ROBERT ANDERSON
THIS brave and loyal officer was born at "Soldiers' Retreat," near Louisville, Kentucky, on June 14, 1805. His early days were pleasantly situated, his surroundings and companions being of the best. He was a graduate of West Point, leaving that school in 1825, when only twenty years of age. He was a very apt pupil. He entered the third Artillery, and saw considerable fighting in the Black Hawk War in 1832. He was appointed instructor of artillery tactics at West Point from 1835 to 1837, when he served in the Florida War, and in May, 1838, was made assistant adjutant-general to General Scott. He resigned this appointment upon being made captain, and accompanied Scott to Mexico in 1847.
He was wounded very severely at Molino del Rey, and for a time his life was despaired of. In 1857 he was lieutenant in the First Artillery; November 20, 1860, he assumed command of Charleston Harbor.
His loyalty to the old flag was proven at Forts Moultrie and Sumter. When he took command of the former he determined to place it in good condition, and he asked for money to make both forts more secure; large sums were allowed him for this purpose.
Fort Moultrie was far from being impregnable. Indeed, the land side was a good point for attack, so he concluded to remove to Fort Sumter, which was built on a rock at the entrance to the bay, and could only be reached by boats. He made all his preparations with such secrecy that no one suspected his design, not even his second in command, Captain Abner Doubleday. The first intimation that the latter received was an order to go to Fort Sumter in twenty minutes. The families of the officers were sent to Fort Johnson, opposite Charleston, and afterward taken North.
The clever manner in which Major Anderson deceived the Confederates into believing that the troops which silently marched through the little village of Moultrieville that cold December eve, just after sunset, were only laborers going to Fort Sumter, is worthy of the cool and resolute commander. When they reached Sumter, the laborers who were at work in the interests of the Confederates, putting it in shape for their occupancy, opposed the landing of the Union soldiers, but were driven into the fort at the point of the bayonet. Major Anderson afterward sent them ashore, in the supply boats.
At noon of the next day, Major Anderson celebrated his possession of Fort Sumter by raising the Stars and Stripes and by prayer and military ceremonies.
His slender garrison, all told, comprised but sixty-one artillerymen and thirteen musicians. After he had thus taken possession of Fort Sumter, they did not have a very enjoyable time, for provisions were growing scarce, and the markets of Charleston would sell them nothing. Fuel was scarce, and the cold was severe. Besides, they had to resort to all sorts of stratagems to keep up the appearance of being amply provided with ammunition and munitions of war, one of which was the filling of barrels with broken stone, with a heavy charge of powder in the center, which they would roll down to the water's edge, and burst, giving their watchful enemies the impression that the fort was filled with "infernal machines." The garrison were in no very robust condition for fighting, for salt pork was nearly their sum total in the meat line.
Meanwhile, arguing went on between the Confederates and the garrison, to the effect that the United States government had gone to pieces and they ought to evacuate the fort quietly. But that was not the sort of material that Major Anderson was made of. And when fire was opened upon him, he returned it in kind, and fought valiantly. It was not till the 13th that he had to surrender. Twice the wooden frame on the inside took fire, and when the flag staff on the fort was shot away, a servant named Peter Hart made a staff of a spar, and nailed it to the gun carriages on the parapet under the hot fire of the enemy.
On the 14th Major Anderson and his garrison sadly left the fort after saluting the dear old flag, and went on board the Baltic, which bore them to New York.
In May, 1861, Robert Anderson was made brigadier-general in the United States army, commanding the Department of the Cumberland. His health failed so rapidly that he was shortly after relieved and brevetted major-general in the regular army, when he was retired from service. In 1868 his health had failed so rapidly that he went to Europe, hoping for relief. His translations from the French on military matters, have been accepted as valuable textbooks, and are used by the War Department. The health he sought eluded him, and his death took place at Nice, France, October 26, 1871.
GENERAL ROBERT E. LEE
GENERAL ROBERT EDWARD LEE came from what is known in the South, as a good family. He was the son of Colonel Henry Lee, who was known in Revolutionary days as "Lighthorse Harry." Robert was born at Stafford, Virginia, January 19, 1807. He became a cadet at West Point in 1825, and graduated second in his class, composed of forty-six members, in 1829. He never received a mark of demerit or a reprimand during his four years at that institution, thus showing that he honored discipline—a fine trait in the young. He became a lieutenant in the corps of engineers, and superintending engineer in improvements of the harbor of St. Louis and the upper Mississippi. He also served with great distinction as chief engineer of the army under General Scott. His gallant conduct at Cerro Gordo, Contreras, Churubusco and Chapultepec, in the Mexican War, in the latter engagement receiving a severe wound, won him honors, and he was brevetted major, lieutenant-colonel and colonel.
