The country did not see it, but General Lee did. The civilians--the brave ones--had a superstitious confidence in the great commander and his old army. It had repulsed the enemy so uninterruptedly, that the unskilled people believed it invincible. Lee had foiled Grant so regularly that he was looked upon as the very God of Victory. Defeat could not come to him. Glory would ever follow his steps. On the banners of the old army of Northern Virginia, led by Lee, the eagles of victory would still, perch, screaming defiance, and untamed to the end. While the civilians were saying this, Lee was preparing to retreat. Nothing blinded that clear vision--the eyes of the great chief pierced every mist. He saw the blow coming--the shadow of the Grant hammer as the weapon was lifted, ran before--on the 25th of March Lee’s rapier made it last lunge. But when his adversary recoiled to avoid it, it was Lee who was going to retreat. That lunge was sudden and terrible--if it did not accomplish its object. In the dark March morning, Gordon, “The Bayard of the army,” advanced with three thousand men across the abatis in front of Hare’s Hill. What followed was a fierce tragedy, as brief and deadly as the fall of a thunder-bolt. Gordon rushed at the head of his column over the space which separated the lines; stormed the Federal defences at the point of the bayonet; seized on Fort Steadman, a powerful work, and the batteries surrounding it, then as the light broadened in the East, he looked back for re-enforcements. None came--he was holding the centre of Grant’s army with three thousand men. What he had won was by sheer audacity--the enemy had been surprised, and seemed laboring under a species of stupor; if not supported, and supported at once, he was gone! An hour afterward, Gordon was returning, shattered and bleeding at every pore. The enemy had suddenly come to their senses after the stunning blow. From the forts and redoubts crowning every surrounding hill issued the thunder. Cannon glared, shell crashed, musketry rolled in long fusillade, on three sides of the devoted Confederates. Huddled in the trenches they were torn to pieces by a tempest of shell and bullets. As the light broadened, the hills swarmed with blue masses hastening toward the scene of the combat, to punish the daring assailants. Grant’s army was closing in around the little band of Gordon. No help came to them, they were being butchered; to stay longer there was mere suicide, and the few who could do so, retreated to the Confederate lines. They were few indeed. Of the splendid assaulting column, led by Gordon, more than two thousand were killed or captured. He had split the stubborn trunk, but it was the trunk which now held the wedge in its obdurate jaws. Gordon retreated with his bleeding handful--it was the second or third time that this king of battle had nearly accomplished impossibilities by the magic of his genius.