June, 1864.

General Grant had tried to break Lee's lines at Cold Harbor, and had been repulsed with great loss. The Richmond newspapers were jubilant. "He is floundering in the swamps of Chickahominy. He has reached the graveyard of Yankee armies," said they.

The newspapers opposed to the war and in sympathy with the Rebellion, in the North, made Cold Harbor an occasion for glorifying General McClellan, their candidate for the Presidency.

"Grant is a butcher. He has sacrificed a hundred thousand lives. He acts under Lincoln's orders. Elect McClellan, and we shall have peace."

The army was dejected, but did not lose heart. It had been repulsed, had lost many brave men, but it had pushed Lee from the Wilderness to Richmond.

I conversed freely with the soldiers, and rarely found one who had not full confidence in the ability of General Grant. Round their bivouac fires the history of the Army of the Potomac was freely discussed. The old soldiers, who had fought in the first Cold Harbor battle, remembered how twenty-seven thousand men held Lee at bay on that ground through the long hours of the first of the seven days' fight in front of Richmond; how McClellan kept sixty thousand men on the south bank of the Chickahominy, inactive,—sending a brigade to their aid when too late to be of use. They recalled the scenes of those terrible demoralizing days,—how McClellan kept out of harm's way. When the battle was raging on the north bank of the Chickahominy he was south of it; when Sumner was holding Savage Station, McClellan was across White Oak Swamp; when Glendale was fought, and the Rebels under Hill routed, McClellan was at Malvern, and while Magruder was madly pushing his troops on to be slaughtered at Malvern, McClellan was on board a gunboat; how in the night the whole army was ordered away from a victorious field, from an impregnable position, while Lee was fleeing towards Richmond! Soldiers who had come later into the service remembered the failure at Fredericksburg and the retreat from Chancellorsville, and in contrast saw that Grant had pluck. It is a quality of character which soldiers admire. They could also see that there was system in his movements. They sometimes spoke of him as the Grand Flanker. "He'll flank Lee out of Richmond yet; see if he don't," said a soldier.

If Grant had failed to move Lee from his position in a direct attack, Lee also had failed to drive Grant from the junction of the roads at old Cold Harbor,—an important point, as, by opening the railroad from White House, he could easily bring up his supplies. His army was intact,—not divided, as McClellan's had been by the dark and sluggish Chickahominy.

"What will Grant do?" was a question often discussed around the mess-tables of brigadiers, colonels, and captains,—by men who were bound to obey all orders, but who nevertheless had their own ideas as to the best method of conducting the campaign. The Lieutenant-General had the whole plan of operations settled for him many times. It was amusing to see the strategic points indicated on the maps.

"He can swing in north of the city upon the high lands. The Chickahominy swamps don't extend above Mechanicsville," said one.

"But how will he get his supplies?"

"Open the Fredericksburg road. It is open now from Aquia Creek to the Rappahannock."

But Grant, instead of opening the road, determined to break it up completely, also the Virginia Central, which runs to Gordonsville, to prevent Lee from moving upon Washington. Up to this time all of his movements, while they were upon Lee's flank, had not uncovered that city; but now Washington would take care of itself.

The plan of the campaign had been well matured by General Grant before he started from Culpepper. He says:—

"My idea from the start had been to beat the enemy north of Richmond if possible. Then after destroying his lines of communication north of the James River, to transfer the army to the south side, and besiege Lee in Richmond, or follow him south if he should retreat."[64]

Grant was not willing to sacrifice his men. He resolved to transfer his army south of the James, and cut Lee's communications. Gregg was sent in advance, with the cavalry belonging to the Army of the Potomac, crossing the Chickahominy, and making a rapid movement by the left flank.

Lee evidently did not mistrust Grant's intention,—judging from the disposition he made of his troops, and the tardiness with which he marched to counteract the movement. The transfer of the Eighteenth Corps from Bermuda Hundred to Cold Harbor undoubtedly had its effect upon Lee's calculations. It was an indication that Grant intended to keep Washington covered.

Hunter at this time was advancing from the West. Sheridan, who had been guarding the road to White House, was withdrawn, and sent with two divisions of his cavalry up the Virginia Central road to Gordonsville, hoping to meet Hunter at Charlottesville; but Hunter had moved on Lynchburg, and the union of the forces was not effected. Sheridan's movement, however, threw dust in the eyes of Lee.

