March 2, 1865
Waynesboro, Virginia
Sleet bit the faces of the twelve hundred men who remained in Early’s Army of the Valley. Arrayed on a ridge just west of the town of Waynesboro, with the Shenandoah curving at their backs, the sick and starving remnants of a once great force stared out through an ugly sky as thousands of Union cavalrymen—not blue, but brown from mud—arrived on the road from Staunton. Men flinched, and not just from the ice-needles hunting their eyes.
Their general was determined to make a stand. Long enough to evacuate five guns stranded without limbers or teams and a few last supplies. Perhaps even long enough to discourage Sheridan from crossing the Blue Ridge here, at Rockfish Gap.
Old Jube knew he was outnumbered ten to one, that his own force was barely a fifteenth the size of the columns he had led into Maryland in July. But he held high ground, and for once, the weather seemed helpful. The fields rising to his lines had become mires, promising to stunt a cavalry charge. His numbers might not reach far enough to anchor his flanks on the river, but a man fought with the tools he had at hand. On this day, those tools were not quite a thousand infantrymen, a bare hundred horsemen still riding under Rosser, and one good battery of six ice-sheathed guns.
Fingers froze as shivering men clutched weapons. Too cold and weary to dig entrenchments and brace them in the slop, they waited behind piled fence rails. And they waited.
Against all reason, Early believed he could hold. Because he had to hold. And because he was Jubal Early. Who could not let Sheridan pass by unmolested.
Midafternoon. No rations, hot or cold. Men wet through, rifles slick with water that turned to ice.
More Federal horsemen, grim on the horizon.
Peering at his enemies, fired with the passion of an exemplary hater, and stubborn to death even now, Early could not identify Custer’s division, or Merritt’s trailing behind. Their flags were rolled and sheathed against the sleet, and mud-clotted rubber ponchos hid identities. It didn’t matter. He and his men would fight whoever came at them.
Even as Early received reports of dismounted troopers working around his left, even as he heard the tap-pop of their Spencers, he believed that he could hold that last position.
Even as two thousand horsemen advanced toward his line, with two thousand more behind them, four thousand pairs of shoulders bent by the weather, even then, as he watched their mounts plod forward, smacking up mud and more mud, even then Early believed that he could hold.
The Yankees to his front came on relentlessly, some mounted, others on foot now. Their well-fed mounts spurned the mire and, answering buglers, increased their pace to a canter. Knees tight against wet saddles, men drew sabers. On the flank, the firing, the cheers, grew louder, closer, wilder.
One bugler after another sounded the charge. The Yankees’ horses kicked up a screen of mud, hiding all behind them. On they came, all the riders shouting now.
And Early still believed his men might hold, that they would stand.
They didn’t. Couldn’t. They ran.
With Yankees swarming his shattered line by the hundreds, Early, too, rode for the rear.
Accompanied by a small contingent of generals without commands and staff men with no purpose, he pounded across a river bridge just in time. Fewer than two dozen riders escaped.
Turning to look back from atop a hill, still hoping he might somehow rally his soldiers, hoping that they, too, might cross that river and join him for another fight somewhere else, Jubal Early watched, mortified, as his shrunken, starving army surrendered en masse.
It was the old soldier’s last battle.
JUBAL EARLY
After the debacle at Waynesboro, Early made his way east to rejoin Lee, hoping, in those final weeks of the war, to be granted another command. Lee could not oblige him. Hostility toward Early was too general. Anyway, there were no commands to be had. Lee sent his “bad old man” home to Rocky Mount to “await orders.” News of the surrender at Appomattox found Early drinking whiskey and cursing madly, his inner fire undimmed.
He would not make peace. This man who had stood bravely and vociferously against secession in 1861 had come to hate the blue-clad enemy and many a former friend with a fury even decades would not weaken. He went to Mexico, hoping for employment under Maximilian, but the emperor’s regime was nearing collapse. Old Jube went next to Canada, where he lived in poverty, surviving—barely—on handouts from relations and old friends back in the South, many of them impoverished themselves amid the upheavals of Reconstruction. He was often ill.
At last, grinding stained teeth, he returned to Virginia, where his law practice would have left him as hungry as the soldiers he once had led had he not been persuaded to lend his good name to the bad cause of the Louisiana Lottery, which thickened his purse while thinning the fortunes of others.
