Back again through the starlit night, through dew-dripping aisles of
shrubbery, through dark, leafy groves, with the glint of the picket's
rifle ever before his eyes, the cautious yet excited challenge falling
constantly upon his alert ear, time and again had Snipe to dismount and
account for himself before he reached the outposts along the pathway to
the north, and finally, after finding its junction with the wood road
along which Upton had led the battalion at dusk, the lad came upon
officers and sentries who were obdurate. Oh, yes; they believed him to
be the young feller that twice had gone through the lines, once with the
major and Lieutenant Upton and once with prisoners; but now he was
alone, and how'd they know he wasn't going with information to the
enemy, or going to be a deserter? Snipe argued and pleaded. Major Stark
was waiting for him away out toward Sudley Ford. General McDowell
himself and General Burnside told him he might rejoin his command. Then
why didn't they give him a pass through the lines? was the question. The
countersign didn't amount to shucks out along the pickets, said they.
Anybody could get the countersign,--which wasn't altogether an
exaggeration,--and, well, he might be all right, and then again he might
be all wrong. It was now nearly two o'clock, the hour Upton said they
might expect the head of column at the farm bridge, and Snipe, whose
heart was full of glory and elation an hour before, found himself
compelled either to wait there or retrace his weary way past all those
inner posts again to the now crowded turnpike.
He chose the latter, and after an almost perilous ride, for more than
one raw sentinel took him for a rebel army and wanted to shoot, he
reached the broad thoroughfare about a quarter of three, to find it
still blocked by troops of the same general who had made the mistaken
move on Blackburn's Ford, who was ordered to have his division on the
road to the stone bridge and well out of the way two hours before,--the
same fellows that "broke ranks at every blackberry-bush and spring and
well along the route from Washington," and before the first crash of the
shells on Thursday afternoon. Now they seemed to be lost in the darkness
when routed out at midnight, and not until long after the proper
time--three hours at least--could the guns of Hunter's division get the
road; not until nearly dawn did they cross that old suspension bridge
across Cub Run and then, turning to the right, march off into the
fields along that guarded wood path. Not until broad daylight did the
head of column reach the farm bridge. Then, as the sun came up hot and
strong, and Snipe, after a long night in saddle, was able to rejoin his
anxiously waiting major, and Stark's battalion fell in once more with
the left wing of the New-Englanders and followed in the wake of
Burnside's Rhode Island battery, the long column moved on, snake-like,
through fields wherein the dew too soon gave way to dust, and not until
nine o'clock, heated, weary, hungry, after nine hours of exasperating
delays, of alternate halt and march, were the leading files plashing
through Sudley Ford. There stood the little church, and this was Sunday
morning, and these silent, solemn fellows who came plodding up the
southern bank on the trail of the gun-wheels were of the old Puritan
stock, but there was no halt or time for worship. McDowell himself,
commander of the army, had accompanied the turning column that by this
long, circuitous path had essayed to make safe crossing of Bull Run and
bear down on the rebel left, while the rest of the army waited in front
of the stone bridge. Only twenty-eight thousand men all told, with
twenty-nine guns and a single battalion of cavalry, had the Union
general with which to assault in their chosen position thirty-two
thousand enthusiastic Southerners with fifty-seven guns.
No wonder there was anxiety in the wearied eyes of the Union leaders, as
at last the little division of General Hunter deployed in the fields
south of Sudley Ford and came cautiously feeling its way onward,
Porter's brigade on the right of the road, Burnside's on the left, the
Rhode Island battery jogging along the dirt track and watching for a
chance to form forward into line. After the battery rode the grizzled
old colonel of the New-Englanders, and after him trudged the long column
of his silent men; and with the left wing rode Major Stark, and ever at
his heels rode Snipe. How slow seemed the advance! how tedious the
incessant halts and waits while somebody reconnoitred! and at last,
issuing from the woods, they saw before them a long ridge running east
and west between the road on which they were marching and the winding
stream away off to the east, and out in the intervening open were two of
Burnside's regiments in line of battle, slowly moving southward, and on
the west side Porter's infantry was filing into the fields, and in
regimental succession facing south and following the general move.
