In Washington, on the twentieth of July, 1861, expectation ran high.
A decisive, and it was hoped a final blow was to be struck on the
following day. Large numbers of troops had passed through the city and
been massed thirty miles away. A great battle was imminent. Both armies
had recently won small victories. Both were jubilant. For the most part
the soldiers in these two opposing camps were raw recruits. They sang
and joked and played tricks on each other. To both, war was a mere
name yet, a painted glory, a sabred, gold-laced parade before admiring,
cheering crowds. The Confederates knew every step of the ground. To
their opponents it was an unknown land into which they had been marched;
rugged, broken country, the like of which the most of them had never
before seen. Raw and untried they were on both sides, but the lack of
knowledge of the topography--of the location of pass and defile, of ford
and of stream--gave to the Union troops (when they had deigned to think
of it at all) a certain feeling of insecurity and uneasiness. Still no
one doubted for a moment the outcome. The battle would be fought and
won, and glory would be carried home on every Union bayonet. Civilians
drove out to camp from the city, and from distant hilltops were prepared
to witness the battle. A martial display like this may not be seen
through field-glasses every day. Early in the day cannonading had
been heard. More citizens started for the scene of action. There were
intervals of comparative silence, and then again the boom of cannon and
the rattle of muskets told the distant audience that hostilities were
on--that neither side had finally yielded. Later a number of citizens
drove furiously across the Long Bridge with the news that the Northern
troops were retreating toward the city. Then word came that they had
rallied, but citizens deserted their posts of observation and rode
rapidly toward town. They reported the Southern troops as fighting
fiercely, but it was thought they were about to yield. They could
not hold out much longer against the murderous fire of the Union men.
Suddenly a flying horseman with livid face and white lips sped through
the streets. It was a messenger from the front! He was making straight
to the White House! The Northern troops were in full retreat! People
looked at each other in dismay. Surely they would rally! They would
not come to the city! They were only foiling back! They would form and
attack again! People told each other these things and turned pale. The
streets began to be filled with returning civilians. No one stopped.
Every one pushed on toward home or to the Capitol. Another foam-flecked
horse dashed in. The rider had on a uniform, dirty, begrimed and wet.
"The Northern troops have broken ranks! They are fleeing, horse and
foot, in one mass of disorganized panic-stricken humanity, pursued by a
murderous fire from a jubilant, victory-intoxicated enemy! The officers
could not rally them! It is a panic!" No need to question the facts.
Look at the distant hills. Watch the approaches. See the succession
of dispatch bearers fly past to the White House! "It is only a retreat!
They will rally!" called back one rider only to be contradicted by the
next. "It is not a retreat! It is a panic! They have broken ranks. Men
are flying madly. Guns, ammunition, everything that hinders speed have
been thrown away! Each man is flying to save himself! Washington is in
danger!"
The climax had indeed come. The dismay knew no bounds. What next?
Must the President escape? Where should he go? If he left, what could
Congress do? Must all fly? Where? Would the enemy invade Washington? Was
the Northern army really so disorganized, so demoralized? In the name
of God! what could it all mean? People all asked questions. There was no
one to answer them--no one but the stragglers who began to come in. Were
the brave fellows who had so gallantly and cheerfully marched out not
brave after all? Were they outnumbered? Were there no reinforcements?
What was the solution? They had not long to wait. A handful of
horsemen, shame-faced and hesitant, then worn out and hard-driven teams
began to appear at the far end of the Long Bridge. All Washington took
to its housetops. Anxious faces watched for some approaching line. None
came; but the Long Bridge was gorged with a struggling mass of horse,
foot and ordnance. There was no pretense of a line of march. Each man
fled by and for himself. Twilight saw the streets filled with men in
soiled and torn uniform; uniform which had but just marched out fresh
and resplendent. Sullen replies greeted questions.
"By God, we didn't know where we were! Officers didn't know any more'n
we did."
"Had us in a pocket!"
"Gad, we was _lost_--didn't know the way in _ner_ out! Try it yerself."
"Willin' t' fight--but not willin' t' go it blind like that."
Ambulances, limping footmen, infantry, cavalry, ordinance and supply
wagons crowded and jostled and swore and cursed each at the other. Each
struggled for place in advance. The Long Bridge, the Aqueduct Bridge,
the Chain Bridge, all were one mad scene of confusion. The terrified men
saw the dome of the Capitol and their aim was to reach it by the nearest
route. The thought of the unknown country had been to them a nightmare
from which escape was their only desire. All night the ghastly spectacle
was kept up. No one slept. No one knew what to expect on the morrow,
Would the city be bombarded from the heights beyond? Would it be shelled
and burned? Would these panic-stricken men rally? Could they be depended
upon, or was the fright now so in their blood that they would refuse
to form in line again and obey commands? Could they be relied upon?