Grant knew that Petersburg was held by a handful of Rebel troops,—Wise's Legion. The citizens had been organized into a battalion, but the place could be taken by surprise. Strong earthworks had been thrown up around the city early in the war, but the troops in the city were not sufficient to man them. Grant believed that the place could be seized without difficulty; and taking a steamer at White House went to Bermuda Hundred, held a conference with Butler, who sent Gillmore with thirty-five hundred men across the Appomattox, near the Point of Rocks, to attack the city from the east. At the same time, Kautz's division of cavalry was sent, by a long detour, across the Norfolk Railroad, to enter the town from the south. Having made these arrangements, Grant returned to his army, which had been lying behind its intrenchments at Cold Harbor. Preparations had been quietly making for a rapid march. The Second Corps had been moved down towards the Chickahominy. The Fifth was sent to Despatch Station. Gregg and Torbett, with their divisions of cavalry, were placed at Bottom's Bridge. The Rebel pickets were there on watch. Meanwhile workmen were busily engaged in opening the railroad. Lee must have known that Grant had a new movement under way, the precise nature of which it was difficult to understand.

The movement of Gillmore was a disgraceful failure. He crossed the Appomattox on the evening of the 10th of June, without molestation, marched up within sight of the city spires, discovered a formidable line of breastworks, and without making an attack, turned about and retired to Bermuda Hundred. Kautz, on the contrary, after a rapid movement, entered the city from the south, but Gillmore having retreated, could not hold it, and was obliged to retire.

Grant was justly indignant when he heard of the failure. It was a golden opportunity lost. Gillmore and Kautz could have taken and held the place till the arrival of reinforcements. Gillmore was wholly responsible for the failure. Grant once more hurried to Bermuda Hundred, to superintend in a second movement, leaving Meade to conduct the army from Cold Harbor to the James.

The grand movement from the north of Richmond, by which the whole army was placed south of that city, was begun on the 12th, in the evening. Wilson's division of cavalry was thrown across the Chickahominy, and sent to seize Long Bridge in White Oak Swamp. The Fifth Corps followed. The Rebels struck the Fifth Corps in flank, but Crawford repulsed them. The Second Corps followed the Fifth. The Sixth and Ninth crossed at Jones's Bridge, while the fifty miles of wagon trains swung far to the east and crossed the swamp fifteen miles below. Gregg covered the flank of the army with his cavalry, concealing the movement. The men had a hard time, being attacked constantly by the Rebel cavalry and infantry. It was of the utmost importance to Lee to know where Grant intended to strike, whether north of the James, by the Charles City and New Market roads, or across the James at Dutch Gap, joining his forces with Butler's, or whether his movement was directly upon Petersburg.

Lee moved on the inner circle with great caution.

The Eighteenth Corps took water transportation from White House, and arrived at Bermuda Hundred at midnight on the 14th. Grant was there. He ordered General Smith to proceed at once against Petersburg. If successful in the seizure of that place, Lee would be compelled to leave Richmond. It was in the line of his direct communication with the South. Losing that place, he would have only the Danville road, and Grant would soon deprive him of that. The Appomattox would be Grant's line of defence. Seizing it Grant could bide his time. He could become a patient watcher, and Lee would be a victim to circumstances.

Grant was quick to see the advantages to be gained. Lee was slower in arriving at a perception of the fatal consequences to himself which would result from the loss of the place; but when awakened to a sense of his danger, acted with great energy. On the other hand, Smith, who was intrusted with the execution of the enterprise, was dilatory in the execution. Birney in part is to be held responsible for the delay in the execution of the order.

"Push on and capture the place at all hazards! You shall have the whole army to reinforce you," said Grant to Smith. Grant was in such haste to have Smith move, that he did not stop to write the order. He believed that Smith could reach Petersburg before Lee could make his detour through Richmond.

