3. III.
Such was Wade Hampton the man—a gentleman in every
fibre of his being. It was impossible to imagine anything coarse
or profane in the action or utterance of the man. An oath never
soiled his lips. “Do bring up that artillery!” or some equivalent
exclamation, was his nearest approach to irritation even.
Such was the supreme control which this man of character, full
of fire, force, and resolution, had over his passions. For, under
that simplicity and kindly courtesy, was the largely-moulded
nature of one ready to go to the death when honour called. In
a single word, it was a powerful organization under complete
control which the present writer seemed to recognise in Wade
Hampton. Under that sweetness and dignity which made him
conspicuous among the first gentlemen of his epoch, was the
stubborn spirit of the born soldier.
Little space is left to speak of him in his military character.
I preferred to dwell upon Hampton the man, as he appeared to
me; for Hampton the General will find many historians. Some
traits of the soldier, however, must not be omitted; this character
is too eminent to be drawn only in profile. On the field
Hampton was noted for his coolness. This never left him. It
might almost be called repose, so perfect was it. He was never
an excitable man; and as doubt and danger pressed heavier, his
equanimity seemed to increase. You could see that this was
truly a stubborn spirit. I do not think that anybody who knew
him could even imagine Wade Hampton “flurried.” His nerve
was made of invincible stuff, and his entire absence of all
excitability on the field was spoken of by his enemies as a fault.
It was said that his coolness amounted to a defect in a cavalry
leader; that he wanted the dash, rush, and impetus which this
branch of the service demands. If there was any general truth
in this criticism, there was none in particular instances. Hampton
was sufficiently headlong when I saw him—was one of the most
thoroughly successful commanders imaginable, and certainly
seemed to have a natural turn for going in front of his column
with a drawn sabre. What the French call
élan is not, however,
the greatest merit in a soldier. Behind the strong arm was the
wary brain. Cool and collected resolution, a comprehensive
survey of the whole field, and the most excellent dispositions for
attack or defence—such were the merits of this soldier. I could
never divest myself of the idea that as a corps commander of
infantry he would have figured among the most eminent names
of history. With an unclouded brain; a
coup d'œil as clear as a
ray of the sun; invincible before danger; never flurried, anxious,
or despondent; content to wait; too wary ever to be surprised;
looking to great trials of strength, and to general results—the
man possessing these traits of character was better fitted, I
always thought, for the command of troops of all arms—infantry,
cavalry, and artillery—than for one arm alone. But with that
arm which he commanded—cavalry—what splendid results did
he achieve. In how many perilous straits was his tall figure seen
in front of the Southern horsemen, bidding them “come on,”
not “go on.” He was not only the commander, but the
sabreur
too. Thousands will remember how his gallant figure led the
charging column at Frederick City, at Upperville, at Gettysburg,
at Trevillian's, and in a hundred other fights. Nothing more
superb could be imagined than Hampton at such moments.
There was no flurry in the man—but determined resolution.
No doubt of the result apparently—no looking for an avenue of
retreat. “Sabre to sabre!” might have been taken as the motto
of his banner. In the “heady fight” he was everywhere seen,
amid the clouds of smoke, the crashing shell, and the whistling
balls, fighting like a private soldier, his long sword doing hard
work in the
mélée, and carving its way as did the trenchant
weapons of the ancient knights. This spirit of the thorough
cavalier in Hampton is worth dwelling on. Under the braid of
the Major-General was the brave soul of the fearless soldier, the
“fighting man.” It was not a merit in him or in others that
they gave up wealth, business, elegance, all the comforts, conveniences,
and serene enjoyments of life, to live hard and fight
hard; to endure heat, cold, hunger, thirst, exhaustion, and pain,
without a murmur; but it was a merit in this brave soldier and
gentleman that he did more than his duty, met breast to breast
in single combat the best swordsmen of the Federal army,
counted his life as no more than a private soldier's, and seemed
to ask nothing better than to pour out his heart's blood for the
cause in which he fought. This personal heroism—and Hampton
had it to a grand extent—attracts the admiration of troops. But
there is something better—the power of brain and force of
character which wins the confidence of the Commander-in-Chief.
When that Commander-in-Chief is called Robert E. Lee, it is
something to have secured his high regard and confidence.
Hampton had won the respect of Lee, and by that “noblest
Roman of them all” his great character and eminent services
were fully recognised. These men seemed to understand each
other, and to be inspired by the same sentiment—a love of their
native land which never failed, and a willingness to spend and
be spent to the last drop of their blood in the cause which they
had espoused. During General Stuart's life, Hampton was
second in command of the Virginia Cavalry; but when that
great cavalier fell, he took charge of the whole as ranking-officer.
