Grant had opened the correspondence. "The result of the last week must convince General Lee," he wrote, "of the hopelessness of further resistance on the part of the army of Northern Virginia." He therefore "asked the surrender" of that army to prevent bloodshed.

Lee had written in reply, requesting Grant to state the terms.

Grant had stated them on this 8th of April, and Lee had replied at once that he "did not intend to propose the surrender of the army of Northern Virginia, but to ask the terms of General Grant's proposition.

To be frank," he had added, "I do not think the emergency has arisen to call for the surrender." But he would meet General Grant on the next morning to discuss the whole affair.

There the correspondence had terminated. What was the opinion of his corps commanders?

Their replies were brief and informal. The scene was august but simple.

What was determined upon was this---

That the army should continue its march on the next day toward Lynchburg, breaking through Sheridan's cavalry which was known to be in front; but in case the Federal infantry, a very different thing from the cavalry, was found to be "up," then Gordon, who was to lead the advance, should inform the commander-in-chief of that fact, when a flag of truce would be sent to General Grant acceding to the terms of capitulation proposed in his last note to General Lee.

Fitzhugh Lee only stipulated that if he saw that the Federal infantry in his front, rendered surrender inevitable, he should be allowed to go off with his cavalry to save the horses of his men.

This was agreed to, and it will be seen that Fitz Lee availed himself of the conmmander-in-chief's permission.

So ended that last council of war, by the camp fire.

With grave salutes and a cordial pressure of the brave hands, the famous soldiers took leave of Lee.

As they disappeared he drew his blanket around him and fell asleep by the blazing fire.

It was the night of April 8th, 1865--three years, day for day, from the moment when these lines are written.

XXVII.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE SURRENDER.

Throughout that strange night of the eighth of April, 1865, I was in the saddle, carrying orders.

Those who saw it will remember how singularly brilliant it was. The moon and stars shone. The light clouds sweeping across the sky scarcely obscured the mournful radiance. All was still. The two armies--one surrounded and at bay, the other ready to finish the work before it--rested silently on their arms, waiting for that day which would bring the thunder.

Every arrangement had been made by Lee to break through the force in his front, and gain Lynchburg, from which he could retreat to the southwest.

The column of infantry to open the way was about one thousand six hundred men, under Gordon. The cavalry, numbering two or three thousand, was commanded by Fitzhugh Lee. The artillery, consisting of three or four battalions, was placed under that brave spirit, Colonel Thomas H. Carter.

For the tough work, Lee had selected three braves.

I saw them all that night, and read in their eyes the fire of an unalterable resolution.

You know those men, reader. If _you_ do not, history knows them. It was their immense good fortune to bear the red cross banner in the last charge on the enemy, and with their handful of followers to drive the Federal forces back nearly a mile, half an hour before Lee's surrender.

I had just left General Fitzhugh Lee, near Appomattox Court-House, and was riding through the pines, when a sonorous voice halted me.

"Who goes there?" said the voice.

"Surry, Mordaunt!"

For I had recognized the voice of the general of cavalry. We have seen little of him, reader, in this rapid narrative; but in all the long hard battles from the Rapidan to this night, I had everywhere found myself thrown in collision with the great soldier--that tried and trusty friend of my heart. The army had saluted him on a hundred fields. His name had become the synonym of unfaltering courage. He was here, on the verge of surrender now, looking as calm and resolute as on his days of victory.

"Well, old friend," said Mordaunt, grasping my hand and then leaning upon my shoulder; "as the scriptures say, what of the night?"

"Bad, Mordaunt."

"I understand. You think the enemy's infantry is up."

"Yes."

"Then we'll have hard work; but we are used to that, Surry."

"The work is nothing. It is death only. But something worse than death is coming Mordaunt."

"What?"

"Surrender."

Mordaunt shook his head.

"I am not going to surrender," he said. "I have sworn to one I love more than my life--you know whom I mean, Surry--that I would come back, or die, sword in hand; and I will keep my oath."

The proud face glowed. In the serene but fiery eyes I could read the expression of an unchangeable resolution.

"Another friend of ours has sworn that too," he said.

"Who?"

"Mohun."

"And just married! His poor, young wife, like yours, is far from him."

"You are mistaken; she is near him. She went ahead of the army, and is now at the village here."

"Is it possible? And where is Mohun?"

"He is holding the advance skirmish line, on the right of Gordon. Look!

Do you see that fire, yonder, glimmering through the woods? I left him there half an hour since."

"I will go and see him. Do nothing rash, to-morrow, Mordaunt. Remember that poor Old Virginia, if no one else, needs you yet!"

"Be tranquil, Surry," he replied, with a cool smile. "Farewell; we shall meet at Philippi!"

And we parted with a pressure of the hand.