To the scene of action--The Confederate camp--Centreville--
Action at Bull Run--Defeat of the Federals--Disorderly retreat
to Centreville--My ride back to Washington.
Punctual to time, our carriage appeared at the door, with a spare
horse, followed by the black quadruped on which the negro boy sat
with difficulty, in consequence of its high spirits and excessively
hard mouth. I swallowed a cup of tea and a morsel of bread, put the
remainder of the tea into a bottle, got a flask of light Bordeaux,
a bottle of water, a paper of sandwiches, and having replenished
my small flask with brandy, stowed them all away in the bottom of
the gig; but my friend, who is not accustomed to rise very early in
the morning, did not make his appearance, and I was obliged to send
several times to the legation to quicken his movements. Each time I
was assured he would be over presently; but it was not till two hours
had elapsed, and when I had just resolved to leave him behind, that
he appeared in person, quite unprovided with _viaticum_, so that my
slender store had now to meet the demands of two instead of one. We
are off at last. The amicus and self find contracted space behind the
driver. The negro boy, grinning half with pain and “the balance” with
pleasure, as the Americans say, held on his rampant charger, which
made continual efforts to leap into the gig, and thus through the
deserted city we proceeded towards the Long Bridge, where a sentry
examined our papers, and said with a grin, “You’ll find plenty of
Congressmen on before you.” And then our driver whipped his horses
through the embankment of Fort Runyon, and dashed off along a country
road, much cut up with gun and cart wheels, towards the main turnpike.
The promise of a lovely day, given by the early dawn, was likely to
be realised to the fullest, and the placid beauty of the scenery as
we drove through the woods below Arlington, and beheld the white
buildings shining in the early sunlight, and the Potomac, like a
broad silver riband dividing the picture, breathed of peace. The
silence close to the city was unbroken. From the time we passed the
guard beyond the Long Bridge, for several miles we did not meet
a human being, except a few soldiers in the neighbourhood of the
deserted camps, and when we passed beyond the range of tents we drove
for nearly two hours through a densely-wooded, undulating country;
the houses, close to the road-side, shut up and deserted, window-high
in the crops of Indian corn, fast ripening for the sickle; alternate
field and forest, the latter generally still holding possession of
the hollows, and, except when the road, deep and filled with loose
stones, passed over the summit of the ridges, the eye caught on
either side little but fir-trees and maize, and the deserted wooden
houses, standing amidst the slave quarters.
The residences close to the lines gave signs and tokens that the
Federals had recently visited them. But at the best of times the
inhabitants could not be very well off. Some of the farms were
small, the houses tumbling to decay, with unpainted roofs and side
walls, and windows where the want of glass was supplemented by
panes of wood. As we got further into the country the traces of
the debateable land between the two armies vanished, and negroes
looked out from their quarters, or sickly-looking women and children
were summoned forth by the rattle of the wheels to see who was
hurrying to the war. Now and then a white man looked out, with an
ugly scowl on his face, but the country seemed drained of the adult
male population, and such of the inhabitants as we saw were neither
as comfortably dressed nor as healthy looking as the shambling
slaves who shuffled about the plantations. The road was so cut up
by gun-wheels, ammunition and commissariat waggons, that our horses
made but slow way against the continual draft upon the collar; but
at last the driver, who had known the country in happier times,
announced that we had entered the high road for Fairfax Court-house.
Unfortunately my watch had gone down, but I guessed it was then a
little before nine o’clock. In a few minutes afterwards I thought I
heard, through the eternal clatter and jingle of the old gig, a sound
which made me call the driver to stop. He pulled up, and we listened.
In a minute or so, the well-known boom of a gun, followed by two or
three in rapid succession, but at a considerable distance, reached
my ear. “Did you hear that?” The driver heard nothing, nor did my
companion, but the black boy on the led horse, with eyes starting out
of his head, cried, “I hear them, massa; I hear them, sure enough,
like de gun in de navy yard;” and as he spoke the thudding noise,
like taps with a gentle hand upon a muffled drum, were repeated,
which were heard both by Mr. Warre and the driver. “They are at it!
We shall be late! Drive on as fast as you can!” We rattled on still
faster, and presently came up to a farm-house, where a man and woman,
with some negroes beside them, were standing out by the hedge-row
above us, looking up the road in the direction of a cloud of dust,
which we could see rising above the tops of the trees. We halted for
a moment. “How long have the guns been going, sir?” “Well, ever since
early this morning,” said he; “they’ve been having a fight. And I do
really believe some of our poor Union chaps have had enough of it
already. For here’s some of them darned Secessionists marching down
to go into Alexandry.” The driver did not seem altogether content
with this explanation of the dust in front of us, and presently, when
a turn of the road brought to view a body of armed men, stretching to
an interminable distance, with bayonets glittering in the sunlight
through the clouds of dust, seemed inclined to halt or turn back
again. A nearer approach satisfied me they were friends, and as soon
as we came up with the head of the column I saw that they could not
be engaged in the performance of any military duty. The men were
marching without any resemblance of order, in twos and threes or
larger troops. Some without arms, carrying great bundles on their
backs; others with their coats hung from their firelocks; many foot
sore. They were all talking, and in haste; many plodding along
laughing, so I concluded that they could not belong to a defeated
army, and imagined M‘Dowell was effecting some flank movement. “Where
are you going to, may I ask?”
“If this is the road to Alexandria, we are going there.”
“There is an action going on in front, is there not?”
“Well, so we believe, but we have not been fighting.”
Although they were in such good spirits, they were not communicative,
and we resumed our journey, impeded by the straggling troops and by
the country cars containing their baggage and chairs, and tables and
domestic furniture, which had never belonged to a regiment in the
field. Still they came pouring on. I ordered the driver to stop at
a rivulet, where a number of men were seated in the shade, drinking
the water and bathing their hands and feet. On getting out I asked
an officer, “May I beg to know, sir, where your regiment is going
to?” “Well, I reckon, sir, we are going home to Pennsylvania.” “This
is the 4th Pennsylvania Regiment, is it not, sir?” “It is so, sir;
that’s the fact.” “I should think there is severe fighting going on
behind you, judging from the firing” (for every moment the sound of
the cannon had been growing more distinct and more heavy). “Well,
I reckon, sir, there is.” I paused for a moment, not knowing what
to say, and yet anxious for an explanation; and the epauletted
gentleman, after a few seconds’ awkward hesitation, added, “We are
going home because, as you see, the men’s time’s up, sir. We have had
three months of this sort of work, and that’s quite enough of it.”
