Sharyn McCrumb - MacPherson's Lament

It was the same everywhere. Hawks knew that. The Yankees’ General Sheridan had laid waste to most of Virginia. The Richmond paper had quoted a message that Sheridan sent to Lincoln: “If a crow were to fly across the Shenandoah Valley, he would have to take his rations with him.”

“And I’ve no family left,” Bridgeford went on. “I’ve grown accustomed to being hungry. What does it matter if we go or stay?”

So they had stayed, and when the train rumbled into Greensboro with only two hundred and fifty men aboard, Hawks and Bridgeford were still among that number. Some of the men joked that they’d just keep on riding the train to Mexico; they had been traveling on it for more than a week already. After a few days’ wait in Greensboro, the train ride began again; but this time the government officials were not aboard.

Word had it that Joe Johnston was going to surrender his army, too. They’d all heard reports of what he’d told the government officials. One of the orderlies could tell it off by heart: “ ‘I shall expect to retain no man beyond the byroad or cow-path that leads to his home. My small force is melting away like snow before the sun, and I am hopeless of recruiting it.’ ” The Confederacy had fallen with Robert E. Lee; only the politicians seemed ignorant of that fact. It was at last decided that Johnston would surrender his army, but political leaders would continue to retreat, perhaps to continue the fighting farther south, or failing that, to set up a government in exile in Mexico or in Europe.

On April 16 the presidential party disbanded to go their separate ways, some on horseback, some in wagons and ambulances, all heading south, and all with a few soldiers for escort. There was word that Stoneman’s cavalry was combing the area in search of Jefferson Davis, and the officials believed that a scattering of several groups of fugitives would increase the president’s chances of getting away. The train continued on as before, as an added decoy for the Union pursuers, now escorted by a mounted guard of Admiral Semmes’s forces to fend off the enemy cavalry. Their protection was more than a decoy for the opposition. The train in itself was well worth defending, for in one of its cars was the contents of the Confederate treasury: silver coin and gold bullion transported from Richmond with the evacuation of the government.

The tattered caravans wended their way south, following muddy roads past blackened chimneys and stubbled fields that would mean more hunger in the months to come. They stopped in Charlotte, North Carolina, for a week-long stay, where news of Lincoln’s assassination reached President Davis, but there was no rejoicing over the passing of their old adversary. He was thought a fair man, and one whose death boded only ill for the Southern people. Word of Johnston’s surrender was telegraphed to the anxious cabinet, and then a message from Johnston that the Union had denied Sherman permission to offer lenient terms of surrender. The flight was on again.

From Charlotte, North Carolina, the parties proceeded to Yorkville, South Carolina, with an escort of more than two hundred cavalry, troops escaping from Johnston’s surrender. They scouted the area for enemy troops and escorted the cabinet to the Greenville Railroad, on which they traveled to Cokesville. The Union forces were in hot pursuit; Davis was roused in the middle of the night to flee from enemy troops just ten miles from the town. Despite the fugitive nature of the government’s journey, its progress was never secret. The opposing forces always knew where they were going, and at each stop, the townspeople met them with cheering crowds and offers of hospitality. But the goodwill of the citizens would not protect them from the wrath of the victors; a capture would mean prison or the gallows.

They fled to Abbeville, arriving there on the second of May, but they didn’t stay long. While the Confederate cabinet was holding its last meeting at the home of Colonel Armistead Burt, the train pulled into the depot, still guarded by Semmes’s forces, and a change in personnel was made. George Trenholm, the secretary of the treasury, had been left ill near the Catawba River, and now the president appointed Postmaster John H. Reagan acting treasurer of the Confederacy. Reagan took charge of the train and ordered the cavalry to proceed to Washington, Georgia, forty-five miles to the south. When it arrived, he relinquished the office of treasurer to Captain Micajah Clark, formerly chief clerk of Jefferson Davis’s executive office. That transfer of authority was the last official signature affixed by the president to any document.

Hawks and Bridgeford knew nothing of these transactions of power. They accompanied the train on its southward procession, obeying whatever orders were given. They knew, though, that the train could not be guarded safely much longer. And more men were anxious to leave the service of the dying nation. How foolish it would be to die in an eleventh-hour battle for a country that no longer existed.

At Washington, Georgia, General Breckinridge demanded that the treasurer pay his troops out of the remaining funds. The soldiers’ paper money was worthless, and they would need money to make their way home, and so the quartermasters made out their payrolls and paid each man about twenty-six dollars in coin, enough perhaps to see them safely through.

Since the train was no longer a safe means of transportation, the forces disbanded one last time. Stephen Mallory, secretary of the navy, remained in Washington, Georgia, and Mr. Benjamin of the cabinet faded away before Jefferson Davis was captured at Irwinsville on May 10. The others were heading for Florida, hoping to outrun and outlast their pursuers.

Hawks and Bridgeford were among the small band of ex-navy men who accompanied Paymaster James A. Semple on the final leg of the journey to nowhere in particular. In their charge were a couple of wagons, containing the remnants of the navy’s supplies and rations. The paymaster was a legend in the military for the resourcefulness of his scrounging. In Danville, he was even lending supplies to some of the army personnel. Hawks wondered if he’d ever taste real coffee again. The concoction of mashed peanuts that they were drinking went by the name of coffee, but the taste wouldn’t fool a lap baby. The stuff was hot, and that was about all you could say for it. The food alone would make a man desert, never mind the hopelessness of a lost war. Going home meant meat without maggots, fresh eggs and vegetables, and maybe a dash of salt again.

“We have little enough to show for serving our country,” said Bridgeford as they rode along beside the wagon. His horse was a bag of bones covered with skin; its head drooped with exhaustion under the weight of its rider. “I have a few silver coins and a Confederate penny given to me by Admiral Semmes, a ragged coat, some scars, and the rank of lieutenant in a defeated army. It isn’t much of a start for my career as a civilian.”

“It makes me no never mind,” said Hawks. “I was a farmer before; reckon I will be again. All I lost was time.”

“Doesn’t it bother you any that you gave four years of your life for nothing?”

“Wish we coulda won,” shrugged Hawks. “But there’s a lot gave more than I did. General Jackson did. The boys I joined up with-most of them won’t be going back at all.”

Tom Bridgeford slowed his horse to let the wagon go ahead of them. “That’s war for you. Nobody wins but the politicians. Why, I bet as soon as the ink is dry on the peace treaties, the career officers will be worming their way back into the Union Army, and the politicians will be trying to get appointed to offices under whatever govenment is running things. It’s the rest of us who’ll be out of luck, broke in health and nothing to show for it.”