He was appointed superintendent of the military, academy at West Point from 1852 to 1855, when in the latter year two new regiments of cavalry were formed, in the second of which he secured an appointment as lieutenant-colonel, a most deserved honor. Two years were spent in Texas, but a leave of absence being granted him, he returned to Virginia. He had command of the forces sent to suppress old John Brown at Harper's Ferry, in October, 1859.
The year 1832 was an eventful one to him, for in that year he chose a fair daughter of his native State, for his bride. The lady whom he selected was Mary Custis, daughter of G. W. P. Custis; the latter was the grandson of Martha Custis, and the adopted son of George Washington. General Lee became heir to the estates of Arlington House on the Potomac, and the White House on the Pamunkey. The Arlington estate was confiscated by the Government during the war, and is now national property, and the site of a Union soldiers' cemetery.
When the ordinance of secession was passed in Virginia, April 17, 1861, he at once resigned his commission in the United States army, and wrote to General Scott these words—"Save in defence of my native State, I never desire again to draw my sword." He felt keenly that there was no need of revolution, and would gladly have asked for redress of whatever grievances his State felt that they suffered, but in vain, and he declared that although his devotion to the Union was sincere, and he knew what was demanded of the duty and loyalty of an American, yet he could not raise his hand against his friends, his children, and his home.
Virginia had seceded from the Union, but had not yet acknowledged the Confederacy. He was chosen major-general of the forces of the State, a trust which he honestly assumed, and for more than a year, although he was named as one of the five generals whom the State elected after it joined the Confederacy, in May, still he was merely superintendent of fortifications at Richmond, and a sort of military adviser to Jefferson Davis.
His military record, as commander of the Southern army, proves him to have been one of the ablest generals that history furnishes us any record of. When he met General Grant in that little Virginia village, to confer with him as to terms of surrender, it was the meeting of two great commanders, each worthy of a world's admiration.
After the war General Lee refused to attend any public gatherings, but lived a secluded life. His fortune had vanished, his hopes had been defeated, and he was compelled to accept the position of President of Washington College, Lexington, Va. This was in October of 1865. To the last he was in favor of reconstruction in the South, without recourse to arms.
On the evening of September 28, 1870, he was struck with paralysis, and lived but a fortnight, dying on October 12. Thus passed away a man of great nobility of character, brave and sincere.
His wife, Mary, followed him on November 6, 1873. The General had three sons and four daughters. All of his sons served in the civil war.
AFTER THE BATTLE
IT was just after the battle of Chancellorsville, and the storm of shot and shell had ceased to rain upon the wounded, who were pinioned in the blazing woods, when the sudden blow which Stonewall Jackson's army had struck, had left a trail of woe and blood. The dense forest had hidden the oncoming of Jackson's forces. They stole in noiselessly and fell upon the Union men under General Hooker, like an avalanche.
The pickets had not given the alarm, so swift and silent had been Jackson's advance. The battle was over. The musketry had ceased its rattle, and darkness had fallen, lit only by the red blaze which enwrapped the Confederate and Union wounded, without mercy. Some of them had tried to crawl away from the consuming fire, which played about them, and licked up leaves and underbrush, and now and then, as a gust of wind arose, sending the burning brands into the treetops to start a new conflagration.
The heat burned into their wounds, and as the shrieks of those who could not drag themselves away rose on the air, it seemed as if demons were calling to each other, so madly did they shout for help and mercy from the pitiless wall of fire.
Men were caught as if in a network, and held prisoners indeed. Choking with the smoke, blinded by the sparks whirling in every direction, there seemed no hope or chance for rescue.
Here a dead man's face, caught by the flames, was scorched and disfigured so that his dearest friend could not have recognized him. Near him lay a living soldier with bloodshot eyes and aching wounds, terror written on his features—terror born, not from the fortunes of battle, not of the foe whom he has met face to face, but terror of the black night' the loneliness, the awful thought that the dead are all around him, a somber scene lit up by the fire that seizes some helpless one, never releasing him until he has lost the semblance of a man, and is only a charred fragment.
That night was a fearful reality to many. Its horrors can never be told, for those best able to repeat the story, perished where they lay. Details were sent out by the Federals after Jackson's advance had been checked, to save the victims in the burning forest, and heroically they worked, but alas, they could not reach half of the wounded.