He became the leading apostle of the Lost Cause myth and the one man most responsible for the beatification of Robert E. Lee. And for the vilification of his personal rival, Confederate Lieutenant General James Longstreet. To the very end of his Yankee-hating life, Early reviled all things Northern; espoused the justice of the Confederate Cause; and elevated Lee above flesh and blood.
He died in 1894, bitter as tobacco juice.
JOHN BROWN GORDON
Recalled to Petersburg, Gordon became Lee’s favorite subordinate. During the last, tumultuous retreat, he commanded half of the Army of Northern Virginia. When Lee and Longstreet declined to lead their threadbare thousands of soldiers to surrender their arms at Appomattox, Gordon, in one of his finest hours, accepted the responsibility. As always, he rode at the front of his men.
After the war, he hurled himself into Reconstruction politics, fighting for a restoration of Georgia’s legal rights. He may have become the first Grand Dragon of Georgia’s Ku Klux Klan, but, canny as ever, he left no evidence either way. By 1873, he was in Washington as a senator from Georgia (and would return to that office again). In 1886, he became his state’s governor.
Unlike his comrade and nemesis, Jubal Early, the convivial Gordon made himself beloved, first in Georgia and then throughout the South, while managing to become a popular figure in the North as well, and much in demand for high-society dinners. In private matters, he prospered, although not all of his business partners fared well.
He and Fanny continued to share one of the greatest love stories of their age.
When Gordon died at Miami in 1904, thousands wept, although not all of them could have explained why.
CLEMENT ANSELM EVANS
Clem Evans formally joined the ministry of the Methodist Episcopal Church. Thereafter, this truest of Southern gentlemen refused many an offer to climb high, preferring to serve his neighbors and preach the Word, while caring for his ever-growing family. Eschewing the treasures of this world, he gained a wealth of admirers. Upon his retirement from the active ministry, and still suffering the effects of his five war wounds, he served the United Confederate Veterans and edited the massive Confederate Military History.
His wartime letters to his beloved Allie offer incomparable insights into the emotions, logic, and daily concerns of the finest breed of Confederate officer.
GEORGE W. NICHOLS
Private Nichols survived the war, although illness spared him the pain of Appomattox. In the following years, he read far beyond the Bible, educating himself in a homespun fashion, until, in the waning years of his century, he produced the classic memoir A Soldier’s Story of His Regiment (61st Georgia); and Incidentally of the Lawton-Gordon-Evans Brigade, Army of Northern Virginia. A wonderful, if occasionally inaccurate, reminiscence, it included vignettes of his repeated bruising from shell fragments—lightning did strike twice—and of his brief captivity at Third Winchester (Opequon Creek), as well as of his close-run escape from the wreckage of Cedar Creek.
The memoir praised General Gordon in heroic, almost superhuman, terms. Gordon approved.
LEW WALLACE
The general who saved Washington never received another combat command. Yet those who grasped what he had done did not forget him. In 1878, he received a presidential appointment as governor of the New Mexico Territory, where he dealt with Billy the Kid, the Lincoln County range war, and Indian uprisings. Working at night in the decaying Palace of the Governors in Santa Fe, he completed a novel he’d labored over for years, Ben-Hur.
Captivated by the book, fellow Civil War veteran President James Garfield appointed Wallace to head the American mission to the Sublime Porte of the Ottoman Empire, which ruled the Holy Land from Constantinople. Garfield hoped the sojourn would inspire further novels of faith; instead, his emissary delivered potent diplomacy. Wallace upended protocol and approached the “unapproachable” sultan, caliph to all Muslims, with midwestern openness. To the shock and chagrin of Europe’s overstuffed envoys, the sultan, after a moment’s surprise and confusion, took Wallace’s extended hand. Soon, Wallace was the sultan’s trusted adviser.
When administrations changed and Wallace made way for a new president’s appointee, the sultan, too, broke protocol in turn and wrote to Washington, expressing his befuddlement that a mere change of presidents would rob him of his treasured American friend.
From Constantinople, Wallace retired to Crawfordsville, Indiana, his cherished home. He continued writing, while encouraging young authors and fathering an “Indiana renaissance.” At his death in 1905, he had just completed describing the Battle of Monocacy for his memoirs. The old ache of being scapegoated for Shiloh never quit him, but he left a greater legacy in Ben-Hur, one of the greatest best sellers in the history of the book and a tale destined to captivate the great creative medium of the new century, the movies.