A. P. Hill had already been thrown south of Richmond, and was in front of Butler. The scouts up the Appomattox reported the rumbling of heavy trains along the Richmond and Petersburg railroad. Lee was putting his troops into the cars. The dash of Kautz, and the movement of Gillmore up to the entrenchments, and his retirement without an attack, had resulted in the manning of the Petersburg batteries. A brigade had been thrown down towards City Point, five miles from Petersburg. Soon after daylight the cavalry came upon the Rebel pickets, by the City Point railroad, beyond which they found the Rebels with two cannon behind rifle-pits, in the centre of an open field on Bailey's farm. Hinks's division of the Eighteenth Corps was composed of colored troops, who had never been under fire. Would they fight? That was the important question. After a reconnoissance of the position by General Hinks, the troops were formed for an assault. The Rebel cannon opened. The sons of Africa did not flinch, but took their positions with deliberation. They had been slaves; they stood face to face with their former masters, or with their representatives. The flag in front of them waving in the morning breeze was the emblem of oppression; the banner above them was the flag of the free. Would an abject, servile race, kept in chains four thousand years, assert their manhood? Interesting the problem. Their brothers had given the lie to the assertion of the white man, that negroes wouldn't fight, at Wagner and Port Hudson. Would they falter?

The Rebels were on a knoll in the field, and had a clear sweep of all the approaches. The advancing troops must come out from the woods, rush up the slope, and carry it at the point of the bayonet, receiving the tempest of musketry and canister.

Hinks deployed his line. At the word of command the colored men stepped out from the woods, and stood before the enemy. They gave a volley, and received one in return. Shells crashed through them, but, unheeding the storm, with a yell they started up the slope upon the run. They received one charge of canister, one scathing volley of musketry. Seventy of their number went down, but the living hundreds rushed on. The Rebels did not wait their coming, but fled towards Petersburg, leaving one of the pieces of artillery in the hands of their assailants, who leaped over the works, turned it in a twinkling, but were not able to fire upon the retreating foe, fleeing in consternation towards the main line of entrenchments two miles east of the city.

The colored troops were wild with joy. They embraced the captured cannon with affectionate enthusiasm, patting it as if it were animate, and could appreciate the endearment.

"Every soldier of the colored division was two inches taller for that achievement," said an officer describing it. These regiments were the Fifth and Twenty-Second United States colored troops, who deserve honorable mention in history. Brooks's division now moved up. Martindale was approaching Petersburg by the river road. By noon the whole corps was in front of the main line of works. Martindale was on the right, by the river, Brooks in the centre, Hinks on the left, with Kautz's division of cavalry sweeping down to the Jerusalem road, which enters Petersburg from the southeast.

Smith delayed unaccountably to make the attack. It was a priceless moment. A reconnoissance showed a line of strong works, in which were eighteen pieces of field artillery. The forts were well built, and connected with breastworks, but the Rebels had not soldiers enough to man them. The citizens of Petersburg had been called out to hold the town. It is evident that Smith might just as well have accomplished at one o'clock what was achieved at sunset. He was a brave officer, fearless in battle, an engineer of ability, reckless of danger, but failed to see the necessity of impetuous action. The value of time was left out of his calculations.

General Grant thus speaks of Smith's operations:—

"General Smith got off as directed, and confronted the enemy's pickets near Petersburg before daylight next morning, but for some reason that I have never been able to satisfactorily understand, did not get ready to assault his main lines until near sundown. Then, with a part of his command only, he made the assault, and carried the lines northeast of Petersburg from the Appomattox River, for a distance of over two and a half miles, capturing fifteen pieces of artillery and three hundred prisoners. This was about seven P. M."[65]

The main road leading east from Petersburg ascends a hill two miles out, upon the top of which stands the house of Mr. Dunn. The house is a few rods south of the road. In front of it is a fort; another south; a third north, and other works, with heavy embankments and deep ditches. The woods in front of the house of Mr. Dunn were cut down in 1862, when McClellan was on the Peninsula, and the trunks of the trees, blackened by fire, are lying there still, forming an abatis. The ground is nearly level, and the Rebel riflemen have a fair view of the entire field. It is three hundred and sixty paces from the forts to the woods, in the edge of which Hinks's division of colored troops are lying. The guns in the forts by the house of Mr. Dunn give a direct front fire, while those by the house of Mr. Osborn on the north enfilade the line. Brooks is in position to move upon the batteries by Osborn's house, while Martindale is to advance up the railroad.

The troops were placed in line for the attack not far from one o'clock. They were exposed to the fire of the artillery. Hinks impatiently waited for orders. Two o'clock passed. The shells from the Rebel batteries were doing damage.

"Lie down!" said he to his men. They obeyed, and were somewhat sheltered.

