coming up the darkened mountain from the eastward side, and in a little while

practised eyes reported him one of their own men -- the sergeant
who had been sent back the day before for ammunition. He was alone,

and had something white before him on his horse -- it could not be
the ammunition; but perhaps that might be coming on behind.

Every step of his jaded horse was anxiously watched. As he drew near,
the lieutenant, after a word with the Colonel, walked down to meet him,

and there was a short colloquy in the muddy road; then they came back together
and slowly entered the camp, the sergeant handing down a bag of corn

which he had got somewhere below, with the grim remark to his comrades,
"There's your rations," and going at once to the Colonel's camp-fire,

a little to one side among the trees, where the Colonel awaited him.
A long conference was held, and then the sergeant left to take his luck

with his mess, who were already parching the corn he had brought
for their supper, while the lieutenant made the round of the camp;

leaving the Colonel seated alone on a log by his camp-fire.
He sat without moving, hardly stirring until the lieutenant returned

from his round. A minute later the men were called from the guns and made
to fall into line. They were silent, tremulous with suppressed excitement;

the most sun-burned and weather-stained of them a little pale; the meanest,
raggedest, and most insignificant not unimpressive in the deep

and solemn silence with which they stood, their eyes fastened on the Colonel,
waiting for him to speak. He stepped out in front of them, slowly ran his eye

along the irregular line, up and down, taking in every man in his glance,
resting on some longer than on others, the older men, then dropped them

to the ground, and then suddenly, as if with an effort, began to speak.
His voice had a somewhat metallic sound, as if it were restrained;

but it was otherwise the ordinary tone of command. It was not much
that he said: simply that it had become his duty to acquaint them

with the information which he had received: that General Lee had surrendered
two days before at Appomattox Court-House, yielding to overwhelming numbers;

that this afternoon when he had first heard the report he had questioned
its truth, but that it had been confirmed by one of their own men,

and no longer admitted of doubt; that the rest of their own force,
it was learned, had been captured, or had disbanded, and the enemy

was now on both sides of the mountain; that a demand had been made on him
that morning to surrender too; but that he had orders which he felt held good

until they were countermanded, and he had declined. Later intelligence
satisfied him that to attempt to hold out further would be useless,

and would involveneedless waste of life; he had determined, therefore,
not to attempt to hold their position longer; but to lead them out,

if possible, so as to avoid being made prisoners and enable them
to reach home sooner and aid their families. His orders were

not to let his guns fall into the enemy's hands, and he should take
the only step possible to prevent it. In fifty minutes he should

call the battery into line once more, and roll the guns over the cliff
into the river, and immediately afterwards, leaving the wagons there,

he would try to lead them across the mountain, and as far as they could go
in a body without being liable to capture, and then he should disband them,

and his responsibility for them would end. As it was necessary
to make some preparations he would now dismiss them to prepare

any rations they might have and get ready to march.
All this was in the formal manner of a common order of the day;

and the old Colonel had spoken in measured sentences, with little feeling
in his voice. Not a man in the line had uttered a word after the first sound,

half exclamation, half groan, which had burst from them at the announcement
of Lee's surrender. After that they had stood in their tracks

like rooted trees, as motionless as those on the mountain behind them,
their eyes fixed on their commander, and only the quick heaving

up and down the dark line, as of horses over-laboring, told of the emotion
which was shaking them. The Colonel, as he ended, half-turned to

his subordinate officer at the end of the dim line, as though he were about
to turn the company over to him to be dismissed; then faced the line again,

and taking a step nearer, with a sudden movement of his hands towards the men
as though he would have stretched them out to them, began again:

"Men," he said, and his voice changed at the word, and sounded like
a father's or a brother's, "My men, I cannot let you go so. We were neighbors

when the war began -- many of us, and some not here to-night;
we have been more since then -- comrades, brothers in arms; we have all stood

for one thing -- for Virginia and the South; we have all done our duty --
tried to do our duty; we have fought a good fight, and now it seems

to be over, and we have been overwhelmed by numbers, not whipped --
and we are going home. We have the future before us -- we don't know

just what it will bring, but we can stand a good deal. We have proved it.
Upon us depends the South in the future as in the past.

You have done your duty in the past, you will not fail in the future.
Go home and be honest, brave, self-sacrificing, God-fearing citizens,

as you have been soldiers, and you need not fear for Virginia and the South.
The war may be over; but you will ever be ready to serve your country.

The end may not be as we wanted it, prayed for it, fought for it;
but we can trust God; the end in the end will be the best that could be;

even if the South is not free she will be better and stronger that she fought
as she did. Go home and bring up your children to love her,

and though you may have nothing else to leave them, you can leave them
the heritage that they are sons of men who were in Lee's army."

He stopped, looked up and down the ranks again, which had instinctively
crowded together and drawn around him in a half-circle; made a sign to

the lieutenant to take charge, and turned abruptly on his heel to walk away.
But as he did so, the long pent-up emotion burst forth. With a wild cheer

the men seized him, crowding around and hugging him, as with protestations,
prayers, sobs, oaths -- broken, incoherent, inarticulate -- they swore

to be faithful, to live loyal forever to the South, to him, to Lee.
Many of them cried like children; others offered to go down

and have one more battle on the plain. The old Colonel soothed them,
and quieted their excitement, and then gave a command about the preparations

to be made. This called them to order at once; and in a few minutes
the camp was as orderly and quiet as usual: the fires were replenished;

the scanty stores were being overhauled; the place was selected,
and being got ready to roll the guns over the cliff; the camp was

being ransacked for such articles as could be carried, and all preparations
were being hastily made for their march.

The old Colonel having completed his arrangements sat down by his camp-fire
with paper and pencil, and began to write; and as the men finished their work

they gathered about in groups, at first around their camp-fires,
but shortly strolled over to where the guns still stood at the breastwork,

black and vague in the darkness. Soon they were all assembled about the guns.
One after another they visited, closing around it and handling it from

muzzle to trail as a man might a horse to try its sinew and bone, or a child
to feel its fineness and warmth. They were for the most part silent,

and when any sound came through the dusk from them to the officers at
their fire, it was murmurous and fitful as of men speaking low and brokenly.

There was no sound of the noisy controversy which was generally heard,
the give-and-take of the camp-fire, the firing backwards and forwards

that went on on the march; if a compliment was paid a gun
by one of its special detachment, it was accepted by the others;

in fact, those who had generally run it down now seemed most anxious
to accord the piece praise. Presently a small number of the men

returned to a camp-fire, and, building it up, seated themselves about it,
gathering closer and closer together until they were in a little knot.

One of them appeared to be writing, while two or three took up
flaming chunks from the fire and held them as torches for him to see by.

In time the entire company assembled about them, standing in
respectful silence, broken only occasionally by a reply from one or another

to some question from the scribe. After a little there was a sound
of a roll-call, and reading and a short colloquy followed, and then two men,