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The Little Lady of Lagunitas

R >> Richard Henry Savage >> The Little Lady of Lagunitas




The farewell signature is affixed. Colonel Valois indites to Judge
Philip Hardin a letter of last requests. It is full of instructions
and earnest appeal. When all is done, he closes his letter. "I
send you every document suggested. My heart is sore. I can no longer
write. I will lead my regiment to-morrow in a desperate assault.
If I give my life for my country, Hardin, let my blood seal this
sacred bond between you and me. I leave you my motherless child.
May God deal with you and yours as you shall deal with the beloved
little one, whose face I shall never see.

"If I had a thousand lives I would lay them down for the flag which
may cover me to-morrow night. Old friend, remember a dying man's
trust in you and your honor."

When Peyton has finished reading these at Colonel Valois' request,
his eyes are moist. To-night the bronzed chief is as tender as a
woman. The dauntless soul, strong in battle scenes, is shaken with
the memories of a motherless little one. She must face the world
alone, God's mercy her only stay.

Colonel Valois, who has explained the isolation of the child, has
left his estate in remainder to the heirs of Judge Valois, of New
Orleans.

Old and tottering to his tomb is that veteran jurist. The
possible heir would be Armand, the boy student, cut off in Paris.
No home-comings now. The ports are all closed.

When all is prepared, Colonel Valois says tenderly: "Peyton, I
have some money left at Havana. I will endorse these drafts to you,
and give you a letter to the banker there. You can keep them for
me. I want you to ride into Atlanta and see these papers deposited.
Let there be made a special commission for their delivery to our
agent at Havana. Let them leave Atlanta at once. I want no failure
if Sherman storms the city. I will not be alive to see it."

Awed by the prophetic coolness of Valois' speech, Peyton sends for
his horse. He rides down to the town, where hundreds on hundreds
of wounded sufferers groan on every side. Thousands desperately
wait in the agony of suspense for the morrow's awful verdict. He
gallops past knots of reckless merry-makers who jest on the edge
of their graves. Henry Peyton bears the precious packet and delivers
it to an officer of the highest rank. He is on the eve of instant
departure for the sea-board. Cars and engines are crowded with the
frightened people, flying from the awful shock of Hood's impending
assault.

This solemn duty performed, the Major rejoins Colonel Valois at a
gallop. Lying on his couch, Valois' face brightens as he springs
from his rest. "It is well. I thank you," he simply says. He is
calm, even cheerful. The bonhomie of his race is manifest. "Major
Peyton," he says, pleasantly, "I would like you to remember the
matters of this evening. Should you live through this war the
South will be in wild disorder. I have referred to your kindness,
in my letter to Hardin and in a paper I have enclosed to him. It
is for my child. You will have a home at Lagunitas if you ever go
to California."

He discusses a few points of the movement of the morrow. There is
no extra solemnity in going under fire. They have lived in a zone
of fire since Sherman's pickets crossed the open, months ago. But
this supreme effort of Hood marks a solemn epoch. The great shops
and magazines of Atlanta, the railroad repair works, foundries and
arsenals, the geographical importance, studied fortifications, and
population to be protected, make the city a stronghold of ultimate
importance to the enfeebled South.

If the Northern bayonets force these last doors of Georgia, then
indeed the cause is desperate.

When midnight approached, Colonel Valois calmly bade his friend
"Good-night." Escorting him to his tent, he whispers, "Peyton, take
your coffee with me to-morrow. I will send for you."

Slumber wraps friend and foe alike. All too soon the gray dawn
points behind the hills. There is bustle and confusion. Shadowy
groups cluster around the waning fires long before daybreak. The
gladiators are falling into line. Softly, silently, day steals over
the eastern hills. Is it the sun of Austerlitz or of Waterloo?

Uneasy picket-firing ushers in the battle day. Colonel Valois and
Major Peyton share their frugal meal. The rattle of picket shots
grows into a steady, teasing firing. Well-instructed outpost officers
are carrying on this noisy mockery.

Massed behind the circling lines of Atlanta, within the radius of
a mile and a half, the peerless troops who DOUBT Hood's ability,
but who ADORE his dauntless bravery, are silently massed for the
great attack.

The officers of Valois' regiment, summoned by the adjutant, receive
their Colonel's final instructions. His steady eye turns fondly on
the men who have been his comrades, friends, and devoted admirers.
"Gentlemen," he says, "we will have serious work to-day. I shall
expect you to remember what Georgia hopes from Louisiana."