Three o'clock! four o'clock,—five,—still no orders. Duncan's brigade was lying on both sides of the road, a short distance north of Buffum's house.

At length the word was given. Duncan threw forward a cloud of skirmishers. The Rebels opened with renewed vigor from the batteries; and the infantry, resting their muskets over the breastworks, fired at will and with great accuracy of aim. Men dropped from the advancing ranks. It was of little use to fire in return. "On! push on!" was the order. Hinks and Duncan both entered heartily into the movement. They had chafed all the afternoon at the delay; but had been admiring observers of the conduct of the troops under the fire of shells.

The skirmishers advanced quickly within close range, followed by the main line, moving more slowly over the fallen timber. The skirmishers gave a yell and pushed on, without waiting for the main body. They leaped into the ditches in front of the breastworks, and climbed on their hands and knees up the steep embankments. The Rebels above fired into their faces, and many a brave fellow rolled back dead to the bottom.

The column, perceiving the advance of their comrades, and catching the enthusiasm, broke into a run, rushing upon the forts, sweeping round the curtains, scaling the breastworks, and dashing madly at the Rebels, who fled towards Petersburg. Brooks's men at the same moment swarmed over the embankments by Osborn's, while Martindale advanced along the railroad. Fifteen pieces and three hundred men were captured, of which two thirds of the prisoners and nine cannon were taken by the colored troops, who wheeled the guns instantly upon the enemy, and then, seizing the spades and shovels which the Rebels had left behind, reversed the fortifications and made them a stronghold.

Through the months which followed the colored troops looked back to this exploit with pride. They never were weary of talking about it,—how they advanced, how they leaped over the intrenchments, how the Rebels went down the hill upon the run.

Smith had possession of the fortifications at 7 P. M. He ought to have moved on. There were no other works between him and Petersburg. Not a brigade from Lee had reached the city, and the disaster was calculated to demoralize the Rebel soldiers. The Second Corps had arrived. Birney, who had the advance of that corps, ought to have been on the ground by mid-afternoon, and Smith had delayed the assault on his account. He expected Birney to appear on his left, and attack by the Jerusalem plank-road; but that officer, by taking the wrong road, went several miles out of his way. Had he been in position at the time Smith expected him, the attack would have been made at 3 o'clock instead of at 7.

Smith's delay to follow up the advantage gained was an error. General Grant says:—

"Between the line thus captured and Petersburg there were no other works, and there was no evidence that the enemy had reinforced Petersburg with a single brigade from any source. The night was clear,—the moon shining brightly,—and favorable to further operations. General Hancock, with two divisions of the Second Corps, had reached General Smith just after dark, and offered the service of these troops as he (Smith) might wish, waiving rank to the named commander, who, he naturally supposed, knew best the position of affairs. But instead of taking these troops and pushing on at once into Petersburg, he requested General Hancock to relieve a part of his line in the captured works, which was done before midnight."[66]

Not till the Rebel outpost on Bailey's farm fell into the hands of the colored troops did Lee fully comprehend Grant's movement. Then there were lively movements in the Rebel ranks. All of the railroad cars in Richmond were put upon the road. Brigades were hurried through the streets, piled into the cars, and sent whirling towards Petersburg.

While Lee was watching the Charles City and Newmarket roads, north of the James, expecting Grant in that direction, Butler sent General Terry, with a portion of the Tenth Corps, on a reconnoissance in front of Bermuda Hundred. Terry encountered the Rebel pickets, drove them in, reached the main line, attacked vigorously, broke through, carrying all before him, and pushed on to the railroad at Port Walthall Junction, cut down the telegraph, and tore up the track.

This was an advantage not expected by Grant, who at once ordered two divisions of the Sixth Corps, under Wright, to report to Butler at Bermuda Hundred; but that officer, instead of moving rapidly, advanced leisurely, and even halted awhile.

Terry was attacked by A. P. Hill and obliged to fall back. Grant had the mortification of learning in the evening that, through the dilatory movements of the troops under Smith and Wright, his plans had failed.

In the counsels of the Almighty the time for final victory had not come. God reigns, but men act freely nevertheless. There have been numerous instances during the war where great events hung on little things. An interesting chapter might be written of the occasions where the scales were seemingly evenly balanced, and where, to the eye of faith, the breath of the Almighty turned them for the time.

