer. No tremendous exploits will
be narrated or “thrilling adventures” recorded; but perhaps
some of the actual colouring of the great war-canvas will be
caught in the hasty memoir.

Returning from a tour of inspection at Hicksford, night surprised
me not far from Nottoway river; and having crossed
that turbulent stream at risk of drowning my horse, I spent the
night at the hospitable mansion of Mr. D—, not far from
Halifax bridge, on the Rowanty. The Federal forces were just
beyond the stream, and no Confederate picket between; but
the night passed undisturbed even by the prowling of a single
Federal scout; and on the next morning the line of march was
resumed for Petersburg by way of Malone's.

Two hundred yards to the left of Halifax bridge there suddenly
appeared a number of “scattered” cavalry-men—gray—
approaching at full gallop, evidently stampeded.

“What is the matter?”

“The Yankees have crossed with two regiments at Malone's!”
from the hurrying horseman.

“Did you see them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is your regiment?”

“Back to Kirby's, and everything is ordered to Dinwiddie
Court-House!”

This report was soon confirmed by the rest, and “full particulars,”
as the journals say, were given. A strong force of Federal
cavalry had suddenly attacked the small regiment on picket
at Malone's, and dispersed it, nearly capturing Gen. William
H. F. Lee, who chanced to be there inspecting his lines. This
force had steadily pressed on, the Confederates retiring; was
now at Kirby's, and soon would be at Dinwiddie Court-House.

This was not eminently agreeable to myself personally.
“Kirby's” was on the only road to Petersburg, except by way
of Malone's—for the time rendered impracticable—and to
reach my journey's end it seemed necessary to make the circuit
by Dinwiddie Court-House. To attempt the road by Kirby's
was certain capture; and in an undoubted bad humour the
“solitary horseman,” as Mr. James would say, turned to the
left, crossed Stony Creek, struck into the “Flat Foot Road,”
and in due time drew near Roney's bridge, on the upper waters
of the stream, near Dinwiddie. Within a quarter of a mile of
the stream a soldier made his appearance, coming to meet me,
and this individual informed me with the politest possible salute
that I had better “look out, as the Yankees were at the bridge.”

“At the bridge! Where?”

“At Roney's bridge, just in front, sir.”

This was the “unkindest cut of all.” I had made a wearisome
circuit, reached a supposed place of crossing—and here
were my blue friends again like a lion in the path, rendering
it necessary to strike still higher up the stream. At this rate
it seemed probable that I would be forced to return to Petersburg
by way of Lynchburg and Richmond! Malone's—Kirby's—Dinwiddie—the
enemy were everywhere.

A good military rule, however, is to “believe nothing you
hear, and only half you see.” The report that Federal cavalry
was at the bridge in front was probable, but not certain. They
might be Confederates; and taking the soldier with me, I proceeded
to reconnoitre. As we reached the vicinity, the woods
were seen to be full of dismounted cavalry, but whether these
were Federal or Confederate, it was impossible to say. Drawing
nearer, the men seemed to be the latter; nearer still, and
the surmise was confirmed. Regulation gray had long disappeared—our
cavalry were nondescript in costume—but the
sharpshooters in front were not in blue.

One came out to meet me, carbine ready—a quite useless
precaution it seemed—and the following dialogue ensued:

“What command?” I asked.

“General Lee's.”

“Where are the Yankees?”

“Just over the bridge.”

Then the road by Dinwiddie Court-House was blockaded!
Meditating with melancholy resignation on this fact, I unconsciously
turned my horse's head from the bridge, when my
friend with the carbine made a quick step toward me, and catching
his eye, I found the expression of that member doubtful,
puzzled, but not friendly. In fact the carbineer had his weapon
cocked, and was evidently ready to bestow its contents on me
if I moved a step.

Then, for the first time, the truth flashed on me. I was wearing
a blue “Yankee overcoat” concealing my Confederate uniform;
my hat was noudescript; there was absolutely nothing
to show that I was not some adventurous Federal officer who
had crossed the stream below, come up the Flat Foot road in
rear of the Confederates to reconnoitre, and was about to return
with the information acquired. To prevent this, my friend
with the carbine evidently intended to send a bullet after me
as soon as I moved.

