Chapter XLII: “the Beginning of the End.”

The conflict raged! The din of arms—the yell
Of savage hate—the shriek of agony—
The groan of death, commingled in one sound
Of undistinguished horrors; while the sun,
Retiring slow beneath the plain’s far verge,
Shed o’er the quiet hills his fading light.—SOUTHEY.

For many months Britomarte remained a prisoner in Castle Thunder. She was not brought to trial as a spy.

She was brought up once or twice for an informal examination before the provost marshal or some other officer in authority. But when questioned she remained absolutely silent; so that no information could be obtained from her.

And the only witness that could be found to give testimony in her case, was the wounded rebel soldier who had overheard the conversation between herself and her lover, and who swore that her name as heard by himself was Bridget Martin.

So as Bridget Martin she was remanded to prison, where she seemed likely to remain until the end of the war.

That end was not very far off. General Grant was slowly but surely fighting his way to Richmond, winding around it coil after coil of that “anaconda grasp ever tightening,” that was destined to destroy the doomed Confederate capital.

In due time Colonel Rosenthal was exchanged and released; but so broken in health from the pains and privations of his captivity, that when he reported himself for duty at his brigade headquarters, he was immediately sent home on sick leave.

And there it required many weeks of Erminie’s careful and skillful nursing before his strength could be restored.

During all this time Justin had been unremitting in his efforts to hear tidings of Britomarte, and to take measures for her release. But none of these efforts were successful.

It will be remembered that when Britomarte was taken from the prisoners’ line of march to be cast into Castle Thunder, Justin was some two squares ahead, and knew nothing of her withdrawal.

When the party of prisoners reached Belle Isle, he looked around for Britomarte, and not seeing her, cautiously inquired among the men who, some of them, knew her by sight, but only as “Captain Wing,” a commissioned officer of his regiment.

The men could give no information, until at length the two or three who had marched nearest to her said that “Captain Wing” had been taken from the line, when they were halted in one of the streets of the city; but they could not tell where “he” had been carried.

He inquired of the guard, who remained dumb.

Then he questioned the officer of the guard, who gave him no satisfaction, but, on the contrary, turned cross-questioner himself, in order to find out who Britomarte was.

Justin saw his drift and became silent.

So his investigations ended for that time, to be renewed again and again, both at Richmond and at Washington, with no better success.

She was a prisoner in a solitary cell in Castle Thunder, where she was known only by the name which the mistaken rebel soldier had bestowed upon her; so it was not probable, or scarcely possible, that her friends should hear of her condition.

Early in January, Justin, still in very feeble health, but impatient to serve his country, rejoined his regiment. He returned to the front, in company with many officers who had been home on furlough to spend the Christmas holidays.

He found that already the spring campaign, destined to be the last and greatest of the war, was about to open.

Along the whole lines, active preparations were being made for a new combined assault upon Petersburg and Richmond.

General Grant was at City Point, with the whole plan of the campaign in his comprehensive brain, and directing the operations of the whole army with consummate skill. There had been many changes in the army since Colonel Rosenthal had fought with them in the battles of Cold Harbor. Officers by thousands and enlisted men by tens of thousands, had been killed, wounded, or taken prisoners, in the scores of battles that had been fought between the Pamunkey, the Chickahominy, and the James rivers, and around Petersburg. And their places had been filled up with raw recruits. Veteran privates had developed into commissioned officers, and officers of the line had grown into regimental, brigade, and even division commanders. But it was only “gallant and meritorious conduct” in the service that was thus distinguished.

For instance, little Mim, who, at the battle of the Chickahominy, in June, was only a private soldier in an infantry regiment, was now major and aid-de-camp on the staff of a division general, while Billingcoo, who was mustered in at the same time with Mim, remained still a very sorry soldier of the rank and file.

But then Mim was a little hero, ever foremost in the fight, by his high-hearted bravery and devotion ever inspiring and encouraging all around him, while Billingcoo, in every engagement, was flagrantly among the skulkers, and ran away and hid himself whenever he could get an opportunity to do so.

And singularly enough, Mim, who constantly exposed himself in the front of battle, seemed, even under a storm of shot and shell, to bear a charmed life; while Billingcoo, who gave his whole mind to the duty of taking care of his body, was always getting hurt. And once, while hiding behind a barn, one day, to keep out of the range of shot, he had his ear torn off by a splinter from a shell that came splitting its way through the timbers of the building.

