The Burial of the Guns
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Thomas Nelson Page >> The Burial of the Guns
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"Not dead? Not killed?" said the Colonel, quickly.
"No, not so bad as that; surrendered: surrendered his entire army
at Appomattox day before yesterday. I believe it is all a damned lie,"
he broke out again, as if the hot denial relieved him. The Colonel simply
turned away his face and stepped a pace or two off, and the two men stood
motionless back to back for more than a minute. Then the Colonel stirred.
"Shall I go back with you?" the lieutenant asked, huskily.
The Colonel did not answer immediately. Then he said: "No, go back to camp
and await my return." He said nothing about not speaking of the report.
He knew it was not needed. Then he went down the hill slowly alone,
while the lieutenant went up to the camp.
The interview between the two officers beside the bowlder was not a long one.
It consisted of a brief statement by the Federal envoy of the fact
of Lee's surrender two days before near Appomattox Court-House,
with the sources of his information, coupled with a formal demand
on the Colonel for his surrender. To this the Colonel replied
that he had been detached and put under command of another officer
for a specific purpose, and that his orders were to hold that pass,
which he should do until he was instructed otherwise by his superior
in command. With that they parted, ceremoniously, the Federal captain
returning to where he had left his horse in charge of his companions
a little below, and the old Colonel coming slowly up the hill to camp.
The men were at once set to work to meet any attack which might be made.
They knew that the message was of grave import, but not of how grave.
They thought it meant that another attack would be made immediately,
and they sprang to their work with renewed vigor, and a zeal as fresh
as if it were but the beginning and not the end.
The time wore on, however, and there was no demonstration below,
though hour after hour it was expected and even hoped for.
Just as the sun sank into a bed of blue cloud a horseman was seen
coming up the darkened mountain from the eastward side, and in a little while
practised eyes reported him one of their own men -- the sergeant
who had been sent back the day before for ammunition. He was alone,
and had something white before him on his horse -- it could not be
the ammunition; but perhaps that might be coming on behind.
Every step of his jaded horse was anxiously watched. As he drew near,
the lieutenant, after a word with the Colonel, walked down to meet him,
and there was a short colloquy in the muddy road; then they came back together
and slowly entered the camp, the sergeant handing down a bag of corn
which he had got somewhere below, with the grim remark to his comrades,
"There's your rations," and going at once to the Colonel's camp-fire,
a little to one side among the trees, where the Colonel awaited him.
A long conference was held, and then the sergeant left to take his luck
with his mess, who were already parching the corn he had brought
for their supper, while the lieutenant made the round of the camp;
leaving the Colonel seated alone on a log by his camp-fire.
He sat without moving, hardly stirring until the lieutenant returned
from his round. A minute later the men were called from the guns and made
to fall into line. They were silent, tremulous with suppressed excitement;
the most sun-burned and weather-stained of them a little pale; the meanest,
raggedest, and most insignificant not unimpressive in the deep
and solemn silence with which they stood, their eyes fastened on the Colonel,
waiting for him to speak. He stepped out in front of them, slowly ran his eye
along the irregular line, up and down, taking in every man in his glance,
resting on some longer than on others, the older men, then dropped them
to the ground, and then suddenly, as if with an effort, began to speak.
His voice had a somewhat metallic sound, as if it were restrained;
but it was otherwise the ordinary tone of command. It was not much
that he said: simply that it had become his duty to acquaint them
with the information which he had received: that General Lee had surrendered
two days before at Appomattox Court-House, yielding to overwhelming numbers;
that this afternoon when he had first heard the report he had questioned
its truth, but that it had been confirmed by one of their own men,
and no longer admitted of doubt; that the rest of their own force,
it was learned, had been captured, or had disbanded, and the enemy
was now on both sides of the mountain; that a demand had been made on him
that morning to surrender too; but that he had orders which he felt held good
until they were countermanded, and he had declined. Later intelligence
satisfied him that to attempt to hold out further would be useless,
and would involve needless waste of life; he had determined, therefore,
not to attempt to hold their position longer; but to lead them out,
if possible, so as to avoid being made prisoners and enable them
to reach home sooner and aid their families. His orders were
not to let his guns fall into the enemy's hands, and he should take
the only step possible to prevent it. In fifty minutes he should
call the battery into line once more, and roll the guns over the cliff
into the river, and immediately afterwards, leaving the wagons there,
he would try to lead them across the mountain, and as far as they could go
in a body without being liable to capture, and then he should disband them,
and his responsibility for them would end. As it was necessary
to make some preparations he would now dismiss them to prepare
any rations they might have and get ready to march.