This comic situation was a safety valve for all ill-humour,
and one of the men having run for his Lientenant, I gave that
officer my name and rank—which announcement was greeted,

however, with a similar glance of doubt. A few words dissipated
this.

“Where is General Lee, Lieutenant?”

“Just over the hill.”

“I will go there.”

And accompanied by the young officer, I found General W.
H. F. Lee, who had been compelled with his one or two hundred
men—the whole force of the regiment—to retire behind
the stream. His sharpshooters were now posted to rake the
bridge if the enemy appeared, and a mounted party had been
sent toward Dinwiddie Court-House.

After a few moments' conversation with General Lee—that
brave and courteous gentleman, whom I am glad to call my
friend—I found that the reports of the cavalry-men were correct.
The enemy's horse, in strong force, had driven him back
to Dinwiddie, and were then at the Court-House. General Lee
informed me, laughing, that in the charge he had been very
nearly stampeded for the first time in his life, his horse, “Fitz
Lee,” an unruly animal of great power, having whirled round
at the first volley from the enemy, and nearly carried his rider
off the field! In great disgust at this unmilitary conduct, the
General had mounted a more manageable courser.

Whilst the General was narrating these particulars, two young
officers of his staff, Captains Lee and Dandridge, came in, after
a hot chase. The former had been entirely surrounded, but
kept the woods, taking advantage of every opening; and finally
perceiving an interval between the rear of one Federal cavalry
regiment and the head of column of another, he had put spurs
to his horse, charged the opening, and jumped through. The
latter officer was also “cut off,” and manœnvred in a similar
manner, when, as he turned a bend in the bridle-path which
he was following, he came suddenly upon a body of foot-soldiers
clad in dark blue, with burnished guns at the right shoulder
shift, steadily advancing southward. This was enormously
puzzling! Why should a Federal infantry battalion be going
south at that moment? And then there was something singular
in the uniform and equipments of the men—very unlike Federals.

Their coats were of navy blue, of unfamiliar cut; and
they had cutlasses apparently in their belts.

Captain Dandridge had gazed at this party with astonishment
for some moments, when all at once he was perceived,
and an officer, apparently, beckoned to him. To go or not to
go—that was the question; but he finally decided to approach,
and did so. Then the mystery was quickly solved. The men
in blue were a battalion of Confederate marines, and they
were proceeding toward the Nottoway river to make a circuit,
approach James river far below City Point, board and seize
upon a Federal “ram,” and then steam up the James, and
destroy Grant's fleet of transports at City Point. This excellent
scheme was thoroughly arranged; the torpedoes to be
used were hidden in the woods of Nottoway ready for the
party, when a deserter went over and informed the enemy, in
consequence of which the expedition was abandoned.

We have seen how, by a singular chance, the battalion set
out on its march, armed and prepared, the very day that the
enemy's cavalry crossed the Rowanty. More singular still,
they passed along in rear of the Federal cavalry without discovering
them or being discovered. This, all things considered,
was one of the most curious events of the war; as the scheme
proposed for the destruction of the Federal transports was one
of the boldest.

General W. H. F. Lee waited at Roney's bridge for some
time, expecting an advance of the enemy's cavalry; but none
coming, he sounded to horse, placed himself at the head of his
small column of about eight or a hundred men, and pushed
out toward Dinwiddie Court-House to attack the raiders. Before
he had advanced far, intelligence came that the enemy had
evacnated the Court-House, and were falling back toward Cattail
Creek, in the vicinity of which their infantry was stationed.
General Lee immediately followed, came up with their rear
at Cattail, and here a brief skirmish took place, just as night
descended. The lines of Federal infantry which had advanced
that day were discovered; and no further advance in that direction
was attempted, the cavalry returning toward Dinwiddie.

An odd incident marked this rapid ride after the retiring
Federal cavalry. In the middle of the road we found two
Confederate cavalry-men with a prisoner whom they had
caught, and the worthy in question attracted our attention. He
was clad in semi-military costume; a blue-gray overcoat of
fine cloth, with a long cavalry cape to it, decorated with a
dazzling row of buttons; an excellent new hat; and rode a
superb horse, which would have brought five or six thousand
dollars in Confederate money.

