THE TRIAL BY FIRE
The troops transformed Washington from a lazy Southern town of sixty
thousand inhabitants into an armed fortress of the frontier, swarming
with a quarter of a million excited men and women. Soldiers thronged the
streets and sidewalks and sprawled over every inch of greensward, their
uniforms of every cut and color on which the sun of heaven had shone
during the past two hundred years of history.
When the tumult and the shouts of departing regiments had died away from
the home towns in the North and the flags that were flying from every
house had begun to fade under the hot rays of the advancing summer, the
patriotic orators and editors began to demand of their President why his
grand army of seventy-five thousand lingered at the Capital. When he
mildly suggested the necessity of drilling, equipping and properly
arming them he was laughed at by the wise, and scoffed at as a coward by
the brave.
Mutterings of discontent grew deeper and more threatening. They demanded
a short, sharp, decisive campaign. Let the army wheel into line, march
straight into Richmond, take Jefferson Davis a prisoner, hang him and a
few leaders of the "rebellion," and the trouble would be over. This
demand became at length the maddened cry of a mob:
"On to Richmond!"
Every demagogue howled it. Every newspaper repeated it. As city after
city, and State after State took up the cry, the pressure on the man at
the helm of Government became resistless. It was a political necessity
to fight a battle and fight at once or lose control of the people he had
been called to lead.
The Abolitionists only sneered at this cry. They demanded an answer to a
single insistent question:
"What are you going to fight about?"
A battle which does not settle the question of Slavery they declared to
be a waste of blood and treasure. If the slave was not the issue, why
fight? The South would return to the Union which they had always ruled
if let alone. Why fight them for nothing?
Gilbert Winter, their spokesman at Washington, again confronted the
President with his uncompromising demand:
"An immediate proclamation of emancipation!"
And the President with quiet dignity refused to consider it.
"Why?" again thundered the Senator.
His answer was always the same:
"I am not questioning the right or wrong of Slavery. If Slavery is not
wrong, nothing is wrong. But the Constitution, which I have sworn to
uphold in the Border States of Maryland, Missouri and Kentucky,
guarantees to their people the right to hold slaves if they choose. We
have already eleven Southern States solidly arrayed against us. Add the
Border States by such a proclamation, and the contest is settled before
a blow is struck. I know the power of State loyalty in the South. I was
born there. Many a mother in Richmond wept the days the stars and
stripes were lowered from their Capitol. And well they might--for their
sires created this Republic. But they brushed their tears away and sent
their sons to the front next day to fight that flag in the name of
Virginia. So would thousands of mothers in these remaining Slave States
if I put them to the test. I'm going to save them for the Union. In
God's own time Slavery will be destroyed."
Against every demand of the heart of the party which had given him
power, he stood firm in the position he had taken.
But there was no resisting the universal demand for a march on Richmond.
The cry was literally from twenty millions. He must heed it or yield the
reins of power to more daring hands.
To add to the President's burden, his Secretary of State was still
dreaming of foreign wars. He had drawn up a letter of instruction to our
Minister to Great Britain which would have provoked an armed conflict.
When the backwoodsman from Southern Illinois read this document he was
compelled to lay aside his other duties and practically rewrite it. His
work showed a freedom of mind, a balance of judicial temperament, an
insight into foreign affairs, a skill in the use of language, a delicacy
of criticism, a mastery of the arts of diplomacy which placed him among
the foremost statesmen of any age, and all the ages.
He saved the Nation from a second disastrous war, as a mere matter of
the routine of his office, and at once turned to the pressing work of
the approaching battle.
John Vaughan had joined the army as correspondent for his paper, and
Betty had been his companion on many tours of inspection through camp,
hospitals and drill grounds. Her quick wit and brilliant mind were an
inspiring stimulus. She was cool and self-possessed and it rested him to
be near her. She was the only restful woman he had ever encountered at
short range. He was delighted that she seemed content without
love-making. There was never a moment when he could catch the challenge
of sex in a word or attitude. He might have been her older brother, so
perfect and even, so free and simple her manner.
Betty had watched him with the keenest caution. The first glance at
John's handsome face had convinced her of his boundless vanity and
beneath it a streak of something cruel. She would have liked him
instantly but for this. His vanity she could forgive. All good-looking
men are vain. His character was a study of which she never tired. He
strangely distressed and disturbed her--and this kept puzzling and
piquing her curiosity. Every time she determined to end their
association this everlasting question of the man's inner character came
to torment her imagination.
She was a little disappointed at his not volunteering at the first call
as his gallant young brother had done. Yet his reasoning was sound.