Springing to his saddle, he doffs his cap as the head of the regiment
files by, in flank movement. The lithe step, steady swing, and
lightly poised arms proclaim matchless veterans. They know his
every gesture in the field. He is their idol.

As Peyton rides up, he whispers (for the colors have passed), "Henry,
if you lead the regiment out of this battle, I ask you never to
forget my last wishes." The two friends clasp hands silently. With
a bright smile, whose light lingers as he spurs past the springy
column, he takes the lead, falcon-eyed, riding down silently into
the gloomy forest-shades of death.

A heavy mass of troops, pushing out in swift march, works steadily
to the Union left, and gains its ground rapidly. The Seventeenth
Corps of Blair, struck in flank, give way. The Sixteenth Union
Corps of Dodge are quickly rushed up. The enemy are struck hard.
Crash and roar of battle rise now in deafening clamor. Away to
the unprotected Union rear ride the wild troopers of Wheeler. The
whole left of Sherman's troops are struck at disadvantage. They are
divided, or thrown back in confusion toward Decatur. The desperate
struggle sways to and fro till late in the day. With a rush of
Hood's lines, Murray's battery of regular artillery is captured.
The Stars and Bars sweep on in victory.

Onward press the Confederate masses in all the pride of early
victory. The Fifteenth Corps, under Morgan L. Smith, make a desperate
attempt to hold on at a strong line of rifle pits. The seething
gray flood rolls upon them and sends them staggering back four
hundred yards. Over two cut-off batteries, the deadly carnage smites
blue and gray alike. Charge and countercharge succeed in the mad
struggle for these guns. Neither side can use them until a final
wave shall sweep one set of madmen far away.

With desperate valor, Morgan L. Smith at last claims the prize. His
cheering troops send double canister from the regained batteries
into the gray columns of attack. General Sherman, at a deserted
house, where he has made his bivouac, paces the porch like a restless
tiger. The increasing firing on the left, tells him of this heavy
morning attack. A map spread on a table catches his eye from time
to time. The waiting crowd of orderlies and staff officers have,
one by one, dashed off to reform the lines or strengthen the left.
While the firing all along the line is everywhere ominous, the
roar on the left grows higher and higher. Out from the fatal woods
begin to stream weary squads of the wounded and stragglers. The
floating skulkers hover at the edge of the red tide of conflict.

Ha! A wounded aide dashes up with tidings of the ominous gap on the
left. That fearful sweep of Wheeler's cavalry to the rear is known
at last by the fires of burning trains. With a few brief words of
counsel, and a nod of his stately head, McPherson, the splendid
light of battle on his brow, gallops away to reform these broken
lines. The eye of the chief must animate his corps.

Hawk-eyed Sherman watches the glorious young general as he turns
into the forest. A grim look settles on the general's face. He runs
his eye over the map. As the tiger's approach is heralded by the
clatter of the meaner animals, so from out that forest the human
debris tell of Hood's battle hammer crashing down on that left "in
air." Is there yet time to reform a battle, now fighting itself in
sudden bloody encounters? All is at haphazard. A sigh of relief.
McPherson is there. His ready wit, splendid energy, and inspiring
presence are worth a thousand meaner souls, in the wild maelstrom
of that terrible July day.

Old Marshal Tecumseh, with unerring intuition, knows that the
creeping skirmishers have felt the whole left of his position. With
the interior lines and paths of the forest to aid, if anything has
gone wrong, if gap or lap has occurred, then on those unguarded
key-points and accidental openings, the desperate fighters of the
great Texan will throw their characteristic fierceness. Atlanta's
tall chimneys rise on the hills to the west. There, thousands, with
all at stake, listen to the rolling notes of this bloody battle.
High in the air, bursting shells with white puffs light up the
clouds of musketry smoke. Charging yells are borne down the wind,
with ringing answering cheers. The staccato notes of the snapping
Parrotts accentuate the battle's din.

Sherman, with cloudy brow, listens for some news of the imperilled
left wing. Is the iron army of the Tennessee to fail him now? Seven
miles of bayonets are in that great line, from left to right, headed
by McPherson, Schofield, and Thomas, the flower of the Union Army.

Looking forward to a battle outside Atlanta, a siege, or a flanking
bit of military chesswork, the great Union commander is dragged
now into a purely defensive battle. Where is McPherson?

Sherman has a quarter of an hour of horrible misgiving. He saw the
mad panic of the first Bull Run. He led the only compact body of
troops off that fatal field himself. It was his own brigade. In
his first-fought field, he showed the unshakable nerve of Macdonald
at Wagram. But he has also seen the fruits of the wild stampede
of McCook and Crittenden's divisions since at Chickamauga. It tore
the laurels from Rosecrans' brow. Is this to be a panic? Rosecrans'
defeat made Sherman the field-marshal of the West.

