University of Virginia Library

2. II.

To him who writes these lines, the death of this noble youth
has been inexpressibly saddening. It has cast a shadow on the
very sunlight; and the world seems, somehow, colder and more
dreary since he went away. It was but yesterday almost that
he was in his tent, and I looked into his frank, brave eyes, and
heard his kind, honest voice.[1] There is the seat he occupied as
we conversed—the bed where he so often slept with me, prolonging
his gay talk deep into the night. There are the books
he read—the papers which he wrote; at this table he once sat,
and here where my own hand rests has rested the hand of the
Dead! Every object thus recalls him, even as he lived and
moved beside me but a few days ago. His very words seem still
echoing in the air, and the dreary camp is full of his presence!

Nor am I the only one whose heart has bled for the young soldier.
All who knew him loved him for his gay, sweet temper,
as they admired him for his unshrinking courage. I have seen
no face over which a sort of shadow did not pass at the announcement,
“Pelham is dead!”

“Pelham is dead!” It is only another mode of saying “honour
is dead! courage is dead! modesty, kindness, courtesy, the inborn
spirit of the true and perfect gentleman, the nerve of the soldier,
the gaiety of the good companion, the kindly heart, and the resolute
soul—all dead, and never more to revisit us in his person!”

These words are not dictated by a blind partiality or mere

personal regard for the brave youth who has fallen in front of
the foe, in defence of the sacred liberties of the South. Of his
unshrinking nerve and coolness in the hour of peril, the name
of “the gallant Pelham,” given him by General Lee at Fredericksburg,
will bear witness. Of his noble, truthful nature, those
who knew him best will speak.

He had made for himself a celebrated name, and he was only
twenty-four when he died!

A son of the great State of Alabama, and descended from an
old and honourable family there, he had the courage of his race
and clime. He chose arms as his profession, and entered West
Point, where he graduated just as the war commenced; lost no
time in offering his services to the South, and received the
appointment of First-Lieutenant in the Confederate States army.
Proceeding to Harper's Ferry, when General Johnston was in
command there, he was assigned to duty as drill-officer of artillery,
and in the battle of Manassas commanded a battery, which
he fought with that daring courage which afterwards rendered
him so famous. He speedily attracted the attention of the higher
Generals of the army, and General J. E. B. Stuart entrusted him
with the organization of the battalion of Horse Artillery which
he subsequently commanded in nearly every battle of the war
upon Virginia soil. Here I knew him first.

From the moment when he took command of that famous
corps, a new system of artillery fighting seemed to be inaugurated.
The rapidity, the rush, the impetus of the eavalry, were
grafted on its more deliberate brother. Not once, but repeatedly,
has the Horse Artillery of Pelham given chase at full
speed to a flying enemy; and, far in advance of all infantry
support, unlimbered and hurled its thunders on the foe. It was
ever at the point where the line was weakest; and however
headlong the charge of the cavalry, the whirling guns were
beside it, all ready for their part. “Trot, march!” had yielded
to “gallop!” with the battalion; it was rushed into position,
and put in action with a rush; and in and out among the guns
where the bolts fell thickest was the brave young artillerist,
cool and self-possessed, but, as one of his officers said the other

day, “as gay as a school-boy at a frolic.” He loved his profession
for its own sake; and often spoke to the officers above alluded
to of the “jolly good fights” he would have in the present campaign;
but I anticipate my subject.

Once associated with the command of Stuart, he secured the
warm regard and unlimited contidence of that General, who
employed his services upon every occasion. Thenceforth their
fortunes seemed united, like their hearts; and the young man
became known as one of the most desperate fighters of the whole
army. He was rightly regarded by Jackson and others as possessed
of a very extraordinary genius for artillery; and when
any movement of unusual importance was designed, Pelham was
assigned to the artillery to be employed.

His career was a brief one, but how glorious! How crowded
with great events that are history now! Let us glance at it:

When the Southern forces fell back from Manassas in 1861,
his batteries had their part in covering the movement, and
guarding the fords of the Rappahannock. During the campaign
of the Peninsula, his Blakely was as a sentinel on post near the
enemy; and at the battle of Williamsburg his courage and skill
transformed raw militia into veterans. In the seven day's battles
around Richmond he won fadeless laurels. With one
Napoleon, he engaged three heavy batteries, and fought them
with a pertinacity and unfaltering nerve which made the calm
face of Jackson glow; and the pressure of that heroic hand,
warm and eloquent of unspoken admiration. Soon afterwards,
at the “White House,” he engaged a gunboat, and driving it
away, after a brief but hot encounter, proved how fanciful were
the terrors of these “monsters.”

His greatest achievements were to come, however; and he
hastened to record them on the enduring tablets of history.
From the moment when his artillery advanced from the Rappahannock,
to the time when it returned thither, to the day of
Fredericksburg, the path of the young leader was deluged with
the blood of battle. At Manassas he rushed his guns into the
very columns of the enemy almost; fighting their sharpshooters
with canister, amid a hurricane of balls. At Sharpsburg he had

command of nearly all the artillery on our left, and directed it
with the hand of a master. When the army crossed back into
Virginia, he was posted at Shepherdstown, and guarded the ford
with an obstinate valour, which spoke in the regular and unceasing
reverberation of his deep-mouthed Napoleons, as they roared
on, hour after hour, driving back the enemy.

