266 Norru Carotina Troops, 1861-65.

“About midnight came the order to withdraw, telling us
that all was up. Passing through Petersburg we were ye-
joined by the skirmish line left behind that morning in the
sudden movement to recapture the works. We then crossed
the canal and retreated up the south bank of the Appomattox
riyer, shells falling around us as we went.

“Our depleted corps formed the rear and wagon guards on

the retreat, fighting constantly. The enemy brought up fresh -

troops when one command was worn out. We were under
ceaseless strain. I was afraid to sleep lest I be left behind,
taking only short, restless naps when completely exhausted.”

The handful left of the 23rd fought at Amelia Court
House and at Sailor’s Creek. Here the whole corps was
broke, but got in fair shape by the next day.

General R. D. Johnston suffering too acutely from his
swollen ankle to mount a horse, accompanied the retreat in an
ambulance. On one occasion finding that the Federal cavalry
was about to capture the whole line of wagons and ambu-
lances, he collected a few stragglers, stopped an ammunition
wagon, made every man get down and take a gun and with
this motley force prevented the capture of the train.

Further on in the great retreat the hostile cavalry broke
into the line and captured General Johnston’s ambulance
and the rest, including a portion of the wagon trains. Gen-
eral Johnston cut the insignia of rank from his coat, mounted
a mule, the rider having fled, rode back, organized a force of
stragglers and recaptured the whole line.

At midnight of 8 April, we had a bloody skirmish. Be-
fore sun up of the fateful 9th the brigade passed swiftly
through the little town of Appomattox. Forming a line to the
left of the Lynchburg road we made our last charge against
dismounted cavalry in a body of woods. The hostile force
was swept back in precipitation.

Then for the last time rang out from our thin line, the
“Rebel Yell,” which had so long heralded the resistless charge
of the men in gray.

But then comes an order to halt and to right-about face.
We are marched back towards the village, near which the
remnant of the Army of Northern Virginia seems to be con-

Twenty-THIRD REGIMENT. 267

centrating. Strange apparitions greet our eyes. Officers in
Federal uniform ride unchallenged among our troops. We
rub our eyes as if they did not serve us true. But the officers
in blue still come and go.

Slowly, heavily, crushingly the agonizing fact bears down
upon our hearts. The thing that could not happen had hap-
pened. The end of all things was at hand. Lee had surren-
dered.

It is said that the last man to fall was a member of the
First Battalion of North Carolina Sharpshooters, attached to
our brigade, and that Captain B. M. Collins, of the Twelfth
North Carolina, fired the last musket fired by Lee’s army.

The greatest of Greek painters in depicting the mental
agony of a hero shows him with his face covered, leaving to
the imagination the supreme expression of sorrow. We
shall so deal with the emotions that filled our breast. Words
are futile things when we would describe feelings like those
that weighted the Confederate breast. Better leave to the
sympathetic imagination which has followed these men from
the beginning—which has seen with what valor, what forti-
tude, what matchless self-devotion they upheld the cause of
Southern Independence, to measure the otherwise fathomless
abyss of their sorrow and despair at seeing it stricken down
forever. ee

Dr. R. I. Hicks, now of Warrenton, Va., the faithful and
efficient surgeon of the Twenty-third throughout the war, says
of the regiment: “It did as much hard service, fought as
many battles, was as constant in the performance of duty as
any other regiment in the army. And at Appomattox it sur-
rendered about as many men as any other regiment in the
army.” According to the parole list, Johnston’s Brigade
then numbered 463 men, rank and file.

The authors are well aware that the foregoing sketch is but
a meagre and unworthy history of the command whose deeds
and sufferings they would fain chronicle. More than the
third of a century has passed since the Twenty-third stacked
arms for the last time at Appomattox. On many comrades,
depositories of priceless reminiscences, death has set all too
soon the seal of silence. Even with the living time is fast