The men who were listening to the conversation expressed their assent
to the noble and patriotic utterances of the centurion, and, making
him a low bow, we resumed our journey.
It was fully three and a half miles before the last of the regiment
passed, and then the road presented a more animated scene, for
white-covered commissariat waggons were visible, wending towards
the front, and one or two hack carriages, laden with civilians,
were hastening in the same direction. Before the doors of the wooden
farm-houses the coloured people were assembled, listening with
outstretched necks to the repeated reports of the guns. At one time,
as we were descending the wooded road, a huge blue dome, agitated
by some internal convulsion, appeared to bar our progress, and it
was only after infinite persuasion of rein and whip that the horses
approached the terrific object, which was an inflated balloon,
attached to a waggon, and defying the efforts of the men in charge to
jockey it safely through the trees.
It must have been about eleven o’clock when we came to the first
traces of the Confederate camp, in front of Fairfax Court-house,
where they had cut a few trenches and levelled the trees across the
road, so as to form a rude abattis; but the works were of a most
superficial character, and would scarcely have given cover either to
the guns, for which embrasures were left at the flanks to sweep the
road, or to the infantry intended to defend them.
The Confederate force stationed here must have consisted, to a
considerable extent, of cavalry. The bowers of branches, which they
had made to shelter their tents, camp tables, empty boxes, and
packing-cases, in the _débris_ one usually sees around an encampment,
showed they had not been destitute of creature comforts.
Some time before noon the driver, urged continually by adjurations
to get on, whipped his horses into Fairfax Court-house, a village
which derives its name from a large brick building, in which the
sessions of the county are held. Some thirty or forty houses, for
the most part detached, with gardens or small strips of land about
them, form the main street. The inhabitants who remained had by no
means an agreeable expression of countenance, and did not seem on
very good terms with the Federal soldiers, who were lounging up and
down the streets, or standing in the shade of the trees and doorways.
I asked the sergeant of a picket in the street how long the firing
had been going on. He replied that it had commenced at half-past
seven or eight, and had been increasing ever since. “Some of them
will lose their eyes and back teeth,” he added, “before it is over.”
The driver, pulling up at a roadside inn in the town, here made
the startling announcement, that both he and his horses must have
something to eat, and although we would have been happy to join him,
seeing that we had no breakfast, we could not afford the time, and
were not displeased when a thin-faced, shrewish woman, in black, came
out into the verandah, and said she could not let us have anything
unless we liked to wait till the regular dinner hour of the house,
which was at one o’clock. The horses got a bucket of water, which
they needed in that broiling sun; and the cannonade, which by this
time had increased into a respectable tumult that gave evidence of
a well-sustained action, added vigour to the driver’s arm, and in
a mile or two more we dashed in to a village of burnt houses, the
charred brick chimney stacks standing amidst the blackened embers
being all that remained of what once was German Town. The firing of
this village was severely censured by General M‘Dowell, who probably
does not appreciate the value of such agencies employed “by our
glorious Union army to develop loyal sentiments among the people of
Virginia.”
The driver, passing through the town, drove straight on, but after
some time I fancied the sound of the guns seemed dying away towards
our left. A big negro came shambling along the roadside--the driver
stopped and asked him, “is this the road to Centreville?” “Yes, sir;
right on, sir; good road to Centreville, massa,” and so we proceeded,
till I became satisfied from the appearance of the road that we
had altogether left the track of the army. At the first cottage we
halted, and inquired of a Virginian, who came out to look at us,
whether the road led to Centreville. “You’re going to Centreville,
are you?” “Yes, by the shortest road we can.” “Well, then--you’re
going wrong--right away! Some people say there’s a bend of road
leading through the wood a mile further on, but those who have tried
it lately have come back to German Town and don’t think it leads to
Centreville at all.” This was very provoking, as the horses were much
fatigued and we had driven several miles out of our way. The driver,
who was an Englishman, said, “I think it would be best for us to go
on and try the road anyhow. There’s not likely to be any Seceshers
about there, are there, sir?”
“What did you say, sir,” inquired the Virginian, with a vacant stare
upon his face.
“I merely asked whether you think we are likely to meet with any
Secessionists if we go along that road?”
“Secessionists!” repeated the Virginian, slowly pronouncing each
syllable as if pondering on the meaning of the word--“Secessionists!
Oh no, _sir_; I don’t believe there’s such a thing as a Secessionist
in the whole of this country.”
The boldness of this assertion, in the very hearing of Beauregard’s
cannon, completely shook the faith of our Jehu in any information
from that source, and we retraced our steps to German Town, and were
directed into the proper road by some negroes, who were engaged
exchanging Confederate money at very low rates for Federal copper
with a few straggling soldiers. The faithful Muley Moloch, who had
been capering in our rear so long, now complained that he was very
much burned, but on further inquiry it was ascertained he was merely
suffering from the abrading of his skin against an English saddle.
In an hour more we had gained the high road to Centreville, on which
were many buggies, commissariat carts, and waggons full of civilians,
and a brisk canter brought us in sight of a rising ground, over
which the road led directly through a few houses on each side, and
dipped out of sight, the slopes of the hill being covered with men,
carts, and horses, and the summit crested with spectators, with their
backs turned towards us, and gazing on the valley beyond. “There’s
Centreville,” says the driver, and on our poor panting horses
were forced, passing directly through the Confederate bivouacs,
commissariat parks, folds of oxen, and two German regiments, with a
battery of artillery, halting on the rising-ground by the road-side.
The heat was intense. Our driver complained of hunger and thirst, to
which neither I nor my companion were insensible; and so pulling up
on the top of the hill, I sent the boy down to the village which we
had passed, to see if he could find shelter for the horses, and a
morsel for our breakfastless selves.