Of the days which succeeded that exciting period, many persons
will long hold the memory. It was in an honest old country-house,
whither the tide of war bore him for a time, that the
noble nature of the young soldier shone forth in all its charms.
There, in the old hall on the banks of the Opequon, surrounded
by warm hearts who reminded him perhaps of his own beloved
ones in far Alabama; there, in the tranquil days of autumn, in
that beautiful country, he seemed to pass some of his happiest
hours. All were charmed with his kind temper and his sunny
disposition; with his refinement, his courtesy, his high breeding,
and simplicity. Modest to a fault almost—blushing like a girl
at times, and wholly unassuming in his entire deportment—he
became a favourite with all around him, and secured that regard
of good men and women which is the proof of high traits and
fine instincts in its possessor. In the beautiful autumn forests,
by the stream with its great sycamores, and under the tall oaks
of the lawn, he thus wandered for a time—an exile from his own
land of Alabama, but loved, admired, and cherished by warm
hearts in this. When he left the haunts of “The Bower,” I
think he regretted it. But work called him.

The fiat had gone forth from Washington that another “On
to Richmond” should be attempted; and where the vultures of
war hovered, there was the post of duty for the Horse Artillery.
The cavalry crossed the Blue Ridge, and met the advancing
column at Aldie—and Pelham was again in his element.
Thenceforward, until the banks of the Rappahannock were
reached by the cavalry, the batteries of the Horse Artillery disputed
every step of ground. The direction of the artillery was
left, with unhesitating confidence, by Stuart to the young officer;
and those who witnessed, during that arduous movement, the
masterly handling of his guns, can tell how this confidence was

justified. It was the eye of the great soldier, the hand of the
born artillerist, which was evident in his work during those days
of struggle. He fell back neither too soon nor too late, and
only limbered up his guns to unlimber again in the first position
which he reached. Thus fighting every inch of the way
from Aldie, round by Paris, and Markham's, he reached the
Rappahannock, and posted his artillery at the fords, where he
stood and bade the enemy defiance. That page in the history
of the war is scarcely known; but those who were present know
the obstinacy of the contests, and the nerve and skill which
were displayed by the young officer.

That may be unknown, but the work done by Pelham on the
great day of Fredericksburg is a part of history now. All know
how stubbornly he stood on that day—what laurels encircled
his young brow when night at last came: This was the climax
of his fame—the event with which his name will be inseparably
connected. With one Napoleon gun, he opened the battle on
the right, and instantly drew upon himself the fire, at close
range, of three or four batteries in front, and a heavy enfilading
fire from thirty-pound Parrots across the river. But this moved
him little. That Napoleon gun was the same which he had
used at the battle of Cold Harbour—it was taken from the enemy
at Seven Pines—and, in the hands of the young officer, it had
won a fame which must not be tarnished by defeat! Its grim
voice must roar, however great the odds; its reverberating defiance
must roll over the plain, until the bronze war-dog was
silenced. So it roared on steadily with Pelham beside it, blowing
up caissons, and continuing to tear the enemy's ranks. General
Lee was watching it from the hill above, and exclaimed,
with eyes filled with admiration, “It is glorious to see such courage
in one so young!” It was glorious indeed to see that one
gun, placed in an important position, hold its ground with a
firmness so unflinching. Not until his last round of ammunition
was shot away did Pelham retire; and then only after a
peremptory order sent to him. He afterwards took command of
the entire artillery on the right, and fought it until night with a
skill and courage which were admirable. He advanced his guns

steadily, and at nightfall was thundering on the flank of the
retreating enemy, who no longer replied. No answering roar
came back from those batteries he had fought with his Napoleon
so long; he had triumphed. That triumph was complete,
and placed for ever upon record when the great Commander-in-Chief,
whom he loved and admired so ardently, gave him the
name in his report of “the gallant Pelham.”

Supreme tribute to his courage—immortalizing him in history!
To be the sole name mentioned beneath the rank of Major-General
in all that host of heroes—and mentioned as “the gallant Pelham!”

Thenceforward there was little for him to desire. He had
never cared for rank, only longed for glory; and now his name
was deathless. It is true that he sometimes said, with modest
and noble pride, that he thought it somewhat hard to be considered
too young for promotion, when they gave him great commands—as
at Sharpsburg and Fredericksburg—and called on
him when the hardest work was to be done. But he never
desired a mere title he had not won, and did his soldier's duty
thoroughly, trusting to time. So noble and important, however,
had been his recent services, that promotion was a matter of
course. The President said, “I do not need to see any papers
about Major Pelham,” and had appointed him a Lieutenant-Colonel;
and it only awaited the formal confirmation of the
Senate, when he fell on the Rappahannock. His fall was a public
calamity to the nation, but none to him. It was fit that such
a spirit should lay down his great work before the hard life of
the world had dimmed the polish of the good knight's spotless
shield. He wanted no promotion at the hands of men. He had
won, if not worn, the highest honours of the great soldier; and
having finished his task, the gentle spirit took its flight, promoted
by the tender hand of Death to other honours in a
brighter world.