At Missionary Ridge, even the invincibles of the South fled their
lines in sudden impulse, giving up an almost impregnable position.
The haughty old artillerist, Braxton Bragg, was forced to officially
admit that stampede. He added a few dozen corpses to his disciplinary
"graveyards," "pour encourager les autres." Panic may attack even
the best army.

Is it panic now swelling on the breeze of this roaring fight? Fast
and far his hastily summoned messengers ride. To add a crowning
disaster to the confusion of the early morning death grapple, the
sun does not touch the meridian before a bleeding aide brings back
McPherson's riderless horse. Where is the general? Alas, where?

Dashing far ahead of his staff and orderlies, tearing from wood
to wood, to close in the fatal gap and reface his lines--a volley
from a squad of Hood's pickets drops the great corps commander,
McPherson, a mangled corpse, in the forest. No such individual loss
to either army has happened since Stonewall Jackson's untimely end
at Chancellorsville.

His rifled body is soon recovered. With super-human efforts it is
borne to the house in the clearing and laid at General Sherman's
feet.

Lightning flashes of wit traverse Sherman's brain. Every rebel
straggler is instantly searched as he is swept in. The invaluable
private papers of General McPherson, the secret orders, and campaign
plans are found in the haversack of one of the captured skirmishers.
These, at least, are safe.

With this blow, comes the news of the Seventeenth Corps being thrown
back, far out of its place, by the wild rush of Hood's braves. All
goes wrong. The day is lost.

Will it be a Bull Run?

No! The impetuous Logan tears along his lines. "Black Jack's"
swarthy face brings wild cheers from the men, who throw themselves
madly on the attacking lines, seeking vengeance. The Fifteenth
Corps' rifles are sounding shotted requiem salvos for their lost
leader. The Seventeenth holds on and connects. The Sixteenth Corps,
struck heavily in flank by the victorious Confederates, faces into
line of battle to the left. It grimly holds on, and pours in its
leaden hail. Smith's left flank doubled back, joining Leggett,
completes the reformed line. From high noon till the darkness of
the awful night, a general conflict rages along the whole front.
War in its grim horror.

Sherman, casting a wistful glance on the body of McPherson, stands
alert. He is as bristling as a wild boar at bay. Sherman at his
best.

Is this their worst? No, for at four in the afternoon, a terrific
sally from Atlanta throws the very flower of the assailants on the
bloody knoll, evermore to be known as "Leggett's Hill." There is
madness and demoniac fury in the way those gray columns struggle
for that ridge.

In vain does Hood send out his bravest stormers to crown the
wished-for position of Leggett.

Sherman is as sure of Atlanta now, as if his eagles towered over
its domes. Drawing to the left the corps of Wood, massing Schofield
with twenty heavy guns playing on Hood's charging columns, Sherman
throws Wood, backed by John A. Logan's victorious veterans, on the
great body of the reeling assailants. The final blow has met its
stone wall, in the lines of Leggett. The blue takes up the offensive,
with wild cheers of triumph. They reach "Uncle Billy's" ears.

Some decisive stroke must cut the tangle of the involved forces.
When Hood sees that his devoted troops have not totally crushed the
Union left, when his columns reel back from Leggett's Hill, mere
fragments, he knows that even his dauntless men cannot be asked to
try again that fearful quest. It is checkmate!

But Wheeler is still careering in destruction around Sherman's rear
parks, and ravaging his supplies. Hood persists in his desperate
design to pierce the Union lines somewhere. He throws away his
last chance of keeping an army together. His fiery valor bade him
defend Atlanta from the OUTSIDE. He now sends a last thunderbolt
crashing on the Decatur road.

During the day Valois' regiment has been thrown in here and there.
The stern colonel gazes with pride on the seasoned fighters at
their grim work.

But it is after four when Colonel Valois is ordered to mass his
regiment, followed by the last reserve, and lead it to the front
in the supreme effort of this awful day. His enemy in front is a
Union battery, which has been a flail to the Southern army.

In dozens of encounters the four heavy twenty-pound Parrotts of De
Gress have been an object of the maddest attack. Superbly handled,
in the best equipment, its high power, long range, and dashing
energy have given to this battery the rank in the West, which John
Pelham's light artillery gained under Lee's eyes in Virginia. The
pride of Sherman's artillery is the famous battery of De Gress.
To-day it has been dealing out death incessantly, at half musket-range.
It has swept rank on rank of the foes away. Now, with the frenzy of
despair, General Hood sends a forlorn column to pierce the Union
lines, carry the road, and take those renowned guns. A lull betokens
the last rush.

