University of Virginia Library

2. II.

The outline here drawn of the General's appearance may produce
the impression that he was stiff, stern, and unsocial. Such
was very far from the fact. On the contrary, the manner of the
individual was eminently modest, courteous, and pleasing. This
may seem to clash with the bloodhound illustration—but both
were true. It would be difficult to imagine a finer air of grave
politeness, or a more courtly simplicity than General Beauregard's.
Of this the writer took especial note, for at that period
a great many very foolish things were written and published in
relation to the eminent soldier. It was said that he was frigid,
moody, unsocial, rude, repulsing all advances to friendly converse
with a military coolness amounting to discourtesy. Stray
correspondents of the journals had drawn a curious figure and
labelled it “Beauregard”—the figure of a sombre, mysterious,
and melodramatic personage, prone to attitudinizing and playing
the “distinguished warrior;” fond of wrapping his cloak
around him, folding his arms, and turning his back when any
one addressed him, as though absorbed in some gigantic scheme
upon which his mighty brain was working, in a region far above
the dull, cold, every-day earth! Such was the Beauregard of
many “intelligent correspondents”—play-actor turned soldier;
a sort of Manfred in gray uniform; and lo! here before me was
the real man. Instead of a mock hero of tragedy stalking about
and muttering, the General appeared to me to be a gentleman
of great courtesy and simplicity, who asked nothing better than
for some kind friend to amuse him and make him laugh.

For the General laughed; and when he did so, he, strangely
enough, seemed to enjoy himself. Standing on the portico of
the old house in which Stuart had established his quarters, or
partaking of his dinner with mundane satisfaction, he appeared
entirely oblivious that he was “Beauregard the Great Tragedian,”
and joined in the conversation simply and naturally,

losing no opportunity to relax by laughter the weary facial
muscles which had settled into something like grimness and melancholy
from care and meditation. The conversation turned
during the day upon the first battle of Manassas; and when some
one mentioned the report in many Northern journals that he,
Beauregard, had continued to ride a horse after the animal's head
was carried off by a cannon-ball, the General's moustache curled
and he chuckled in the most untragic manner. “My horse was
killed,” he said, “but his head was not carried away. He was
struck by a shell, which exploded at the moment when it passed
under him. A splinter struck my boot, and another cut one
of the arteries in the animal's body. The blood gushed out, and
after going fifty yards he fell dead. I then mounted a prisoner's
horse—there was a map of the country in the saddle pocket—
and I remember it was a small dingy horse with a white face.”
Laughter followed the remembrance of the small dingy horse with
the white face; and when one of the company observed that
“General Beauregard had done himself considerable credit in
Missouri,” meaning to have said “General Price,” the General
burst into a laugh which indicated decided enjoyment of the
mistake.

The incidents here recorded are not to be found in any of the
regular histories; and I doubt if any description will be found
of the manner in which General Beauregard essayed to assist a
young lady bearing a very famous name, to mount her horse.
The lady in question was a very charming person, an intimate
friend of General Stuart; and as she was then upon a visit to
the neighbourhood of Centreville, she was invited by the gay
cavalier to dine with Beauregard, and afterwards ride out upon
the lines under escort. A young aide was sent for Miss—;
she duly arrived, and dined at the outpost headquarters, and
then the moment came to set out for the lines. Before she had
taken two steps toward her horse, General Beauregard was at
her side, completely distancing the young Prince Polignac, that
brave and smiling youth, afterwards Brigadier-General, but at
this time serving upon Beauregard's staff. To see the grave
commander assist the fair young lady to mount her horse was a

pleasing sight, and communicated much innocent enjoyment to
the spectators. He brought to the undertaking all the chivalric
gallantry and politeness of the French De Beauregards; stooping
down with an air of the deepest respect; hollowing his hand
to receive her slipper; and looking up to ascertain why she did
not take advantage of his offer. Whether it was that the young
lady thought it indecorous to make such use of that distinguished
hand, or did not need his aid, I know not; she laughed,
gracefully vaulted into her saddle, and mounting his own steed,
the General gallantly took his place at her side.

These things are recorded in place of the “important events”
of Beauregard's career. A narrative of his military operations
may be found in the “regular histories,” and an estimate of his
merits as a commander. Upon this latter point a diversity of
opinion exists, owing to the tragic termination of the recent conflict.
The secret archives of the Confederate government were
destroyed, or remain unpublished. Many questions thus remain
unanswered. Was Beauregard fully aware of the enemy's movement
against his left at Manassas, and did he disregard it, depending
on his great assault at Centreville? Did he, or did he not,
counsel an advance upon Washington after the battle—an
advance which events now known show to have been perfectly
practicable? Were his movements on Corinth, in the West,
judicious? Were his operations at Petersburg in accordance
with the views of the government? All these questions remain
unanswered; for the dispatches containing the solution of the
whole were destroyed or are inaccessible to the world. One fact
is unfortunately very well known—that there was “no love
lost” between the celebrated soldier and the Confederate Executive;
and by a portion of the Southern press little praise was
accorded him. But he did not need it. The victor of Manassas
and Shiloh, the man who clung to Sumter until it was a mass
of blackened ruins, will be remembered when partisan rancour
and injustice are forgotten. Fame knows her children, and her
bugle sounds across the years.