"What's the use?" he replied to her question. "Five men have already
volunteered for every one who can be used. I'm not a soldier by
profession or inclination. A campaign of thirty days, one big battle and
the war's over. The President has more men than he can arm or equip. My
paper needs me----"
The army encamped along the banks of the Potomac received orders to
advance for the long expected battle in the hills of Virginia.
Betty stood with the crowds of sweethearts and wives and sisters and
mothers and watched them march away through the dust and heat and grime
of the Southern summer, drums throbbing, banners streaming, bayonets
flashing and bands playing.
John Vaughan was in the ranks of a New York regiment. He pressed Betty's
hand with a lingering touch he hadn't intended. She seemed unconscious
that he was holding it.
"You are going to march in the ranks?" she asked in surprise.
"Yes. I want to see war as it is. These boys are my friends from New
York."
"You will fight with them?"
"No--just see with their eyes--that's all. And then tell you exactly
what happened. I can hide behind a barn or a tree without being
court-martialed."
She looked at him quickly with a new interest, pressed his hand again
and said:
"Good luck!"
"And home again soon!" he cried with a wave of his arms as he hurried to
join his marching men.
The army camped at Centreville, seven miles from Beauregard's lines, and
spent the 19th and 20th of July resting and girding their loins for the
first baptism of fire. The volunteers were eager for the fray. The first
touch of the skirmishers had resulted in fifteen or twenty killed. But
the action had been too far away to make any serious impression.
Between the two armies crept the silvery thread of the little stream of
Bull Run, its clear beautiful waters flashing in the July sun.
Saturday night, the 20th, orders were issued to John's regiment to be in
readiness to advance against the enemy at two o'clock before day on
Sunday morning. A thrill of fierce excitement swept the camp. They were
loaded down with overcoats, haversacks, knapsacks and baggage, baggage,
baggage without end. The single New York regiment to which he had
attached himself required forty wagons to move its baggage. They had a
bakery and cooking establishment that would have done credit to
Broadway. They hurriedly packed all they could carry in readiness for
the march into battle. What would happen to the rest God only knew, but
they hoped for the best. Of course, the battle couldn't last long. It
was only necessary for this grand army to make a demonstration with its
drums throbbing, its fifes screaming, its bayonets flashing and its
magnificent uniforms glittering in the sun--the plumes, the Scotch
bonnets, the Turkish fez, the Garibaldi shirts, the blue and grey and
gold, the black and yellow, and the red and blue of the fire
Zouaves--when the rebel mob saw these things they would take to their
heels.
What the boys were really afraid of was that every rebel would escape
before they could use their handcuffs and ropes. This would be too bad
because the procession through the crowded streets at home would be
incomplete without captives as a warning to future traitors. They were
going to have a load to carry with their blanket rolls, haversack and
knapsack and the full fighting rounds of cartridges, but they were not
going to leave the handcuffs. If they had to drop anything on the march
they might ease up on a blanket or half their heavy cartridges.
John found sleep impossible, and was ready to move at one o'clock. The
dust was rising already in parched clouds from the dry Virginia roads.
He walked to the edge of the woods and gazed over the dark moonlit hills
around Centreville. A gentle breeze began to stir the leaves overhead
but it was hot and lifeless. He caught the smell of sweating horses in a
battery of artillery, hitched for the march. It was going to be a day of
frightful heat under the clear blazing sun of the South, this Sunday,
the 21st of July, 1861. He could see already in his imagination the long
lines of sweating half fainting marchers staggering under the strain.
Yet not for a moment did he doubt the result.
From a store on the hill at Centreville came the plaintive strains of a
negro's voice accompanied by a banjo. A crowd of Congressmen had driven
out from Washington on a picnic to see the spectacle of the first and
last battle of the "Rebellion." They were drinking good whiskey and
making merry.
For the first time a little doubt crept into his mind. Were they all too
cocksure? It might be a serious business after all. It was only for a
moment and his fears vanished. He was glad Ned was not in those grey
lines in front. His company had been formed promptly, and he had been
elected first lieutenant, but they were still in Southern Missouri under
General Sterling Price. He shouldn't like to come on his brother's body
dead or wounded after the battle--the young dare-devil fool!
Promptly at two o'clock the sharp orders rang from the regimental
commander:
"Forward march!"
The lines swung carelessly into the powdered dust of the road and moved
forward into the fading moonlight, talking, laughing, chatting, joking.
War was yet a joke and the contagious fire of patriotism had flung its
halo even over this night's work. Except here and there a veteran of the
Mexican War, not one of these men had ever seen a battle or had the
remotest idea what it was like.