As we came up—Captains Robert Lee, Philip Dandridge,
and myself—this gentleman complained in animated terms of
the immorality involved in capturing “a non-combatant;” he
was not a soldier, only the “correspondent of the New York
Herald,” and he hoped that he would immediately be released.
This train of reasoning, impressed upon his listeners in a most
voluble and eloquent voice, accompanied by animated gestures,
did not seem to convince anybody; and the men were directed
to take the prisoner back to Dinwiddie Court-House, and as he
was evidently a man of decision and resources, “shoot him if
he tried to escape, making no attempt to recapture him.”

He was accordingly started back, under convoy of the two
cavalry-men, and had proceeded about three or four hundred
yards, when our attention was attracted to him again by an
outcry in that direction. Turning round, we saw that something
curious was going on, and hastily spurred to the scene.
Lo! as we approached, there was the prisoner scudding across
the field, his cape floating in the wind, his horse at a full run,
pursued by carbine-balls! None struck him, however; and in
a moment he had disappeared in the belt of woods near at
hand, in which lay perdus the line of Federal infantry.

A few words from the chop-fallen cavalry-men and an old
negro, at a small house near by, explained everything. Three
or four Federal cavalry-men had been left behind by their comrades
on the retreat, and had stopped at the house to ask the
way to their lines. While thus employed, the prisoner and his
escort came by; the Federal cavalry men rushed forth to the
rescue, “put their pistols” on the unsuspecting escort, and

now both rescuers and rescued were safe within their own
lines!

The whole affair was truly laughable, and the gallant “correspondent”
deserved his good fortune, since he made a true
John Gilpin run for liberty. I did not grudge him the enjoyment
thereof at all, but must confess to a keen feeling of regret
at the loss of his horse. He appeared to be an excellent
animal; and to “covet your neighbour's horse,” if he chanced
to be desirable, was in those days the besetting sin of every
true cavalry-man!

2. II.

At nightfall General Lee retired from Cattail Creek toward
Dinwiddie Court-House, the enemy having returned within
their lines; and I determined to continue my way to Petersburg,
where duty called me.

There was reason to doubt, however, the practicability of
this journey—at least over the regular “Boydton road.”
Simultaneous with the advance of the Federal cavalry, their
infantry had moved toward the Southside road; a severe
engagement had taken place on the Quaker road; and the
Federal infantry was known to have remained in its position,
its left probably across, or resting upon the Boydton road.
Now, as above intimated, it was necessary to follow this Boydton
road to reach Petersburg that night. I determined to try, and
so informed General Lee, who thereupon requested me to carry
a dispatch which he had just written, to General Gordon, commanding
the right of the army near Burgess', with an oral
message, information, etc., in reference to the cavalry movement.

A small detachment of cavalry, belonging to Colonel Phillips'
command, then on the right of the army, was placed at
my orders; and setting out about night, we soon debonched
upon the Boydton road, where at every step traces of the
Federal forces were met with—the raiders having harried the

whole region—and some prisoners captured. The vicinity of
the bridge over Gravelly Run was thus reached, and beyond
the bridge glimmered the fires of a picket.

The question of greatest interest was whether the picket was
Federal or Confederate. The enemy's left was certainly near
this point, but so was our right. The plain method of deciding
was to try, and this was done—the cavalry detachment halting
a hundred yards off. Riding on the bridge, I found the planking
torn up, and in the centre a “yawning gulf;” at the same
moment a voice came from beyond, ordering “halt!” The
following dialogue then took place:

“Well, I have halted.”

“Who are you?”

“Friends.”

“Advance one.”

“Impossible—the bridge is torn up.”

“What command do you belong to?”

“What do you belong to?”

“I ask who you are!”

“Do you belong to Colonel Phillips' regiment?”

“No!”

This reply was discouraging. Colonel Phillips held the
extreme right; this should be his picket; as it was not, the
probabilities appeared to be in favour of the Federal picket
view. Under the circumstances, the next course seemed to be
a rapid “about face,” the use of the spur, and a quick retreat,
taking the chances of a bullet. The sudden click of a trigger
interrupted these reflections, and my friend in the dark said
briefly:

“I asked what command you belonged to!”

