104. CIV.
PELHAM AND JEAN.
Night had fallen, and the weary troops slept on their arms,
awaiting the more decisive attack which they expected on the
next day.
Along the narrow and winding road which led in rear of the
line of battle from Hamilton's Crossing to General Lee's head-quarters,
near the Telegraph road, couriers came and went, bearing
dispatches or orders.
Jackson was up during the whole night; and about midnight
an orderly woke me, to say that the General wished to see me.
I immediately repaired to his tent, and found him busily writing
—his candle having been carefully shaded, so as not to throw its
light upon the eyes or a friend who that night shared his bed.
Before the General had finished the sentence which he was
writing, the sound of horse's hoofs was heard without, and the
orderly came to say that an officer wished to see him.
“Come in,” was the reply.
And a young officer entered, and saluted.
“General,” he said, “I am sent by General Gregg, who was
mortally wounded to-day, to say on his part, that in a recent
letter he wrote you, which you considered disrespectful, he had
no intention of wounding your feelings, but was actuated solely
by what he believed to be the good of the service. He is now
dying, and begs your forgiveness.”
The young man again saluted, and waited hat in hand.
Jackson rose quickly, and his face exhibited strong feeling.
“Tell General Gregg I will be with him immediately,” he said;
and, summoning his servant, he ordered his horse to be saddled
at once.
As soon as the animal was ready he mounted, and, making a
sign to me to follow him, rode rapidly, guided by the young
officer, to General Gregg's head-quarters.
Dismonnting hastily in front of the tent occupied by the
wounded soldier, he entered it alone—upon this interview I felt
that no one should intrude. I only saw, as the tent-flap fell, a
pale face, some bleeding bandages, and a weak hand held out, as
Jackson, with flushed face, hastened to the sufferer's side.[1]
Then
the canvas fell.
What took place on that dark night, between the great leader
and the noble soldier who did not wish to die without his forgiveness?
I know not. But, when Jackson at length came out,
there were traces of tears in his eyes, and for some time he rode
on in silence. As he went on through the darkness, I saw him
more than once raise his right arm aloft, with that singular gesture
habitual to him, and look upward, with lips moving. He
was praying for the friend about to die.
At last he seemed to banish these gloomy feelings, and by an
effort of the will return to the hard routine of business.
“Major,” he said, “I wish you to ride to General Stuart's
head-quarters, and request him to send Major Pelham to me. I
have special need for him to-night, and I beg you will not return
without him.”
I saluted, and immediately set out for “Camp No-Camp,” the
head-quarters of Stuart, on the Telegraph road, near General
Lee's quarters.
I was there informed that Major Pelham had not yet returned
from the field, and that I would probably find him at the bivouac
of his horse artillery, somewhere in the fields beyond Hamilton's
Crossing.
This was somewhat discouraging, as an additional ride of
three or four miles on a freezing cold night was before me; but
it had to be taken, and, wrapping my cape around my face to
shield it from the bitter wind, I rode on and soon reached the
Crossing.
Across the bare bleak fields, which had been so lately swept
by a hurricane of shell, glimmered the dying light of camp-fires;
and after much delay I succeeded in finding the spot where Pelham's
artillery had camped—that is, halted the pieces, and built
fires of rails.
Around one of these fires, which threw its ruddy glare on the
grim cannon near, and the weary horses tethered to the wheels,
was a group of rudely-dressed men, among whom I recognized
Antonio, Rossini, Dominic, and other members of the “Napoleon
Detachment,” which had fought their Napoleon, singing the loud
Marseillaise, that day of the attack near The Oaks.?
In the centre of the group I saw Pelham—the fire clearly
lighting up his slender figure and beardless face. He was kneeling
upon one knee and supporting upon his breast the bleeding
form of a boy of fifteen, who had been nearly torn to pieces by a
fragment of shell, and was evidently dying.
The poor boy was plainly suffering agonies from his mortal
wound, which a surgeon had rudely bandaged; and his exclamations
in French and broken English were touching.
“Jesus Seigneur!” he exclaimed, in heart-rending accents, as
I drew near, “I suffer!—how I suffer, mon capitaine!”
And raising his head, which rested upon Pelham's breast, he
gazed on the young officer's face with a look so helpless and appealing,
that the quick tears started to my eyes.
