University of Virginia Library

3. III.

In this hasty tribute to one whom I knew well, and loved
much, it is hard to avoid the appearance of exaggeration. The
character of this young soldier was so eminently noble—his soul

so brave, so true, so free from any taint of what was mean or
sordid or little—that the sober words of truth may be doubted
by some, who will only regard them as that tender and pious
flattery which friendship accords to the dead.

This sentiment will be experienced only by strangers, however.
Those who knew him will recognise the true portrait.
His modesty, his gentleness—his bearing almost childlike in its
simplicity—made his society charming. This modesty of deportment
was observed by every one, and strangers often referred to
the singular phenomenon in a youth bred in the self-sufficient
atmosphere of West Point, and whose name was already so
famous. He never spoke of himself; you might live with him
for a month, and never know that he had been in a single action.
He never seemed to think that he deserved any applause for his
splendid courage, and was silent upon all subjects connected
with his own actions. In his purse was found folded away,
after his death, a slip from a United States officer, once his
friend, which contained the words, “After long silence, I write.
God bless you, dear Pelham; I am proud of your success.”
But he had never even alluded to the paper. Distinguished
unmistakably by the affection and admiration of his immediate
General—rendered famous by the praise of the Commander-in-Chief
at Fredericksburg—he never exhibited the least trait of
self-love, remaining still what he had always been, as modest,
unassuming, and simple as a child.

This and other winning traits come to my mind as I write,
and I could speak at length of all those charming endowments
which endeared him to every one around him. I could dwell on
his nice sense of honour—his devotion to his family—on that
prisca fides in his feeling and opinions which made him a great,
true type of the Southern gentleman, attracting the attention and
respect of the most eminent personages of his time. But with
the recollection of those eminent social characteristics comes the
memory always of his long, hard work in the service. I have
often seen him engaged in that work, which gave him his great
fame; and this phase of the young officer's character obtrudes
itself, rounding and completing the outline.

With what obstinate and unyielding courage he fought!—
with a daring how splendid, how rich in suggestion of the antique
days! He entered upon a battle with the coolness and resolution
of a great leader trained in a thousand combats, and fought
his guns with the fury and élan of Murat at the head of his
horsemen. No trait of the ground, no movement of the enemy,
ever escaped his eagle eye. With an inborn genius for war
which West Point had merely developed, and directed in its
proper channels, he had that rapid comprehension—intuition
almost—which counts for so much in a leader. Where the contest
was hottest and the pressure heaviest, there was Pelham with
his guns; and the broken lines of infantry, or cavalry giving
ground before irresistible numbers, heard their deep voices roaring
and saw the ranks of the enemy scattered. Often he waited for
no order, took the whole responsibility, and opened his batteries
where he saw that they were most needed by the emergencies of
the moment. But what he did was always the very best that
could be done. He struck at the right moment, and his arm
was heavy. To the cavalry, the roar of Pelham's Napoleons was
a welcome sound. When the deep-mouthed thunder of those
guns was heard, the faintest took heart, and the contest assumed
a new phase to all—for that sound had proved on many a field
the harbinger of victory.[2]

Beside those guns was the chosen post of the young artillerist.
The gaudium certaminis seemed to fill his being at such moments;
and, however numerous the batteries which he threw into action,
he never remained behind “in command of the whole field.”
He told me that he considered this his duty, and I know that he
never shrank—as he might have done—from performing it.

He was ever by the guns which were under the hottest fire;
and, when the enemy shifted their fire to other portions of the
field, he proceeded thither, riding at full speed, and directed the
fresh batteries in person. His men will remember how cheering
and inspiring was his presence with them—how his coolness
steadied them in the most exciting moments—and his brave,
cheerful voice was the herald of success. “He was the bravest
human being I ever saw in my life,” said one of his officers
whom I conversed with recently; and all who have seen him
under fire will bear similar testimony. His coolness had something
heroic in it. It never deserted him, or was affected by
those chances of battle which excite the bravest. He saw guns
shattered and dismounted, or men torn to pieces, without exhibiting
any signs of emotion. His nature seemed strung and
every muscle braced to a pitch which made him rock; and the
ghastliest spectacle of blood and death left his soul unmoved—
his stern will unbent.