His persecutor, Henry Halleck, is forgotten by most and mocked by the remainder.
JAMES B. RICKETTS
Jim Ricketts survived his final wounding, but never recovered full health. Forced by his disabilities to shed his uniform after the war, he retired with the rank of major general. He found happiness with his wife, Frances, and his family.
GEORGE ARMSTRONG CUSTER
Custer’s fear of being forgotten on the frontier proved unfounded: In one of fate’s endless pranks, he is remembered—or misremembered—not for his brilliance and courage during the War of the Rebellion, but for that day above the Little Big Horn when his favorite tactic of dividing his force to envelop the enemy didn’t quite work out.
PHILIP HENRY SHERIDAN
After destroying the pitiful remnants of Early’s army at Waynesboro, Sheridan turned east. He joined Grant for the final weeks of the war, when his aggressive soldiering reached its zenith. The men under his command crushed Lee’s reeling army in one battle after another before rushing ahead to block the Army of Northern Virginia’s last hope of escape at Appomattox.
To his great annoyance, he missed his army’s grand review in Washington (where Custer, of course, made a spectacle of himself). As soon as the guns of North and South fell silent, Grant dispatched him to demonstrate our country’s newfound military strength on the Mexican border and pressure France to withdraw its support for Emperor Maximilian. Too much the hardheaded soldier to suit Reconstruction duties, he was given command of the military department responsible for suppressing the Indian tribes. President Grant promoted his old subordinate to lieutenant general.
But as the years passed, Sheridan’s vanity increased along with his girth. He fell out with his old friend George Crook over Indian policy, then, in a pompous memoir, took credit for Crook’s tactical devices at Third Winchester and Fisher’s Hill. To the surprise of all who knew him, he married a minor society girl, reduced his drinking, and subdued (most of) his profanity. In 1884, he followed retiring William Tecumseh Sherman to wear a fourth star as commanding general of the Army, our country’s highest military office at the time.
Rotund, vindictive, and vain, he died at fifty-seven of fine living.
WILLIAM MCKINLEY
In 1897, Major William McKinley took his oath as the twenty-fifth president of the United States, the last of the Civil War veterans to hold that office. His military experience helped him shape wise strategic decisions during our war with Spain, and the United States inherited an empire. At home, McKinley presided over a dramatic expansion of American wealth. He was assassinated by an anarchist in the early months of his second term. Fresh from martial exploits of his own, his vice president, Theodore Roosevelt, succeeded him.
RUTHERFORD B. “RUD” HAYES
Rud Hayes became president in the wake of the disputed election of 1876. Overcoming the electoral shenanigans and backroom deals that allowed his inauguration after months of stalemate, Hayes proved a fair-minded, skillful, and honest president. He began his term in office by outraging his own party when he insisted on appointing the best-qualified men to cabinet posts, regardless of their past affiliations.
Obliged to end Reconstruction in the South, Hayes concentrated on education and fair treatment for former slaves and their descendants. His monetary policy protected the common man. Faced with the Great Railroad Strike of 1877, he refused to let the government take sides, intervening only when strikers turned to the widespread destruction of property. Not least, this man of conscience and integrity was the first president to fight to professionalize the civil service and end the spoils system. In the face of resistance from both political parties, his initial success was limited, but Hayes had begun a process that could never be fully reversed by the backroom boys.
The gravest complaint about his administration came from Washington’s corps of foreign diplomats: Out of respect for the Temperance scruples of his adored Lucy, Hayes banned wine and liquor from state dinners. Europe has never forgiven us.
All but forgotten now, Hayes grew broadly popular while in office and could have won reelection without effort. But he had campaigned on the promise that if elected, he would limit himself to one term. Despite calls to renege on his position, Hayes remained, as always, a man of his word. He went back to Ohio.
For the rest of his life, Hayes devoted himself to education reform and social improvement. But his favorite activity was to host regular reunions of the soldiers he had led through four years of war. It is a military custom for senior officers to claim they love their soldiers, but the statement all too often sounds perfunctory. Hayes truly did love his men, though. And in the greatest tribute soldiers can pay to their commander, they loved him back.
Memorial Day 2014