One of the bloodiest engagements fought in the Shenandoah Valley had taken place on June 5, 1864, as the Battle of Piedmont, a Union victory that allowed the Union Army to occupy Staunton and destroy many of the facilities that supported the Confederate war effort. Augusta County had suffered again during General Philip H. Sheridan’s burning, which destroyed many farms and killed virtually all the farm animals.
General Travis, his infantry, and Jeff’s twenty troopers didn’t make it in time to fight that last battle. The Battle of Appomattox was fought on the morning of April 9, 1865, and was one of the last battles of the Civil War. It was the final engagement of Confederate States Army General Robert E. Lee and his Army of Northern Virginia before it surrendered to Union Army General Ulysses S. Grant. Union infantry and cavalry forces under General Philip Sheridan had pursued and cut off the Confederates’ retreat at the central Virginia village of Appomattox Courthouse.
General Lee launched a last-ditch attack to break through the Union forces to his front, assuming the Union force consisted entirely of lightly armed cavalry. When he realized the cavalry was backed up by two federal infantry, now with his further avenue of retreat and escape cut off, Lee had no choice but to surrender his army to Grant. The signing of the surrender documents occurred in the parlor of the Wilmer McLean house on the afternoon of April 9, 1865.
General Travis’s Union Army arrived in the village of Appomattox, Virginia, Tuesday morning, April 11, 1865. The general was disappointed he’d missed the last battle. Jeff and Sergeant Smith were glad the war was over. They made it through the bloody war with all but two of their original troopers and that part was sad, and they’d missed the signing of the surrender on Sunday, April 9, but they’d get to watch the formal ceremony of surrender on Wednesday.
Sergeant Smith was eager to muster out. He wanted to see some other places besides Virginia. Jeff wanted to go find the tree where he’d buried his fortune, then find his papa’s grave and take his bones back to bury beside his mama on their farm, which now he knew lay in West Virginia. Jeff and his cavalry troops were bivouacked for the night with the rest of the Union troops.
The formal ceremony was held Wednesday, April 12. A parade and the stacking of arms was led by the Southern Maj. Gen. John B. Gordon to Federal Brig. Gen. Joshua Chamberlain of Maine. It marked the disbandment of the Army of Northern Virginia with the parole of its nearly twenty-eight thousand remaining Confederate soldiers, who were free to return home without their major weapons but allowing them to keep their horses and the officers could retain their horses and their sidearms (swords and pistols). That benevolent gesture would effectively end the war in Virginia.
By June 1865, all the armies of the South would be disbanded, and the American Civil War between the North and the South would be officially over.
Jeff had said somber goodbyes to his twenty troopers, some troopers teared up, and others gritted their teeth and clasped others’ arms as they bid their saddle friends goodbye. Jeff bumped into his former sergeant, Jorn Murphy, that day. He’d just been mustered out of the Union Army. Jeff was ready to head back to West Virginia.
“Where you headed, Jeff?”
“West Virginia, Sergeant! I’m going home. I have a small farm there. Whereabouts are you headed?”
“Me, I’m headed straight for Texas, gonna find me some land there, gonna get me a cattle ranch. I’ll be seeing you someday, Jeff, m’boy,” Murphy said as he saluted.
“So long, Jorn, I’ll be seein’ you.”
General Travis had asked Jeff to stay in the cavalry and go fight Indians with him out west. Jeff told him no, that he’d had some important duties he had to attend to. The general was disappointed, but he’d get over it, Jeff figured.
Jeff headed east, riding his cavalry trained gelding, taking his time. He was free, with no responsibilities. He wanted first to find that oak tree in South Carolina. He wandered through the countryside looking at trees for several weeks. He’d been disoriented that day he reckoned. Jeff finally was able to get his bearings straight. He looked again at his compass. Yeah, he was closer now. Up this road farther, I believe. There, just beyond the fork in this road. I’m here? Yeah. Now, where are you, mighty oak tree? Jeff rode around several oak trees, looking. There you are. Jeff finally spotted the tree with his initials carved into the trunk. He stepped off his bay and, behind the trunk, knelt and dug into the soft, loamy soil. He opened the metal strongbox pulled up five cloth bags and packed them in his saddlebags. He’d buy himself a packhorse in that yonder village tomorrow and spare his faithful old friend the extra weight.
The sun was almost down. Jeff decided to spend the night where he was. He gathered some wood, lit a small fire, and brewed himself some coffee. His supper was a can of beans, with a crisp red apple he’d plucked from its tree on his journey to locate the oak tree. Tomorrow he’d start on his journey looking for his papa’s bones. Right now, he was hound-dog-tired; he’d been in his saddle since before sunup. His horse had finished eating his oats and was sleeping; the tired gelding’s head was hanging almost to the ground. Jeff fisted one .44 Colt, rolled into his blanket, and was softly snoring in less than two minutes.
Chapter Ten
Riding west now, he had his new packhorse loaded with bacon, beans, coffee, and drinking water. He’d also bought some grain and oats for his horses. Jeff had decided to divide his fortune between his two critters. He’d also bought a small shovel, just in case the other one was gone, and a new oiled tarp to wrap his papa’s remains. He had a long ride before he got to the place where he’d buried his papa. It was now October. His traveling days was slowed down some. The weather had become downright dismal, with rain, sleet, and then the snowfall was beginning to come often.
Once Jeff had to hole up for two weeks, living in the small town of Oberlin’s only stable because of a heavy snowstorm. He’d taken his meals in the town’s only eating place, and then he’d trudged in deep snow back to the stable, pulled off his wet boots, rolled up in his blankets, and slept. He’s spent his Thanksgiving Day there. Jeff spent a snowy Christmas week in another little South Carolina town. When he’d finally left that place, he remembered he’d never even asked anybody the town’s name. February’s blustery ice-cold winds seemed to chill Jeff all the way down to his bones. It seemed like he’s rode with his face to that dang wind all the way across North Carolina. Springtime seemed like a long way off.
A day’s ride down a red dirt road brought Jeff to the small town of Hewitt, Virginia. It was Saturday, and it was crowded with wagons, horses, and people. Why do country folks always come into the towns on Saturdays? To shop, maybe to visit other folks, and to get drunk? Jeff halted his horses at the hitch post of the first watering hole he’d come to. He needed a cool beer. Jeff hooked his boot sole on the long oak bar’s bottom brass rail, pushed his cavalry hat back, let out a long breath, and ordered a cool beer from the cadaverous, garlic-breath-smelling barkeep.
“Ain’t got no cool, mister, just warm, my beer’s sellin’ faster than it can cool today what with all these extra folks in town.”
“What’cha got going on, an election or somethin’?” Jeff asked.
“Nah, we got us a hangin’ set fer this afternoon. First one since before the war. Our Judge Johnson’s gonna hang a feller fer murdering our deputy sheriff last Satiday night. The boy twern’t worth a hoot, but he was a townie, and he was one of ire’n.”
“Lieutenant Nelson!” Jeff turned to see who called him by that name. It was Sergeant Smith.
“Hello, Sergeant Smith, it’s good to see you. You live in this town, er…Smitty?”
“Hell no, I’m still on my way some where’s