“Try to bear it, Jean,” said Pelham, in a low voice, “you are
among your friends—you know we love you”—
There he broke down, and, turning away his head, uttered a
sob. The rude cannoneers around looked grimly on, silent before
the scene.
“Oh! to die!” murmured the wounded boy, sinking back in
Pelham's arms, “to die, and I so young! What will mother
say?—ma mère!—it will kill her! You, too, mon capitaine!”
he added sobbing, “you, too, will be sorry for the pauvre Jean,
will you not? I followed you from Alabama—I have fought
with you in so many battles!—and one day—hold! I die with
that at my heart, mon capitaine!—one day you said to me,
`Brave Jean!' Yes, you said that—did you not?”
And, half rising from the earth, the boy threw back his head,
and clung with both arms around Pelham's neck.
“You called me brave—it is enough!” he murmured. “Tell
ma mère I fought like a good soldier, O mon capitaine!—that
you were satisfied with Jean! He dies loving you—the brave
of braves—his dear, his only friend! When you go back to our
home in Alabama, tell them all, that Jean fought under you, and
did his duty. `Brave Jean!' you said. O mon Dieu! I suffer
so—but—and—I die—in your arms, mon capitaine!”
The head fell back, and the pale lips uttered their last sigh.
But, even in death, the boy's arms clung around Pelham's neck
—his face rested on his bosom.
The rough group stirred and murmured.
“Grand Dieu!—he is gone!” muttered the swarthy Antonio.
“Il est mort!” echoed Rossini, making the sign of the cross.
Pelham gently unclasped the cold arms of the boy, and laid
the stiffening form upon the grass. His face was wet with tears,
and, when some of the men spoke to him, he waved them off
with his hand.
For some moments he stood gazing into the fire, from which
his glance would turn toward the body of Jean.
“Poor boy!” he murmured, passing his hand across his eyes,
“he loved me. There was nobody braver!”
There he stopped. But in a few moments he had mastered his
emotion, and turned to me. I delivered my message, and, after
giving directions for the burial of Jean, Pelham called for his
horse.
“Poor Jean!” I heard him murmur again; “what can I say
to his mother when I go back to Alabama!”
All at once he went to where the body of the young cannoneer
was lying, and, stooping down, cut off a lock of his light, curling
hair, and carefully placed it in his breast-pocket.
“It will be something,” he said.
And he mounted his horse and rode with me back to Jackson's
head-quarters.
I recall still, and could easily repeat, our conversation as we
rode on through the darkness; but all do not take that loving
interest in Pelham's memory which I do. Every word he uttered
then, and always, is engraved upon my memory, and I recall,
with a sad and longing sense of loss, a feeling of bereavement
which nothing can satisfy, the hours I passed with him—his
voice, his eyes, his smiles.
We reached Jackson's head-quarters, and Pelham was received
with that cordial pressure of the hand which the General bestowed
upon those who were favorites with him. I knew the
opinion which he had formed of Pelham, from their first meeting
on the day of Cold Harbor, and now saw that Jackson had a
higher regard for him than ever.
His object in sending for the young artillerist was a proof of
this. He wished him to direct and superintend, in person, the
fortification of his line for the next day's battle;[2]
and, as soon
as he had possessed himself of the General's views, Pelham energetically
applied himself to the work. Heavy details were
placed at his orders; he superintended and directed the work
throughout the night, without further orders; and at dawn the
task was finished.
When Jackson inspected, in the morning, the defences which
had thus arisen like magic, he said to General Stuart, who accompanied
him:
“Have you another Pelham, General? If so, I wish you
would give him to me!”[3]
Those works saved hundreds of lives during the cannonade,
which soon began; but they were not to have their value tested
by a charge of the enemy's infantry That attack of the preceding
day had been the decisive assault, and the Federal forces
could not be brought up again. General Burnside directed a
second attack, but his ablest and most determined major-generals
went to him and protested against the order, declaring that the
troops could not be induced to make the assault—their morale
was destroyed. See the testimony of General Burnside.
All day on Sunday and Monday the dense masses of the
Federal army remained in line of battle on the Southern shore
of the Rappahannock, their bands playing, their flags floating,
their artillery in position for a renewal of the assault.
On Tuesday morning they had disappeared.
Thus ended the campaign of 1862.
