Everywhere, the soldiers laughed in the face of death. Each seemed to
feel, as did the old statesman with whom I had conversed on that night
at Richmond, that he was a sentinel on post, and must stand there to
the last. The lava might engulf him, but he was "posted," and must
stand until relieved, by his commanding officer or death. It was the
"poor private," in his ragged jacket and old shoes, as well as the
officer in his braided coat, who felt thus. For those private soldiers
of the army of Northern Virginia were gentlemen. _Noblesse oblige_ was
their motto; and they meant to die, musket in hand!
Oh, soldiers of the army, who carried those muskets in a hundred
battles!--who fought with them from Manassas, in 1861, to Appomattox,
in 1865--you are the real heroes of the mighty struggle, and one
comrade salutes you now, as he looked at you with admiration in old
days! What I saw in those journeys was dreary enough; but however black
may be the war-cloud, there is always the gleam of sunlight somewhere!
We laughed now and then, reader, even in the winter of 1864-'5!
I laugh still, as I think of the brave cannoneers of the horse
artillery near Staunton--and of the fearless Breathed, their commander,
jesting and playing with his young bull-dog, whom he had called
"Stuart" for his courage.
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