It was a strange scene before us. From the hill a densely wooded
country, dotted at intervals with green fields and cleared lands,
spread five or six miles in front, bounded by a line of blue and
purple ridges, terminating abruptly in escarpments towards the left
front, and swelling gradually towards the right into the lower spines
of an offshoot from the Blue-Ridge Mountains. On our left the view
was circumscribed by a forest which clothed the side of the ridge on
which we stood, and covered its shoulder far down into the plain. A
gap in the nearest chain of the hills in our front was pointed out by
the bystanders as the Pass of Manassas, by which the railway from the
West is carried into the plain, and still nearer at hand, before us,
is the junction of that rail with the line from Alexandria, and with
the railway leading southwards to Richmond. The intervening space was
not a dead level; undulating lines of forest marked the course of the
streams which intersected it, and gave, by their variety of colour
and shading, an additional charm to the landscape which, enclosed in
a framework of blue and purple hills, softened into violet in the
extreme distance, presented one of the most agreeable displays of
simple pastoral woodland scenery that could be conceived.
But the sounds which came upon the breeze, and the sights which met
our eyes, were in terrible variance with the tranquil character of
the landscape. The woods far and near echoed to the roar of cannon,
and thin frayed lines of blue smoke marked the spots whence came the
muttering sound of rolling musketry; the white puffs of smoke burst
high above the tree-tops, and the gunners’ rings from shell and
howitzer marked the fire of the artillery.
Clouds of dust shifted and moved through the forest; and through the
wavering mists of light blue smoke, and the thicker masses which rose
commingling from the feet of men and the mouths of cannon, I could
see the gleam of arms and the twinkling of bayonets.
On the hill beside me there was a crowd of civilians on horseback,
and in all sorts of vehicles, with a few of the fairer, if not
gentler sex. A few officers and some soldiers, who had straggled
from the regiments in reserve, moved about among the spectators, and
pretended to explain the movements of the troops below, of which they
were profoundly ignorant.
The cannonade and musketry had been exaggerated by the distance
and by the rolling echoes of the hills; and sweeping the position
narrowly with my glass from point to point, I failed to discover any
traces of close encounter or very severe fighting. The spectators
were all excited, and a lady with an opera-glass who was near me
was quite beside herself when an unusually heavy discharge roused
the current of her blood--“That is splendid. Oh, my! Is not that
first-rate? I guess we will be in Richmond this time to-morrow.”
These, mingled with coarser exclamations, burst from the politicians
who had come out to see the triumph of the Union arms. I was
particularly irritated by constant applications for the loan of my
glass. One broken-down looking soldier observing my flask, asked me
for a drink, and took a startling pull, which left but little between
the bottom and utter vacuity.
“Stranger, that’s good stuff and no mistake. I have not had such
a drink since I come South. I feel now as if I’d like to whip ten
Seceshers.”
From the line of the smoke it appeared to me that the action was in
an oblique line from our left, extending farther outwards towards the
right, bisected by a road from Centreville, which descended the hill
close at hand and ran right across the undulating plain, its course
being marked by the white covers of the baggage and commissariat
waggons as far as a turn of the road, where the trees closed in upon
them. Beyond the right of the curling smoke clouds of dust appeared
from time to time in the distance, as if bodies of cavalry were
moving over a sandy plain.
Notwithstanding all the exultation and boastings of the people at
Centreville, I was well convinced no advance of any importance or any
great success had been achieved, because the ammunition and baggage
waggons had never moved, nor had the reserves received any orders to
follow in the line of the army.
The clouds of dust on the right were quite inexplicable. As we were
looking, my philosophic companion asked me in perfect seriousness,
“Are we really seeing a battle now? Are they supposed to be fighting
where all that smoke is going on? This is rather interesting, you
know.”
Up came our black boy. “Not find a bit to eat, sir, in all the
place.” We had, however, my little paper of sandwiches, and descended
the hill to a bye lane off the village, where, seated in the shade
of the gig, Mr. Warre and myself, dividing our provision with the
driver, wound up a very scanty, but much relished, repast with
a bottle of tea and half the bottle of Bordeaux and water, the
remainder being prudently reserved at my request for contingent
remainders. Leaving orders for the saddle horse, which was eating his
first meal, to be brought up the moment he was ready--I went with
Mr. Warre to the hill once more and observed that the line had not
sensibly altered whilst we were away.
An English gentleman, who came up flushed and heated from the plain,
told us that the Federals had been advancing steadily in spite of a
stubborn resistance and had behaved most gallantly.
Loud cheers suddenly burst from the spectators, as a man dressed in
the uniform of an officer, whom I had seen riding violently across
the plain in an open space below, galloped along the front, waving
his cap and shouting at the top of his voice. He was brought up by
the press of people round his horse close to where I stood. “We’ve
whipped them on all points,” he cried. “We have taken all their
batteries. They are retreating as fast as they can, and we are after
them.” Such cheers as rent the welkin! The Congress men shook hands
with each other, and cried out, “Bully for us. Bravo, didn’t I tell
you so.” The Germans uttered their martial cheers and the Irish
hurrahed wildly. At this moment my horse was brought up the hill, and
I mounted and turned towards the road to the front, whilst Mr. Warre
and his companion proceeded straight down the hill.
By the time I reached the lane, already mentioned, which was in a
few minutes, the string of commissariat waggons was moving onwards
pretty briskly, and I was detained until my friends appeared at the
roadside. I told Mr. Warre I was going forward to the front as fast
as I could, but that I would come back, under any circumstances,
about an hour before dusk, and would go straight to the spot where
we had put up the gig by the road-side, in order to return to
Washington. Then getting into the fields, I pressed my horse, which
was quite recovered from his twenty-seven mile’s ride and full of
spirit and mettle, as fast as I could, making detours here and there
to get through the ox fences, and by the small steams which cut up
the country. The firing did not increase but rather diminished in
volume, though it now sounded close at hand.
I had ridden between three and a half and four miles, as well as I
could judge, when I was obliged to turn for the third and fourth
time into the road by a considerable stream, which was spanned by a
bridge, towards which I was threading my way, when my attention was
attracted by loud shouts in advance, and I perceived several waggons
coming from the direction of the battle-field, the drivers of which
were endeavouring to force their horses past the ammunition carts
going in the contrary direction near the bridge; a thick cloud of
dust rose behind them, and running by the side of the waggons, were
a number of men in uniform whom I supposed to be the guard. My first
impression was that the waggons were returning for fresh supplies of
ammunition. But every moment the crowd increased, drivers and men
cried out with the most vehement gestures, “Turn back! Turn back! We
are whipped.” They seized the heads of the horses and swore at the
opposing drivers. Emerging from the crowd a breathless man in the
uniform of an officer with an empty scabbard dangling by his side,
was cut off by getting between my horse and a cart for a moment.
