In May, 1890, there was a monument unveiled in Richmond.It was a great occasion, and not only all Virginia, but the whole South, participated in it with great fervor, much enthusiasm, and many tears.
It was an occasion for sacred memories.The newspapers talked about it for a good while beforehand; preparations were made for it as for the celebration of a great and general ceremony in which the whole South was interested.It was interested, because it was not only the unveiling of a monument for the old commander, the greatest and loftiest Southerner, and, as the South holds, man, of his time; it was an occasion consecrated to the whole South;it was the embalming in precious memories, and laying away in the tomb of the Southern Confederacy: the apotheosis of the Southern people.
As such all were interested in it, and all prepared for it.
It was known that all that remained of the Southern armies would be there:
of the armies that fought at Shiloh, and Bull Run, and Fort Republic;at Seven Pines, Gaines's Mill, and Cold Harbor; at Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg; at Franklin, Atlanta, Murfreesboro, and Chickamauga, Spottsylvania, the Wilderness, and Petersburg;and the whole South, Union as it is now and ready to fight the nation's battles, gathered to glorify Lee, the old commander, and to see and glorify the survivors of those and other bloody fields in which the volunteer soldiers of the South had held the world at bay, and added to the glorious history of their race.Men came all the way from Oregon and California to be present.Old one-legged soldiers stumped it from West Virginia.Even "No.4", though in the gutter, caught the contagion, and shaped up and became sober.He got a good suit of clothes somewhere --not new -- and appeared quite respectable.He even got something to do, and, in token of what he had been, was put on one of the many committees having a hand in the entertainment arrangements.I never saw a greater change in anyone.It looked as if there was hope for him yet.He stopped me on the street a day or two before the unveiling and told me he had a piece of good news: the remnant of his old company was to be here;he had got hold of the last one, -- there were nine of them left, --and he had his old jacket that he had worn in the war, and he was going to wear it on the march."It's worn, of course," he said, "but my mother put some patches over the holes, and except for the stain on it it's in good order.I believe I am the only one of the boys that has his jacket still; my mother kept this for me; I have never got so hard up as to part with it.I'm all right now.I mean to be buried in it."I had never remarked before what a refined face he had;his enthusiasm made him look younger than I had ever seen him.
I saw him on the day before the eve of the unveiling; he was as busy as a bee, and looked almost handsome."The boys are coming in by every train," he said.
"Look here." He pulled me aside, and unbuttoned his vest.
A piece of faded gray cloth was disclosed.He had the old gray jacket on under his other coat."I know the boys will like to see it," he said.
"I'm going down to the train now to meet one -- Binford Terrell.
I don't know whether I shall know him.Binford and I used to be much of a size.We did not use to speak at one time; had a falling out about which one should hold the horses; I made him do it, but I reckon he won't remember it now.I don't.I have not touched a drop.Good-by."He went off.
The next night about bedtime I got a message that a man wanted to see me at the jail immediately.It was urgent.Would I come down there at once?
I had a foreboding, and I went down.It was as I suspected.
"No.4" was there behind the bars."Drunk again," said the turnkey, laconically, as he let me in.He let me see him.He wanted me to see the judge and get him out.He besought me.He wept."It was all an accident;" he had "found some of the old boys, and they had got to talking over old times, and just for old times' sake," etc.He was too drunk to stand up; but the terror of being locked up next day had sobered him, and his mind was perfectly clear.He implored me to see the judge and to get him to let him out."Tell him I will come back here and stay a year if he will let me out to-morrow," he said brokenly.
He showed me the gray jacket under his vest, and was speechless.
Even then he did not ask release on the ground that he was a veteran.
I never knew him to urge this reason.Even the officials who must have seen him there fifty times were sympathetic; and they told me to see the justice, and they believed he would let him out for next day.
I applied to him as they suggested.He said, "Come down to court to-morrow morning." I did so."No.4" was present, pale and trembling.
As he stood there he made a better defence than any one else could have made for him.He admitted his guilt, and said he had nothing to say in extenuation except that it was the "old story", he "had not intended it; he deserved it all, but would like to get off that day; had a special reason for it, and would, if necessary, go back to jail that evening and stay there a year, or all his life." As he stood awaiting sentence, he looked like a damned soul.His coat was unbuttoned, and his old, faded gray jacket showed under it.The justice, to his honor, let him off: let all offenders off that day."No.4" shook hands with him, unable to speak, and turned away.
Then he had a strange turn.We had hard work to get him to go into the procession.He positively refused; said he was not fit to go, or to live; began to cry, and took off his jacket.He would go back to jail, he said.We finally got him straight; accepted from him a solemn promise not to touch a drop till the celebration was over, so help him God, and sent him off to join his old command at the tobacco-warehouse on the slip where the cavalry rendezvoused.I had some apprehension that he would not turn up in the procession; but I was mistaken.He was there with the old cavalry veterans, as sober as a judge, and looking every inch a soldier.