A notable trait in the personal character of Beauregard was
his kindly bonhomie to the private soldier. In this he resembled

the officers of Napoleon, not those of the English Army. He
had the French habit of mingling with the men when not upon
duty, sharing their pursuits, conversing with them, and lighting
his cigar at their camp fires. From this sprang much of his personal
popularity, and he thus excited largely that sympathy
which rendered him so acceptable to his troops. To a General,
nothing is more important than this sympathy. It is a weapon
with which the master soldier strikes his hardest blows, and
often springs from apparent trifles. Napoleon became the idol
of his troops as much by his personal bearing toward them as
from his victories. He was the grand Napoleon—but he stopped
to talk with the men by their fires: he called them “mes enfans:”
he fixed his dark eyes with magnetic sympathy upon the dying
soldier who summoned his last remains of strength to half rise
from the earth, extend his arms, and cry, “Vive l'Empereur!”
He took this personal interest in them—the interest of a comrade—and
no one else could rival him in their favour.

Beauregard had certainly secured this personal popularity.
He invariably exhibited the utmost kindness, compatible with
discipline, toward his men, and they remained true to him—as
the Federal troops did to McClellan—through all his reverses,
giving him in return for his sympathy and familiarity an immense
amount of good feeling and regard. A trifling incident
will illustrate this. A private soldier of the “Powhatan troop”
—a company of cavalry which served as the General's body-guard—one
day entered Beauregard's apartment, and wishing
to write a letter, seated himself, as he supposed, at the desk of
one of the clerks for that purpose. Taking a sheet of paper and
a pen which lay near, he commenced his letter, and was soon
absorbed in it. While thus engaged, he heard a step behind
him, turned his head, and saw General Beauregard enter, whereupon
he suddenly rose in confusion—for all at once the truth
flashed upon him that he was writing at the General's desk, on the
General's paper, and with the General's pen! Fearing a harsh
rebuke for this act of military lesè-majesté, the trooper stammered
out an apology; but no storm came from the General. “Sit
down and finish your letter my friend,” he said, with a good-humoured

smile; “you are very welcome, and can always come
in here when you wish to write.” It was trifles like this which
made the announcement of his removal from the command of the
Army of the Potomac run like an electric shock through the
camps, which caused a great concourse of soldiers to follow him
through Centreville and far upon his road, shouting “Good-by,
General!”—“God bless you, General!”

To suppose that this brother-feeling of the soldier for his troops
ever led him to relax in discipline, would be a great mistake.
In official matters, and wherever “duty” was concerned, he was
rigid and immovable, exacted from every man under him the
strictest obedience, and was wholly inaccessible to any prayer
which came in conflict with the good of the public service.
When at Centreville, in the fall of 1861, he expected daily an
advance of McClellan. One morning a cannoneer from one of
the batteries came in person to ask for a leave of absence of ten
days to see his dying mother. “I cannot grant any leave,” was
the reply. “Only for ten days, General,” pleaded the soldier.
“Not for ten hours!” replied Beauregard; and the interview
terminated. Had the moment not been critical he would have
given this private soldier the desired leave with the utmost
readiness—as he would have commended and promoted him, for
the display of skill or gallantry.

That all-important point of rewarding merit in the private
soldier was never neglected by Beauregard. An instance was
the promotion of a young man in the Loudoun cavalry, whose
conspicuous courage and efficiency in reconnoitring and carrying
orders at Manassas attracted his attention. At the close
of the day the obscure private was summoned to headquarters
and informed by Beauregard that he would henceforth rank as
a captain of his staff. This gentleman was afterwards Colonel
Henry E. Peyton, Inspector-General of the Army of Northern
Virginia, one of the bravest and most accomplished officers in
the service.

A last incident relating to “Beauregard the Great Tragedian,”
who was supposed to be playing “Lara,” “Manfred,” or
some other sombre and mysterious character at Manassas, in

those far away times. It may add an additional touch to the
outline I have aimed to draw. It was in the summer of 1861
that some young ladies of Prince William prepared a handsome
nosegay for presentation to the General; and as he had
amongst his clerks a gentleman of high culture, the nosegay
was entrusted to him for delivery. He consented with reluctance.
To present a bunch of flowers to the silent and abstracted
commander, whose faculties were burdened by great cares
and responsibilities, seemed an incongruity which strangely
impressed the ambassador; but there was the nosegay, there
were the young ladies, there was his promise, and he nerved
himself for the task. Waiting until all intruders had left the
General's presence, he timidly knocked at the door of his
sanctum, was bidden in a grave voice to enter, and advancing
into the apartment, found opposite to him the imposing
eye and “brow severe” of General Beauregard, who had never
looked more stern. The spectacle very nearly disarmed the
ambassador of his presence of mind; but he determined to
accomplish his errand in the best manner possible, and accordingly
proceeded to address the solemn General in what the
newspapers call a “neat little speech.” Having finished, he
presented the flowers, drew back respectfully, and nerved himself
for the result. That result surprisingly differed from his
expectations. Beauregard cleared his throat, looked extremely
confused, and stammering “Thank you! I am very much
obliged!” received the bouquet, blushing as he did so like a
girl. Such was the tragedy-hero of those journalists of 1861.