All this was in the formal manner of a common order of the day;
and the old Colonel had spoken in measured sentences, with little feeling
in his voice. Not a man in the line had uttered a word after the first sound,
half exclamation, half groan, which had burst from them at the announcement
of Lee's surrender. After that they had stood in their tracks
like rooted trees, as motionless as those on the mountain behind them,
their eyes fixed on their commander, and only the quick heaving
up and down the dark line, as of horses over-laboring, told of the emotion
which was shaking them. The Colonel, as he ended, half-turned to
his subordinate officer at the end of the dim line, as though he were about
to turn the company over to him to be dismissed; then faced the line again,
and taking a step nearer, with a sudden movement of his hands towards the men
as though he would have stretched them out to them, began again:
"Men," he said, and his voice changed at the word, and sounded like
a father's or a brother's, "My men, I cannot let you go so. We were neighbors
when the war began -- many of us, and some not here to-night;
we have been more since then -- comrades, brothers in arms; we have all stood
for one thing -- for Virginia and the South; we have all done our duty --
tried to do our duty; we have fought a good fight, and now it seems
to be over, and we have been overwhelmed by numbers, not whipped --
and we are going home. We have the future before us -- we don't know
just what it will bring, but we can stand a good deal. We have proved it.
Upon us depends the South in the future as in the past.
You have done your duty in the past, you will not fail in the future.
Go home and be honest, brave, self-sacrificing, God-fearing citizens,
as you have been soldiers, and you need not fear for Virginia and the South.
The war may be over; but you will ever be ready to serve your country.
The end may not be as we wanted it, prayed for it, fought for it;
but we can trust God; the end in the end will be the best that could be;
even if the South is not free she will be better and stronger that she fought
as she did. Go home and bring up your children to love her,
and though you may have nothing else to leave them, you can leave them
the heritage that they are sons of men who were in Lee's army."
He stopped, looked up and down the ranks again, which had instinctively
crowded together and drawn around him in a half-circle; made a sign to
the lieutenant to take charge, and turned abruptly on his heel to walk away.
But as he did so, the long pent-up emotion burst forth. With a wild cheer
the men seized him, crowding around and hugging him, as with protestations,
prayers, sobs, oaths -- broken, incoherent, inarticulate -- they swore
to be faithful, to live loyal forever to the South, to him, to Lee.
Many of them cried like children; others offered to go down
and have one more battle on the plain. The old Colonel soothed them,
and quieted their excitement, and then gave a command about the preparations
to be made. This called them to order at once; and in a few minutes
the camp was as orderly and quiet as usual: the fires were replenished;
the scanty stores were being overhauled; the place was selected,
and being got ready to roll the guns over the cliff; the camp was
being ransacked for such articles as could be carried, and all preparations
were being hastily made for their march.
The old Colonel having completed his arrangements sat down by his camp-fire
with paper and pencil, and began to write; and as the men finished their work
they gathered about in groups, at first around their camp-fires,
but shortly strolled over to where the guns still stood at the breastwork,
black and vague in the darkness. Soon they were all assembled about the guns.
One after another they visited, closing around it and handling it from
muzzle to trail as a man might a horse to try its sinew and bone, or a child
to feel its fineness and warmth. They were for the most part silent,
and when any sound came through the dusk from them to the officers at
their fire, it was murmurous and fitful as of men speaking low and brokenly.
There was no sound of the noisy controversy which was generally heard,
the give-and-take of the camp-fire, the firing backwards and forwards
that went on on the march; if a compliment was paid a gun
by one of its special detachment, it was accepted by the others;
in fact, those who had generally run it down now seemed most anxious
to accord the piece praise. Presently a small number of the men
returned to a camp-fire, and, building it up, seated themselves about it,
gathering closer and closer together until they were in a little knot.