Pennsylvania avenue was lined with tired, terrified, and wounded
men. Churches were turned into hospitals. Nobody slept. Surgeons were
everywhere. More wounded kept coming in. Surgeons from Baltimore, from
Philadelphia, and even from New York responded to telegrams. Special
trains rushed in. Washington was one mad whirl of fright and dismay!
Nest morning the whole country was electrified by the terrible news.
"Extra! 'stra! 'stro! Extra! all 'bout terrible defeat m-m-m-'ion troops!
'stra! 'stra! 'stro!"
In every town and hamlet in the country--on every table there was spread
the awful news on the morning of July 22. Men began to take on another
look. This, indeed, was serious! What was to be done? Reserve troops
were started without delay from camp and home. Excitement was at fever
heat. Would the fresh troops arrive in time? Could Washington holdout?
Must the President fly? Another kind of question bore hard upon many a
household. Who was killed? Who wounded? Who missing? People looked into
each other's eyes and feared to ask or to speak of this question nearest
their hearts.
Roy Davenport's regiment was ordered to the front. Henceforth camp life
would be no picnic. They could be boys no longer. Men were needed at the
front. Beverly's company had some time since joined the troops in the
Southwest and was in the field. The battery in which Howard acted
as gunner was with Sherman in the far South. For the first time the
seriousness of the situation was borne home to the whole North. To feel
that Washington was really in danger gave a new meaning to defeat. Why
had the Northern troops met such a fearful disaster? Before this they
had won in almost every contest, but this was worth all the rest to
the South so near was it to Washington--so near to Richmond. The two
capitals faced each other like gladiators, and the first serious blow
had fallen with crushing force upon the Union champions. If Washington
fell the Confederacy was sure of foreign recognition--of success.
Griffith had a long talk with Governor Morton when he went to see Roy's
regiment off. When he came home he was pale and anxious. There was a new
trouble on his heart. He did not tell Katherine that Morton had urged
him to volunteer his services to the Government as a guide through the
passes and defiles of his native State.
"Your knowledge of that country would be simply invaluable. It would
prevent any such disaster as this again. Panics like this ruin an army.
It will take months to recover from such a rout even if nothing worse
comes of it. The moral effect is simply fatal. You are a Union man and
you know every foot of that country. Our generals don't. They are afraid
to risk getting their men into a pocket and losing their whole command.
You can help. The main battle-ground is bound to be Virginia; we can
accomplish nothing of value until we know and feel secure on that
soil--until the State is an open book to us. Let me wire the President
that you will. Let--"
Griffith held up his hand.
"I cannot! I cannot!" he said. "It is my old State; I love it and my
people. I have done enough for my country. I have done my share. I have
given my property, my friends, my home, and now my three boys--all, all
I have given for my conscience and my country's sake. Surely I have done
my whole duty, I will not betray my State! I will not!"
Over and over the Governor had returned to the attack only to receive
the same reply. Day after day he argued with Griffith, and still ill
news came from the front. The army of the Potomac seemed paralyzed after
its repulse. The real gravity of the situation was, for the first time,
borne in upon both the military and the political mind. If the great
foreign powers recognized the Confederate government, the Republic was
lost. If Washington fell, that recognition was assured--and still "all
was quiet on the Potomac."
The middle of July the wires had flashed the news of the defeat of the
Confederates at Boonville, Missouri, by Lyons' men. Beverly had been
there, and had written the full account home. Then he was at Carthage,
and was full of fight and enthusiasm. After his account of the battle
at Carthage, he had other things to tell. "I didn't get a scratch either
place, but the day after the last fight I did get a lot of fun out of
it. I suppose you won't be able to see how there could be any fun in the
situation. Well, I'll tell you one or two things. One of my men showed
the white feather, and we were thinking of court-martialing and making
an example of him. I made up my mind to give Hartman (that was the
fellow's name, Bill Hartman) a chance to tell me privately his side of
the story. Says I, 'Bill, I've asked all your neighbors here in camp if
you were a coward at home, and they all say you were not only brave,
but you had proved it many a time. Now, I want to save you this
court-martial if I can, and I want you to tell me your side of it. How
did it happen?'
"'Well,' said he, transferring his quid of tobacco to his other cheek,
'Cap, it's this arway. I can't seem t' jest stand right up an' shoot a
feller I ain't had no words with. I want to pick out my man when I kill
him, an' I want t' kinder have a quah'l with him fust. I can't seem t'
jest stand right up an' kill a man I ain't had _no_ words with, I can't
do it, somehow er 'nother, Cap.'