At the foot of an oak whose lofty head towered above the scene, two soldiers fought valiantly for life. They were no longer arrayed against each other, but against their mutual enemy, the fire-fiend. One wore the blue, the other the gray. Both had gaping wounds, but their peril was the same, and as they struggled to their feet, weak from loss of blood, the bitterness died out of their hearts. They were once more friends, comrades, and together they labored to stamp out the destroyer. Their breath came quick and short, their voices sank to a whisper, but shoulder to shoulder as of old, they met as brothers—and nobly they battled with the flames, now smothering a burst of fire, now cheering each other with brave words, until, slowly and painfully they advanced, step by step, to a spot where the cool ground received them, as they fell, fainting, almost dying, where they were found by the boys who were sent to rescue, and whose work had been that of heroes.
And when, once more they struggled back to life, hand met hand in a friendly grasp, and heart beat joyously to heart, as they thanked their heavenly Father that they were saved from a fiery furnace.
A BOOTBLACK OF TENNESSEE
SORELY Percy was a product of the war—one of those stray "chilluns" who drifted into camp with the refugees who were constantly coming under Uncle Sam's paternal care.
It was but a short time before he drifted out again and into our home. We (Allie and I) were in search of a boy "to run errands," and do odd jobs about the house, and this particular boy was sent to me by one of our soldier friends. When we saw his mirthful face (he had a perpetual grin) we thought he'd do very nicely for us. It was quite the fashion for boys to work in families in Memphis, washing dishes, preparing vegetables, and kindred labors, and though at first our Northern ideas were rudely disturbed by that fact, we soon became used to it, and enjoyed having a boy for such work. Indeed, it was rather a relief to Allie, for, as she said, if she hired a girl of the same age she would be in a measure responsible for her manners, and she would have to instruct her in the care of her wardrobe; but with a boy no such difficulties presented themselves. Like too many white boys of good families, it was supposed a boy could knock around and shift for himself; in other words he did not need any particular care, beyond providing him with enough to eat, drink and wear.
The boy informed us when he came to us that his name was Percy. Allie suggested that it would be much more ready to call him Jim or Sam. In an instant his family pride was up in arms.
"'Scuse me, Missie, but I cahnt go back on my raising dat ar way. It wud be slighting my marsa's family. Percy it is, and I cahnt see my way clar to answer to no oder name."
We afterward learned that his name was Jerry, and that he had fallen deeply in love with the name Percy, it belonging to a colonel in the Southern army who used to visit at his master's house, and so he had appropriated it.
But Percy it remained, and if it was rather incongruous to see the high-born Percy scrubbing the kitchen floor or delving into the garbage box in search of a silver fork or spoon that he had thrown in with the remains of a meal, it couldn't be helped.
He had some odd ways about him, that rather startled Allie. He believed in Voodooism and when one day he informed her in a stage whisper that a very elegant old lady who called often, but who had lost one eye through some misfortune, was a witch, and was trying to "spell" him, she promptly ordered him out of the house till he could learn to keep his thoughts to himself. He despised winter, and one morning when he woke up and saw a light snowfall that had come down the night before, he expressed himself thus—
"Now, Missie, that's what you uns calls pretty. I jess tinks it's de debil whispering bad tings to de earth, and she's ashamed of 'em, and cobers up her face."
He never could be made to understand why certain articles in the china closet should have certain places. As for instance the closet in our house had shelves way down to the floor and he insisted on placing the silverware on the lowest shelf and then stepping into it. He had been talked to and threatened with punishment, and every time he'd promise to do better. One morning as usual the spoons, knives, etc., were found in the old place, and the look of perfect astonishment on his face would have immortalized a painter could he have caught it, as he threw up his hands and rolling up his eyes, said in the most tragic manner:
"I clar to goodness, Missie, I neber know how dey cum dar—dey must have walked down all by demselves!"
He went to market every day with his mistress, to show her how to select, as he confidentially informed his companions–"Yer see she's only a chile, not far frum my age (he was sixteen, she was nineteen) and isn't 'sperienced in de tricks of dem ar market folks, so I goes along and helps her."