Nearly a mile ahead, until lost behind that ridge, they could see the
trees and walls and fences bordering a straight line across their front
that they knew must be the turnpike they had quit a mile or so west of
Centreville, and now, having left it behind them there, here they were
facing it again with four regiments, at least, in battle line parallel
with its general direction. Off to the right front it gently rose and
was lost among groves and trees. Directly ahead it dipped into a sort of
hollow where a little stream came purling out from the wooded uplands
farther on. "Young's Branch, they call that," Snipe heard the major say
to Captain Flint. There were a few farm-houses and enclosures down near
the crossing of the pike. Then the road they had been following could be
seen red and dry rising toward the south, running straight away for
Manassas Junction, until it disappeared over the wooded crest another
mile beyond the pike. East of this road the ground rose abruptly to a
broad open plateau, skirted east, southeast, and south by a
semi-circular fringe of thick woods. At the edge of the plateau, and
near the bold, bluff-like slopes leading up to it, were two roomy houses
of brick and stone, surrounded by fruit-trees and gardens,--one away up
almost overhanging the pike, the other well down to the south, closer to
the wood road they had been following from Sudley Springs,--the first
the Robinson, the other the Henry house. From which of these were they
signalling last night? was the question that went from lip to lip.
Eleven o'clock, and though there had been some sound of musketry down
toward the stone bridge, and the big thirty-pounder gun had let drive a
shell or two into the woods, and there had been some popping of rifles
among the skirmishers well ahead, not a uniformed force of rebels had
the New-Englanders seen, unless some scattering horsemen galloping
through distant lanes could be so regarded. Out in front of Burnside's
ranks a long thin line of skirmishers was now making for the curtaining
ridge in front of the pike, and all on a sudden a pale blue smoke-cloud,
like a long string of cotton wool, flew along that crest as though the
command fire was given from the far right, and the nervous, waiting
fingers pulled trigger as the order came, borne on the hot, sluggish,
summer air. Snipe's heart gave a great leap as he saw the dust fly up in
a hundred places just back of the distant skirmish line and the
skirmishers themselves, with much alacrity, come sprinting back to the
line, and then there was prodigious waving of swords and shouting of
orders and galloping furiously about on part of field-officers who had
never before smelled powder, much unnecessary exciting of their men,
much whoop and hurrah on part of the advanced line, despite the efforts
of the few veterans to set the example of calm and quiet. The instant
the skirmishers came ducking in out of the way the long battle line
opened a rattling fire upon the ridge, doing tremendous havoc along the
hill-side, if one could judge by the rising dust, but finding no
lodgment among its hidden defenders. Then a field-gun banged somewhere
over east of the ridge, and a shell, whizzing overhead, burst with a
puff and crash among the trees back of Burnside's reserve, and hundreds
of men crouched instinctively and sprang back laughing loud and
nervously. And then another gun, over by the pike, west of the ridge,
barked angry challenge, and sent its shell whistling over among Porter's
men, and the battle lines broke anew into rattling, crashing fusillade,
known as the "fire at will," and then, instead of pushing straight
onward as they would be doing another year, the two brigades halted
short and took to long-range shooting. Then Snipe saw the battery ahead
of them beginning to joggle, and the next thing "Forward, double quick,"
was repeated along the column, and off to the left front across the
fields the snorting teams went galloping, the guns bounding, the
cannoneers racing after them, and the adjutant came running back afoot
to shout something to Major Stark, who still rode, grim and silent,
along the advancing column. Up to this moment the only thing Snipe had
heard him say since the first volley was. "Steady, men. Keep quiet.