When Colonel Rosenthal met Mim, he congratulated that gallant officer on his well-earned advancement.

“Thanks,” said the little hero, drawing himself up. “I always told the recruiting officers, when I offered myself, that I could do good military service for my country, but they never agreed with me, and in the face of the fact that almost every great martial hero the world has known, from Alexander to Napoleon, was a little man, they repeatedly refused me. Yes, they refused me until things came to such a pass that for want of men they were compelled, like the feast giver in the Bible, to call in ‘the maimed, the halt and the blind.’ The Invalid Corps, you know, Colonel. Then at length they consented to take _me_.”

“And you have done good service to your country, and great credit to yourself, Major Mim,” answered Justin.

With Billingcoo Justin did not happen to come in contact at all.

And now, about the last of January, the most energetic arrangements were made to close in around Petersburg and Richmond. The whole army was in the most active preparation.

The first object was to seize the South Side Railroad.

To absorb the attention of the enemy, a heavy cannonading was opened upon Petersburg, hurling an overwhelming tempest of shot and shell into the city.

Under cover of this terrific assault in the front, the sick, the wounded, the sutlers, the camp followers, with all their baggage, and all other animate and inanimate incumbrances to the movements of the army, were dispatched by railroad to City Point, and all serviceable troops and supplies were brought up and massed on the left.

As early as three o’clock on Sunday, the fifth of February, under cover of the darkness, Gregg’s division of cavalry commenced its march, followed immediately by the Fifth and Second Corps. The weather was glorious, the roads in the best condition, and the men in the best spirits.

It was rather a strange coincidence that Colonel Rosenthal’s last engagement, in which he was wounded and taken prisoner, had been in a charge upon Wade Hampton’s cavalry, and that his first encounter on rejoining his regiment should be with the same brave foe. But such were the facts, for—

They had advanced but a little way beyond Ream’s Station, on the Dinwiddie Court House Road, when they were met by Wade Hampton’s cavalry, with whom they had a fierce contest for the right of way, before they could pass. But again they were victorious, and rushed onward like a whirlwind towards Dinwiddie Court House, encountering and overwhelming the enemy at every post along the road.

The other divisions advanced by adjacent roads running in the same general direction, battling every mile of the way.

But the great battle was fought on Monday, the sixth of February, at Hatcher’s Run, a deep stream passing through a nearly pathless wilderness, broken into fearful ravines, stagnant marshes, and heavy woods—a locality new to our soldiers, but perfectly familiar to the enemy.

Here, at length, the farther advance of our army was for the time effectually checked.

A battle was commenced early in the day, and gradually increased in violence, until at nightfall it raged with tremendous fury. Gregg’s division of cavalry, and Warren’s and Humphrey’s corps, were all engaged. Again and again they pressed forward under a pelting shower of bullets, that fell thick, fast and blinding as a hailstorm, and again and again they were driven back, fighting desperately behind rocks, stumps and trees. So often they fought over the same ground, that the woods and marshes were strewn thickly with the dead and dying of both armies, in an undistinguishable confusion.

The circumstances were very discouraging to brave men, but very favorable to skulkers; and unluckily there _were_ skulkers in that heroic army, but they were mostly to be found among the raw recruits—soft metal—that had not yet been hardened in the fires of an hundred battles.

From time to time staff officers were sent out, like whippers-in of hounds, to hunt up these heroes and hurry them to their line.

Major Mim, being an active, energetic little fellow, was dispatched on just such a duty. In the course of his ride through the wilderness, he came upon Billingcoo lurking in a thicket.

“Get up and go to your company, sir,” said Mim.

“Oh, I can’t! I can’t, indeed! Hear how the thots are cracking and thnapping about! And look how the men are dropping! Oh, the poor fellowth! oh, the poor, dear fellowth!” whimpered Billingcoo.

“For shame, sir! Get up, and go and help the ‘poor fellowths’ you profess to feel so much sympathy for,” said Mim.

“I can’t! indeed I can’t! The bulleth hurt! they do indeed, Mathor! And the Rebelth fire without the thlighteth regard to a man’s life! Oh, look how they are falling! Oh, poor fellowth! oh, the poor, poor fellowth!” howled Billingcoo.

