University of Virginia Library

XVIII.
EARLY AND SOME BRAVES OF THE VALLEY ARMY.

In this September, 1864, General Early was
occupying Winchester. His little army, of eight or
ten thousand, of all arms, was east of the town.
General Sheridan's forces, consisting of thirty-five
thousand infantry, and ten thousand cavalry, were
lying on the right bank of the Opequon, a few miles
distant.

So much in passing simply. The present memoir
deals with the Partisans, not the “regular troops.”
At some other time I may describe that bitterly contested
and long-doubtful battle of the Opequon,
where Early held his ground all day, although outnumbered
five to one. At present I do not touch
the great canvas, contenting myself with rapid outlines
of a few famous figures seen at Winchester
then.

I found the brave General Early in his tent, near
Winchester. Any one would have known him.
The piercing eyes, the curling hair, the mordant
smile, and stooping shoulders, could belong to no
one but the fearless and obstinate fighter, called

familiarly by his men “Old Jube.” Nicknames
indicate regard, when employed by troops. There
were some who disliked the general for his rigid discipline;
but none were absurd enough to doubt his
courage.

“Old Jube aint afraid of the devil!” was the
rough saying in the army. Indeed, in the Army
of Northern Virginia there was no more resolute
soldier.

The general greeted me with a friendly smile, and
we had a long talk.

“Grant has been up to see his young friend,
`Cavalry Sheridan,”' he said, with that long-drawn
and deliberate intonation, amounting nearly to a
drawl, and smiling satirically as he spoke. “Grant
is a tremendous specimen of a soldier, and has given
Sheridan a tremendous order.”

“What?”

“To `go in;' that is, swallow a certain inoffensive
General Early!” And the speaker uttered a short
laugh, which I echoed.

At the same moment Colonel C— entered, and
I exchanged with the brave artillerist a cordial
shake of the hand. The colonel then turned to
Early and said: —

“General, I have come to ask permission to go
down to Annfield to see my family for twenty-four
hours.”

The general shook his head.

“Can't give you leave, colonel.”

“But I have no horse, general, and can get one
at home.”

“Borrow one, colonel,” retorted the general, with
a humourous drawl. “I have been riding a borrowed
horse through the whole campaign.”[1]

It was impossible to avoid laughing at the tone of
the speaker's voice; and Colonel C— laughed
too.

As he went out, General Rodes entered, followed
by General Ramseur.

Did you meet, during the late war, those two
heroie souls, reader? If not, let me draw a rapid
outline of them; they deserve it. Among the braves
who fell fighting in that terrible year 1864, none
were braver, none more devoted, than the Virginian
Rodes and the North Carolinian Ramseur.

Rodes — tall, slender, quiet, with blue eyes, long,
light hair, light beard, and a smile as sweet as a
woman's — impressed you slightly at first view.
But a second glance revealed more. When he spoke,
his voice was brief, resolute, quiet, but commanding.
For the rest, your true soldier does not always look
like a soldier. How many burly, black-bearded
giants, with thunderous voices and boastings, have I
seen falter! How many smooth-faced, girlish, low-voiced

boys have I known who would fight to the
last and die unmoved! Willie Pegram, — shrinking
and shy, with the face and bearing of a girl, — how
you fought and fell, thrilling the whole Southern
army with that courage of the bull-dog!

Ramseur presented a strong contrast to his companion.
Of medium height, dark-haired, with black
beard and eyes, animated, a real soldier in bearing,
you saw that he would lead a forlorn hope into the
muzzles of hostile cannon, and fight against any odds
to the last.

I spent an hour with the three generals, and then
took my leave. As I left Early's tent, I met one
who was building up then a great fame, — General
Gordon.

Gordon was a soldier born, — from head to foot,
soldier. The penetrating glance, the proud head
flanked by long hair carried behind the ears, the firm
lips, the resolute chin, the commanding carriage
of the whole person, showed that he was born for
leadership. His fame was a late-growing flower;
but how dazzling was the bloom when it came!
Have you ever seen the “Giant-of-battle” rose,
reader? — that superb, full disc, of flashing crimson,
which Stuart so loved? Here was the human
“giant of battle,” — the man whose name was to
electrify the whole army, as it will electrify the
future; who, at Cedar Creek, the Wilderness, all

along the road to Petersburg, at Hare's Hill, and in
the last charge at Appomattox, was to win a fame,
shining clear, among the brightest in history.

I look back and remember meeting many great
men; among them, few rise in stature to the level
of Gordon. To receive his modest and cordial
salute, with the friendly smile, charmed me; to
press that hand, that held the sword-hilt with a grasp
so heroic in battle, was a very great honour. I
thought so then; I think so more than ever to-day.

Health and happiness attend you, general! You
tread already on the shining heights of history.
Three names to-day are greeted with a strange enthusiasm
in the South. Those names are Lee,
Hampton, and Gordon.

And now, looking back to that day at Winchester,
I remember, with sighs, what the near hours brought.

Ramseur killed at the Opequon; Rodes killed at
Cedar Creek; Early driven into exile, — how the
strong hours crush us!

But these reflections are sad. Let us dismiss
them and record more cheerful things.

I was invited on this evening to meet my friend,
General Fitzhugh Lee, at Mr. M—'s; and, approaching
the handsome portico flooded with moonlight,
had a charming surprise.

Leaning on General Lee's arm was — Miss May
Beverley!