The result is--no conscripts, and a
thousand desertions. The soldiers are starving; their wives and
children are writing them letters that drive them mad--the end is not
far off; and when Grant reaches the Southside road we are gone."
Mr. X----- smoked his cigar with extreme calmness as he spoke.
"But one thing remains," I said.
"What is that?"
"Lee will retreat from Virginia."
Mr. X----- shook his head.
"He will not."
"Why not?"
"He will be prevented from doing so."
"Under any circumstances?"
"Until too late, at least."
"And the result?"
"Surrender--though he said to me the other day, when he came to see me
here, 'For myself, I intend to die sword in hand.'"
I could not refrain from a sentiment of profound gloom, as I listened
to these sombre predictions. It seemed incredible that they could be
well founded, but I had more than once had an opportunity to remark the
extraordinary prescience of the remarkable man with whom I conversed.
"You draw a black picture of the future," I said. "And the South seems
moving to and fro, on the crust of a volcano."
"No metaphor could be more just."
"And what will be the result of the war?"
"That is easy to reply to. Political slavery, negro suffrage, and the
bayonet, until the new leaven works.
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