One of them appeared to be writing, while two or three took up
flaming chunks from the fire and held them as torches for him to see by.
In time the entire company assembled about them, standing in
respectful silence, broken only occasionally by a reply from one or another
to some question from the scribe. After a little there was a sound
of a roll-call, and reading and a short colloquy followed, and then two men,
one with a paper in his hand, approached the fire beside which the officers
sat still engaged.
"What is it, Harris?" said the Colonel to the man with the paper, who bore
remnants of the chevrons of a sergeant on his stained and faded jacket.
"If you please, sir," he said, with a salute, "we have been talking it over,
and we'd like this paper to go in along with that you're writing."
He held it out to the lieutenant, who was the nearer and had reached forward
to take it. "We s'pose you're agoin' to bury it with the guns," he said,
hesitatingly, as he handed it over.
"What is it?" asked the Colonel, shading his eyes with his hands.
"It's just a little list we made out in and among us," he said,
"with a few things we'd like to put in, so's if anyone ever hauls 'em out
they'll find it there to tell what the old battery was, and if they don't,
it'll be in one of 'em down thar 'til judgment, an' it'll sort of ease
our minds a bit." He stopped and waited as a man who had delivered
his message. The old Colonel had risen and taken the paper,
and now held it with a firm grasp, as if it might blow away
with the rising wind. He did not say a word, but his hand shook a little
as he proceeded to fold it carefully, and there was a burning gleam
in his deep-set eyes, back under his bushy, gray brows.
"Will you sort of look over it, sir, if you think it's worth while?
We was in a sort of hurry and we had to put it down just as we come to it;
we didn't have time to pick our ammunition; and it ain't written the best
in the world, nohow." He waited again, and the Colonel opened the paper
and glanced down at it mechanically. It contained first a roster,
headed by the list of six guns, named by name: "Matthew", "Mark", "Luke",
and "John", "The Eagle", and "The Cat"; then of the men, beginning with
the heading:
"Those killed".
Then had followed "Those wounded", but this was marked out.
Then came a roster of the company when it first entered service;
then of those who had joined afterward; then of those who were present now.
At the end of all there was this statement, not very well written,
nor wholly accurately spelt:
"To Whom it may Concern: We, the above members of the old battery known,
etc., of six guns, named, etc., commanded by the said Col. etc.,
left on the 11th day of April, 1865, have made out this roll of the battery,
them as is gone and them as is left, to bury with the guns which the same
we bury this night. We're all volunteers, every man; we joined the army
at the beginning of the war, and we've stuck through to the end;
sometimes we aint had much to eat, and sometimes we aint had nothin',
but we've fought the best we could 119 battles and skirmishes
as near as we can make out in four years, and never lost a gun.
Now we're agoin' home. We aint surrendered; just disbanded,
and we pledges ourselves to teach our children to love the South
and General Lee; and to come when we're called anywheres an' anytime,
so help us God."
There was a dead silence whilst the Colonel read.
"'Taint entirely accurite, sir, in one particular," said the sergeant,
apologetically; "but we thought it would be playin' it sort o' low down
on the Cat if we was to say we lost her unless we could tell about
gittin' of her back, and the way she done since, and we didn't have time
to do all that." He looked around as if to receive the corroboration
of the other men, which they signified by nods and shuffling.
The Colonel said it was all right, and the paper should go into the guns.
"If you please, sir, the guns are all loaded," said the sergeant;
"in and about our last charge, too; and we'd like to fire 'em off once more,
jist for old times' sake to remember 'em by, if you don't think no harm
could come of it?"
The Colonel reflected a moment and said it might be done;
they might fire each gun separately as they rolled it over,
or might get all ready and fire together, and then roll them over,
whichever they wished. This was satisfactory.
The men were then ordered to prepare to march immediately, and withdrew for
the purpose. The pickets were called in. In a short time they were ready,
horses and all, just as they would have been to march ordinarily,
except that the wagons and caissons were packed over in one corner by the camp
with the harness hung on poles beside them, and the guns stood
in their old places at the breastwork ready to defend the pass.