“What is the matter, sir? What is all this about?” “Why it means we
are pretty badly whipped, that’s the truth,” he gasped, and continued.
By this time the confusion had been communicating itself through the
line of waggons towards the rear, and the drivers endeavoured to
turn round their vehicles in the narrow road, which caused the usual
amount of imprecations from the men and plunging and kicking from
the horses.
The crowd from the front continually increased, the heat, the uproar,
and the dust were beyond description, and these were augmented when
some cavalry soldiers, flourishing their sabres and preceded by an
officer, who cried out, “Make way there--make way there for the
General,” attempted to force a covered waggon in which was seated a
man with a bloody handkerchief round his head, through the press.
I had succeeded in getting across the bridge with great difficulty
before the waggon came up, and I saw the crowd on the road was still
gathering thicker and thicker. Again I asked an officer, who was on
foot, with his sword under his arm, “What is all this for?” “We are
whipped, sir. We are all in retreat. You are all to go back.” “Can
you tell me where I can find General M‘Dowell?” “No! nor can any one
else.”
A few shells could be heard bursting not very far off, but there was
nothing to account for such an extraordinary scene. A third officer,
however, confirmed the report that the whole army was in retreat, and
that the Federals were beaten on all points, but there was nothing in
this disorder to indicate a general rout. All these things took place
in a few seconds. I got up out of the road into a corn-field, through
which men were hastily walking or running, their faces streaming with
perspiration, and generally without arms, and worked my way for about
half a mile or so, as well as I could judge, against an increasing
stream of fugitives, the ground being strewed with coats, blankets,
firelocks, cooking tins, caps, belts, bayonets--asking in vain where
General M‘Dowell was.
Again I was compelled by the condition of the fields to come into
the road; and having passed a piece of wood and a regiment which
seemed to be moving back in column of march in tolerably good
order, I turned once more into an opening close to a white house,
not far from the lane, beyond which there was a belt of forest. Two
field-pieces unlimbered near the house, with panting horses in the
rear, were pointed towards the front, and along the road beside them
there swept a tolerably steady column of men mingled with field
ambulances and light baggage carts, back to Centreville. I had just
stretched out my hand to get a cigar-light from a German gunner,
when the dropping shots which had been sounding through the woods
in front of us, suddenly swelled into an animated fire. In a few
seconds a crowd of men rushed out of the wood down towards the guns,
and the artillerymen near me seized the trail of a piece, and were
wheeling it round to fire, when an officer or sergeant called out,
“Stop! stop! They are our own men;” and in two or three minutes the
whole battalion came sweeping past the guns at the double, and in the
utmost disorder. Some of the artillerymen dragged the horses out of
the tumbrils; and for a moment the confusion was so great I could not
understand what had taken place; but a soldier whom I stopped, said,
“We are pursued by their cavalry; they have cut us all to pieces.”
Murat himself would not have dared to move a squadron on such ground.
However, it could not be doubted that something serious was taking
place; and at that moment a shell burst in front of the house,
scattering the soldiers near it, which was followed by another that
bounded along the road; and in a few minutes more out came another
regiment from the wood, almost as broken as the first. The scene on
the road had now assumed an aspect which has not a parallel in any
description I have ever read. Infantry soldiers on mules and draught
horses, with the harness clinging to their heels, as much frightened
as their riders; negro servants on their masters’ chargers;
ambulances crowded with unwounded soldiers; waggons swarming with men
who threw out the contents in the road to make room, grinding through
a shouting, screaming mass of men on foot, who were literally yelling
with rage at every halt, and shrieking out, “Here are the cavalry!
Will you get on?” This portion of the force was evidently in discord.
There was nothing left for it but to go with the current one could
not stem. I turned round my horse from the deserted guns, and
endeavoured to find out what had occurred as I rode quietly back on
the skirts of the crowd. I talked with those on all sides of me. Some
uttered prodigious nonsense, describing batteries tier over tier,
and ambuscades, and blood running knee deep. Others described how
their boys had carried whole lines of entrenchments, but were beaten
back for want of reinforcements. The names of many regiments were
mentioned as being utterly destroyed. Cavalry and bayonet charges
and masked batteries played prominent parts in all the narrations.
Some of the officers seemed to feel the disgrace of defeat; but the
strangest thing was the general indifference with which the event
seemed to be regarded by those who collected their senses as soon
as they got out of fire, and who said they were just going as far as
Centreville, and would have a big fight to-morrow.
By this time I was unwillingly approaching Centreville in the midst
of heat, dust, confusions, imprecations inconceivable. On arriving
at the place where a small rivulet crossed the road, the throng
increased still more. The ground over which I had passed going out
was now covered with arms, clothing of all kinds, accoutrements
thrown off and left to be trampled in the dust under the hoofs of
men and horses. The runaways ran alongside the waggons, striving to
force themselves in among the occupants, who resisted tooth and nail.
The drivers spurred, and whipped, and urged the horses to the utmost
of their bent. I felt an inclination to laugh, which was overcome by
disgust, and by that vague sense of something extraordinary taking
place which is experienced when a man sees a number of people acting
as if driven by some unknown terror. As I rode in the crowd, with
men clinging to the stirrup-leathers, or holding on by anything they
could lay hands on, so that I had some apprehension of being pulled
off, I spoke to the men, and asked them over and over again not to be
in such a hurry. “There’s no enemy to pursue you. All the cavalry in
the world could not get at you.” But I might as well have talked to
the stones.
For my own part, I wanted to get out of the ruck as fast as I could,
for the heat and dust were very distressing, particularly to a
half-starved man. Many of the fugitives were in the last stages of
exhaustion, and some actually sank down by the fences, at the risk
of being trampled to death. Above the roar of the flight, which was
like the rush of a great river, the guns burst forth from time to
time.