At Bull Run the victory was lost to the Union arms through the mistake of Captain Barry.[67] At Pittsburg Landing, if Johnston had attacked from the northwest instead of the southwest,—if he had deflected his army a mile,—far different, in all human probability, would have been the result of that battle.

Was the arrival of the Monitor in Hampton Roads on that morning, after the havoc made by the Merrimac, accidental? How providential rather! How singular, if not a providence, that the wind should blow so wildly from the southwest on that night of the withdrawal of the army from Fredericksburg, wafting the rumbling of Burnside's artillery and the tramp of a hundred thousand men away from the listening ears of the enemy within close musket-shot! Events which turn the scales according to our desires we are inclined to count as special providences: but the disaster at Bull Run, the sitting down of McClellan in the mud at Yorktown; the lost opportunities for moving upon Richmond after Williamsburg and Fair Oaks; also, while the battle was raging at Gaines's Mills and at Glendale; the pusillanimous retreat from Malvern; the inaction at Antietam; Hooker's retreat from Chancellorsville,—from Lee, who also was in retreat,—are inexplicable events. Meade's waiting at Boonsboro, Lee's escape, Gillmore's unexplained turning back from Petersburg, Wright's halting when everything depended on haste, Smith's delay,—all of these are mysterious providences to us, though to the Rebels they were at the time plain interpositions of God. God's system is reciprocal; everything has its use, everything is for a purpose. We read blindly, but to reason and faith there can be but one result,—the establishment of justice and righteousness between man and man and his Maker. There must be a righting of every wrong, an atonement for every crime.

"The laws of changeless justice bind
Oppressor with oppressed;
And, close as sin and suffering joined,
We march to fate abreast."

It must have been evident to most observers, that as the war progressed men were brought to a recognition of God, as an overruling power in the mighty conflict. In the first uprising of the people there was pure, intense patriotism. The battle of Bull Run stung the loyal masses of the North, and filled them with a determination to redeem their tarnished honor. The failure of the Peninsular campaigns, the terrible disasters in 1862, crushed and bruised men's spirits. They began to talk of giving freedom to the slave as well as of the restoration of the Union.

"My paramount object is to save the Union, and not either to save or destroy slavery," wrote President Lincoln to Horace Greeley, August 22d, 1862, reflecting doubtless the feelings of nearly a majority of the people. Whittier had already expressed, in the lines quoted on pages 41, 42, the feelings of those who saw that slavery or the nation must die. Two years passed, and Abraham Lincoln gave utterance to other sentiments in his second inaugural address to the people. Disaster, suffering, a view of Gettysburg battle-field, the consecration of that cemetery as the hallowed resting-place of the patriotic dead, had given him a clear insight of God's truth. Thus spoke he from the steps of the Capitol:—

"The Almighty has his own purposes. Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh! If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of these offences, which in the providence of God must needs come, but which, having continued through his appointed time, he now wills to remove, and that he gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those Divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that the mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn by the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still must it be said, the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."

It was the recognition of these principles that made the people patient under the severe afflictions, the disasters, the failures. Fathers and mothers, weeping for their sons slain in battle, said to their hearts, "Be still!" for they saw that God was leading the people, through suffering, to recognize justice and righteousness as the Republic,—that thus he was saving the nation from perdition.

The heroism of the colored soldiers, and their splendid achievements, won the respect of the army. Their patriotism was as sublime, their courage as noble, as that of their whiter-hued comrades boasting Anglo-Saxon blood, nurtured and refined by centuries of civilization.

On the morning after the battle, an officer, passing through the hospital, came upon a colored soldier who had lost his left leg.

"Well, my boy, I see that you have lost a leg for glory," said the officer.

"No, sir; I have not lost it for glory, but for the elevation of my race!"

It was a reply worthy of historic record, to be read, through the coming centuries, by every sable son of Africa, and by every man, of whatever lineage or clime, struggling to better his condition.

The negroes manifested their humanity as well as their patriotism.

"While the battle was raging," said General Hinks, "I saw two wounded negroes helping a Rebel prisoner, who was more severely wounded, to the rear."

"Give the water to my suffering soldiers," said the wounded Philip Sidney. The incident stands upon the historic page, and has been rehearsed in story and song, as worthy of admiration. Shall not this act of two unknown colored soldiers also have a place in history?