John was marching with Sherman's brigade of Tyler's division. At six
o'clock they reached the stone bridge which crossed Bull Run. On the
hills beyond stretched a straggling line of grey figures. It couldn't be
an army. Only a few skirmishers thrown out to warn off an attempt to
cross the bridge. A white puff of smoke flashed on a hill toward the
South, and the deep boom of a Confederate cannon echoed over the valley.
Tyler's guns answered in grim chorus. The men gripped their muskets and
waited the word of command. John's brigade was deployed along the edge
of a piece of woods on the right of the Warrenton turnpike and stood for
hours. A rumble of disgust swept the lines:
"What t'ell are we waitin' for?"
"Why don't we get at 'em?"
"And this is war!"
And no breakfast either. An hour passed and only an occasional crack of
a musket across the shining thread of silver water and the slow sullen
echo of the artillery. They seemed to be just practising. The shots all
fell short and nobody was hurt.
Another hour--it was eight o'clock and still they stood and looked off
into space. Nine o'clock passed and the fierce rays of the climbing
July sun drove the men to the shelter of the trees.
"If this is war," yelled a red-breeched, fierce young Zouave, "I'll take
firecrackers and a Fourth of July for mine!"
"Keep your shirt on, Sonny," observed a corporal. "We _may_ have some
fun yet before night."
At ten o'clock something happened.
Suddenly a thousand grey clad men leaped from their cover over the hills
and swept up stream at double quick. A solid mass of dust-covered
figures were swarming below the stone bridge.
The regiment's battery dashed into position, its guns were trained and
their roar shook the earth. The swarming grey lines below the bridge
paid no attention. The shots fell short and Sherman sent for heavier
guns.
The men in grey had formed a new line of battle and faced the Sudley and
New Market road. Far up this road could now be seen a mighty cloud of
dust which marked the approach of the main body of McDowell's Union
army. He had made a wide flank movement, crossed Bull Run at Sudley Ford
and was attempting to completely turn the Confederate position, while
Sherman held the stone bridge with a demonstration of force.
A cheer swept the line as the dust rose higher and denser and nearer.
Banks of storm clouds were rising from the horizon. The air was thick
and oppressive, as the two armies drew close in tense battle array. The
turning movement had only been partly successful. It had been discovered
before complete and a grey line had wheeled, gripped their muskets and
stood ready to meet the attack.
The dust, cloud suddenly fell. McDowell's two divisions of eighteen
thousand men spread out in the woods and made ready for the shock.
The sun burst through the gathering clouds for a moment and the edge of
the woods flashed with polished steel.
A Federal battery dashed into position and placed one of its big
black-wheeled guns in the front yard of a little white-washed farmhouse.
The farmer's wife faced the commander with indignant fury:
"Take that thing outen my front yard!"
The dust-and sweat-covered men paid no attention. They quickly sunk the
wheels into the ground and piled their shells in place for work.
The old woman stamped her foot and shouted again: "Take that thing away
I tell you--I won't have it here!"
The captain seized his lanyard, trained his piece and the big black lips
roared.
With a scream of terror the woman covered her ears, rushed inside and
slammed the door. They found her torn and mangled body there after the
battle. An answering shell had crashed through the roof and exploded.
Sherman's men, standing in the woods before the stone bridge waiting
orders, saw the white and blue fog of battle rise above the tree tops
and felt the earth tremble beneath their feet.
And then came to John's ears the first full crash of musketry fire in
close deadly range. As company, regiment and brigade joined in volley
after volley, it was like the sound of the continuous ripping of heavy
canvas, magnified on the scale of a thousand. As the storm cloud swept
over the smoke-choked field the rattle of musketry sounded as if an
angry God rode somewhere in their fiery depths, and with giant hand was
ripping the heavens open!
An hour passed and a shout of triumph swept the Federal lines. They
charged and drove the Confederate forces back a half mile from their
first stand. There was a lull--a strange silence brooded over the
flaming woods and the guns opened from their new position--the
artillery's deep thunder and the ripping crash of muskets. Another hour
and another wild shout of victory. They had driven the Southerners three
quarters of a mile further.
The shouts suddenly stopped. They had struck something.
The grim dust-covered figure of a Southern Brigadier General on a little
sorrel horse had barred the way. His bulging forehead with its sombre
blue eyes hung ominously over the pommel of his saddle.
General Bee, of South Carolina, rallying his shattered, broken brigade,
pointed his sword to the strange figure and shouted to his men:
"See Jackson standing like a stone wall--rally to the Virginians!"
A bursting shell struck him dead in the next instant, but the world had
heard and the name "Stonewall" became immortal.