The road at last became somewhat clearer; for I had got ahead of some
of the ammunition train and waggons, and the others were dashing up
the hill towards Centreville. The men’s great-coats and blankets had
been stowed in the trains; but the fugitives had apparently thrown
them out on the road, to make room for themselves. Just beyond the
stream I saw a heap of clothing tumble out of a large covered cart,
and cried out after the driver, “Stop! stop! All the things are
tumbling out of the cart.” But my zeal was checked by a scoundrel
putting his head out, and shouting with a curse, “If you try to stop
the team, I’ll blow your ---- brains out.” My brains advised me to
adopt the principle of non-intervention.
It never occurred to me that this was a grand débâcle. All along I
believed the mass of the army was not broken, and that all I saw
around was the result of confusion created in a crude organisation
by a forced retreat; and knowing the reserves were at Centreville
and beyond, I said to myself, “Let us see how this will be when we
get to the hill.” I indulged in a quiet chuckle, too, at the idea of
my philosophical friend and his stout companion finding themselves
suddenly enveloped in the crowd of fugitives; but knew they could
easily have regained their original position on the hill. Trotting
along briskly through the fields, I arrived at the foot of the slope
on which Centreville stands, and met a German regiment just deploying
into line very well and steadily--the men in the rear companies
laughing, smoking, singing, and jesting with the fugitives, who were
filing past; but no thought of stopping the waggons, as the orders
repeated from mouth to mouth were that they were to fall back beyond
Centreville.
The air of the men was good. The officers were cheerful, and one big
German with a great pipe in his bearded mouth, with spectacles on
nose, amused himself by pricking the horses with his sabre point,
as he passed, to the sore discomfiture of the riders. Behind the
regiment came a battery of brass field-pieces, and another regiment
in column of march was following the guns. They were going to form
line at the end of the slope, and no fairer position could well be
offered for a defensive attitude, although it might be turned. But it
was getting too late for the enemy wherever they were to attempt such
an extensive operation. Several times I had been asked by officers
and men, “Where do you think we will halt? Where are the rest of the
army?” I always replied “Centreville,” and I had heard hundreds of
the fugitives say they were going to Centreville.
I rode up the road, turned into the little street which carries the
road on the right-hand side to Fairfax Court-house and the hill,
and went straight to the place where I had left the buggy in a lane
on the left of the road beside a small house and shed, expecting
to find Mr. Warre ready for a start, as I had faithfully promised
Lord Lyons he should be back that night in Washington. The buggy was
not there. I pulled open the door of the shed in which the horses
had been sheltered out of the sun. They were gone. “Oh,” said I, to
myself, “of course! What a stupid fellow I am. Warre has had the
horses put in and taken the gig to the top of the hill, in order to
see the last of it before we go.” And so I rode over to the ridge;
but arriving there, could see no sign of our vehicle far or near.
There were two carriages of some kind or other still remaining on the
hill, and a few spectators, civilians and military, gazing on the
scene below, which was softened in the golden rays of the declining
sun. The smoke wreaths had ceased to curl over the green sheets of
billowy forest as sea foam crisping in a gentle breeze breaks the
lines of the ocean. But far and near yellow and dun-coloured piles
of dust seamed the landscape, leaving behind them long trailing
clouds of lighter vapours which were dotted now and then by white
puff balls from the bursting of shell. On the right these clouds were
very heavy and seemed to approach rapidly, and it occurred to me they
might be caused by an advance of the much spoken-of and little seen
cavalry; and remembering the cross road from German Town, it seemed
a very fine and very feasible operation for the Confederates to cut
right in on the line of retreat and communication, in which case
the fate of the army and of Washington could not be dubious. There
were now few civilians on the hill, and these were thinning away.
Some were gesticulating and explaining to one another the causes
of the retreat, looking very hot and red. The confusion among the
last portion of the carriages and fugitives on the road, which I had
outstripped, had been renewed again, and the crowd there presented a
remarkable and ludicrous aspect through the glass; but there were two
strong battalions in good order near the foot of the hill, a battery
on the slope, another on the top, and a portion of a regiment in and
about the houses of the village.
A farewell look at the scene presented no new features. Still the
clouds of dust moved onwards denser and higher; flashes of arms
lighted them up at times; the fields were dotted by fugitives, among
whom many mounted men were marked by their greater speed, and the
little flocks of dust rising from the horses’ feet.
I put up my glass, and turning from the hill, with difficulty forced
my way through the crowd of vehicles which were making their way
towards the main road in the direction of the lane, hoping that by
some lucky accident I might find the gig in waiting for me. But I
sought in vain; a sick soldier who was on a stretcher in front of the
house near the corner of the lane, leaning on his elbow and looking
at the stream of men and carriages, asked me if I could tell him what
they were in such a hurry for, and I said they were merely getting
back to their bivouacs. A man dressed in civilian’s clothes grinned
as I spoke. “I think they’ll go farther than that,” said he; and then
added, “If you’re looking for the waggon you came in, it’s pretty
well back to Washington by this time. I think I saw you down there
with a nigger and two men.” “Yes. They’re all off, gone more than an
hour and a-half ago, I think, and a stout man--I thought was you at
first--along with them.”
Nothing was left for it but to brace up the girths for a ride to
the Capitol, for which, hungry and fagged as I was, I felt very
little inclination. I was trotting quietly down the hill road beyond
Centreville, when suddenly the guns on the other side, or from a
battery very near, opened fire, and a fresh outburst of artillery
sounded through the woods. In an instant the mass of vehicles and
retreating soldiers, teamsters, and civilians, as if agonised by an
electric shock, quivered throughout the tortuous line. With dreadful
shouts and cursings, the drivers lashed their maddened horses, and
leaping from the carts, left them to their fate, and ran on foot.
Artillerymen and foot soldiers, and negroes mounted on gun horses,
with the chain traces and loose trappings trailing in the dust,
spurred and flogged their steeds down the road or by the side paths.
The firing continued and seemed to approach the hill, and at every
report the agitated body of horsemen and waggons was seized, as it
were, with a fresh convulsion.
