THE RETREAT--CEDAR CREEK--GENERAL ASHBY--SKIRMISHES--McGAHEYSVILLE
The next dawn brought a raw, gloomy Sunday. We found the battery a mile
or two from the battlefield, where we lay all day, thinking, of course,
the enemy would follow up their victory; but this they showed no
inclination to do. On Monday we moved a mile or more toward our old
camp--Buchanan. On Tuesday, about noon, we reached Cedar Creek, the
scene of one of General Early's battles more than two years afterward,
1864. The creek ran through a narrow defile, and, the bridge having been
burned, we crossed in single file, on the charred timbers, still
clinging together and resting on the surface of the water. Just here,
for the first time since Kernstown, the Federal cavalry attacked the
rear of our column, and the news and commotion reached my part of the
line when I was half-across the stream. The man immediately in front of
me, being in too much of a hurry to follow the file on the
bridge-planks, jumped frantically into the stream. He was fished out of
the cold waters, shoulder deep, on the bayonets of the infantry on the
timbers.
We found our wagons awaiting us on top of a high hill beyond, and went
into camp about noon, to get up a whole meal, to which we thought we
could do full justice. But, alas! alas! About the time the beans were
done, and each had his share in a tin plate or cup, "bang!" went a
cannon on the opposite hill, and the shell screamed over our heads. My
gun being a rifled piece, was ordered to hitch up and go into position,
and my appetite was gone. Turning to my brother, I said, "John, I don't
want these beans!" My friend Bedinger gave me a home-made biscuit, which
I ate as I followed the gun. We moved out and across the road with two
guns, and took position one hundred yards nearer the enemy. The guns
were unlimbered and loaded just in time to fire at a column of the
enemy's cavalry which had started down the opposite hill at a gallop.
The guns were discharged simultaneously, and the two shells burst in the
head of their column, and by the time the smoke and dust had cleared up
that squadron of cavalry was invisible. This check gave the wagons and
troops time to get in marching order, and after firing a few more rounds
we followed.
As we drove into the road again, I saw several infantrymen lying
horribly torn by shells, and the clothes of one of them on fire. I
afterward heard amusing accounts of the exit of the rest of the company
from this camp. Quartermaster "John D." had his teams at a full trot,
with the steam flying from the still hot camp-kettles as they rocked to
and fro on the tops of the wagons. In a day or two we were again in Camp
Buchanan, and pitched our tents on their old sites and kindled our fires
with the old embers. Here more additions were made to the company, among
them R. E. Lee, Jr., son of the General; Arthur A. Robinson, of
Baltimore, and Edward Hyde, of Alexandria. After a few nights' rest and
one or two square meals everything was as gay as ever.
An hour or two each day was spent in going through the artillery manual.
Every morning we heard the strong, clear voice of an infantry officer
drilling his men, which I learned was the voice of our cousin, James
Allen, colonel of the Second Virginia Regiment. He was at least half a
mile distant. About the fourth or fifth day after our return to camp we
were ordered out to meet the enemy, and moved a few miles in their
direction, but were relieved on learning that it was a false alarm, and
countermarched to the same camp. When we went to the wagons for our
cooking utensils, etc., my heavy double blanket, brought from home, had
been lost, which made the ground seem colder and the stalks rougher.
With me the nights, until bedtime, were pleasant enough. There were some
good voices in the company, two or three in our mess; Bedinger and his
cousin, Alec Boteler, both sang well, but Boteler stammered badly when
talking, and Bedinger kept him in a rage half the time mocking him,
frequently advising him to go back home and learn to talk. Still they
were bedfellows and devoted friends. I feel as if I could hear Bedinger
now, as he shifted around the fire, to keep out of the smoke, singing:
"Though the world may call me gay, yet my feelings I smother,
For thou art the cause of this anguish--my mother."
* * * * *
A thing that I was very slow to learn was to sit on the ground with any
comfort; and a log or a fence, for a few minutes' rest, was a thing of
joy. Then the smoke from the camp-fires almost suffocated me, and always
seemed to blow toward me, though each of the others thought himself the
favored one. But the worst part of the twenty-four hours was from
bedtime till daylight, half-awake and half-asleep and half-frozen. I
was, since Kernstown, having that battle all over and over again.
I noticed a thing in this camp (it being the first winter of the war),
in which experience and necessity afterward made a great change. The
soldiers, not being accustomed to fires out-of-doors, frequently had
either the tails of their overcoats burned off, or big holes or scorched
places in their pantaloons.
Since Jackson's late reverse, more troops being needed, the militia had
been ordered out, and the contingent from Rockbridge County was encamped
a few miles in rear of us. I got permission from our captain to go to
see them and hear the news from home. Among them were several merchants
of Lexington, and steady old farmers from the county. They were much
impressed with the accounts of the battle and spoke very solemnly of
war. I had ridden Sergeant Baxter McCorkle's horse, and, on my return,
soon after passing through Mt. Jackson, overtook Bedinger and Charley
Boteler, with a canteen of French brandy which a surgeon-friend in town
had given them. As a return for a drink, I asked Bedinger to ride a
piece on my horse, which, for some time, he declined to do, but finally
said, "All right; get down." He had scarcely gotten into the saddle
before he plied the horse with hat and heels, and away he went down the
road at full speed and disappeared in the distance.