With the last shout, the cry of victory had swept the field to the
farthest line of reserves. John Vaughan secured a horse, galloped to the
nearest telegraph line and sent the thrilling news to his paper. Already
the wires were flashing it to the farthest cities of the North and
West.
Victory! The first and last battle of the war had been settled. He
spurred his horse through the blistering heat back to his regiment to
join in the pursuit of the flying enemy.
They were just dashing across Bull Run going into action, their battle
flag flying and their band playing. They were not long in finding the
foe. The obstruction still remained in the path of the advancing hosts.
The grim figure on the little sorrel horse had just ordered his brigade
to fix bayonets.
In sharp tones his command was snapped:
"Charge and take that battery!"
A low grey cloud rose from the hill, swept over the crack Federal
battery of Ricketts and Griffin and captured their guns.
John's regiment reached the field just in time to see the cannoneers
fall in their tracks at the first deadly volley from the charging men.
Every horse was down dead or wounded. The pitiful cries of the stricken
horses rang over the field above the roar of the battle, pathetic,
heartrending, sickening.
The two armies had clinched now in the grim struggle which meant defeat
or victory. It was incredible that the army which swept the field for
four terrible hours should fail. The new regiments formed in line and
with a shout of desperation charged Jackson's men and retook the
captured battery.
Again the men in grey rallied and tore the guns a second time from the
hands of their owners.
John saw a shell explode directly beneath a magnificent horse on which
a general sat directing his men. The horse was blown to atoms, the
general was hurled twenty feet into the air and struck the ground on his
feet. He was unhurt, called for another horse, mounted and led the third
charge to recover the guns. For a moment the two battle lines mingled in
deadly hand to hand combat and once more the guns were retaken.
It had scarcely been done before Jackson's men rallied, turned and swift
as a bolt of lightning from the smoke-covered hill captured the guns the
third time and held them.
And then the unexpected, unimaginable thing happened. A new dust cloud
rose over the hill toward Manassas Junction. The Southerners were hoping
against hope that it might be Kirby Smith with his lost regiment from
the Shenandoah Valley. The regiment had been expected since noon. It was
now half past three o'clock. General McDowell, the Union Commander, was
hoping against hope that Patterson's army from the Shenandoah would join
his.
They were not long in doubt. The fresh troops suddenly swung into
position on McDowell's right flank. If they were allies all was well. If
they were foes! Suddenly from this line of battle rose a new cry on the
face of the earth. From two thousand dusty throats came a
heaven-piercing, soul-shivering shout, the cry of the Southern hunter in
sight of his game, a cry that was destined to ring over many a field of
death--the fierce, wild "Rebel Yell."
They charged McDowell's right flank with resistless onslaught. Kirby
Smith fell desperately wounded and Elzey took command. Beckham's battery
unlimbered and poured into the ranks from the rear a storm of shell.
McDowell swung his battle line into a fiery crescent and made his last
desperate stand.
Jubal Early, Elzey's brigade, and Stonewall Jackson charged at the same
signal--and then--pandemonium!
Blind, unreasoning panic seized the army of the North. They broke and
fled. Brave officers cursed and swore in vain. The panic grew. Men
rushed pell mell over one another, white with terror. They threw down
their muskets, their knapsacks, their haversacks and ran for their
lives, every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost. In vain
the regular army, with splendid discipline, formed a rear guard to
effect an orderly retreat. The crack of their guns only made the men run
faster.
The wildest rumors flew from parched tongue to throbbing ear.
An army of a hundred thousand fresh troops had fallen on their tired,
bloody ranks. They were led by Jeb Stuart at the head of four thousand
Black Horse Cavalry. If a single man escaped alive it would be for one
reason, only they could outrun them. It was a crime for officers to try
to round them up for a massacre. That's all it was--a massacre! With
each mad thought of the rushing mob the panic grew. They cut the traces
of horses from guns and left them on the field. The frantic mob engulfed
the buggies and carriages of the Congressmen and picnickers from
Washington who had come out to see the Rebellion put down at a single
blow. The road became a mass of neighing, plunging horses, broken and
tangled wagons, ambulances and riderless artillery teams. Horses neighed
in terror more abject than that which filled the hearts of men. Men
once had reason--the poor horse had never claimed it. The blockades on
the road formed no barrier to the flying men on foot. They streamed
around and overflowed into the woods and fields and pressed on with new
terror. God in Heaven! They pitied the poor fools engulfed in those
masses of maddened plunging brutes and smashing wagons. It was only a
question of a few minutes when Stuart's sabres would split every skull.