Once more the dreaded cry, “The cavalry! cavalry are coming!” rang
through the crowd, and looking back to Centreville I perceived coming
down the hill, between me and the sky, a number of mounted men, who
might at a hasty glance be taken for horsemen in the act of sabreing
the fugitives. In reality they were soldiers and civilians, with,
I regret to say, some officers among them, who were whipping and
striking their horses with sticks or whatever else they could lay
hands on. I called out to the men who were frantic with terror beside
me, “They are not cavalry at all; they’re your own men”--but they
did not heed me. A fellow who was shouting out, “Run! run!” as loud
as he could beside me, seemed to take delight in creating alarm;
and as he was perfectly collected as far as I could judge, I said,
“What on earth are you running for? What are you afraid of?” He was
in the roadside below me, and at once turning on me, and exclaiming,
“I’m not afraid of you,” presented his piece and pulled the trigger
so instantaneously, that had it gone off I could not have swerved
from the ball. As the scoundrel deliberately drew up to examine
the nipple, I judged it best not to give him another chance, and
spurred on through the crowd, where any man could have shot as many
as he pleased without interruption. The only conclusion I came to
was, that he was mad or drunken. When I was passing by the line of
the bivouacs a battalion of men came tumbling down the bank from the
field into the road, with fixed bayonets, and as some fell in the
road and others tumbled on top of them, there must have been a few
ingloriously wounded.
I galloped on for a short distance to head the ruck, for I could
not tell whether this body of infantry intended moving back towards
Centreville or were coming down the road; but the mounted men
galloping furiously past me, with a cry of “Cavalry! cavalry!”
on their lips, swept on faster than I did, augmenting the alarm
and excitement. I came up with two officers who were riding more
leisurely; and touching my hat, said, “I venture to suggest that
these men should be stopped, sir. If not, they will alarm the whole
of the post and pickets on to Washington. They will fly next, and the
consequences will be most disastrous.” One of the two, looking at
me for a moment, nodded his head without saying a word, spurred his
horse to full speed, and dashed on in front along the road. Following
more leisurely I observed the fugitives in front were suddenly
checked in their speed; and as I turned my horse into the wood by the
road-side to get on so as to prevent the chance of another block-up,
I passed several private vehicles, in one of which Mr. Raymond, of
the _New York Times_, was seated with some friends, looking by no
means happy. He says in his report to his paper, “About a mile this
side of Centreville a stampedo took place amongst the teamsters
and others, which threw everything into the utmost confusion, and
inflicted very serious injuries. Mr. Eaton, of Michigan, in trying
to arrest the flight of some of these men, was shot by one of them,
the ball taking effect in his hand.” He asked me, in some anxiety,
what I thought would happen. I replied, “No doubt M‘Dowell will stand
fast at Centreville to-night. These are mere runaways, and unless the
enemy’s cavalry succeed in getting through at this road, there is
nothing to apprehend.”
And I continued through the wood till I got a clear space in front on
the road, along which a regiment of infantry was advancing towards
me. They halted ere I came up, and with levelled firelocks arrested
the men on horses and the carts and waggons galloping towards them,
and blocked up the road to stop their progress. As I tried to edge
by on the right of the column by the left of the road, a soldier
presented his firelock at my head from the higher ground on which
he stood, for the road had a deep trench cut on the side by which I
was endeavouring to pass, and sung out, “Halt! Stop--or I fire!” The
officers in front were waving their swords and shouting out, “Don’t
let a soul pass! Keep back! keep back!” Bowing to the officer who
was near me, I said, “I beg to assure you, sir, I am not running
away. I am a civilian and a British subject. I have done my best
as I came along to stop this disgraceful rout. I am in no hurry; I
merely want to get back to Washington to-night. I have been telling
them all along there are no cavalry near us.” The officer to whom I
was speaking, young and somewhat excited kept repeating, “Keep back,
sir! keep back! you must keep back.” Again I said to him, “I assure
you I am not with this crowd; my pulse is as cool as your own.” But
as he paid no attention to what I said, I suddenly bethought me of
General Scott’s letter, and addressing another officer, said, “I am a
civilian going to Washington; will you be kind enough to look at this
pass, specially given to me by General Scott.” The officer looked at
it, and handed it to a mounted man, either adjutant or colonel, who,
having examined it, returned it to me, saying, “Oh, yes! certainly.
Pass that man!” And with a cry of “Pass that man!” along the line, I
rode down the trench very leisurely, and got out on the road, which
was now clear, though some fugitives had stolen through the woods on
the flanks of the column and were in front of me.
A little further on there was a cart on the right hand side of the
road, surrounded by a group of soldiers. I was trotting past when a
respectable-looking man in a semi-military garb, coming out from the
group, said, in a tone of much doubt and distress--“Can you tell me,
sir, for God’s sake, where the 69th New York are? These men tell me
they are all cut to pieces.” “And so they are,” exclaimed one of the
fellows, who had the number of the regiment on his cap.
“You hear what they say, sir?” exclaimed the man.
“I do, but I really cannot tell you where the 69th are.”
“I’m in charge of these mails, and I’ll deliver them if I die for it;
but is it safe for me to go on? You are a gentleman, and I can depend
on your word.”
His assistant and himself were in the greatest perplexity of mind,
but all I could say was, “I really can’t tell you; I believe the army
will halt at Centreville to-night, and I think you may go on there
with the greatest safety, if you can get through the crowd.” “Faith,
then, he can’t,” exclaimed one of the soldiers.
“Why not?” “Shure, arn’t we cut to pieces. Didn’t I hear the kurnel
himsilf saying we was all of us to cut and run, every man on his own
hook, as well as he could. Stop at Cinthreville, indeed!”
I bade the mail agent[4] good evening and rode on, but even in this
short colloquy stragglers on foot and on horseback, who had turned
the flanks of the regiment by side paths or through the woods, came
pouring along the road once more.
Somewhere about this I was accosted by a stout, elderly man, with the
air and appearance of a respectable mechanic, or small tavern-keeper,
who introduced himself as having met me at Cairo. He poured out
a flood of woes on me, how he had lost his friend and companion,
nearly lost his seat several times, was unaccustomed to riding, was
suffering much pain from the unusual position and exercise, did not
know the road, feared he would never be able to get on, dreaded he
might be captured and ill-treated if he was known, and such topics as
a selfish man in a good deal of pain or fear is likely to indulge in.