The time, we trust, will come when men will be rated for what they are worth,—when superiority will consist, not in brute force, but in moral qualities. The slaveholders of the South, at the beginning of the war, esteemed themselves superior to the men of the North, and immeasurably above their slaves; but in contrast,—to the shame of the slaveholders,—stands the massacre at Fort Pillow and the humanity of the colored soldiers in front of Petersburg.

On the night of the 16th, Burnside arrived with the Ninth Corps. Neill's division of the Sixth also arrived. Burnside attacked the Rebels, but was repulsed. The lines were reconnoitred, and it was determined to make a second assault.

About half a mile south of the house of Mr. Dunn was the residence of Mr. Shand, held by the Rebels. During the cannonade which preceded the assault, a Rebel officer entered the house and sat down to play a piano. Suddenly he found himself sitting on the floor, the stool having been knocked away by a solid shot, without injury to himself.

The house was a large two-story structure, fronting east, painted white, with great chimneys at either end, shaded by buttonwoods and gum-trees, with a peach-orchard in rear. Fifty paces from the front-door was a narrow ravine, fifteen or twenty feet deep, with a brook, fed by springs, trickling northward. West of the house, about the same distance, was another brook, the two joining about twenty rods north of the house. A Rebel brigade held this tongue of land, with four guns beneath the peach-trees. Their main line of breastworks was along the edge of the ravine east of the house. South, and on higher ground, was a redan,—a strong work with two guns, which enfiladed the ravine. Yet General Burnside thought that if he could get his troops into position, unperceived, he could take the tongue of land, which would break the Rebel line and compel them to evacuate the redan. Several attempts had been made by the Second Corps to break the line farther north, but without avail. This movement, if not successful, would be attended with great loss; nevertheless, it was determined to make the assault.

It was past midnight when General Potter led his division of the Ninth down into the ravine. The soldiers threw aside their knapsacks, haversacks, tin plates and cups, and moved stealthily. Not a word was spoken. The watches of the officers in command had been set to a second. They reached the ravine where the pickets were stationed, and moved south, keeping close under the bank. Above them, not fifteen paces distant, were the Rebel pickets, lying behind a bank of sand.

If their listening ears caught the sound of a movement in the ravine, they gave no alarm, and the troops took their positions undisturbed. The moon was full. Light clouds floated in the sky. Not a sound, save the distant rumble of wagons, or an occasional shot from the pickets, broke the silence of the night. The attacking column was composed of Griffin's and Curtin's brigades,—Griffin on the right. He had the Seventeenth Vermont and Eleventh New Hampshire in his front line, and the Ninth New Hampshire and Thirty-Second Maine in the second. Curtin had six regiments,—the Thirty-Sixth Massachusetts, and the Forty-Fifth and Forty-Eighth Pennsylvania, in his front line; the Seventh Rhode Island, Twelfth New York, and Fifty-Eighth Massachusetts in his second line.

The soldiers were worn with hard marching and constant fighting, and had but just arrived from City Point, yet they took their positions without flinching. The officers gazed at the hands of their watches in the moonlight, and saw them move on to the appointed time,—fifteen minutes past three. Twenty paces,—a spring up the steep bank would carry the men to the Rebel pickets; fifty paces to the muzzles of the enemy's guns.

"All ready!" was whispered from man to man. They rose from the ground erect. Not a gun-lock clicked. The bayonet was to do the work.

"Hurrah!" The lines rise like waves of the sea. There are straggling shots from the Rebel pickets, four flashes of light from the Rebel cannon by the house, two more from the redan, one volley from the infantry, wildly aimed, doing little damage. On,—up to the breastworks! Over them, seizing the guns! A minute has passed. Four guns, six hundred and fifty prisoners, fifteen hundred muskets, and four stands of colors are the trophies. The Rebel line is broken. The great point is gained, compelling Lee to abandon the ground which he has held so tenaciously.

In the Fifty-Seventh Massachusetts was a soldier named Edward M. Schneider. When the regiment was formed he was a student in Phillips Academy, Andover. From motives of patriotism, against the wishes of friends, he left the literature of the ancients and the history of the past, to become an actor in the present and to do what he could for future good. His father is the well-known missionary of the American Board at Aintab, Turkey.

