“Oh no—of course I wanted you to, Corrie! But I dared not even hope you would!”
“I would die if I thought I had been a fool and—”
“Corrie, Corrie,” he said, silencing my doubts with a tiny shake of his head and penetrating look of his eyes deep into mine. “Corrie . . . don’t you yet know?”
He gently wrapped his arms around me and held me close.
Again neither of us had any words. But the agony I felt when last we had parted this time was a silence too full to require them.
There was no other place in the world I wanted to be, and it was enough.
Even as his top general was pursuing General Lee’s retreat westward toward Lynchburg, Abraham Lincoln arrived in Richmond by barge on the James River. As he stepped ashore, he said, “Thank God I have lived to see this. It seems to me that I have been dreaming a horrid nightmare for four years, and now the nightmare is over.”
Negroes immediately mobbed him. In stark contrast with the desolate stillness of the ruins and devastation, they were laughing and singing for joy, and weeping with unabashed emotion. They knelt in his path, and strained and reached to touch him. One cried out, “I know I am free, for I have seen Father Abraham and felt him.”
Mr. Lincoln was astonished at the outpouring over his presence. “Kneel only to God,” he cautioned the crowd, “but not to me. It is God to whom you must give thanks for your freedom.”
From the dock where he had left the barge, his destination lay about a mile distant, through the still-smoking city. For the last four years it had served as White House for the illegal Confederacy. For the past two days it had been the Union headquarters in Richmond. When President Lincoln sat down at the desk from which Jefferson Davis had conducted the war, a great cheer went up from the troops outside.
The Confederacy truly was no more. Abraham Lincoln now sat at the seat of power in both Washington and Richmond!
But still there was the matter of Robert E. Lee and his army. They were desperate for food, and pursued by Grant’s well-supplied army of five times the size, yet Lee refused to surrender. Toward the mountains of the west they made their way, pursued by Grant. Everywhere they went, Lee’s men searched and begged for food. On foot and by horseback they fanned out throughout the countryside, asking farmers for food.
We were farther north than the main flow of the retreat, yet at least a dozen came to Mrs. Timms’ door desperate and hungry. We fed what we could to those who came, and once we realized their plight, we began, all three of us, mixing and baking bread as quickly as possible. But our supplies were not unlimited either, and within two more days we were out of flour ourselves.
Famished and to the point that many of them were but staggering blindly forward, Lee continued to push his men, dropping guns and bedrolls from sheer exhaustion, many of them deserting along the way or leaving to surrender in hopes of being given food. On the sixth, in an attempt to force surrender, Federal forces attacked the beleaguered Confederates. Eight thousand more Southerners were killed.
Still Lee would not surrender.
By this time a steady flow of traffic moved along the road near the farm in both directions, bringing supplies for the Union troops, transporting prisoners back toward Richmond. From these we learned of the latest fighting at Sayler’s Creek.
“Christopher, I’ve got to go out there,” I said, “and see if I can help.”
“We’ll both go,” he replied. “I’ll hitch the wagon. You go inside and ask Mrs. Timms for anything we can use for bandages, cloth, blankets, even some food if we have anything left in the house.”
“We’ll need water,” I added.
“I’ll put several buckets in the wagon.”
In an hour we were on our way, following behind the Union army, along the winding banks of the Appomattox River.
By the time we reached the scene of the battle, it was late in the day and there was little we could do. We fed and bandaged those we could, but our food and supplies were soon gone. There were not many casualties among the Union men, and we could not reach the Confederates without going beyond the front lines of General Grant’s leading infantry divisions. The dead at Sayler’s Creek were strewn out everywhere. The sickening revulsion I’d felt at Gettysburg returned to me all over again. Enough time had passed, however, that most of the wounded had been carried or dragged to the makeshift field hospitals that had sprung up immediately. The faithful workers of the Sanitary Commission were right behind the army’s advance.
Christopher and I offered our willing hands at the white tents and were soon busy at the work I remembered well enough from the previous year. It was midnight before we lay down to sleep on the ground, he with the doctors and I with the nurses.
The following morning there was no sound of gunfire, no hint of movement. The air hung heavy with a sense of waiting. We continued to help as we could. Late in the day word came back that messages had gone back and forth between Grant and Lee. We didn’t know of their contents at the time, but later they were all made public.
That day, the seventh of April, Grant had sent Lee a message that read:
The result of last week must convince you of the hopelessness of further resistance. I regard it as my duty to shift from myself the responsibility of any further effusion of blood, by asking of you the surrender of that portion of the Confederate States Army known as the Army of Northern Virginia.
Though some of Lee’s officers urged him to surrender immediately, Lee was angry. He had reason enough left, however, to send back the following word a short time later:
Though not entertaining the opinion you express on the hopelessness of further resistance on the part of the Army of N. Va., I reciprocate your desire to avoid useless effusion of blood, and therefore, before considering your proposition, ask the terms you will offer on condition of its surrender.
The next morning came back Grant’s reply:
Peace being my great desire, there is but one condition I would insist upon, namely; that the men and officers surrendered shall be disqualified for taking up arms again against the Government of the United States.