His first blow was that resolute night-attack on Sheridan's force at
Mechanicsville, when the enemy were driven in the darkness
from their camps, and sprang to horse only in time to avoid the
sweeping sabres of the Southerners—giving up from that moment
all further attempt to enter Richmond. Then came the long,
hard, desperate fighting of the whole year 1864, and the spring of
1865. At Trevillian's, Sheridan was driven back and Charlottesville
saved; on the Weldon railroad the Federal cavalry, under
Kautz and Wilson, was nearly cut to pieces, and broke in disorder,
leaving on the roads their wagons, cannons, ambulances, their
dead men and horses; near Bellfield the Federal column sent to
destroy the railroad was encountered, stubbornly opposed, and
driven back before they could burn the bridge at Hicksford; at
Burgess' Mill, near Petersburg, where General Grant made his
first great blow with two corps of infantry, at the Southside
railroad, Hampton met them in front and flank, fought them all
an October day nearly, lost his brave son Preston, dead from a
bullet on the field, but in conjunction with Mahone, that hardy
fighter, sent the enemy in haste back to their works; thus saving
for the time the great war artery of the Southern army. Thenceforward,
until he was sent to South Carolina, Hampton held the
right of Lee in the woods of Dinwiddie, guarding with his cavalry
cordon the line of the Rowanty, and defying all comers. Stout,
hardy, composed, smiling, ready to meet any attack—in those
last days of the strange year 1864, he seemed to my eyes the
beau ideal of a soldier. The man appeared to be as firm as a
rock, as immovably rooted as one of the gigantic live-oaks of his
native country. When I asked him one day if he expected to
be attacked soon, he laughed and said: “No; the enemy's cavalry
are afraid to show their noses beyond their infantry.” Nor did
the Federal cavalry ever achieve any results in that region until
the ten or fifteen thousand crack cavalry of General Sheridan
came to ride over the two thousand men, on starved and broken-down
horses, of General Fitz Lee, in April, 1865.
From Virginia, in the dark winter of 1864, Hampton was
sent to oppose with his cavalry the advance of General Sherman,
and the world knows how desperately he fought there on his
natale solum. More than ever before it was sabre to sabre, and
Hampton was still in front. When the enemy pressed on to
Columbia he fell back, fighting from street to street, and so continued
fighting until the thunderbolt fell in South Carolina, as it
had fallen in Virginia at Appomattox, and the struggle ended.
The sword that Hampton sheathed that day was one which no
soil of bad faith, cruelty, or dishonour had ever tainted. It was
the blade of a brave and irreproachable chevalier, of a man who
throughout the most desperate and embittered conflict of all history
had kept his ancestral name from every blot, and had
proved himself upon a hundred battle-fields the worthy son of
the “mighty men of old.”
Such, in rough outline, was this brave and kindly soldier and
gentleman, as he passed before our eyes in Virginia, “working
his work.” Seeing him often, in camp, on the field, in bright
days, and when the sky was darkest, the present writer looked
upon him as a noble spirit, the truthful representative of a great
and vigorous race. Brave, just, kindly, courteous, with the tenderness
of a woman under that grave exterior; devoted to his
principles, for which he fought and would have died; loving his
native land with a love “passing the love of woman;” proud,
but never haughty; not so much condescending to men of low
estate, as giving them—if they were soldiers—the warm right
hand of fellowship; merciful, simple-minded; foremost in the
fight, but nowhere to be seen in the antechamber of living man;
with a hand shut tight upon the sword-hilt, but open as day to
“melting charity;” counting his life as nothing at the call of
honour; contending with stubborn resolution for the faith that
was in him; never cast down, never wavering, never giving
back until the torrent bore him away, but fighting to the last
with that heroic courage, born in his blood, for the independence
of his country. Such was Wade Hampton, of South Carolina.
There are those, perhaps, who will malign him in these dark
days, when no sun shines. But the light is yonder, behind the
cloud and storm; some day it will shine out, and a million rush-lights
will not be able to extinguish it. There are others who
will call him traitor, and look, perhaps, with pity and contempt
upon this page which claims for him a noble place among the
illustrious figures shining all along the coasts of history like
beacon lights above the storm. Traitor let it be; one hundred
years ago there were many in the South, and they fought over
the same ground. Had the old Revolution failed, those men
would have lived for ever, as Hampton and his associates in the
recent conflict will. “Surrender,” written at the end of this
great history, cannot mar its glory; failure cannot blot its splendour.
The name and fame of Hampton will endure as long as
loyalty and courage are respected by the human race.
