STONEWALL JACKSON’S WAY.
The months rolled on, the battle of Manassas had been fought and won,
and the Federals, driven back upon Washington in hopeless rout, with the
immediate result that thousands of volunteers left the Confederate
service and returned to their homes and their ordinary vocations,
thinking that an enemy so easily whipped could be as easily finished off
without their further help. Many officers, too, who had hastened to the
front at the first call of the trumpet, leaving their plantations or
their businesses to look after themselves, gladly took advantage of the
temporary lull to snatch a short furlough. Among these latter was Major
Markham, who since the first sudden rush upon Harper’s Ferry in April
had never once left the field. Now, however, a wound received at Bull
Run incapacitating him from further service for the present, he rejoined
his wife and son at Markham Hall.
The picturesque descriptions which his father gave him of the leading
features of the battle, along with many incidents of personal adventure
and heroism, so fired Lucius’s already ardent spirit, that from that
time onwards he lived in imagination the life of a soldier. He begged,
he prayed, he implored, he even went on his knees to his father to allow
him to join the army as a drummer-boy, as a bugler, as a mule-driver, as
anything at all, in any capacity whatsoever. Major Markham laughed at
his son at first, but when he realised how absolutely in earnest Lucius
was, he bade him, with what show of sternness he could muster—for he
could not but admire the boy’s high spirit—never to mention the subject
again.
Thwarted at home, Lucius sought consolation from his friend Ephraim, and
so worked upon his slower nature with tales of deeds of daring, drawn
almost entirely from his own perfervid imagination, that even Grizzly
was stirred to enthusiasm, and flourished his long arms over his head as
he declared his intention of annihilating whole regiments of Yankees at
one fell blow, by means of some devastating compound, the first idea of
which was germinating in his fertile brain.
At the same time, Ephraim’s common sense stood both him and Lucius in
good stead, and held the younger boy back more effectually than the
commands of his father or the pleadings of his mother. But when Major
Markham rejoined his regiment in December, to take part in the terrible
expedition to Romney, Lucius could bear the restraint no longer, and one
cold, snowy night he astonished Ephraim by suddenly appearing and boldly
proposing that they should run away together.
‘Whar ye gwine ter run ter?’ inquired common-sense Ephraim, looking up
from the calculations on which he was engaged.
‘How do I know?’ flashed Lucius the fervid. ‘We’ll just go on until we
come to one of our armies. They’ll be mighty glad to let us join.’
‘A stark lighter sech ez ye would be!’ said Ephraim with beaming
admiration, and without the least trace of irony.
‘Yes,’ assented Lucius complacently; ‘they’ll not refuse two such strong
and active lads as you and’——
‘Sho!’ interrupted Ephraim. ‘Don’t ye count on me. I warn ye.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Lucius, in a voice of mingled surprise and grief. ‘Do
you mean to say that, after all I have told you, you will let me go
alone?’
‘I ain’t gwine ter let ye go at all, Luce,’ returned Ephraim, placing a
long, hairy arm affectionately round the boy’s neck. ‘See hyar, now,’ he
went on, as Lucius shook himself angrily free, ‘thar ain’t nuthin’ ter
call fightin’ goin’ on jest now. Nothin’ but marchin’ round and round,
and up and down in the snow and the slush. Now, thar ain’t no fun in
thet, I reckon.’
‘Well, no,’ admitted Lucius reluctantly. He thought for a moment or two,
and then burst out: ‘Look here, Grizzly, the real fighting is sure to
begin again in spring. If I promise to wait, will you promise to come
with me then?’
‘I ’low we’ll wait till spring comes along,’ answered Ephraim
oracularly. ‘Ef ye’re ez sot upon it then ez ye air now, I’ll see what I
kin do.’
‘That’s a bargain, then,’ said Lucius. ‘I just long to see a real good
battle. Mind, if you go back on me now, I’ll call you a coward and start
without you.’
‘I ain’t any coward,’ answered Ephraim quietly, though his pale face
flushed slightly; ‘leastways ez fur ez goin’ along with ye is consarned.
Ye don’t imagine I’d go fer ter lose sight of ye, Luce?’ he finished,
with a catch in his voice.
‘Oh no,’ said Lucius, mollified. ‘Only I thought that maybe you couldn’t
understand my feelings. You’re a dear old thing, Grizzly; but you’re a
rough bit of stick, you know, and you haven’t so much at stake as people
like us.’ And the young aristocrat drew himself proudly up.
