ENTERING THE SERVICE--MY FIRST BATTLE--BATTLE OF KERNSTOWN
Jackson's first engagement took place at Hainesville, near Martinsburg,
on July 2, one of the Rockbridge Artillery guns firing the first hostile
cannon-shot fired in the Valley of Virginia. This gun is now in the
possession of the Virginia Military Institute, and my brother David
fired the shot. Before we knew that Jackson was out of the Valley, news
came of the battle of First Manassas, in which General Bee conferred
upon him and his brigade the soubriquet of "Stonewall," and by so doing
likened himself to "Homer, who immortalized the victory won by
Achilles."
In this battle the Rockbridge Artillery did splendid execution without
losing a man, while the infantry in their rear, and for their support,
suffered dreadfully. The College company alone (now Company I of the
Fourth Virginia Regiment) lost seven killed and many wounded.
In August it was reported that a force of Federal cavalry was near the
White Sulphur Springs, on their way to Lexington. Numbers of men from
the hills and mountains around gathered at Collierstown, a straggling
village in the western portion of the county, and I spent the greater
part of the night drilling them in the town-hall, getting news from time
to time from the pickets in the mountain-pass. The prospect of meeting
so formidable a band had doubtless kept the Federals from even
contemplating such an expedition.
The winter passed drearily along, the armies in all directions having
only mud to contend with.
Since my failure to leave with the College company it had been my
intention to join it the first opportunity; but, hearing it would be
disbanded in the spring, I enlisted in the Rockbridge Artillery attached
to the Stonewall Brigade, and with about fifty other recruits left
Lexington March 10, 1862, to join Jackson, then about thirty miles south
of Winchester. Some of us traveled on horseback, and some in farm-wagons
secured for the purpose. We did not create the sensation we had
anticipated, either on leaving Lexington or along the road; still we had
plenty of fun. I remember one of the party--a fellow with a very large
chin, as well as cheek--riding up close to a house by the roadside in
the door of which stood a woman with a number of children around her,
and, taking off his hat, said, "God bless you, madam! May you raise many
for the Southern Confederacy."
We spent Saturday afternoon and night in Staunton, and were quartered in
a hotel kept by a sour-looking old Frenchman. We were given an
abominable supper, the hash especially being a most mysterious-looking
dish. After retiring to our blankets on the floor, I heard two of the
party, who had substituted something to drink for something to eat,
discussing the situation generally, and, among other things, surmising
as to the ingredients of the supper's hash, when Winn said, "Bob, I
analyzed that hash. It was made of buttermilk, dried apples, damsons and
wool!"
The following day, Sunday, was clear and beautiful. We had about seventy
miles to travel along the Valley turnpike. In passing a stately
residence, on the porch of which the family had assembled, one of our
party raised his hat in salutation. Not a member of the family took the
least notice of the civility; but a negro girl, who was sweeping off the
pavement in front, flourished her broom around her head most
enthusiastically, which raised a general shout.
We arrived at Camp Buchanan, a few miles below Mount Jackson, on Monday
afternoon. I then, for the first time since April, 1861, saw my brother
John. How tough and brown he looked! He had been transferred to the
Rockbridge Artillery shortly before the first battle of Manassas, and
with my brother David belonged to a mess of as interesting young men as
I ever knew. Some of them I have not seen for more than forty years.
Mentioning their names may serve to recall incidents connected with
them: My two brothers, both graduates of Washington College; Berkeley
Minor, a student at the University of Virginia, a perfect bookworm;
Alex. Boteler, student of the University of Virginia, son of Hon. Alex.
Boteler, of West Virginia, and his two cousins, Henry and Charles
Boteler, of Shepherdstown, West Virginia; Thompson and Magruder Maury,
both clergymen after the war; Joe Shaner, of Lexington, Virginia, as
kind a friend as I ever had, and who carried my blanket for me on his
off-horse at least one thousand miles; John M. Gregory, of Charles City
County, an A. M. of the University of Virginia. How distinctly I recall
his large, well-developed head, fair skin and clear blue eyes; and his
voice is as familiar to me as if I had heard it yesterday. Then the
brothers, Walter and Joe Packard, of the neighborhood of Alexandria,
Virginia, sons of the Rev. Dr. Packard, of the Theological Seminary, and
both graduates of colleges; Frank Preston, of Lexington, graduate of
Washington College, who died soon after the war while professor of Greek
at William and Mary College, a whole-souled and most companionable
fellow; William Bolling, of Fauquier County, student of University of
Virginia; Frank Singleton, of Kentucky, student of University of
Virginia, whom William Williamson, another member of the mess and a
graduate of Washington College, pronounced "always a gentleman."
Williamson was quite deaf, and Singleton always, in the gentlest and
most patient way, would repeat for his benefit anything he failed to
hear. Last, and most interesting of all, was George Bedinger, of
Shepherdstown, a student of the University of Virginia.
There were men in the company from almost every State in the South, and
several from Northern States. Among the latter were two sons of
Commodore Porter, of the United States Navy, one of whom went by the
name of "Porter-he," from his having gone with Sergeant Paxton to visit
some young ladies, and, on their return, being asked how they had
enjoyed their visit, the sergeant said, "Oh, splendidly! and Porter, he
were very much elated."