We had been teasing for a dish of roast goose for a long time, so Percy and his mistress started just after breakfast and made a tour of the stalls. She selected a huge, but plump-looking white fowl, whose snowy feathers attracted her attention. She was quite ready to accept Percy's assurance that "dat ar fowl will make seberal good meals." The bird was purchased, and Percy slung it over his shoulder, while it squawked most horribly as mistress and boy went down the length of the market, greeted at every step by the grinning colored folks, who wished them "good luck wid dat ar young bird!" while some were anxious to know "whar yo' get dat snow bird, honey?" accompanied with many fervent hopes that it would "eat like cream." When the fowl reached the home of Percy's mistress, she nearly died with chagrin to find that what she preferred for its snowy plumage, thinking it an evidence of youth and beauty, proved to be a gander whose tough old skin Charlie assured her no amount of heat could penetrate. So when she slyly opened the gate, and bade him wander forth, he did so without delay.
Percy pretended much sympathy for her discomfiture, but she lost faith in all humanity after the goose episode, and deputed the marketing to her brother and the boy, who kindly relieved her.
But Percy was not entirely a trifler, as a few weeks after proved. One night when all were sleeping and the night was full of beauty, a little flame, so fine it was scarce observable, shot up into the room where the master and mistress reposed. It grew larger, as it danced across the floor, and curled up over the windows, drawn by the night breeze that played there. Now it seized the curtains of the bed, and still they knew nothing of the danger. And now the flames burst forth, lighting up the whole room, A feeling of suffocation, a frightened cry, and they awake, but the smoke is thick and lurid, they are blinded and dazed. Where is the window—how can they find the door? They are silent from fear, while the flames leap nearer and nearer.
"Ise here—doncher be feared! Percy's here to sabe you bof," and in the boy springs, and seizing Allie by the arm, he calls to her husband to follow close after him. He dashes to the window; he steps upon a ladder, and half-carrying her down, he shouts words of cheer to Charlie, who waits till they have reached the ground, when he takes to the ladder, and follows in safety.
Looking up, they see the room one mass of fire, and they know that they owe their lives to the watchful care of the black boy who had been only the subject for mirth and ridicule in their little home.
They were grieved indeed, when, a week later he came to the friend's house where they had found shelter, and after much scraping and bowing, he told them he wanted to "gage in anoder business—shining gemmen's shoes." They tried to persuade him that it was a precarious occupation, and rather uncertain of returns, but there was an independence about it that Percy craved. So they had to bid the boy good-bye, but the generous donation which Charlie and Harry gave him to "set him up in business," made his eyes shine and his teeth glisten, as he "fanked dem, and wished 'em luck."
CONFEDERATE CEMETERIES
MANY are the monuments that have been erected in Richmond, Virginia, through the liberality of her citizens. That city has paid particular attention to her brave boys who fell in battle, and her cemeteries are very beautifully laid out. The word cemetery is from the Greek, and means a "sleeping-place." There, indeed, do those who laid down their lives sleep in peace, and it is the pride and pleasure of the living to beautify their last home. National cemeteries were first provided for by our government on July 17, 1862, and the noble provision has been carried out in all the States, both North and South.
Oakwood cemetery, Richmond, contains 16,000 dead Confederate soldiers. Libby Hill has a towering granite column, of great beauty, dedicated to all the soldier and sailor dead of the Confederacy—a beautiful memorial.
The cemetery of Hollywood is particularly distinguished for being the resting-places of Generals Stuart, Pickett, and Maury. Each grave has a tasty monument erected over it to tell who slumbers beneath. This cemetery has ninety-five acres, and was established in 1847. There are 12,000 Confederate soldiers in this picturesque burying-ground, and a granite pyramid has been raised to their memory.
All civilizations have respected and cared for their dead. Even the Indian decorates the graves of his people, and watches that they may lie undisturbed. He places the weapons of the chase in the grave that they may take them to the Happy Hunting Ground with them.
While Richmond has several cemeteries wherein her soldiers lie, it is noticeable for the statues of her heroes also. General William C. Wickham's statue adorns Monroe Park. One of the finest streets, Franklin, has a statue of General Robert E. Lee and General A. P. Hill, General "Jeb" Stuart, and President Jefferson Davis are also remembered.
In the eighty-three National cemeteries established by the United States, and containing 330,700 soldiers, 9,438 wore the gray.
"There is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
But nations swell the funeral cry
And freedom weeps above the brave."
In the cemetery at Beaufort, South Carolina, all feelings of distinction are swept away, and yearly, on Memorial Day, the noble-hearted women of that town direct their steps toward the graves and place flowers upon all—those who wore the blue and those who wore the gray, alike appealing to their womanly sympathy, and sharing alike their tender care.
On October 23, 1866, a fine and spacious cemetery was dedicated at Winchester, Virginia, with most imposing ceremonies. This abode of the dead is known as the Stonewall Jackson cemetery, in honor of that brave and true-hearted soldier.