‘Thet’s a fact,’ nodded Ephraim; ‘though I ain’t heard ez the fust
families hez been doin’ all the fightin’.’ There was a subdued grin on
his face as he spoke.
‘Of course not,’ said Lucius hastily. ‘Our fellows are stark fighters
all round; but it’s men like my father and Jackson and the rest who lead
the way. You know that well enough.’
Ephraim stretched out his brown hairy paw and drew Lucius towards him.
‘I only know I’d die fer ye glad and willin’ ef ye war ahead, Luce,’ he
said tenderly.
‘Shucks!’ exclaimed Lucius impatiently; ‘who said anything about dying?
Now it’s all settled, and you’ll come.’
‘I’ll be on time,’ said Ephraim. He was silent for a moment, during
which he thought deeply. Finally he said,’Ye air jest sot ter see a
battle, ain’t ye, Luce?’
‘Yes,’ answered Lucius. ‘Didn’t I tell you so?’
‘Waal,’ resumed Ephraim, ‘wouldn’t ye be content jest ter see wan,
without arskin’ ter take a hand in the fightin’?’
‘Whatever do you mean by that?’ queried Lucius. ‘I don’t understand
you.’
‘Waal, it don’t matter,’ said Ephraim, ’fer I reckon I han’t got no very
cl’ar idee of what I mean myself ez yet. Anyway thar’s heaps of time.
We’re on’y beginnin’ December now, and thar’ll be nuthin’ this long
while. Ef ye’re still sot in spring, why, we’ll see.’
‘See what?’ demanded Lucius impatiently. ‘Can’t you explain?’
But Ephraim either could not or would not, and presently Lucius took his
departure in high dudgeon.
Ephraim sat thinking to himself for a long while, and finally he took
down a volume from his shelves and buried himself in it, until the voice
of the old woman in the next room disturbed him by querulously demanding
‘Ef he warn’t never goin’ to bed.’
‘I b’lieve I could do it,’ he thought to himself as he undressed;
‘but’—— He pulled a trunk from under his bed, and unlocking it, drew out
a small cash-box. This in turn he opened and studied the little pile of
dollars it contained with an anxious face.
‘Thet’s the only way ter do it,’ he muttered, passing the coins
backwards and forwards through his fingers. ‘Thar’s not much more than
enough thar, if thar is enough. Imagine! Only that little lot in five
long years. Seems a pity, jest fer a whim. But it’s fer Luce. It’s ter
pleasure Luce. He’s that sot on it, and he nat’ally looks ter me. No
matter, I guess I’ll work it up again.’
He stood looking into the box with eyes that did not see, for he was far
away in spirit in the little Massachusetts town, where stood the famous
college he so ardently desired to enter.
Splash! A great tear fell into the box of dollars.
‘What ye doin’?’ Ephraim apostrophised himself with great vehemence.
‘Ain’t it fer Luce? Ain’t he wuth it? Ef ye can’t do a little thing like
that fer yer friend, it’s time ye’——
He broke off suddenly, snapped the lid of the box, and threw it back
into the trunk.
‘Ef ye can’t do a little thing like that without makin’ a fuss about
it,’ he repeated, ‘it’s time ye—it’s time ye’——
He choked over the words, a rain of tears gushed from his eyes, and with
a low cry he flung himself sobbing upon his bed.
The year came to an end, and plague and worry him as he would, Lucius
could extract nothing from Ephraim to throw light on the mysterious
remark. Indeed Grizzly was now seldom or never to be found in his
workshop; nor could Aunty Chris explain his absence, or disclose his
whereabouts, for, as she frankly confessed, she knew nothing whatever
about him. Lucius, of course, whenever he could waylay him, questioned
and cross-questioned him as to what he was engaged upon in his spare
time and where; but Grizzly invariably replied with a wag of his head:
‘Ye’ll git thar in time, Luce. On’y ye’ll hev ter hang on till the time
comes.’ With which Delphic utterance Lucius was obliged to be content.
Meantime the war was not standing still. Manassas had, after all, not
crumpled up the North, and early in ’62 the people of the valley were
rudely awakened to the fact by the appearance among them of no less than
three Federal generals, with an aggregate force of sixty-four thousand
men. And to these Stonewall Jackson could oppose but thirteen thousand!
But though the excitement was great, there was little anxiety; for the
reputation which Jackson and his brigade had won at Manassas, and their
stern and soldierly endurance of the terrible hardships of the severe
winter just ended, inspired a confidence in their prowess, which would
scarcely have been shaken had all the armies of the North been combined
against them.
What were men’s feelings then, when the astounding news spread like
wildfire from town to town: ‘Jackson has deserted us in our extremity.