Riding to the front, Colonel Valois reins up beside Major Peyton.
There is only time for a few last directions. A smile which haunts
Peyton for many a long day, flashes on Maxime Valois' stern lips.
He dashes on, waving his sword, and cries in his ringing voice,

"Come on, boys, for Louisiana!"

Springing like panthers into the open, the closed ranks bound toward
the fated guns at a dead run. Ha! There was a crashing salvo. Now,
it is load and fire at will. Right and left, fire pours in on the
guns, whose red flashes singe the very faces of the assailants.
Peyton's quick eye sees victory wavering. Dashing towards the
guns he cheers his men. As he nears the battery the Louisiana
color-bearer falls dead. Henry Peyton seizes the Pelican flag, and
dashes on over friends, dead and dying, as his frightened steed
races into the battery.

There, every horse is down. The guns are now silent. A knot of men,
with clubbed rammers, bayonet thrusts, and quick revolver shots,
fight for the smoking cannon. A cheer goes up. De Gress's guns are
taken. Peyton turns his head to catch a glimpse of Colonel Valois.
Grasping the star-spangled guidon of the battery with his bridle
hand, Valois cuts down its bearer.

A wild yell rises as a dozen rebel bayonets are plunged into a
defiant fugitive, for he has levelled his musket point-blank and
shot Valois through the heart.

The leader's frightened charger bounds madly to the front, and the
Louisiana colonel falls heavily to the ground.

Clasped in his clenched hands, the silken folds of the captured
battery flag are dyed with his blood. A dozen willing arms raise
the body, bearing it to one side, for the major, mindful of the
precious moments, yells to "swing the guns and pass the caissons."
In a minute, the heavy Parrotts of De Gress are pouring their
shrapnel into the faces of the Union troops, who are, three hundred
yards away, forming for a rush to recapture them.

As the cannon roar their defiance to the men who hold them dear,
Peyton bends over Maxime Valois. The heart is stilled forever.
With his stiffening fingers clutching his last trophy, the "Stars
and Stripes," there is the light of another world shining on the
face of the dead soldier of the Southern Cross. Before sending his
body to the rear, Henry Peyton draws from Valois' breast a packet
of letters. It is the last news from the loved wife he has rejoined
across the shadowy river. United in death. Childish Isabel is indeed
alone in the world. A rain of shrieking projectiles and bursting
shells tells of the coming counter-charge.

Drawing back the guns by hand to a cover for the infantry, and
rattling the caissons over a ridge to screen the ammunition boxes,
the shattered rebel ranks send volleys into the faces of the lines
of Schofield, now coming on at a run.

The captured Parrotts ring and scream. One over-heated gun of the
battery bursts, adding its horrors to the struggle. Logan's men are
leaping over the lines to right and left, bayoneting the gunners.
The Louisianians give way and drift to the rear. The evening shadows
drop over crest, wood, and vale. When the first stars are in the
skies Hood's shattered columns stream back into Atlanta. The three
guns of De Gress have changed hands again. Even the bursted piece
falls once more under the control of the despairing Union artillery
captain. He has left him neither men, horses, fittings, nor harness
available--only three dismantled guns and the wreck of his fourth
piece. But they are back again! Sherman's men with wildest shouts
crowd the field. They drive the broken remnants of the proud
morning array under the guns of the last lines of the doomed city.
Dare-devil Hood has failed. The desperate dash has cost ten thousand
priceless men. The brief command of the Texan fighter has wrecked
the invaluable army of which Joe Johnston was so mindful.

McPherson, who joined the subtlety of Stonewall to the superb bearing
of Sidney Johnston, a hero born, a warrior, and great captain to
be, lies under the stars in the silent chambers of the Howard House.

General Sherman, gazing on his noble features, calm in death,
silently mourns the man who was his right hand. Thomas, Schofield,
Howard, Logan, and Slocum stand beside the dead general. They bewail
the priceless sacrifice of Peachtree Creek.

In the doomed city of Atlanta, there is gloom and sadness. With
the fragments of the regiment which adored him, a shattered guard
of honor, watching over him with yet loaded guns, in charge of the
officers headed by Major Peyton, the body of Maxime Valois rests
within the Southern lines.

For the dear land of his birth he had abandoned the fair land of
his choice. With the captured banner of his country in his hand,
he died in the hour of a great personal triumph, "under the Stars
and Bars." Game to the last.

