[Footnote 1: His words.]

As he uttered these measured words, General Lee saluted and disappeared in the smoke.

General Davenant followed, bearing the wounded boy still upon his saddle.

Ten minutes afterward, I was riding to find General Stuart, who had sent me with a message just before the charge.

I had gloomy news for him. The battle of Gettysburg was lost.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

UNSHAKEN.

The sun was sinking red and baleful, when I reached Stuart, beyond the left wing of the army.

From the afternoon of the second to this night of the third of July, the cavalry had met that of the enemy in stubborn conflict. The columns had hurled together. General Hampton had been severely wounded in a hand-to-hand encounter with sabres, while leading his men. Stuart had narrowly escaped death or capture in the melee; and Fitz Lee had fought hilt to hilt with the Federal hors.e.m.e.n, repulsing them, and coming back laughing, as was his wont.

All these scenes I have pa.s.sed over, however. The greater drama absorbed me. The gray hors.e.m.e.n were fighting heroically; but what was that encounter of sabres, when the fate of Gettysburg was being decided at Cemetery Hill?

So I pa.s.s over all that, and hasten on now to the sequel. Memory finds few scenes to attract it in the days that followed Gettysburg.

But I beg the reader to observe that I should have no scenes of a humiliating character to draw. Never was army less "whipped" than that of Lee after this fight! Do you doubt that statement, reader? Do you think that the Southerners were a disordered rabble, flying before the Federal bayonets? a flock of panic-stricken sheep, hurrying back to the Potomac, with the bay of the Federal war-dogs in their ears?

That idea--entertained by a number of our Northern friends--is entirely fanciful.

Lee's army was not even shaken. It was f.a.gged, hungry, out of ammunition, and it retired,--but not until it had remained for twenty-four hours in line of battle in front of the enemy, perfectly careless of, even inviting, attack.

"I should have liked nothing better than to have been attacked," said Longstreet, "and have no doubt I should have given those who tried, as bad a reception as Pickett received."[1]

[Footnote 1: His words.]

It may be said that this is the boast of the defeated side. But General Meade, when interrogated before the war committee, stated the exact facts.

"My opinion is now," said Meade "that General Lee evacuated that position, not from the fear that he would be dislodged from it by any active operations on my part, but that he was fearful a force would be sent to Harper's Ferry to cut off his communications.... That was what caused him to retire."

"Did you discover," asked one of the committee, "after the battle of Gettysburg, any symptoms of demoralization in Lee's army?"

"No, sir," was General Meade's reply, "I saw nothing of that kind."[1]

[Footnote 1: General Meade's testimony may be found in the Report on the Conduct of the War. Part I., p. 337.]

That statement was just, and General Meade was too much of a gentleman and soldier to withhold it. He knew that his great adversary was still unshaken and dangerous--that the laurels s.n.a.t.c.hed on Round Top and Cemetery Heights might turn to cypress, if the wounded lion were a.s.sailed in his own position.

After the repulse of Pickett's column on the third of July, Lee had the choice of two courses--to either attack again or retire. Meade was evidently determined to remain on the defensive. To engage him, Lee must once more charge the Cemetery Heights. But a third failure might be ruinous; the Confederate ammunition was nearly exhausted; the communications with the Potomac were threatened,--and Lee determined to retire.

That is the true history of the matter.

The force which fell back before Meade was an army of veterans, with unshaken nerves. It required only a glance to see that these men were still dangerous. They were ready to fight again, and many raged at the retreat. Like Lee's "old war horse," they were anxious to try another struggle, to have the enemy return the compliment, and come over to charge _them_!

Then commenced that singular retreat.

The trains retired in a long line stretching over many miles, by the Chambersburg road, while the army marched by the shorter route, between the trains and the enemy, ready to turn and tear the blue huntsmen if they attempted to pursue.

So the famous army of Northern Virginia--great in defeat as in victory--took its slow way back toward the soil of Virginia. Never was spectacle stranger than that retreat from Gettysburg. The badly wounded had been sent with the army trains; but many insisted upon keeping their places in the ranks. There was something grim and terrible in these bandaged arms, and faces, and forms of Lee's old soldiers--but you did not think of that as you looked into their pale faces. What struck you in those eyes and lips was the fire, and the smile of an unconquerable courage. Never had I witnessed resolution more splendid and invincible. In the ragged foot soldiers of the old army I could see plainly the evidences of a nerve which no peril could shake. Was it race--or the cause--or confidence, through all, in Lee? I know not, but it was there. These men were utterly careless whether the enemy followed them or not. They were retreating unsubdued. The terrible scenes through which they had pa.s.sed, the sights of horror, the ghastly wounds, the blood, agony, death of the last few days had pa.s.sed away from their memories; and they went along with supreme indifference, ready to fight at any moment, and certain that they could whip any enemy who a.s.sailed them.

General Meade did not attempt that. He kept Lee at arm's-length, and followed so slowly that the civilians were in enormous wrath, and looked _*de haut en bas_ on him--on this timid soldier who had not cut Lee to pieces.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MEETING OF GENERALS LEE AND DAVENANT.]

Between Meade, however, and the bold civilians, there was this enormous difference. The soldier knew the mettle of the man and the army retiring from Gettysburg. The civilians did not. Meade retained the fruits of his victory over Lee. The civilians would have lost them.

At Williamsport, Lee halted and drew up his army in line of battle. The Potomac, swollen by rains, presented an impa.s.sable obstacle.

Meade, following slowly, was met at every step by Stuart's cavalry; but finally faced his adversary.

Every thing presaged a great battle, and Lee's cannon from the hills south of Hagerstown laughed,

"Come on!"

But General Meade did not come. Lee, standing at bay with the army of Northern Virginia, was a formidable adversary, and the Federal commander had little desire to charge the Confederates as they had charged him at Gettysburg--in position.

Day after day the adversaries remained in line of battle facing each other.

Lee neither invited nor declined battle.

At last the Potomac subsided: Lee put his army in motion, and crossing on a pontoon at Falling Waters took up his position on the south bank of the river.

Stuart followed, bringing up the rear with his cavalry column; and the whole army was once more on the soil of Virginia.

They had come back after a great march and a great battle.

The march carried their flags to the south bank of the Susquehanna; the battle resulted in their retreat to the south bank of the Potomac. Thus nothing had been gained, and nothing lost. But alas! the South had counted on a great and decisive victory. When Lee failed to s.n.a.t.c.h that from the b.l.o.o.d.y heights of Gettysburg--when, for want of ammunition, and to guard his communications, he returned to the Potomac--then the people began to lose heart, and say that, since the death of Jackson, the cause was lost.

Gettysburg in fact is the turning point of the struggle. From that day dated the decadence of the Southern arms.

At Chancellorsville, the ascending steps of victory culminated--and stopped.

At Gettysburg, the steps began to descend into the valley of defeat, and the shadow of death.

What I shall show the reader in this final series of my memoirs, is Lee and his paladins--officers and privates of the old army of Northern Virginia--fighting on to the end, true in defeat as in victory, in the dark days as in the bright--closing up the thin ranks, and standing by the colors to the last.

That picture may be gloomy--but it will be sublime, too.