He has fled through the gaps to the east side of the Blue Ridge!’
The report was not unfounded. It certainly was true that Jackson had
disappeared from the valley. Only Colonel Ashby, the famous cavalry
leader, remained behind with a thousand sabres at his back.
Men laughed bitterly. What was this little force to do for their
protection against an army so gigantic? But Ashby with scattered troops
was here, there, and everywhere. Now at McDowell, now at Strasburg, now
at Franklin, yesterday at Front Royal, to-morrow at Luray. But what he
learned in his reconnaissances, and where he sent the information which
he acquired, no man knew, no man had the heart to ask. In Staunton
itself the wildest confusion reigned; for no sooner had the news of
Jackson’s flight been conveyed to the Federal generals, than they set
their masses in motion, and began to advance along converging lines upon
the little town. That it was to be occupied was regarded as certain, and
in the universal terror much that was valuable in the way of military
stores was removed or destroyed; while General Johnson with six
regiments retired from his strong position on the Shenandoah Mountain,
intent only on saving his small force by effecting a junction with the
vanished Jackson wherever he might find him.
Then came the day when Staunton, abandoned and defenceless, lay sullenly
awaiting its fate, with Milroy and twelve thousand Federals not
two-and-twenty miles away, and Frémont coming on with thirty thousand
more.
It was a Sunday, and the churches were full of devout worshippers,
praying doubtless that the chastening rod held over them might be
averted in its descent. Suddenly a strange and terrible sound arose—a
noise of trampling thousands, the clink of steel against steel as
scabbard and stirrup jangled together, the clatter of squadrons upon the
road, the hoarse rumble and grumble of artillery wagons. People looked
at one another in dismay. Despite their supplications the blow had
fallen: they were in the hands of the enemy.
Slowly, with mournful hearts and dejected mien, they filed out of
church, their downcast eyes refusing to look at the bitter sight. Then,
as one head after another was lifted, exclamations of deep surprise
broke forth here and there.
Where were the stars and stripes? Where was the blue of the detested
Federals? The marching columns were _gray_! The stars and bars waved
proudly in the breeze, and here and there in the midst of a regiment the
lone star shone upon flag and pennon.
What a shout of joy went up from the multitude: ‘Confederates!
Confederates! They are our own boys back again! Old Stonewall is here!
Thank God! Hurrah! Hurrah!’
The excitement was tremendous. Nerves were strung to highest tension;
emotions touched the breaking point. Men leaped and danced for very joy.
Women flung themselves into each other’s arms and wept for sheer
happiness. And through it all the gray hosts rolled steadily on.
Then, as suddenly as it had arisen, the hubbub subsided. Apprehension
reigned once more, and the eager questions passed from lip to lip: ‘What
are they doing here? Have they been routed? Are they only in retreat?’
No, the soldiers answered, they were not running away. They had not seen
or heard of the enemy for days. What were they doing here, then? Again
they did not know. Nobody knew except old Stonewall. He knew of course.
It was one of his tricks. He had got something under his hat.
Then the crowd surged to the railway station to watch the debarking
troops as train after train rolled in. Here the same ignorance
prevailed. Nobody knew; nobody could understand. To their personal
friends the officers were dumb, for they were in darkness like the men.
Only the General knew; and those who knew the General knew also how
hopeless it would be to question him.
The dwellers in the country, who had come into town for church, hastened
away, full of their news, to tell the folk who had been left at home.
They did not get far. All around the town a strong cordon of soldiers
had been drawn who forced them back. What! they asked, might they not
even return to their own homes? No, they might not—at least, not yet.
Why? Nobody knew. Simply the General had ordered it so. Probably he did
not wish the news of his arrival to be spread abroad. But to everything,
the one monotonous, exasperating answer, ‘We do not know.’
Then at last the people understood. Silent as ever as to his plans,
mysterious in his movements, Jackson’s flight had been but a clever
feint. He had stolen back swiftly and without attracting attention; and
now, while the Federals fondly supposed him east of the Blue Ridge, here
he was, ready and able to deal them one of his slashing flank blows. It
was ‘Stonewall Jackson’s way.’
As soon as the soldiers began to arrive, Lucius and Ephraim, who both
sang in the choir of their church, hurried out and raced to the station.
Long before they got there Lucius had shouted himself hoarse, while,
though he took things more quietly, Ephraim’s cheeks were burning, and
his eyes blazing with unwonted fire.
‘Say, Grizzly, isn’t it splendid?’ panted Lucius.