John Vaughan was swept to the rear on the crest of this wave of terror.
Up to the moment it began he had scarcely thought of danger. After the
first few minutes of nerve tension under fire his spirit had risen as
the combat raged and deepened. It didn't seem real, the falling of men
around him. He had no time to realize that they were being torn to
pieces by shot and shell and the hail of lead that whistled from those
long sheets of flaming smoke-banks before him.
And then the panic had seized him. He had caught its mad unreasoning
terror from the men who surged about him. And it was every man for
himself. The change was swift, abject, complete from utter
unconsciousness of fear to the blindest terror. Some ran mechanically,
with their eyes set in front as if stiff with fear, expecting each
moment to be struck dead, knowing it was useless to try but going on and
on because involuntary muscles were carrying them.
A fat man caught hold of John's coat and held on for half a mile before
he could shake him off. He begged piteously for help.
"Don't leave me, partner!" he panted. "I'm a sinful man. I ain't fit to
die. You're young and strong--save me!"
The dead weight was pulling him down and John shook the fellow off with
an angry jerk.
"To hell with you!"
They suddenly came to a lot of horses hid in the woods, rearing and
plunging and neighing madly.
John swerved out of their way and an officer rushed up to him crying:
"Why don't you take a horse?"
He looked at him in a dazed way before he could realize his meaning.
"Take a horse!" he yelled. "The rebels will get 'em if you don't----"
The men were too intent on running to try to save horses. Horses would
have to look out for themselves.
It suddenly occurred to John that a horse might go faster. Funny he
hadn't thought of it at once. He turned, seized one, mounted, and
galloped on. There was a quick halt. A panting mob came surging back
over the way they had just fled. A ford in front had been blocked, and
in the scramble the cry was raised that Stuart's cavalry were on them
and cutting every soul down in his tracks at the crossing.
John leaped from his horse, turned, and ran straight for the woods. He
didn't propose to be captured by Stuart's cavalry, that was sure. He
turned to look back and ran into a tree. He climbed it. If he could only
get to the top before they saw him. He had been an expert climber when a
boy in Missouri and he thanked God now for this. He never paused for
breath until he had reached the very top, where he drew the swaying
branches close about his body to hide from the coming foe. The sun was
yet hanging over the trees in the woods--a ball of sullen red fire
lighting up the hiding place of the last poor devil for the eyes of the
avenging hosts who were sweeping on. If it were night it would be all
right. But this was no place for a man with an ounce of sense in broad
daylight. The sharpshooters would see him in that tall tree sure. They
couldn't take him prisoner up there--they would shoot him like a
squirrel just to see him tumble and, by the Lord Harry, they would do
it, too!
He got down from the tree faster than he climbed up and from the edge of
the woods spied a dense swamp. He never stopped until he reached the
centre of it, and dropped flat on his stomach.
"Thank God, at last!" he sighed.
The Northern army fleeing for Washington had left on the field
twenty-eight guns, four thousand muskets, nine regimental flags, four
hundred and eighty-one dead, a thousand and eleven wounded and fourteen
hundred captured. The road to the rear was literally sown with pistols,
knapsacks, blankets, haversacks, wagons, tools and hospital stores.
And saddest of all the wreck, lay the bright new handcuffs with coils of
hang-man's rope scattered everywhere.
The Southern army had lost three hundred and eighty-seven killed,
including two brigadier generals, Bee and Barton, and fifteen hundred
wounded. They were so completely scattered and demoralized by their
marvellous and overwhelming victory that any systematic pursuit of their
foe was impossible.
The strange silent figure on the little sorrel horse turned his blue
eyes toward Washington from the last hilltop as darkness fell, lifted
his head suddenly toward the sky, and cried:
"Ten thousand fresh troops and I'd be in Washington to-morrow night!"
The troops were not to be had, and Stonewall Jackson ordered his men to
bivouac for the night and sent out his details to bury the dead and care
for the wounded of both armies.
Monday morning dawned black and lowering and before the sun rose the
rain poured in steady torrents. Through every hour of this desolate
sickening day the weary, terror-stricken stragglers trailed through the
streets of Washington--their gorgeous plumes soaked and drooping, the
Scotch bonnets dripping the rain straight down their necks and across
their dirty foreheads, the Garibaldi shirts, the blue and grey, the
black and yellow and gold and blazing Zouave uniforms rain-soaked and
mud-smeared.
Betty Winter bought out a peddler's cake and lemonade stand on the main
line of this ghastly procession and through every bitter hour from
sunrise until dark stood there cheering and serving the men without
money and without price, while the tears slowly rolled down her flushed
cheeks.