High-souled and devoted, the son of Louisiana never failed the call
of his kinsmen. He carried the purest principles to the altar of
Secession.

Watching by the shell from which the dauntless spirit had fled in
battle and in storm, Henry Peyton feels bitterly that the fate of
Atlanta is sealed. He knows the crushing of their weak lines will
follow. He can picture Sherman's heavy columns taking city after
city, and marching toward the blue sea.

The end is approaching. A gloomier darkness than the night of the
last battle broods over the Virginian. With pious reverence, he
hastens to arrange the few personal matters of his chief. He knows
not the morrow. The active duties of command will soon take up
all his time. He must keep the beloved regiment together.

For, of the two or three companies left of a regiment "whose
bayonets were once a thousand," Henry Peyton is the colonel now.
A "barren honor," yet inexpressibly dear to him.

In the face of the enemy, within the lines held hard by the reorganizing
fragments of yesterday's host, the survivors bury the brave leader
who rode so long at their head. Clad in his faded gray, the colonel
lies peacefully awaiting the great Reveille.

When the sloping bayonets of the regiment glitter, for the last
time, over the ramparts their generous blood has stained in fight,
as the defeated troops move away, many a stout heart softens as
they feel they are leaving alone and to the foe the lost idol of
their rough worship.

Major Peyton preserves for the fatherless child the personal relics
of his departed friend. Before it is too late, he despatches them
to the coast, to be sent to Havana, to await Judge Hardin's orders
at the bankers'. The news of the fate of Colonel Valois, and the
last wishes of the dead Confederate, are imparted in a letter to
Judge Hardin by Peyton.

In the stern realities of the last retreat, fighting and marching,
after the winter snows have whitened the shot-torn fields around
Atlanta; sick of carnage and the now useless bloodshed, Colonel
Peyton leads his mere detachment to the final scene of the North
Carolina surrender. Grant's iron hand has closed upon Petersburg's
weakened lines. Sheridan's invincible riders, fresh from the
Shenandoah, have shattered the steadfast at Five Forks.

Gloomy days have fallen, also, on the cause in the West. The
despairing valor of the day at Franklin and the assault on Nashville
only needlessly add to. the reputation for frantic bravery
of the last of the magnificent Western armies of the Confederacy.
Everywhere there are signs of the inevitable end. With even the sad
news of Appomattox to show him that the great cause is irretrievably
lost, there are bitter tears in Henry Peyton's eyes when he sees
the flags of the army he has served with, lowered to great Sherman
in the last surrender.

The last order he will ever give to them turns out for surrender
the men whose reckless bravery has gilded a "Lost Cause" with a
romantic halo of fadeless glory. Peyton sadly sheathes the sword he
took from Maxime Valois' dead hands. Southward, he takes his way.
Virginia is now only a graveyard and one vast deserted battle-field.
The strangers' bayonets are shining at Richmond. He cannot revisit
the scenes of his boyhood. A craving seizes him for new scenes
and strange faces. He yearns to blot out the war from his memory.
He dreams of Mexico, Cuba, or the towering Andes of South America.
His heart is too full to linger near the scenes where the red
earth lies heaped over his brethren of the sword. Back to Atlanta
he travels, with the returning fragments of the men who are now
homeward bound. All is silent now. From wood and hill no rattling
fire wakes the stillness of these days. The blackened ruins and
the wide swath cut by Sherman tell him how true was the prediction
that the men of the Northwest would "hew their way to the Gulf
with their swords." He finds the grave of Valois, when dismantled
and crippled Atlanta receives him again. Standing there, alone, the
pageantry of war has rolled away. The battle-fields are covered
with wild roses. The birds nest in the woods where Death once reigned
supreme. High in the air over Atlanta the flag of the country waves,
on the garrison parade, with not a single star erased.

On his way to a self-appointed exile, the Virginian has seen the
wasted fields, blackened ruins, and idle disheartened communities
of the conquered, families brought to misery, and the young
arms-bearing generation blotted out. Hut and manor-house have been
licked up by the red torch of war. The hollow-eyed women, suffering
children, and dazed, improvident negroes, wander around aimlessly.
Bridges, mills and factories in ruins tell of the stranger's torch,
and the crashing work of the artillery. Tall, smokeless chimneys
point skywards as monuments of desolation.

Bowed in defeat, their strongholds are yet occupied by the
blue-coated victors. All that is left of the Southern communities
lingers in ruined homes and idle marts. They now are counting the
cost of attempted secession, in the gloom of despair.

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