3. III.
I have tried to draw an outline of the actual man, not to make
a figure of the fancy; to present an accurate likeness of General
Beauregard as he appeared to us of Virginia in those first
months of the war, not to drape the individual in historic robes,
making him an actor or a myth.
He was neither; he was simply a great soldier, and a finished
gentleman. Once in his presence, you would not be apt to deny
his claim to both of these characters. The nervous figure; the
gaunt, French, fighting, brunette countenance, deeply bronzed
by sun and wind—these were the marks of the soldier. The
grave, high-bred politeness; the ready, courteous smile; the
kindly and simple bearing, wholly free from affectation and assumption—these
were the characteristics of the
gentilhomme by
birth and habit; by nature as by breeding.
Ten minutes' conversation with the man convinced you that
you stood in the presence of one of those men who mould
events. The very flash of the dark eyes “dared you to forget.”
Nor will the South forget this brave and trusty soldier. His
name is cut upon the marble of history in letters too deep to be
effaced by the hand of Time, that terrible disintegrator. As
long as the words “Manassas” and “Shiloh” strike a chord in
the bosoms of men, the name “Beauregard” will also stir the
pulses. Those mighty confliets meet us in the early epoch of
the war, grim, bloody, and possessing a tragedy of their own.
The soldier who fought those battles confronts us, too, with an
individuality of mind and body which cannot be mistaken.
Lee is the Virginian, Hood the Texan; Beauregard is the marshal
of Napoleon—or at least he looked thus in those early days
when the soldiers of Virginia, gathering at Manassas, closely
scanned the form and features of their new commander.
From Virginia the great captain went to the West, where, as
the world knows, he won new laurels; and to the end he continued
to justify his title of “The Fortunate.” That is only,
however, another name for The Able, The Skilful, The Master
of events—not by “luck,” but by brains. Good-fortune is an
angel who files from the weak and fearful, but yields herself
captive to the resolute soul who clutches her. If any doubted
that Beauregard owed his great success to the deepest thought,
the most exhausting brain-work, and those sleepless vigils which
wear out the life, they had only to look upon him in his latter
years to discover the truth. Care, meditation, watching—all
the huge responsibility of an army leader—had stamped on the
brow of the great Creole their unmistakable impress. The heavy
moustache, which had once been as black as the raven's wing,
was now grizzled like the beard. In the hair, which before was
dark, now shone those silver threads which toil and anxiety
weave mercilessly in the locks of their victims. The mouth
smiled still, but the muscles had assumed a grimmer tension.
The eyes were still brilliant, but more deeply sunken and more
slumbrous. In the broad brow, once so smooth, the iron hand
of care had ploughed the inexorable furrows.
Beauregard the youthful, daring, and impetuous soldier, had
become Beauregard the cautious, thoughtful, self-sacrificing
patriot—one of the great props of the mighty edifice then tottering
beneath the heavy blows it was receiving in Virginia and
the West.
“The self-sacrificing patriot.” If any one doubts his claim to
that title, it will not be doubted when events now buried in
obscurity are known. Beauregard was superb when, in the midst
of the dense smoke of Manassas, he shouted in his inspiring
voice, “I salute the Eighth Georgia with my hat off! History
shall never forget you!” But he was greater still—more noble
and more glorious—when after the battle of Corinth he said
nothing.
He was silent, and is silent still; but history speaks for him,
and will ever speak. He lives in the memories and the hearts
of his old soldiers, as in the pages of our annals; and those who
followed his flag, who listened to his voice, need no page like
this to bring his figure back, as it blazed before their eyes in the
far away year '61. They remember him always, and salute him
from their hearts—as does the writer of these lines.
Wherever you may be, General—whether in Rome or New
Orleans, in the Old World or the New—whether in sickness or
in health, in joy or in sorrow—your old soldiers of the Army
of Virginia remember you, and wish you long life, health, and
happiness, from their heart of hearts.