Listen for orders." Now he turned round. "Ride back, Lawton; find the
ammunition-wagon and bring it up. It's the colonel's order."
They are half across the field at the moment. The air is ringing with
the blare of battery bugles and the sputter of file-firing. Smoke is
drifting across the eager column of New-Englanders, and there are queer
whistlings on the wind as Snipe, digging spurs into his tired horse's
ribs, whirls about and goes darting back to the Sudley road. But there
he has to draw rein. The narrow track is blocked. With set faces, but
flashing eyes, a battalion of regulars is hastening forward. Then, with
cracking whips and straining traces, strong, mettlesome horses prancing
in the fulness of their strength and spirit, Griffin's West Point
battery comes tearing through the lane. Wagons, either of ammunition or
rations, or even ambulances, are cut off somewhere far to the rear. Able
only to move at the trot, halted every now and then, and forced aside,
sometimes even compelled by over-zealous officers to halt and explain
why he is going to the rear, Snipe is full half an hour passing the
batteries and battalions of Heintzelman's division pressing forward into
action. Well-nigh another half-hour is he in finding the needed wagon
and compelling its reluctant negro drivers to whip their startled mules
out into the track. It is after one o'clock when at last he comes
spurring out upon the open field again, and now, what a change in the
picture! General Hunter has been borne to the rear, wounded, but the
thin line of the rebels has fallen back to the plateau beyond the
Robinson place, the splendid regular batteries are far over on an open
field near the Dogan house, to the north of the turnpike, hurling shell
upon the retiring rebel lines. Some of Burnside's command, still halted,
are apparently repairing damages, but one regiment has gone on, and with
tumultuous cheers the Union men are pressing up the slopes at both the
Robinson and Henry houses, the New-Englanders somewhere with them.
The road is blocked in front, the fields are strewn here and there with
little groups hanging about prostrate soldiers, killed or wounded, and
Snipe nibbles at a hardtack to still that queer feeling of faintness
that again assails him when he recognizes among the pallid wounded a
lieutenant of his own company. Before he can find words to speak he
hears the voice of the adjutant, and that young officer has a
handkerchief bound about his head and blood is trickling down his neck.
"Ride forward," he says. "The regiment is straight ahead over that first
ridge, and the major needs his horse. Yonder lies the other. I'll bring
up the wagon."
There is a lull in the fight as Snipe goes riding along in rear of the
battle line, seeking the New-Englanders. Other brigades have crossed the
run, and now the Fire Zouaves are marching in column toward the regular
batteries, and right at the edge of the pike Snipe finds his old
regiment, with Stark in rear of the right wing. Lieutenant-Colonel
Proctor is gone, shot dead, say the rearmost men, as they were crossing
the ridge behind them, though that, happily, turns out later to be
untrue. The major, however, has secured his late superior's horse, and
gravely bids his orderly welcome with the other. Far over along that
semicircular fringe of woods to the southeast an exultant chorus of
yells is rising, and a staff-officer, riding by, says something about
the rebs trying to keep their spirits up. But the dust is rolling in
heavy clouds along the Manassas road, and the captured wounded, and
prisoners overhauled during the triumphant forward movement of the Union
line, long delayed though it was, say that they are of Johnston's army
from the Shenandoah. Then all Beauregard's must be yet to come. Are
they the ones now doing all this cheering? Snipe, dismounted and holding
both drooping horses, stands watching the faces of his gray-haired
colonel and his beloved major, now in earnest, low-voiced conference,
and it is plain to see, if not to hear, that the former is far from
satisfied at the way things have gone. Over an hour passes without
another forward movement, although long columns continue arriving from
the direction of the fords just above Bull Run, the fords discovered by
General Sherman. Many of the regiments right and left are tossing caps
and hats in air, cheering like mad, and demanding the word to advance
and finish up the rebels. The steady cannonade of the Union guns has
been stopped. The batteries suddenly limber up and move deliberately out
upon the pike, then turn southward into that road leading toward
Manassas, and next are seen breasting the slopes to their left, marching
up the height, Ricketts well in front, Griffin some distance in rear,
and when they disappear over the edge of the plateau south of the Henry
house, the Zouaves and some other regiment following rather slowly in
support, the colonel ventures to say that those batteries will be in
mischief before they are quarter of an hour older. Twenty minutes more
and they are heard again, reopening in fury upon the enemy unseen by the
halted battalions here under the Robinson bluff. And now it is after
two, long after, and brigades from Tyler's first division, fording the
run above the stone bridge, are strengthening the attack. Sherman,
Howard, Wilcox, all are there. Victory seems assured if only the line
may advance, crown those heights, sweep the plateau where now the
batteries stand almost alone, and drive the yelling rebels from the
woods. A dense smoke-cloud rises over the thundering guns. Who can
withstand so fierce a cannonade? Snipe, too, wants to toss his cap in
air and cheer, but the anxiety in his colonel's face forbids. Thicker
grows that shrouding smoke-cloud, heavier the thunder, but louder,
clearer, and nearer the crash of musketry, the chorus of exultant yells.