Something in the tone of the voice struck me as Southern,
and I replied:

“Well, I don't believe you are a Yankee; I belong to General
Lee's army.”

“All right; so do we,” was the answer. “You can come
over at the ford yonder.”

“What brigade is yours?”

“General Pegram's.”

This reply ended all doubt. Pegram I knew was on Gordon's
extreme right. Not finding General Gordon, I had been
requested by General Lee to communicate with Pegram.

His headquarters were near the junction of the Boydton and
Quaker roads; and having turned over the cavalry detachment
to Colonel Phillips, I entered the old wooden building and
found General John Pegram.

This gallant young officer had been my school-fellow and
intimate friend in boyhood; and I had seen him every day
almost until his departure for West Point. After graduating
there he had entered the cavalry, served on the prairies, and
in 1861 returned to offer his sword to Virginia, where he was
received in a manner highly flattering, and placed in command
of the forces near Rich Mountain. The unfortunate result of
that campaign is known, and the proud and sensitive spirit of
the young soldier was deeply wounded. In spite of the assurances
of brave and skilful soldiers that the issue there was
unavoidable, considering the great force brought against him,
he persisted in brooding over it. “It would always be known
as `Pegram's surrender,' ” he said. It was soon forgotten, however;
greater events and greater disasters threw it in the background,
and the young soldier fought his way to high repute in
the Southern army. On the night when I met him, in February,
1865, he was commanding the advance brigade of General
Lee's right wing, and had held his ground all day against the
severest assaults of the enemy.

The cordial greeting of two friends, after long separation,
over, General Pegram mounted his horse to ride with me to
General Gordon's, beyond Burgess' mill, and on the way we
dropped military affairs entirely, to revert to scenes which had
taken place twenty years before, and speak of the “old familiar
faces” and things long previous to the war. If it were
necessary I could recall the entire conversation—the very
words uttered by my companion—for the sad event of the
next day engraved the whole upon my memory. In the voice
of the speaker there was a peculiar sadness, a species of melancholy

depression, which it was impossible not to observe.
Something seemed to weight upon his mind, and the handsome
features of the young soldier (he was only about thirty), with
the clear dark eye, the gallant moustache, and the broad, fine
brow, were overshadowed by a heavy cloud. This obvious
depression, however, did not render him cold or distrait—
rather the contrary. He spoke of old friends and comrades
with the greatest affection and kindness; referred with something
very like womanly tenderness to a dear younger brother
of his listener, dead many years before; and the pleasure
which he derived from this return to the careless past was
unmistakable. But throughout all was that undertone of sadness
which I remembered afterwards, and could not forbear
regarding as the evidence of some mysterious presentiment.

This did not change at all when, after a ride of two or three
miles we reached General Gordon's, and were shown to the
General's chamber. General G.'s cheery voice, as he smoked his
cigar and discussed the events of the day, did not make my
companion smile.

“Do you expect a renewal of the attack to-morrow, General?”
I asked.

“Not on this side of the run, but I think it probable they
will make a heavy attack on General Pegram in the morning.”

The person thus alluded to was carefully examining a topographical
map at the moment; and his countenance and attitude
exhibited unmistakable depression and languor. When
we rose to go, the expression had not changed. As we shook
hands, he addressed me by the name which he had used when
we were school-fellows together, and said: “Come and see me
whenever you can.” And that pressure of the kind, brave
hand, that utterance of the good friendly voice, was the last
for me. On the next day the attack anticipated by General
Gordon took place, and General Pegram was killed while gallantly
leading his men.

Such was the soldierly ending of this brave young Virginian.
He had been married only a few weeks to a young lady
of rare beauty, and life seemed to open for him all flowers and

sunshine; but the thunderbolt had struck him; his brave
blood went to swell that great torrent poured out by the gallantest
souls of the South.

This hasty sketch—beginning with jests, and ending in something
like tears—has aimed, in part, to record that presentiment
which the young soldier seemed to have of his approaching
fate. Wholly incredulous as the writer is of such warnings,
it is impossible for him to banish from his mind the fancy that
something conveyed to the young soldier a premonition of the
coming event. But he did his duty all the same, dying in
harness like a good soldier of the South.[2]