University of Virginia Library

VIII.
PELHAM “THE GALLANT.”

1. I.

On the morning of the 17th of March, 1863, Averill's Federal
Cavalry, three thousand in the saddle, crossed the Rappahannock
at Kelly's Ford, and attacked about eight hundred of
General Fitz Lee's command, who faced, without shrinking,
these great odds, and fought them stubbornly at every point
throughout the entire day.

When the sun set on that tranquil evening—sinking slowly
down behind the quiet forest, unstirred by the least breath of
wind—the long and desperate struggle was decided. The enemy
was retiring, “badly hurt,” and General Stuart added in his
dispatch: “We are after him. His dead men and horses strew
the road.”

No harder battle was fought during the entire war. The
Southern forces won the day by hard and desperate fighting, in
charge after charge; but lost in the struggle some of the most
valiant hearts that ever beat. Puller, Harris, and Pelham were
among the number—the “gallant Pelham” of the battle of
Fredericksburg. He was in the performance of his duty as Chief
of Artillery, and was riding towards his General, when a regiment
of cavalry swept by him in a charge. He was waving his
hat aloft, and cheering them on, when a fragment of shell struck
him on the head, mortally wounding him. He lingered until
after midnight on the morning of the 18th, when General
Stuart telegraphed to Mr. Curry, of Alabama:

“The noble, the chivalric, the gallant Pelham is no more.

He was killed in action yesterday. His remains will be sent to
you to-day. How much he was beloved, appreciated, and admired,
let the tears of agony we have shed, and the gloom of
mourning throughout my command, bear witness. His loss is
irreparable.”

The body of the young officer was sent to Richmond, laid in
state in the Capitol of Virginia, and we are told that “some
tender hand deposited an evergreen wreath, intertwined with
white flowers, upon the case that contained all that was mortal
of the fallen hero.” His family received the soldier's remains;
they were taken to his Southern home; Virginia, the field of
his fame, had surrendered him to Alabama, the land of his birth.

“The Major-General commanding,” wrote Stuart, in a general
order, “approaches with reluctance the painful duty of announcing
to the Division its irreparable loss in the death of Major
John Pelham, commanding the Horse Artillery.

“He fell mortally wounded in the battle of Kellysville,
March 17th, with the battle-cry on his lips, and the light of
victory beaming from his eye.

“To you, his comrades, it is needless to dwell upon what you
have so often witnessed—his prowess in action, already proverbial.
You well know how, though young in years, a mere
stripling in appearance, remarkable for his genuine modesty of
deportment, he yet disclosed on the battle-field the conduct of
a veteran, and displayed in his handsome person the most imperturbable
coolness in danger.

“His eye had glanced over every battle-field of this army,
from the first Manassas to the moment of his death, and he was,
with a single exception, a brilliant actor in all.

“The memory of `THE GALLANT Pelham,' his many virtues,
his noble nature and purity of character, is enshrined as a sacred
legacy in the hearts of all who knew him.

“His record has been bright and spotless; his career brilliant
and successful.

“He fell—the noblest of sacrifices—on the altar of his country,
to whose glorious service he had dedicated his life from the
beginning of the war.”

Thus passed away a noble, lofty soul; thus ended a career,
brief, it is true, but among the most arduous, glorious, and splendid
of the war. Young, but immortal—a boy in years, but heir
to undying fame—he was called away from the scene of his
triumphs and glory to a brighter world, where neither wars nor
rumours of wars can come, and wounds and pain and suffering
are unknown; where

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.

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