I calmed his apprehensions as well as I could, by saying, “I had no
doubt M‘Dowell would halt and show fight at Centreville, and be able
to advance from it in a day or two to renew the fight again; that he
couldn’t miss the road; whiskey and tallow were good for abrasions;”
and as I was riding very slowly, he jogged along, for he was a burr,
and would stick, with many “Oh dears! Oh! dear me!” for most part of
the way joining me at intervals till I reached Fairfax Court House. A
body of infantry were under arms in a grove near the Court House, on
the right hand side of the road. The door and windows of the houses
presented crowds of faces black and white; and men and women stood
out upon the porch, who asked me as I passed, “Have you been at the
fight?” “What are they all running for?” “Are the rest of them coming
on?” to which I gave the same replies as before.
Arrived at the little inn where I had halted in the morning, I
perceived the sharp-faced woman in black, standing in the verandah
with an elderly man, a taller and younger one dressed in black, a
little girl, and a woman who stood in the passage of the door. I
asked if I could get anything to eat. “Not a morsel; there’s not a
bit left in the house, but you can get something, perhaps, if you
like to stay till supper time.” “Would you oblige me by telling me
where I can get some water for my horse?” “Oh, certainly,” said the
elder man, and calling to a negro he directed him to bring a bucket
from the well or pump, into which the thirsty brute buried its head
to the eyes. Whilst the horse was drinking the taller or younger man,
leaning over the verandah, asked me quietly “What are all the people
coming back for?--what’s set them a running towards Alexandria?”
“Oh, it’s only a fright the drivers of the commissariat waggons have
had; they are afraid of the enemy’s cavalry.”
“Ah,” said the man, and looking at me narrowly he inquired, after a
pause, “are you an American?”
“No, I am not, thank God; I’m an Englishman.”
“Well, then,” said he, nodding his head and speaking slowly through
his teeth, “There _will_ be cavalry after them soon enough; there is
20,000 of the best horsemen in the world in old Virginny.”
Having received full directions from the people at the inn for the
road to the Long Bridge, which I was most anxious to reach instead
of going to Alexandria or to Georgetown, I bade the Virginian good
evening; and seeing that my stout friend, who had also watered
his horse by my advice at the inn, was still clinging alongside,
I excused myself by saying I must press on to Washington, and
galloped on for a mile, until I got into the cover of a wood, where
I dismounted to examine the horse’s hoofs and shift the saddle for
a moment, wipe the sweat off his back, and make him and myself as
comfortable as could be for our ride into Washington, which was still
seventeen or eighteen miles before me. I passed groups of men, some
on horseback, others on foot, going at a more leisurely rate towards
the capital; and as I was smoking my last cigar by the side of the
wood, I observed the number had rather increased, and that among the
retreating stragglers were some men who appeared to be wounded.
The sun had set, but the rising moon was adding every moment to the
lightness of the road as I mounted once more and set out at a long
trot for the capital. Presently I was overtaken by a waggon with
a small escort of cavalry and an officer riding in front. I had
seen the same vehicle once or twice along the road, and observed an
officer seated in it with his head bound up with a handkerchief,
looking very pale and ghastly. The mounted officer leading the escort
asked me if I was going into Washington and knew the road. I told him
I had never been on it before, but thought I could find my way, “at
any rate we’ll find plenty to tell us.” “That’s Colonel Hunter inside
the carriage, he’s shot through the throat and jaw, and I want to get
him to the doctor’s in Washington as soon as I can. Have you been to
the fight?”
“No, sir.”
“A member of Congress, I suppose, sir?”
“No, sir; I’m an Englishman.”
“Oh indeed, sir, then I’m glad you did not see it, so mean a fight,
sir, I never saw; we whipped the cusses and drove them before us,
and took their batteries and spiked their guns, and got right up in
among all their dirt works and great batteries and forts, driving
them before us like sheep, when up more of them would get, as if out
of the ground, then our boys would drive them again till we were
fairly worn out; they had nothing to eat since last night and nothing
to drink. I myself have not tasted a morsel since two o’clock last
night. Well, there we were waiting for reinforcements and expecting
M‘Dowell and the rest of the army, when whish! they threw open a
whole lot of masked batteries on us, and then came down such swarms
of horsemen on black horses, all black as you never saw, and slashed
our boys over finely. The colonel was hit, and I thought it best to
get him off as well as I could, before it was too late; And, my God!
when they did take to running they did it first-rate, I can tell
you,” and so, the officer, who had evidently taken enough to affect
his empty stomach and head, chattering about the fight, we trotted
on in the moonlight: dipping down into the valleys on the road,
which seemed like inky lakes in the shadows of the black trees, then
mounting up again along the white road, which shone like a river in
the moonlight--the country silent as death, though once as we crossed
a small water-course and the noise of the carriage wheels ceased, I
called the attention of my companions to a distant sound, as of a
great multitude of people mingled with a faint report of cannon. “Do
you hear that?” “No, I don’t. But it’s our chaps, no doubt. They’re
coming along fine, I can promise you.” At last some miles further on
we came to a picket, or main guard, on the roadside, who ran forward,
crying out “What’s the news--anything fresh--are we whipped?--is it
a fact?” “Well, gentlemen,” exclaimed the Major, reining up for a
moment, “we are knocked into a cocked hat--licked to h----l.” “Oh,
pray don’t say that,” I exclaimed, “It’s not quite so bad, it’s only
a drawn battle, and the troops will occupy Centreville to-night, and
the posts they started from this morning.”
A little further on we met a line of commissariat carts, and my
excited and rather injudicious military friend appeared to take the
greatest pleasure in replying to their anxious queries for news. “We
are whipped! Whipped like h----.”
At the cross-roads now and then we were perplexed, for no one knew
the bearings of Washington, though the stars were bright enough; but
good fortune favoured us and kept us straight, and at a deserted
little village, with a solitary church on the road-side, I increased
my pace, bade good-night and good speed to the officer, and having
kept company with two men in a gig for some time, got at length on
the guarded road leading towards the capital, and was stopped by
the pickets, patrols, and grand rounds, making repeated demands for
the last accounts from the field. The houses by the road-side were
all closed up and in darkness, I knocked in vain at several for a
drink of water, but was answered only by the angry barkings of the
watch-dogs from the slave quarters. It was a peculiarity of the road
that the people, and soldiers I met, at points several miles apart,
always insisted that I was twelve miles from Washington. Up hills,
down valleys, with the silent, grim woods for ever by my side, the
white roads and the black shadows of men, still I was twelve miles
from the Long Bridge, but suddenly I came upon a grand guard under
arms, who had quite different ideas, and who said I was only about
four miles from the river; they crowded round me. “Well, man, and how
is the fight going?” I repeated my tale. “What does he say?” “Oh,
begorra, he says we’re not bet at all; it’s all lies they have been
telling us; we’re only going back to the ould lines for the greater
convaniency of fighting to-morrow again; that’s illigant, hooro!”
