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The Counsel of Lee

“A few days after the occupation, some drunken soldiers were heard talking in the back yard to our negroes, and it was gathered from what they said that the Federals were afraid General Lee had formed an ambuscade somewhere in the neighbourhood of the city, and that he might fall upon them at any time and deliver Richmond out of their hands. How our people wished it might be so!” Matoaca relates. “Do not buoy yourself up with that hope, my dear,” said her monitor. “There’s no hope save in the mercy of our conquerors. General Lee is a great soldier, an extraordinary tactician, but he cannot do the impossible. Our army cannot go on fighting forever without money and without food.”

When our beloved general came home, the doctrine he taught by precept and example was that of peace. “The stainless sword of Lee” had been laid down in good faith. We had fought a good fight, we had failed, we must accept the inevitable, we must not lose heart, we must work for our country’s welfare in peace. The very first heard of him in his modest, unheralded home-returning, he was teaching this.

Young William McCaw, his courier for four years, rode in with him; and General Lee, before going to his own home, delivered William, safe and sound, to his father. Dr. McCaw came out when they stopped in front of his door, and General Lee said:

“Here, Doctor, is your boy. I’ve brought him home to you.”

William was standing beside Traveller, his arm clasped around General Lee’s leg, and crying as if his heart would break. The General put his hand on William’s head and said:

“No more fighting—that’s all over. You’ve been a good fighter, Will—now I want to see you work for your country’s welfare in peace. Be a good boy. I expect a fine Christian manhood of you. Goodbye,” and he rode away to his own home, where his invalid wife awaited him.

It was good to have them home again, our men in gray; good though they came gaunt and footsore, ragged and empty-handed. And glad was the man in gray to cross his own threshold, though the wolf was at the door. Our men were ready enough for peace when peace—or what they mistook for peace—came; that is, the mass of them were. They had fought and starved their fill. The cries of destitute women and children called them home. They had no time to pause and cavil over lost issues, or to forge new occasions for quarrel. All they asked now was a chance to make meat and bread and raiment for themselves and those dependent on them.

Yet some young spirits were restive, would have preferred death to surrender. The lesson of utter submission came hard. The freeborn American, fearless of shot and shell, and regarding free speech as his birthright, found the task of keeping close watch over his tongue difficult. General Lee knew the mettle of the fiery young courier to whom he uttered the parting words that have been recorded. To many another youth just out of armor, he gave the same pacific counsel:

“We have laid down the sword. Work for a united country.”

RESIDENCE OF ROBERT E. LEE. 1861–65,

Richmond, Va.

Now the home of the Virginia Historical Society.

One high-strung lad seeing a Federal soldier treat a lady rudely on the street (a rare happening in Richmond), knocked him down, and was arrested. The situation was serious. The young man’s father went to General Ord and said: “See here, General, that boy’s hot from the battle-field. He doesn’t know anything but to fight.” General Ord’s response was: “I’ll arrange this matter for you. And you get this boy out of the city tonight.”

There happened to be staying in the same house with some of our friends, a young Confederate, Captain Wharton, who had come on sick leave to Richmond before the evacuation, and who, after that event, was very imprudent in expressing his mind freely on the streets, a perilous thing to do in those days. His friends were concerned for his safety. Suddenly he disappeared. Nobody knew what had become of him. Natural conclusion was that free speech had gotten him into trouble. At last a message came: “Please send me something to eat. I am in prison.”

Ladies came to know if Matoaca would be one of a committee to wait on the Provost-Marshal General in his behalf. She agreed, and the committee set out for the old Custom House where the Federals held court. They were admitted at once to General Patrick’s presence. He was an elderly gentleman, polite, courteous. “I was surprised,” says Matoaca, “because I had expected to see something with hoof and horns.”

“General,” she said, “we have come to see you about a young gentleman, our friend, Captain Wharton. He is in prison, and we suppose the cause of his arrest was imprudent speech. He has been ill for some time, and is too feeble to bear with safety the hardships and confinement of prison life. If we can secure his release, we will make ourselves responsible for his conduct.” She finished her little speech breathless. She saw the glimmer of a smile way down in his eyes. “I know nothing about the case,” he said kindly. “Of course, I can not know personally of all that transpires. But I will inquire into this matter, and see what can be done for this young gentleman.” Soon after, Captain Wharton called on Matoaca. She could hardly have left General Patrick’s presence before an orderly was dispatched for his release.

Friction resulted from efforts to ram the oath down everybody’s throat at once. I recite this instance because of the part General Lee took and duplicated in multitudes of cases. Captain George Wise was called before the Provost to take the oath. “Why must I take it?” asked he. “My parole covers the ground. I will not.” “You fought under General Lee, did you not?” “Yes. And surrendered with him, and gave my parole. To require this oath of me is to put an indignity upon me and my general.” “I will make a bargain with you, Captain. Consult General Lee and abide by his decision.”

The captain went to the Lee residence, where he was received by Mrs. Lee, who informed him that her husband was ill, but would see him. The general was lying on a lounge, pale, weary-looking, but fully dressed, in his gray uniform, the three stars on his collar; the three stars—to which any Confederate colonel was entitled—was the only insignia of rank he ever wore. “They want me to take this thing, General,” said the captain, extending a copy of the oath. “My parole covers it, and I do not think it should be required of me. What would you advise?”

“I would advise you to take it,” he said quietly. “It is absurd that it should be required of my soldiers, for, as you say, the parole practically covers it. Nevertheless, take it, I should say.” “General, I feel that this is submission to an indignity. If I must continue to swear the same thing over at every street corner, I will seek another country where I can at least preserve my self-respect.”

General Lee was silent for a few minutes. Then he said, quietly as before, a deep touch of sadness in his voice: “Do not leave Virginia. Our country needs her young men now.”

When the captain told Henry A. Wise that he had taken the oath, the ex-governor said: “You have disgraced the family!” “General Lee advised me to do it.” “Oh, that alters the case. Whatever General Lee says is all right, I don’t care what it is.”

The North regarded General Lee with greater respect and kindness than was extended to our other leaders. A friendly reporter interviewed him, and bold but temperate utterances in behalf of the South appeared in the “New York Herald” as coming from General Lee. Some of the remarks were very characteristic, proving this newspaper man a faithful scribe. When questioned about the political situation, General Lee had said: “I am no politician. I am a soldier—a paroled prisoner.” Urged to give his opinion and advised that it might have good effect, he responded:

“The South has for a long time been anxious for peace. In my earnest belief, peace was practicable two years ago, and has been since that time whenever the general government should see fit to give any reasonable chance for the country to escape the consequences which the exasperated North seemed ready to visit upon it. They have been looking for some word or expression of compromise and conciliation from the North upon which they might base a return to the Union, their own views being considered. The question of slavery did not lie in the way at all. The best men of the South have long desired to do away with the institution and were quite willing to see it abolished. But with them in relation to this subject, the question has ever been: ‘What will you do with the freed people?’ That is the serious question today. Unless some humane course based upon wisdom and Christian principles is adopted, you do them a great injustice in setting them free.” He plead for moderation towards the South as the part of wisdom as well as mercy. Oppression would keep the spirit of resistance alive. He did not think men of the South would engage in guerilla warfare as some professed to fear, but it was best not to drive men to desperation. “If a people see that they are to be crushed, they sell their lives as dearly as possible.” He spoke of the tendency towards expatriation, deploring it as a misfortune to our common country at a time when one section needed building up so badly, and had, at the best, a terribly depleted force of young, strong men. Throughout, he spoke of the North and South as “we,” and expressed his own great willingness to contribute in every way in his power to the establishment of the communal peace and prosperity.