This was more kindness than I had intended, but it afforded a good
laugh. Boteler and the brandy followed the horseman, and I turned in and
spent the night with the College company, quartered close by as a guard
to General Jackson's headquarters. I got back to camp the next
afternoon, Sunday. McCorkle had just found his horse, still saddled and
bridled, grazing in a wheat-field.
From Camp Buchanan we fell back to Rude's Hill, four miles above Mt.
Jackson and overlooking the Shenandoah River. About once in three days
our two Parrott guns, to one of which I belonged, were sent down to
General Ashby, some ten miles, for picket service to supply the place of
Chew's battery, which exhausted its ammunition in daily skirmishes with
the enemy. Ashby himself was always there; and an agreeable,
unpretending gentleman he was. His complexion was very dark and his hair
and beard as black as a raven. He was always in motion, mounted on one
of his three superb stallions, one of which was coal-black, another a
chestnut sorrel, and the third white. On our first trip we had a lively
cannonade, and the white horse in our team, still bearing the stains of
blood from the Kernstown carnage, reared and plunged furiously during
the firing. The Federal skirmish line was about a mile off, near the
edge of some woods, and at that distance looked very harmless; but when
I looked at them through General Ashby's field-glass it made them look
so large, and brought them so close, that it startled me. There was a
fence between, and, on giving the glass a slight jar, I imagined they
jumped the fence; I preferred looking at them with the naked eye. Bob
Lee volunteered to go with us another day (he belonged to another
detachment). He seemed to enjoy the sport much. He had not been at
Kernstown, and I thought if he had, possibly he would have felt more as
did I and the white horse.
On our way down on another expedition, hearing the enemy were driving in
our pickets, and that we would probably have some lively work and
running, I left my blanket--a blue one I had recently borrowed--at the
house of a mulatto woman by the roadside, and told her I would call for
it as we came back. We returned soon, but the woman, learning that a
battle was impending, had locked up and gone. This blanket was my only
wrap during the chilly nights, so I must have it. The guns had gone on.
As I stood deliberating as to what I should do, General Ashby came
riding by. I told him my predicament and asked, "Shall I get in and get
it?" He said, "Yes, certainly." With the help of an axe I soon had a
window-sash out and my blanket in my possession. From these frequent
picket excursions I got the name of "Veteran." My friend Bolling
generously offered to go as my substitute on one expedition, but the
Captain, seeing our two detachments were being overworked, had all
relieved and sent other detachments with our guns.
From Rude's Hill about fifty of us recruits were detailed to go to
Harrisonburg--Lieutenant Graham in command--to guard prisoners. The
prisoners were quartered in the courthouse. Among them were a number of
Dunkards from the surrounding country, whose creed was "No fight." I was
appointed corporal, the only promotion I was honored with during the
war, and that only for the detailed service. Here we spent a week or ten
days, pleasantly, with good fare and quarters. Things continued quiet at
the front during this time.
The enemy again advanced, and quite a lively cavalry skirmish was had
from Mt. Jackson to the bridge across the Shenandoah. The enemy tried
hard to keep our men from burning this bridge, and in the fray Ashby's
white horse was mortally wounded under him and his own life saved by
the daring interposition of one of his men. His horse lived to carry him
out, but fell dead as soon as he had accomplished it; and, after his
death, every hair was pulled from his tail by Ashby's men as mementoes
of the occasion.
[Illustration: ROBERT A. GIBSON]
Jackson fell back slowly, and, on reaching Harrisonburg, to our dismay,
the head of the column filed to the left, on the road leading toward the
Blue Ridge, thus disclosing the fact that the Valley was to be given up
a prey to the enemy. Gloom was seen on every face at feeling that our
homes were forsaken. We carried our prisoners along, and a
miserable-looking set the poor Dunkards were, with their long beards and
solemn eyes. A little fun, though, we would have. Every mile or so, and
at every cross-road, a sign-post was stuck up, "Keezletown Road, 2
miles," and of every countryman or darky along the way some wag would
inquire the distance to Keezletown, and if he thought we could get there
before night.
By dawn next morning we were again on the march. I have recalled this
early dawn oftener, I am sure, than any other of my whole life. Our road
lay along the edge of a forest, occasionally winding in and out of it.
At the more open places we could see the Blue Ridge in the near
distance. During the night a slight shower had moistened the earth and
leaves, so that our steps, and even the wheels of the artillery, were
scarcely heard. Here and there on the roadside was the home of a
soldier, in which he had just passed probably his last night. I
distinctly recall now the sobs of a wife or mother as she moved about,
preparing a meal for her husband or son, and the thoughts it gave rise
to. Very possibly it helped also to remind us that we had left camp that
morning without any breakfast ourselves. At any rate, I told my friend,
Joe McAlpin, who was quite too modest a man to forage, and face a
strange family in quest of a meal, that if he would put himself in my
charge I would promise him a good breakfast.
In a few miles we reached McGaheysville, a quiet, comfortable little
village away off in the hills. The sun was now up, and now was the time
and this the place. A short distance up a cross-street I saw a
motherly-looking old lady standing at her gate, watching the passing
troops. Said I, "Mac, there's the place." We approached, and I announced
the object of our visit. She said, "Breakfast is just ready. Walk in,
sit down at the table, and make yourselves at home." A breakfast it
was--fresh eggs, white light biscuit and other toothsome articles. A man
of about forty-five years--a boarder--remarked, at the table, "The war
has not cost me the loss of an hour's sleep." The good mother said, with
a quavering tone of voice, "_I_ have sons in the army."