All by the sides of the old camps the men were standing, lining
the road, and I was obliged to evade many a grasp at my bridle by
shouting out “Don’t stop me; I’ve important news; it’s all well!”
and still the good horse, refreshed by the cool night air, went
clattering on, till from the top of the road beyond Arlington I
caught a sight of the lights of Washington and the white buildings
of the Capitol, and of the Executive Mansion, glittering like snow
in the moonlight. At the entrance to the Long Bridge the sentry
challenged, and asked for the countersign. “I have not got it, but
I’ve a pass from General Scott.” An officer advanced from the guard,
and on reading the pass permitted me to go on without difficulty.
He said, “I have been obliged to let a good many go over to-night
before you, Congress men and others. I suppose you did not expect to
be coming back so soon. I fear it’s a bad business.” “Oh, not so bad
after all; I expected to have been back to-night before nine o’clock,
and crossed over this morning without the countersign.” “Well, I
guess,” said he, “we don’t do such quick fighting as that in this
country.”
As I crossed the Long Bridge there was scarce a sound to dispute the
possession of its echoes with my horse’s hoofs. The poor beast had
carried me nobly and well, and I made up my mind to buy him, as I had
no doubt he would answer perfectly to carry me back in a day or two
to M‘Dowell’s army by the time he had organised it for a new attack
upon the enemy’s position. Little did I conceive the greatness of the
defeat, the magnitude of the disasters which it had entailed upon
the United States or the interval that would elapse before another
army set out from the banks of the Potomac onward to Richmond. Had I
sat down that night to write my letter, quite ignorant at the time of
the great calamity which had befallen his army, in all probability
I would have stated that M‘Dowell had received a severe repulse,
and had fallen back upon Centreville, that a disgraceful panic and
confusion had attended the retreat of a portion of his army, but
that the appearance of the reserves would probably prevent the enemy
taking any advantage of the disorder; and as I would have merely been
able to describe such incidents as fell under my own observation, and
would have left the American journals to narrate the actual details,
and the despatches of the American Generals the strategical events
of the day, I should have led the world at home to believe, as, in
fact, I believed myself, that M‘Dowell’s retrograde movement would be
arrested at some point between Centreville and Fairfax Court House.
The letter that I was to write occupied my mind whilst I was crossing
the Long Bridge, gazing at the lights reflected in the Potomac from
the city. The night had become overcast, and heavy clouds rising up
rapidly obscured the moon, forming a most phantastic mass of shapes
in the sky.
At the Washington end of the bridge I was challenged again by the
men of a whole regiment, who, with piled arms, were halted on the
chaussée, smoking, laughing, and singing. “Stranger, have you been
to the fight?” “I have been only a little beyond Centreville.” But
that was quite enough. Soldiers, civilians, and women, who seemed
to be out unusually late, crowded round the horse, and again I
told my stereotyped story of the unsuccessful attempt to carry the
Confederate position, and the retreat to Centreville to await better
luck next time. The soldiers alongside me cheered, and those next
them took it up till it ran through the whole line, and must have
awoke the night owls.
As I passed Willard’s hotel a little further on, a clock--I think
the only public clock which strikes the hours in Washington--tolled
out the hour; and I supposed, from what the sentry told me, though I
did not count the strokes, that it was eleven o’clock. All the rooms
in the hotel were a blaze of light. The pavement before the door was
crowded, and some mounted men and the clattering of sabres on the
pavement led me to infer that the escort of the wounded officer had
arrived before me. I passed on to the livery-stables, where every one
was alive and stirring.
“I’m sure,” said the man, “I thought I’d never see you nor the horse
back again. The gig and the other gentleman has been back a long
time. How did he carry you?”
“Oh, pretty well; what’s his price?”
“Well, now that I look at him, and to you, it will be 100 dollars
less than I said. I’m in good heart to-night.”
“Why so? A number of your horses and carriages have not come back
yet, you tell me.”
“Oh, well, I’ll get paid for them some time or another. Oh, such
news! such news!” said he, rubbing his hands. “Twenty thousand of
them killed and wounded! May-be they’re not having fits in the White
House to-night!”
I walked to my lodgings, and just as I turned the key in the door a
flash of light made me pause for a moment, in expectation of the
report of a gun; for I could not help thinking it quite possible
that, somehow or another, the Confederate cavalry would try to beat
up the lines, but no sound followed. It must have been lightning.
I walked up-stairs, and saw a most welcome supper ready on the
table--an enormous piece of cheese, a sausage of unknown components,
a knuckle-bone of ham, and a bottle of a very light wine of France;
but I would not have exchanged that repast and have waited half an
hour for any banquet that Soyer or Careme could have prepared at
their best. Then, having pulled off my boots, bathed my head, trimmed
candles, and lighted a pipe, I sat down to write. I made some feeble
sentences, but the pen went flying about the paper as if the spirits
were playing tricks with it. When I screwed up my utmost resolution,
the “y’s” would still run into long streaks, and the letters combine
most curiously, and my eyes closed, and my pen slipped, and just as
I was aroused from a nap, and settled into a stern determination to
hold my pen straight, I was interrupted by a messenger from Lord
Lyons, to inquire whether I had returned, and if so, to ask me to go
up to the Legation, and get something to eat. I explained, with my
thanks, that I was quite safe, and had eaten supper, and learned from
the servant that Mr. Warre and his companion had arrived about two
hours previously. I resumed my seat once more, haunted by the memory
of the Boston mail, which would be closed in a few hours, and I had
much to tell, although I had not seen the battle. Again and again I
woke up, but at last the greatest conqueror but death overcame me,
and with my head on the blotted paper, I fell fast asleep.