University of Virginia Library

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]