So that strange autumn of that strange year, 1864, wore on. The country was oppressed as by some hideous nightmare; and Government was silent.

The army alone, kept heart of hope--Lee's old soldiers defied the enemy to the last.

III.

LEE'S MISERABLES.

They called themselves "Lee's Miserables."

That was a grim piece of humor, was it not, reader? And the name had had a somewhat curious origin. Victor Hugo's work, _Les Miserables_, had been translated and published by a house in Richmond; the soldiers, in the great dearth of reading matter, had seized upon it; and thus, by a strange chance the tragic story of the great French writer, had become known to the soldiers in the trenches. Everywhere, you might see the gaunt figures in their tattered jackets bending over the dingy pamphlets--"Fantine," "Cosette," or "Marius," or "St. Denis,"--and the woes of "Jean Valjean," the old galley-slave, found an echo in the hearts of these brave soldiers, immured in the trenches and fettered by duty to their muskets or their cannon.

Singular fortune of a writer! Happy M. Hugo! Your fancies crossed the ocean, and, transmitted into a new tongue, whiled away the dreary hours of the old soldiers of Lee, at Petersburg! Thus, that history of "The Wretched," was the pabulum of the South in 1864; and as the French t.i.tle had been retained on the backs of the pamphlets, the soldiers, little familiar with the Gallic p.r.o.nunciation, called the book "Lees Miserables!" Then another step was taken. It was no longer the book, but themselves whom they referred to by that name. The old veterans of the army thenceforth laughed at their miseries, and dubbed themselves grimly "_Lee's_ Miserables!"[1]

[Footnote 1: It is unnecessary to say that this is not a jest or fancy on the part of Colonel Surrey. It is a statement of fact.--ED.]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE TRENCHES.]

The sobriquet was gloomy, and there was something tragic in the employment of it; but it was applicable. Like most popular terms, it expressed the exact thought in the mind of every one--coined the situation into a phrase. Truly, they were "The Wretched,"--the soldiers of the army of Northern Virginia, in the fall and winter of 1864. They had a quarter of a pound of rancid "Na.s.sau bacon"--from New England--for daily rations of meat. The handful of flour, or corn-meal, which they received, was musty. Coffee and sugar were doled out as a luxury, now and then only; and the microscopic ration became a jest to those who looked at it. A little "grease" and cornbread--the grease rancid, and the bread musty--these were the food of the army.

Their clothes, blankets, and shoes were no better--even worse. Only at long intervals could the Government issue new ones to them. Thus the army was in tatters. The old clothes hung on the men like scarecrows.

Their gray jackets were in rags, and did not keep out the chilly wind sweeping over the frozen fields. Their old blankets were in shreds, and gave them little warmth when they wrapped themselves up in them, shivering in the long cold nights. The old shoes, patched and yawning, had served in many a march and battle--and now allowed the naked sole to touch the hard and frosty ground.

Happy the man with a new blanket! Proud the possessor of a whole roundabout! What millionaire or favorite child of fortune pa.s.ses yonder--the owner of an unpatched pair of shoes?

Such were the rations and clothing of the army at that epoch;--rancid grease, musty meal, tattered jackets, and worn-out shoes. And these were the fortunate ones! Whole divisions often went without bread even, for two whole days. Thousands had no jackets, no blankets, and no shoes. Gaunt forms, in ragged old shirts and torn pantaloons only, clutched the musket. At night they huddled together for warmth by the fire in the trenches. When they charged, their naked feet left blood-marks on the abatis through which they went at the enemy.

That is not an exaggeration, reader. These facts are of record.

And that was a part only. It was not only famine and hardship which they underwent, but the incessant combats--and mortal tedium--of the trenches. Ah! the trenches! Those words summed up a whole volume of suffering. No longer fighting in open field; no longer winter-quarters, with power to range; no longer freedom, fresh air, healthful movement--the trenches!

Here, cooped up and hampered at every turn, they fought through all those long months of the dark autumn and winter of 1864. They were no longer men, but machines loading and firing the musket and the cannon.

Burrowing in their holes, and subterranean covered-ways, they crouched in the darkness, rose at the sound of coming battle, manned the breastworks, or trained the cannon--day after day, week after week, month after month, they were there in the trenches at their grim work; and some fiat of Destiny seemed to have chained them there to battle forever! At midnight, as at noon, they were at their posts. In the darkness, dusky figures could be seen swinging the sponge-staff, swabbing the cannon, driving home the charge. In the starlight, the moonlight, or the gloom lit by the red glare, those figures, resembling phantoms, were seen marshalled behind the breastworks to repel the coming a.s.sault. Silence had fled from the trenches--the crash of musketry and the bellow of artillery had replaced it. That seemed never to cease. The men were rocked to sleep by it. They slept on in the dark trenches, though the mortar-sh.e.l.ls rose, described their flaming curves, and, bursting, rained jagged fragments of iron upon them. And to many that was their last sleep. The iron tore them in their tattered blankets. They rose gasping, and streaming with blood. Then they staggered and fell; when you pa.s.sed by, you saw a something lying on the ground, covered with the old blanket. It was one of "Lee's Miserables," killed last night by the mortars--and gone to answer, "Here!" before the Master.