All day long Lee considered his options with his small circle of closest officers. He was almost completely surrounded, both by long lines of dark blue and by the Appomattox and James rivers. Yet still the southern general held out hope for a miracle. He would strike a blow in the morning, he determined, and defeat Grant once and for all.
When word came, in scattered bits of news, of the messages passing between the generals, the reporter’s instincts in me became aroused. All I could think of was writing one more great article for Mr. Kemble and the Alta—an eyewitness account of the end of the war!
Just let Robin O’Flaridy try to top this! I thought to myself. Why, maybe I’d ask Mr. Kemble for twenty or thirty dollars for it!
“Corrie, that could be dangerous,” he said. “I’m not sure I should let you.”
“I have to, Christopher. I’ll be safe. I’m sure there won’t be any more fighting. Besides, it’s Palm Sunday. Surely they’ll respect that.”
Christopher sighed. “I hope you’re right, but I’ve not seen too much respect for sacred things thus far in this war—such as life itself. Do you want me to go with you?”
“No, you’ll probably be of more use here. I’ll be fine, and I’ll move around better alone. Is it all right for me to take one of your horses?”
“Of course. But what are you planning to do?”
“Get the story of a lifetime for a reporter—I hope at least.”
“I’ll be here. Come back soon . . . and don’t put yourself in any danger!”
It was not far from where we’d been camped to the front lines, just outside the tiny little town known as Appomattox Court House, right at the point where the James and Appomattox rivers met.
Already the Union troops had begun to move again that morning, readying themselves for an attack if Lee didn’t surrender according to Grant’s terms.
&nbs
p; I worked my way through the line of blue uniforms of the Union army of the James. A few heads turned my way, but nobody paid much heed. It had been a long war, and by now most of these soldiers were too sick of it to care if a young woman was riding through their ranks bareback. I made my way close to the point where I thought General Grant was. If anyone tried to stop me, I’d tell them I was a friend of the general’s. And I suppose by now it was true enough.
It was just before noon when I approached what looked to be the supply wagons and makeshift tent of command. I stopped and dismounted, keeping my distance at the edge of a field in the middle of which there appeared to be some activity.
All of a sudden, from behind, I heard my name.
“Miss Corrie, what in tarnation are you doing in the middle of the war!”
I turned around.
“Jacob!” I cried, giving the big black man a hug. He had put back on nearly all the weight he’d lost in the prison, and my arms hardly stretched around him!
I stepped back. Jacob looked me over from head to toe with a big white-toothed grin spread all over his face.
“I had to come and make sure you were all right, Jacob,” I said finally.
“Shoot, I know better than that! What are you really doing here—another plot you got wind of?”
“No, Jacob, nothing so sinister. But I do have the feeling this war’s about to end, and I want to be there when it does. Always a reporter, you know!”
“You are some determined lady. Ha—just wait till Geoffrey sees you!”
“Is Captain Dyles here?” I asked.
“He’s up with the general’s staff. Been promoted to major, too.”
“He has!”
“Yep, and they’re waiting for word right now from General Grant, whether to keep laying back or attack.”
“There might still be more fighting to come?”
“A message was intercepted this morning that said Bobbie Lee was fixin’ to attack us. I can’t imagine the fool trying it, but that’s what they was saying earlier. But you wait here, I’ll go see what I can find out.”
Jacob turned and shuffled off quickly toward the tent out in the middle of the field.
He was only about halfway there when suddenly he turned back toward me, waving his hand like he was beckoning me.
“Miss Corrie, come . . . come quick!” he called.
I ran up to him.
“There’s a horseman coming, he’s riding this way fast—there, you see him?” He pointed.
“You see what he’s waving over his head?”
“It . . . it looks like something white, Jacob.”
“It’s a white towel, Miss Corrie, and you know what that means! Come on, let’s get over there!”
He started running again, though for his girth there ought to be some other word to call it.
The horseman was racing toward us in plain view now, bouncing along at full speed, waving his hat above his head and shouting at every jump. By now all the officers were on their feet, and in the distance as I approached I made out the familiar form of General Grant.
He strode up to the horseman as he galloped up and reined in the animal, and I saw him take an envelope from him. He looked at it for a second, then handed it to one of his men. He opened it, took out a single sheet of paper, then announced:
“It’s a simple enough message,” he said. “General Lee has accepted our general’s terms. He has agreed to surrender.”
Scarcely a sound followed. General Grant showed not a trace of emotion. Finally one man jumped up on a log.
“Three cheers for General Ulysses S. Grant!” he cried.
A few halfhearted hurrahs followed, but not many. More men were quietly weeping than cheering.
I watched it all in silent awe. I had come to see the end of the war, and this was it. I stood there trying to take everything in, not realizing that Jacob had left me. A few minutes later he returned.
“Miss Corrie,” he said, “meet Major Geoffrey Dyles.”
“It’s so good to see you again, Capt—I mean Major!”