Ephraim did not answer, for just then a roar of delight rent the air.
‘Here he comes! Here’s the General! Hurrah! Stonewall Jackson!
Stonewall! Cheer, boys! Hurrah! God bless you, General! Hurrah! Hurrah!’
Clad in his old gray coat, soiled and smirched with the stains of the
dreadful march to Romney in December, and with his queer slouched hat
cocked askew over his forehead, ‘Old Stonewall,’ then but thirty-eight
years of age, rode in the midst of his staff. His shrewd, kindly face
wore a smile of almost womanly sweetness, and his keen blue eyes, which,
it is said, glowed when the battle rage was upon him with a terrible
light that appalled both friend and foe, now beamed mildly on the
shouting crowd who sought to do him honour. He bowed continually right
and left, and was evidently pleased at his welcome, as well as touched
by the supreme confidence of the people in him.
So frantic was Lucius in his demonstrations that at last he attracted
the notice of the General, who after regarding him good-naturedly for a
moment, broke into an amused laugh, saying, as he nodded pleasantly:
‘Thank you, my lad, for your welcome. It does one’s heart good to see
such a face as yours.’ For a moment Lucius could not believe his ears.
Then, as he realised that the General had indeed spoken to _him_, his
face crimsoned with delight, and forgetting everything in his
exaltation, he rushed into the road and clung to Jackson’s stirrup
leather, as though to detain him by main force.
‘Take me with you, General!’ he cried at the top of his voice. ‘Take me
with you. I want to fight, and they won’t let me.’
‘Hurrah!’ shouted the crowd, moved by this novel sensation, while
Ephraim, glowing with pride, craned his long neck to see his hero, as he
fully expected, caught up in front of the General and borne away to the
wars.
‘By time!’ he muttered, ‘ain’t he jest cl’ar grit? Ain’t he noble? And
he’s my friend.’ Great tears rose in his honest eyes and blurred his
sight as the General reined in his charger and bent over to Lucius.
‘Take you with me, my boy?’ said Jackson kindly, laying his hand upon
the fair, curly head as he spoke. ‘Take you with me? God forbid! We
don’t want children amid such scenes as we are forced to go through.’
‘Why not?’ gasped Lucius. ‘I’m sixteen; I’d make one more anyway. I
don’t mind being shot any more than the next man.’
‘Gloryful gracious!’ murmured Ephraim, his eyes fairly brimming over;
while Jackson, bending lower still, said somewhat huskily: ‘God bless
you, lad, for your true heart.’ Then straightening himself in his
saddle, he cried in ringing tones to his officers: ‘When our men grow
from the stuff this boy is made of, gentlemen, it is no wonder that the
victory is ours.’
The crowd cheered again lustily at this, and Jackson, turning once more
to Lucius, said: ‘Tell me your name, my boy. I should like to remember
it.’
‘Lucius Markham, sir,’ replied the boy. ‘That is my father coming up
now.’
‘What, the son of Major Markham!’ said Jackson. ‘Ha! a chip of the old
block.—Major!’ he hailed, as a fine-looking bronzed officer rode by with
his battery. ‘So this is your son?’
‘I am afraid so, sir,’ returned Major Markham, smiling and nodding at
Lucius. ‘What has the young scapegrace been doing? He is always wanting
to follow the drum.’
‘Nay,’ protested Jackson, ‘I won’t allow you to call him names. He is a
fine fellow, and wants to come and be a soldier under me.’
‘May I, father?’ asked Lucius eagerly. ‘Do say yes.—I know most of the
drill, sir,’ he added to the General, ‘and I can shoot pretty straight.’
There was a laugh among the officers at this, but Jackson checked it
with a look, and, turning to Lucius, said impressively: ‘Listen to me,
Lucius. You are too young to come with me, but still you can be a
soldier, and a bold one, if you choose.’
‘In what regiment, sir?’ asked Lucius, looking up at him eagerly.
‘In the faithful regiment,’ answered Stonewall gravely, ‘under the
banner of the Cross, and with Christ for Commander. The war is the holy
war, and the battles are fought for God and against self and the wrong
every day. And remember, Lucius,’ he concluded, ‘the first duty of a
soldier is obedience.’
He rode on, followed by the cheers of the crowd, while Major Markham
slipped back to his place.
Lucius stared dreamily after them, heedless of the curious and
interested looks cast at him, till all at once a hand gripped his arm,
and Ephraim’s voice whispered in his ear: ‘Come away out of the crowd,
Luce. I’se suthin’ mighty partic’ler to say ter ye.’
[Illustration]
[Illustration]