The trenches!--ah! the trenches! Were you in them, reader? Thousands will tell you more of them than I can. There, an historic army was guarding the capital of an historic nation--the great nation of Virginia--and how they guarded it! In hunger, and cold, and nakedness, they guarded it still. In the bright days and the dark, they stood at their posts unmoved. In the black night-watches as by day--toward morning, as at evening--they stood, clutching the musket, peering out into the pitchy darkness; or lay, dozing around the grim cannon, in the embrasures. Hunger, and cold, and wounds, and the whispering voice of Despair, had no effect on them. The mortal tedium left them patient.

When you saw the gaunt faces contract, and tears flow, it was because they had received some letter, saying that their wives and children were starving. Many could not endure that. It made them forget all.

Torn with anguish, and unable to obtain furloughs for a day even, they went home without leave--and civilians called them deserters. Could such men be shot--men who had fought like heroes, and only committed this breach of discipline that they might feed their starving children?

And, after all, it was not desertion that chiefly reduced Lee's strength. It was battle which cut down the army--wounds and exposure which thinned its ranks. But thin as they were, and ever growing thinner, the old veterans who remained by the flag of such glorious memories, were as defiant in this dark winter of 1864, as they had been in the summer days of 1862 and 1863.

Army of _Northern Virginia_!--old soldiers of Lee, who fought beside your captain until your frames were wasted, and you were truly his "wretched" ones--you are greater to me in your wretchedness, more splendid in your rags, than the Old Guard of Napoleon, or the three hundred of Thermopylae! Neither famine, nor nakedness, nor suffering, could break your spirit. You were tattered and half-starved; your forms, were warworn; but you still had faith in Lee, and the great cause which you bore aloft on the points of your bayonets. You did not shrink in the last hour the hour of supreme trial. You meant to follow Lee to the last. If you ever doubted the result, you had resolved, at least, on one thing--to clutch the musket, to the end, and die in harness!

Is that extravagance--and is this picture of the great army of Northern Virginia overdrawn? Did they or did they not fight to the end? Answer!

Wilderness, Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor, Charles City, every spot around Petersburg where they closed in death-grapple with the swarming enemy!

Answer! winter of '64,--bleak spring of '65,--terrible days of the great retreat when hunted down and driven to bay like wild animals, they fought from Five Forks to Appomattox Court-House--fought staggering, and starving, and falling--but defiant to the last!

Bearded men were seen crying on the ninth of April, 1865. But it was _surrender_ which wrung their hearts, and brought tears to the grim faces.

Grant's cannon had only made "Lee's Miserables" cheer and laugh.

IV.

THE BLANDFORD RUINS.

These memories are not cheerful. Let us pa.s.s to scenes more sunny--and there were many in that depressing epoch. The cloud was dark--but in spite of General Grant, the sun would shine sometimes!

After reading the _Examiner's_ comments, I mounted my horse and rode into Petersburg, where I spent a pleasant hour in conversation with a friend, Captain Max. Do you laugh still, my dear Max? Health and happiness attend you and yours, my hearty!

As I got into the saddle again, the enemy began a brisk sh.e.l.ling. The sh.e.l.l skimmed the roofs of the houses, with an unearthly scream; and one struck a chimney which it hurled down with a tremendous crash. In spite of all, however, the streets were filled with young women, who continued to walk quietly, or to trip along laughing and careless, to buy a riband or some trifle at the stores.[1] That seemed singular then, and seems more singular to-day. But there is nothing like being accustomed to any thing--and the sh.e.l.ling had now "lost its interest,"

and troubled n.o.body.

[Footnote 1: Real.]

"Good!" I said, laughing, "our friends yonder are paying us their respects to-day. They have dined probably on the tons of turkey sent from New England, and are amusing themselves sh.e.l.ling us by way of dessert."

And wishing to have a better view of the lines, I rode toward Blandford.

Do you remember the ivy-draped ruins of the old "Blandford church," my dear reader? This is one of our Virginia antiquities, and is worth seeing. Around the ruins the large graveyard is full of elegant tombstones. Many are shattered to-day, however, by the Federal sh.e.l.l, as the spot was near the breastworks, and in full range of their artillery. In fact it was not a place to visit in the fall of 1864, unless you were fond of sh.e.l.l and a stray bullet. I was somewhat surprised, therefore, as I rode into the enclosure--with a hot skirmish going on a few hundred yards off--to see a young officer and a maiden sitting on a gra.s.s bank, beneath a larch tree, and conversing in the most careless manner imaginable.[1]

[Footnote 1: Real.]

Who were these calmly indifferent personages? Their backs were turned, and I could only see that the young lady had a profusion of auburn hair. Having dismounted, and approached, I made another discovery. The youth was holding the maiden's hand, and looking with flushed cheeks into her eyes--while she hung her head, the ringlets rippling over her cheeks, and played absently with some wild flowers, which she held between her fingers.

The "situation" was plain. "Lovers," I said to myself; "let me not disturb the young ones!"

And I turned to walk away without attracting their attention.

Unfortunately, however, a sh.e.l.l at that instant screamed over the ruin; the young girl raised her head with simple curiosity--not a particle of fear evidently--to watch the course of the missile; and, as the youth executed the like manoeuvre, they both became aware of my presence at the same moment.

The result was, that a hearty laugh echoed among the tombstones; and that the youth and maiden rose, hastening rapidly toward me.

An instant afterward I was pressing the hand of Katy Dare, whom I had left near Buckland, and that of Tom Herbert, whom I had not seen since the fatal day of Yellow Tavern.

V.

LES FORTUNeS.