“After all we’ve been through, Corrie, don’t you think it’s about time you called me Geoff?”
“I’ll try,” I smiled.
“And with the war finally over, I hope to be a civilian again real soon!”
“What will happen next?” I asked.
“Arrangements are being made for the two generals to meet in town.”
“When?”
“Soon, probably within the hour. Excuse me, it looks like I’m being summoned!”
“Is the major—Geoffrey—so close to the general that he’s there for all the important decisions?” I asked.
“He’s been with General Grant a long time,” answered Jacob. “He may not be a colonel or a general, but General Grant trusts him like not too many others of his men.”
We waited about another thirty or forty minutes, keeping our distance so as not to be conspicuous or in the way. At length the general and a contingent of thirty or forty men mounted their horses.
“I don’t know about you,” I said to Jacob, “but I’m going to follow them. I’ve come this far. What can they do but turn me back?”
“You always had guts, Miss Corrie!” he replied. “You’ll come back by here and tell me what happened, won’t you?”
“If I can, Jacob. If I don’t, or if I get into trouble, it will be your turn to get me out of jail!”
He laughed, then boosted me up onto the back of Christopher’s horse.
I followed at a distance of about a hundred yards.
When they entered the small town, the streets were nearly deserted. They stopped in front of a two-story brick house where several Confederate officers were standing. It wasn’t until later that I learned it was the house of a Wilmer McLean, who had moved to this quiet little town from Manassas Junction in 1861 after the battle of Bull Run. Already sick of the war at that time, he had hoped never to see another soldier. Lee had sent a colonel into the town to find some suitable place to conduct the meeting with Grant, and the first man he encountered was McLean himself, who reluctantly agreed to let them use his house. Poor Mr. McLean later said, “The war began in my backyard and ended in my front parlor.”
I approached the house very slowly. There were a few other riders around, probably other reporters like me—and some foot soldiers following out of curiosity. No one seemed to care much who saw what.
General Grant and about twelve men, including Major Dyles, went inside. The others stood at attention outside the house.
For probably forty minutes or an hour all was quiet. Then the door of the house opened and General Robert E. Lee walked out. I would have known him anywhere just from his description, even had it not been for the incident outside the prison. He mounted his white horse, then slowly started back toward his army, his head sunk low on his chest, the reins hanging loose in his hand.
I watched him go, and I couldn’t help a deep feeling of melancholy coming over me. Glad as I was that the war was over, the downcast demeanor of this man, considered by so many to be one of the greatest generals of all time, made me feel sad.
I was standing beside my horse. Suddenly I decided to follow Mr. Lee. I jumped back on the horse’s back and urged him to a slow trot after the white horse walking slowly back to the Confederate camp. I caught him in less than a minute. Two of the men riding beside him tried to stop me, but General Lee didn’t even glance up.
“General Lee,” I called out, “General Lee . . . I am a newspaper reporter. Would you mind if I asked you a question or two?”
Now at last the general looked up, waved off his two aides, then signaled me to join him. I rode up alongside.
He continued to stare straight ahead as his horse plodded along, not much interested in an interview but apparently feeling too defeated and despondent even to say no to someone wanting to ask him some questions. His eyes looked tired and sad, but such a stoic firmness was on his face too that I doubted he would she
d tears over his defeat. Only the slightest wrinkle showed on his forehead, and eyebrows that looked like a remaining hint of resolve and subdued irritation over his surrender reflected the heartbreak of defeat. His white beard kept most of his other facial features from showing much, however. His mouth, surrounded by whiskers, betrayed not a hint of movement toward either a smile or a scowl.
“General Lee,” I said tentatively, “I have read that you are a man with a strong Christian faith.”
He nodded. “At this moment,” he replied, “I would not claim my faith to be strong, but I am a Christian, and always will be grateful to God for my salvation.” His voice was soft but firm, emotional but not wavering. I could feel the strength and dignity of the man just from his carriage and tone.
“Have you had the chance yet,” I asked, “to ask yourself how this war, in which both sides prayed to God for victory and each felt morally justified for his stand . . . how the country will change as a result of it?”
The only sounds to be heard were the soft thudding of our horses’ hooves along the dirt road. To all appearances General Lee had not heard a word I’d said. But though his face stared forward and revealed nothing, I knew he was thinking hard. At last he spoke.
“Yes, I have thought about what you ask,” he said slowly. “But as to an answer, I have none. That the country will change there can be little doubt. But as to how, I am no prophet, only a soldier.”
He paused, drew in a small breath, and for the first time I saw a hint of the inner turmoil he must have been going through.
“What a cruel thing is war,” he went on softly, “to separate and destroy families and friends, and take from us the purest joys and happiness that God has granted us in this world. War fills our hearts with hatred instead of love for our neighbors, and devastates the fair face of this beautiful world.”
“Is your heart filled with hatred, General?” I said, hardly realizing what a bold and pointed question I had asked. If I could have, I would have taken the words back instantly. But it was too late, and they hung there in the air for what seemed like forever.
Land of the Brave and the Free Page 16