Soon after my arrival supper was ready, and I joined the mess in my
first meal in camp, and was astonished to see how they relished fat
bacon, "flap-jacks" and strong black coffee in big tin cups. The company
was abundantly supplied with first-rate tents, many of them captured
from the enemy, and everybody seemed to be perfectly at home and happy.
I bunked with my brother John, but there was no sleep for me that first
night. There were just enough cornstalks under me for each to be
distinctly felt, and the ground between was exceedingly cold. We
remained in this camp until the following Friday, when orders came to
move.
We first marched about three miles south, or up the Valley, then
countermarched, going about twenty miles, and on Saturday twelve miles
farther, which brought us, I thought, and it seemed to be the general
impression, in rather close proximity to the enemy. There having been
only a few skirmishes since Manassas in July, 1861, none of us dreamed
of a battle; but very soon a cannon boomed two or three miles ahead,
then another and another. The boys said, "That's Chew's battery, under
Ashby."
Pretty soon Chew's battery was answered, and for the first time I saw
and heard a shell burst, high in the air, leaving a little cloud of
white smoke. On we moved, halting frequently, as the troops were being
deployed in line of battle. Our battery turned out of the pike and we
had not heard a shot for half an hour. In front of us lay a stretch of
half a mile of level, open ground and beyond this a wooded hill, for
which we seemed to be making. When half-way across the low ground, as I
was walking by my gun, talking to a comrade at my side, a shell burst
with a terrible crash--it seemed to me almost on my head. The concussion
knocked me to my knees, and my comrade sprawling on the ground. We then
began to feel that we were "going in," and a most weakening effect it
had on the stomach.
I recall distinctly the sad, solemn feeling produced by seeing the
ambulances brought up to the front; it was entirely too suggestive. Soon
we reached the woods and were ascending the hill along a little ravine,
for a position, when a solid shot broke the trunnions of one of the
guns, thus disabling it; then another, nearly spent, struck a tree about
half-way up and fell nearby. Just after we got to the top of the hill,
and within fifty or one hundred yards of the position we were to take, a
shell struck the off-wheel horse of my gun and burst. The horse was torn
to pieces, and the pieces thrown in every direction. The saddle-horse
was also horribly mangled, the driver's leg was cut off, as was also the
foot of a man who was walking alongside. Both men died that night. A
white horse working in the lead looked more like a bay after the
catastrophe. To one who had been in the army but five days, and but five
minutes under fire, this seemed an awful introduction.
The other guns of the battery had gotten into position before we had
cleared up the wreck of our team and put in two new horses. As soon as
this was done we pulled up to where the other guns were firing, and
passed by a member of the company, John Wallace, horribly torn by a
shell, but still alive. On reaching the crest of the hill, which was
clear, open ground, we got a full view of the enemy's batteries on the
hills opposite.
In the woods on our left, and a few hundred yards distant, the infantry
were hotly engaged, the small arms keeping up an incessant roar. Neither
side seemed to move an inch. From about the Federal batteries in front
of us came regiment after regiment of their infantry, marching in line
of battle, with the Stars and Stripes flying, to join in the attack on
our infantry, who were not being reinforced at all, as everything but
the Fifth Virginia had been engaged from the first. We did some fine
shooting at their advancing infantry, their batteries having almost
quit firing. The battle had now continued for two or three hours. Now,
for the first time, I heard the keen whistle of the Minie-ball. Our
infantry was being driven back and the Federals were in close pursuit.
Seeing the day was lost, we were ordered to limber up and leave. Just
then a large force of the enemy came in sight in the woods on our left.
The gunner of the piece nearest them had his piece loaded with canister,
and fired the charge into their ranks as they crowded through a narrow
opening in a stone fence. One of the guns of the battery, having several
of its horses killed, fell into the hands of the enemy. About this time
the Fifth Virginia Regiment, which, through some misunderstanding of
orders, had not been engaged, arrived on the crest of the hill, and I
heard General Jackson, as he rode to their front, direct the men to form
in line and check the enemy. But everything else was now in full
retreat, with Minie-balls to remind us that it would not do to stop.
Running back through the woods, I passed close by John Wallace as he lay
dying. Night came on opportunely and put an end to the pursuit, and to
the taking of prisoners, though we lost several hundred men. I afterward
heard Capt. George Junkin, nephew of the Northern college president,
General Jackson's adjutant, say that he had the exact number of men
engaged on our side, and that there were 2,700 in the battle. The
enemy's official report gave their number as 8,000. Jackson had General
Garnett, of the Stonewall Brigade, suspended from office for not
bringing up the Fifth Regiment in time.
It was dusk when I again found myself on the turnpike, and I followed
the few indistinct moving figures in the direction of safety. I stopped
for a few minutes near a camp-fire, in a piece of woods, where our
infantry halted, and I remember hearing the colored cook of one of their
messes asking in piteous tones, over and over again, "Marse George,
where's Marse Charles?" No answer was made, but the sorrowful face of
the one interrogated was response enough. I got back to the village of
Newtown, about three miles from the battlefield, where I joined several
members of the battery at a hospitable house. Here we were kindly
supplied with food, and, as the house was full, were allowed to sleep
soundly on the floor. This battle was known as Kernstown.