The embers of the sinking camp-fires threw a faint light on them
standing so still and silent. The old Colonel took his place,
and at a command from him in a somewhat low voice, the men, except a detail
left to hold the horses, moved into company-front facing the guns.
Not a word was spoken, except the words of command. At the order
each detachment went to its gun; the guns were run back and the men
with their own hands ran them up on the edge of the perpendicular bluff
above the river, where, sheer below, its waters washed its base,
as if to face an enemy on the black mountain the other side. The pieces
stood ranged in the order in which they had so often stood in battle,
and the gray, thin fog rising slowly and silently from the river
deep down between the cliffs, and wreathing the mountain-side above,
might have been the smoke from some unearthly battle fought in the dim pass
by ghostly guns, yet posted there in the darkness, manned by phantom gunners,
while phantom horses stood behind, lit vaguely up by phantom camp-fires.
At the given word the laniards were pulled together, and together as one
the six black guns, belching flame and lead, roared their last challenge
on the misty night, sending a deadly hail of shot and shell,
tearing the trees and splintering the rocks of the farther side,
and sending the thunder reverberating through the pass and down the mountain,
startling from its slumber the sleeping camp on the hills below,
and driving the browsing deer and the prowling mountain-fox in terror
up the mountain.
There was silence among the men about the guns for one brief instant
and then such a cheer burst forth as had never broken from them
even in battle: cheer on cheer, the long, wild, old familiar rebel yell
for the guns they had fought with and loved.
The noise had not died away and the men behind were still trying to quiet
the frightened horses when the sergeant, the same who had written,
received from the hand of the Colonel a long package or roll
which contained the records of the battery furnished by the men
and by the Colonel himself, securely wrapped to make them water-tight,
and it was rammed down the yet warm throat of the nearest gun: the Cat,
and then the gun was tamped to the muzzle to make her water-tight,
and, like her sisters, was spiked, and her vent tamped tight.
All this took but a minute, and the next instant the guns were run up
once more to the edge of the cliff; and the men stood by them
with their hands still on them. A deadly silence fell on the men,
and even the horses behind seemed to feel the spell. There was a long pause,
in which not a breath was heard from any man, and the soughing of
the tree-tops above and the rushing of the rapids below were the only sounds.
They seemed to come from far, very far away. Then the Colonel said, quietly,
"Let them go, and God be our helper, Amen." There was the noise
in the darkness of trampling and scraping on the cliff-top for a second;
the sound as of men straining hard together, and then with a pant
it ceased all at once, and the men held their breath to hear.
One second of utter silence; then one prolonged, deep, resounding splash
sending up a great mass of white foam as the brass-pieces together plunged
into the dark water below, and then the soughing of the trees
and the murmur of the river came again with painful distinctness.
It was full ten minutes before the Colonel spoke, though there were
other sounds enough in the darkness, and some of the men, as the dark,
outstretched bodies showed, were lying on the ground flat on their faces.
Then the Colonel gave the command to fall in in the same quiet, grave tone
he had used all night. The line fell in, the men getting to their horses
and mounting in silence; the Colonel put himself at their head
and gave the order of march, and the dark line turned in the darkness,
crossed the little plateau between the smouldering camp-fires
and the spectral caissons with the harness hanging beside them,
and slowly entered the dim charcoal-burner's track. Not a word was spoken
as they moved off. They might all have been phantoms. Only,
the sergeant in the rear, as he crossed the little breastwork
which ran along the upper side and marked the boundary of the little camp,
half turned and glanced at the dying fires, the low, newly made mounds
in the corner, the abandoned caissons, and the empty redoubt, and said,
slowly, in a low voice to himself,
"Well, by God!"
The Gray Jacket of "No. 4"
My meeting with him was accidental. I came across him
passing through "the square". I had seen him once or twice on the street,
each time lurching along so drunk that he could scarcely stagger,
so that I was surprised to hear what he said about the war.