On the march from Annapolis, though but seventeen years old, and unaccustomed to hardship, he kept his place in the ranks, from the encampment by the waters of the Chesapeake to the North Anna, where he was slightly wounded. The surgeons sent him to Port Royal for transportation to Washington, but of his own accord he returned to his regiment, joining it at Cold Harbor. While preparing for the charge upon the enemy's works, on the 17th instant, he said to the chaplain,—

"I intend to be the first one to enter their breastworks."

The brave young soldier tried to make good his words, leading the charge.

He was almost there,—not quite: almost near enough to feel the hot flash of the Rebel musketry in his face; near enough to be covered with sulphurous clouds from the cannon, when he fell, shot through the body.

He was carried to the hospital, with six hundred and fifty of his division comrades; but lay all night with his wound undressed, waiting his turn without a murmur. The chaplain looked at his wound.

"What do you think of it?"

Seeing that it was mortal, the chaplain was overcome with emotion. He remembered the last injunction of the young soldier's sister: "I commit him to your care."

The young hero interpreted the meaning of the tears,—that there was no hope.

"Do not weep," said he; "it is God's will. I wish you to write to my father, and tell him that I have tried to do my duty to my country and to God."

He disposed of his few effects, giving ten dollars to the Christian Commission, twenty dollars to the American Board, and trifles to his friends. Then, in the simplicity of his heart, said,—

"I have a good many friends, schoolmates, and companions. They will want to know where I am,—how I am getting on. You can let them know that I am gone, and that I die content. And, chaplain, the boys in the regiment,—I want you to tell them to stand by the dear old flag! And there is my brother in the navy,—write to him and tell him to stand by the flag and cling to the cross of Christ!"

The surgeon examined the wound.

"It is my duty to tell you that you will soon go home," said he.

"Yes, doctor, I am going home. I am not afraid to die. I don't know how the valley will be when I get to it, but it is all bright now." Then, gathering up his waning strength, he repeated the verse often sung by the soldiers, who, amid all the whirl and excitement of the camp and battle-field, never forget those whom they have left behind them,—mother, sister, father, brother. Calmly, clearly, distinctly he repeated the lines,—the chorus of the song:

"Soon with angels I'll be marching,
With bright laurels on my brow;
I have for my country fallen,—
Who will care for sister now?"

The night wore away. Death stole on. He suffered intense pain, but not a murmur escaped his lips. Sabbath morning dawned, and with the coming of the light he passed away.

"I die content," said Wolfe, at Quebec, when told that the French were fleeing.

"Stand up for Jesus," said Dudley Tyng, in his last hours: words which have warmed and moved thousands of Christian hearts.

"Let me die with my face to the enemy," was the last request of General Rice, Christian, soldier, and patriot, at Spottsylvania; but equally worthy of remembrance are the words of Edward M. Schneider,—boy, student, youthful leader of the desperate charge at Petersburg. They are the essence of all that Wolfe and Tyng and Rice uttered in their last moments. His grave is near the roadside, marked by a rude paling. The summer breeze sweeps through the sighing pines above the heaved-up mound. Mournful, yet sweet, the music of the wind-harp;—mournful, in that one so young, so full of life and hope and promise, should go so soon; sweet, in that he did his work so nobly. Had he lived a century he could not have completed it more thoroughly or faithfully. His was a short soldier's life, extending only from the peaceful shades of Andover to the intrenchments of Petersburg; but O, how full!

Will the tree of Liberty prematurely decay, if nourished by such life-giving blood? It is costly, but the fruit is precious. For pain and anguish, waste and desolation, we have such rich recompense as this,—such examples of patriotic ardor, heroic daring, and Christian fortitude, that make men nobler, nations greater, and the world better by their contemplation.

I have stood by the honored dust of those whose names are great in history, whose deeds and virtues are commemorated in brass and marble, who were venerated while living and mourned when dead; but never have I felt a profounder reverence for departed worth than for this young Christian soldier, uncoffined, unshrouded, wrapped only in his blanket, and sleeping serenely beneath the evergreen pines.

His last words—the messages to his comrades, to his father, and his brother—are worthy to live so long as the flag of our country shall wave or the cross of Christ endure.

"Stand up for the dear old flag and cling to the cross of Christ!" They are the emblems of all our hopes for time and eternity. Short, full, rounded, complete his life. Triumphant, glorious his death!