“The _brave_ fellows, you mean; get up and imitate them.”

“Oh, I couldn’t! I couldn’t for my life! I thould be thertain to be killed! The Rebelth fire tho carelethly, not minding who they hit! I feel I thould he killed!

“Suppose you _are_ killed, you poltroon! what of it? A man can die but once!” exclaimed little Mim, thoroughly provoked.

“I tell you I’ve died a thouthand death thinth I’ve been in the army! I’ve died a hundred death thinth I’ve been in thith thicket!”

“And you’ll die a hundred thousand more if you do not get over your cowardly fears! Look at that young fellow there!” said Mim, pointing to a young officer at some distance who, with sword in hand, was gaily cheering on his men to the conflict.

Billingcoo looked; but at that moment a shell came tearing and splitting its way through the woods, and when the smoke cleared away, a horrible picture was revealed between its rifts. The young officer stood in the same attitude, with his sword drawn and held at arm’s length over his head, but his whole face was blown off, and nothing but a gory, crimson, quivering mass of flesh remained where it had been. For only an instant he stood thus, and then fell.

Billingcoo uttered a cry of horror and deadly terror, and threw himself forward upon the ground.

Even Mim shuddered, and covered his eyes for a moment; but then recovering herself, he looked up and said:

“It is all over by this time; the brave young fellow is out of his misery. Come, Billingcoo! I have been sent to hurry up all laggards. Get up! Pick up your musket and march!”

“I tell you I can’t—there! and I won’t neither—there! Do you think I want to have my fathe blown to pieth like that young man’th! I say I can’t and I won’t go! I am religiouthly oppothed to war!” answered Billingcoo, lifting his head for a moment, and then letting it fall.

“You say you can’t and you won’t! Well, I say you must and you shall!” exclaimed Mim, goading the sides of the prostrate coward with the point of his drawn sword.

“Oh! look here now! That hurth! Thtop that!” cried Billingcoo.

“Get up then, and go to your company!” said Mim, goading him more pointedly than ever.

“Oh lor! oh dear! oh me! call this a free country indeed! Thtop that now, will you! It _hurth_, I tell you!”

“Get up, then!” repeated Mim, digging at him again.

But at that moment a minie ball came whizzing towards them, piercing the leg of Mim and killing his horse, which instantly fell under him; so that both rider and horse rolled on the ground.

“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” shouted Billingcoo. “I don’t bear you any ill-will, old fellow; but I do think it therveth you right, and I do thank the goodneth grathiouth alive for thith great deliveranth!”

And he jumped up, cut three or four capers in the air, and ran farther away out of gun-shot; for the battle was now surging nearer and nearer to them.

Every one knows that on that night our army was beaten back to their intrenchments upon Hatcher’s Run, where they made a final stand.

The next day, when the wounded were looked up, Mim was found with his leg hurt beside his dead horse. And some distance farther on Billingcoo was found dead—transfixed with a splinter driven into his body by a shell that had torn its way through the old log cabin behind which the poor creature, with his usual fatuity, had hidden himself in fancied security.

Our army were now in undisputed possession of Hatcher’s Run. And the City Point Railroad was in good working order up to this post.

But, as every one knows, it was three weeks later, and after almost incessant fighting along the White Oak Road, culminating in the terrific battle of the Five Forks, that the South Side Railroad was at length seized and destroyed, the Confederate army totally routed, and the way opened to the occupation of Richmond and Petersburg by our troops.

It would be presumptuous in a mere story-writer to dwell upon these magnificent themes, so much beyond her power of treatment. This story does not pretend to be a history of the campaign or of any portion of it; it is only a simple narrative of the part taken therein by certain persons in whom we are interested. And besides, it would be useless to dilate upon events that are still fresh in the memory of all. All recollect—how from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and from the Lakes to the Gulf—how all the land rang with joy, how all the cities glowed with light, how all the banners waved in triumph—when the vibrating telegraphic wires flashed East and West—flashed North and South—the proud words:

“Richmond and Petersburg are ours! One third of Lee’s army is destroyed. And for the rest there is no escape.”

And yet, even among the most loyal of the Union party, _mostly_ among them perhaps, was this joy mingled with sadness, for they were no alien foes that our arms had vanquished.