He was talking to someone who evidently had been in the army himself,
but on the other side -- a gentleman with the loyal-legion button in his coat,
and with a beautiful scar, a sabre-cut across his face. He was telling
of a charge in some battle or skirmish in which, he declared, his company,
not himself -- for I remember he said he was "No. 4", and was generally
told off to hold the horses; and that that day he had had the ill luck
to lose his horse and get a little scratch himself, so he was not
in the charge -- did the finest work he ever saw, and really (so he claimed)
saved the day. It was this self-abnegation that first arrested my attention,
for I had been accustomed all my life to hear the war talked of;
it was one of the inspiring influences in my humdrum existence.
But the speakers, although they generally boasted of their commands,
never of themselves individually, usually admitted that they themselves
had been in the active force, and thus tacitly shared in the credit.
"No. 4", however, expressly disclaimed that he was entitled
to any of the praise, declaring that he was safe behind the crest of the hill
(which he said he "hugged mighty close"), and claimed the glory
for the rest of the command.
"It happened just as I have told you here," he said, in closing.
"Old Joe saw the point as soon as the battery went to work,
and sent Binford Terrell to the colonel to ask him to let him go over there
and take it; and when Joe gave the word the boys went. They didn't go
at a walk either, I tell you; it wasn't any promenade: they went clipping.
At first the guns shot over 'em; didn't catch 'em till the third fire;
then they played the devil with 'em: but the boys were up there right in 'em
before they could do much. They turned the guns on 'em as they went
down the hill (oh, our boys could handle the tubes then as well as
the artillery themselves), and in a little while the rest of the line came up,
and we formed a line of battle right there on that crest, and held it
till nearly night. That's when I got jabbed. I picked up another horse,
and with my foolishness went over there. That evening, you know,
you all charged us -- we were dismounted then. We lost more men then
than we had done all day; there were forty-seven out of seventy-two
killed or wounded. They walked all over us; two of 'em got hold of me
(you see, I went to get our old flag some of you had got hold of),
but I was too worthless to die. There were lots of 'em did go though,
I tell you; old Joe in the lead. Yes, sir; the old company won that day,
and old Joe led 'em. There ain't but a few of us left; but when you want us,
Colonel, you can get us. We'll stand by you."
He paused in deep reflection; his mind evidently back with his old company
and its gallant commander "old Joe", whoever he might be, who was remembered
so long after he passed away in the wind and smoke of that
unnamed evening battle. I took a good look at him -- at "No. 4",
as he called himself. He was tall, but stooped a little;
his features were good, at least his nose and brow were;
his mouth and chin were weak. His mouth was too stained with the tobacco
which he chewed to tell much about it -- and his chin was like
so many American chins, not strong. His eyes looked weak.
His clothes were very much worn, but they had once been good;
they formerly had been black, and well made; the buttons were all on.
His shirt was clean. I took note of this, for he had a dissipated look,
and a rumpled shirt would have been natural. A man's linen tells on him
before his other clothes. His listener had evidently been impressed
by him also, for he arose, and said, abruptly, "Let's go and take a drink."
To my surprise "No. 4" declined. "No, I thank you," he said, with promptness.
I instinctively looked at him again to see if I had not misjudged him;
but I concluded not, that I was right, and that he was simply "not drinking".
I was flattered at my discrimination when I heard him say that he had
"sworn off". His friend said no more, but remained standing while "No. 4"
expatiated on the difference between a man who is drinking and one who is not.
I never heard a more striking exposition of it. He said he wondered
that any man could be such a fool as to drink liquor; that he had determined
never to touch another drop. He presently relapsed into silence,
and the other reached out his hand to say good-by. Suddenly rising, he said:
"Well, suppose we go and have just one for old times' sake. Just one now,
mind you; for I have not touched a drop in ----" He turned away,
and I did not catch the length of the time mentioned. But I have
reason to believe that "No. 4" overstated it.
The next time I saw him was in the police court. I happened to be there when
he walked out of the pen among as miscellaneous a lot of chronic drunkards,
thieves, and miscreants of both sexes and several colors as were ever
gathered together. He still had on his old black suit, buttoned up;
but his linen was rumpled and soiled like himself, and he was manifestly
just getting over a debauch, the effects of which were still visible on him
in every line of his perspiring face and thin figure. He walked with
that exaggerated erectness which told his self-deluded state as plainly as if
he had pronounced it in words. He had evidently been there before,
and more than once. The justice nodded to him familiarly:
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