Surely there should be an infantry division, at least, to line that
crest and support those guns, say veteran soldiers, and all too late the
order comes. Out from the woods to the right of the twin batteries
issues a long, well-ordered line of troops, commanded by a general who
knows his trade. Straight, swift, and silent, in through the hanging
smoke, he drives them. Instantly at sight of them the nearest battery
commander whirls his muzzles around to deluge them with canister.
Instantly from his misguided senior comes the order, "Don't fire. Those
are our friends." Quick the reply, "They are Confederates! As sure as
the world, they are Confederates!" But Griffin, certain as he is, can
but obey when Barry sternly says, "They are our own supports. You must
not fire!" Already half of Ricketts's horses and many of his men are
down when that menacing line suddenly halts, aims, and at short range
pours in one fearful volley that rips through the batteries like a flash
of lightning. Down go dozens more,--officers, gunners, drivers,
cannoneers, horses,--and then, in wild panic, what are left of the poor,
affrighted beasts turn short about, and, snorting with terror, despite
every effort of the drivers, come tearing down the slopes, limbers and
caissons bounding after them, straight through the ranks of the startled
supports; the precious, priceless guns, the stricken wounded, the heroic
dead, the gallant officers, abandoned to their fate. Brave as they were
in face of fire at home, this was something the Zouaves had never
dreamed of. No Ellsworth raged among them now, holding them to their
duty. One wild volley they fire, mostly in the air, and down, too, they
come, streaming like sheep along the hill-side, leaping the stone wall
and scattering for shelter. The panic of Bull Run has begun. Down among
the scary mules of the wagons tear the riderless battery horses, and
away go darky drivers, mules, and all. Vain the dash of generals to the
front, ordering regiments and brigades to charge and retake the guns,
now being dragged to the woods. The rebel lines are mad with joy, drunk
with triumph, invincible against the half-hearted assaults that follow.
No longer is there any concerted effort on the Northern side. Some Union
regiments, indeed, charge home, only to find themselves isolated,
abandoned right and left by less disciplined comrades. Twice the
New-Englanders breast that fire-flashing slope, their gray-haired old
colonel cheering them on. Twice they come drifting back, bringing their
scores of wounded with them; but when, at last, with tears coursing down
his powder-blackened cheeks, Burnside tells them all is over, and to
follow the retreat, it is the old Covenanter, Flint, who leads the
remnant from the field. Their colonel, limp and senseless from loss of
blood, is borne away on the muskets of a squad of wearied men. The
major, pinned under his dying horse close to the Henry house, is
surrounded by a throng of rebels when the right gives way. If not dead,
he and Snipe are prisoners, for the last seen of the youngster he is
trying to drag the major out and get him on another horse, even while
the rebels are swarming all about them.