That unbending will had been tested often, and never had
failed him yet. At Manassas, Williamsburg, Cold Harbour,
Groveton, Oxhill, Sharpsburg, Shepherdstown, Kearneysville,
Aldie, Union, Upperville, Markham, Barbee's, Hazel River, and
Fredericksburg—at these and many other places he fought his
horse artillery, and handled it with heroic coolness. One day
when I led him to speak of his career, he counted up something
like a hundred actions which he had been in—and in every one
he had borne a prominent part. Talk with the associates of the
young leader in those hard-fought battles, and they will tell you
a hundred instances of his dauntless courage. At Manassas he
took position in a place so dangerous that an officer, who had
followed him up to that moment, rode away with the declaration
that “if Pelham was fool enough to stay there, he was not.”
But General Jackson thanked him, as he thanked him at Cold
Harbour, when the brave young soldier came back covered with
dust from fighting his Napoleon—the light of victory in his
eyes. At Markham, while he was fighting the enemy in front,
they made a circuit and charged him in the rear; but he turned
his guns about, and fought them as before, with his “Napoleon

detachment” singing the loud, triumphant Marseillaise, as that
same Napoleon gun, captured at Seven Pines, and used at Fredericksburg,
drove them back. All that whole great movement
was a marvel of hard fighting, however, and Pelham was the
hero of the stout, close struggle. Any other chief of artillery
might have sent his men in at Fredericksburg and elsewhere,
leaving the direction of the guns to such officers as the brave
Captain Henry; but this did not suit the young chieftain. He
must go himself with the one gun sent forward, and beside that
piece he remained until it was ordered back—directing his men
to lie down, but sitting his own horse, and intent solely upon
the movements and designs of the enemy, wholly careless of the
“fire of hell” hurled against him. It was glorious, indeed, as
General Lee declared, to see such heroism in the boyish artillerist;
and well might General Jackson speak of him in terms
of “exaggerated compliment,” and ask General Stuart “if he
had another Pelham, to give him to him.” On that great day,
the young son of Alabama covered himself with glory—but no
one who knew him felt any surprise at it. Those who had seen
him at work upon other fields knew the dauntless resolution of
his brave young soul—the tough and stern fibre of his courage.
That hard fibre could bear any strain upon it and remain unmoved.

In all those hard combats, no ball or shell ever struck him.
The glance of the blue eyes seemed to conquer Danger, and
render Death powerless. He seemed to bear a charmed life, and
to pass amid showers of bullets without peril or fear of the result.
It was not from the enemy's artillery alone that he ran the
greatest danger in battle. He was never content to remain at
his guns if they were silent. His mind was full of the contest,
pondering its chances, as though he had command of the whole
army himself; he never rested in his exertions to penetrate the
designs of the enemy. Upon such occasions he was the mark at
which the sharpshooters directed their most dangerous fire; but
they never struek him. The balls passed to the right or left, or
overhead—his hour had not yet come.

It came at last in that hard fight upon the Rappahannock, and

the famous youth lies low at last. He fell “with the battle-cry
on his lips, and the light of victory beaming from his eye.” In
the words of the general order which his beloved commander
issued, “His record had been bright and spotless; his career
brilliant and successful; he fell the noblest of sacrifices on the
altar of his country.”

The theme grows beneath the pen which at first attempted a
slight sketch only, and my paper is growing too long. A few
words more will complete the outline of this eminent young
soldier.

The name of Pelham will remain connected for ever with great
events; but it will live perennial, too, in many hearts who mourn
bitterly his untimely end. All who knew him loved him; I
believe that no human being disliked him. His character was
so frank, and open, and beautiful—his bearing so modest and
unassuming—that he conciliated all hearts, and made every one
who met him his friend. His passions were strong; and when he
was aroused fire darted from the flint, but this was seldom.
During all my acquaintance with him—and that acquaintance
dated back to the autumn of 1861—I never had a word addressed
to me that was unfriendly, and never saw him angry but twice.
“Poor boy!” said Stuart one day, “he was angry with me once,”
and the speaker had known him longer than I had. He had rare
self-control, and I think that this sprang in a great measure from
a religious sense of duty. He would sit and read his Bible with
close attention; and, though he never made a profession of his
religious convictions, it is certain that these convictions shaped his
conduct. The thought of death never seemed to cross his mind,
however; and he once told me that he had never felt as if he was
destined to be killed in the war. Alas! the brief proverb is the
comment: “Man proposes, God disposes.”

Thus, modest, brave, loving, and beloved—the famous soldier,
the charming companion—he passed away from the friends who
cherished him, leaving a void which none other can fill. Alabama
lent him to Virginia for a time; but, alas! the pale face smiles
no more as he returns to her. As many mourn his early death
here, where his glory was won, as in the southern land from which

he came. To these—the wide circle who loved him for his great
qualities, and his kind, good heart—his loss is irreparable, as it is
to the whole South. The “breed of noble minds” like his is not
numerous, and when such forms disappear the gap is hard to fill
—the struggle more arduous than before. But the memory of
this great young soldier still remains with us, his name is
immortal in history as in many hearts which throbbed at his
death!

Poor colourless phrases!—faded flowers I try to strew on the
grave of this noble soul! But the loss is too recent, and the
wound has not yet healed. The heart still bleeds as the pen traces
the dull words on the page.

Strange words!—it may be said—for a boy little more than
twenty! Exaggerated estimate of his loss!

No, the words are not strange; the loss is not exaggerated—
for the name of this youth was John Pelham