In the future, some writer may
delineate that hideous dream--to do so to-day, in this year 1868, would
tear the stoutest heart.
For myself, I do not attempt it. Were I able to paint the picture,
there would be no space. My memoir is nearly ended. The threads of the
woof are nearly spun out, and the loom is going to stop. Death stands
ready with his shears to cut the ravelled thread, knit up the seam, and
put his red label on the fabric!
XI.
I VISIT GENERAL FITZHUGH LEE.
The end of March, 1865, was approaching when I set out on what was to
prove my last tour of duty amid the pine woods of Dinwiddie.
It was a relief to be back in the army; to see brave faces and smiles
around me, instead of gloomy eyes and careworn cheeks, as in the city.
I passed along the Boydton road almost gayly; crossed the Rowanty at
Burgess's, and went on by General Lee's powerful works covering the
White Oak road, beyond. Soon I was approaching Dinwiddie Court-House,
in the vicinity of which was encamped our small force of starved and
broken-down cavalry.
Hampton had gone to meet Sherman, and the cavalry was commanded now by
General Fitzhugh Lee, who had recovered from his severe wound received
at Winchester. I was greeted by this brave soldier and accomplished
gentleman as warmly as I could have desired--for "General Fitz," as we
always called him at Stuart's head-quarters, was the soul of good humor
and good fellowship.
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