"I don't know how I'm going to manage to get Bill into a 'quah'l' with
some special Reb before the next fight, and then make sure he'll get
a chance to pop at that particular one in action! We'll have to get up
some scheme, I suppose. Bill is too good a soldier to be ham-pered
and to have his usefulness impaired by a simple want of a feeling of
personal revenge! I reckon if the truth were told, though, we all fight
a good deal better if we have that stimulant. Another ludicrous thing
happened the other day. I was sent out, just with an orderly, to see
if I could learn anything of the movements of the enemy. We had on
citizens' clothes, and we jogged along until we were within field-glass
distance of Harris's camp. He is an old West Pointer and a tactician.
I've heard that they call him 'Old Logistics and Strategy'--and I must
say if his advice in the Senate had been followed last winter we'd have
had a mighty poor show here now. But when we got where we thought we
could see something, quite a shower came up and our glass was no use.
Under the cover of the rain I ventured a good deal closer; and, if
you'll believe me, his command were sitting on their horses, drawn up in
line, with umbrellas raised! The absurdity of the thing nearly knocked
my pins from under me. I only wished I could get near enough to see the
effect on Old Logistics when he should emerge from his tent--and he
a West Pointer! But you don't need to make any mistakes about their
fighting--these natives. We've found that they will fight to the death,
but they've got their own ideas on the subject of soldiering in the
meantime. Most of 'em carry their powder in a pouch, and it needs to be
kept dry! It was the very funniest thing I ever saw, though. The rain
came down in such torrents I couldn't get an idea how many there were,
but, from the way they fought us next day, I made up my mind there must
be pretty close to a million--and they didn't use umbrellas to protect
themselves, either! They took our storm of shot cooler than they did the
rain in camp, and they fought like demons. Of course, their equipments
don't compare with ours. Most of them have their old home guns--no two
alike. But a good lot of our boys are carrying around some of their
ammunition inside of them just now, all the same. One of the prisoners
we took--a straggler--told us that none of his command are regularly
enlisted. They are afraid to enlist; say that Old Logistics is a
'reg'lar,' and, if they enlist and then don't do just his way, he'll
court-martial them. They argue that, if they don't regularly enlist, he
can't do anything to them. They are ready and eager to fight, but they
don't propose to be subject to 'regular' discipline in the intervals.
This fellow says half of the command go home nights--to their farms and
stores--and return at dawn the next morning. I think he is lying about
the numbers who do, but I don't doubt that some do. He vows he is
telling the cold fact. Fancy the humor of commanding an army under
umbrellas, who go home nights to milk the cows! But undertake to fight
'em, and there is no laugh left. That is not their comic side. We have
orders to move in the morning and are all ready. I will let you hear
again the moment we stop."
Before this letter of Beverly's reached home the telegraphic news of
the battle of Wilson's Creek filled the papers. Beverly's name appeared
among the wounded: "Seriously, not fatally--Captain Beverly Davenport;
shot in three places while covering retreat after General Lyon fell.
Young Captain Davenport's men did good service. His command lost
heavily." No further news came. Griffith telegraphed, but could get no
reply.
"You must go and bring him home," said Katherine. "I cannot bear this
suspense any longer."
She had grown pale and hollow-eyed in these few days of anxiety.
Griffith went. He found Beverly doing well, but a ball had gone through
his sword-arm and two others were imbedded in his flesh. His horse had
fallen beneath him and he had had to walk on the wounded leg, and had
lost much blood. He looked weak and thin. His orderly had written home
for him, but the letter had never come. Griffith urged him to go home
and recuperate, but he would not listen to the proposition. Griffith
wrote home to Katherine and then waited. The command was ordered to
move, and still Beverly was not able to go with it. The commander
ordered him to go home until able to report for duty.
He was a sensation in the village. He was the first handsome young
wounded officer to return. Alas! they were plenty enough later on; but
now his limp and his arm suspended in a sling made him a hero, indeed.
Many were the demonstrations in his honor. The Governor came to see him,
and strove again to convince Griffith that he, too, was needed at the
front. "I have told President Lincoln about you," he said. "You can
see for yourself what the army in Virginia is doing ever since
Bull Run--nothing at all. Those two defeats--Bull Run and Ball's
Bluff--stopped them off entirely. Action that will be effective is
simply impossible without knowing the lay of the land. Northern men
don't know it, and we can't trust Southern men to tell the truth, of
course, about it. The rebels know that perfectly well, and they bank on
it. They keep their best and strongest generals, and men who know the
State like a book, right there between Washington and Richmond. It
won't do to let it be generally known, for that would put panic into our
troops when they are tried next; but there is not a soul the President
can trust who knows those passes and defiles and fords. Captain, I hope
you know them. I don't believe _you_ will refuse to go any place you
are needed. As a recruit--an enlisted man--you _can't_ refuse."
"Go," said Beverly; "go! why of course I would if I knew the country as
father does, but I don't. You see father used to be a circuit-rider. He
knows every foot of it as if it were his front yard, but I would know
only a few miles near where we lived. I was only a boy then. It is a
hard country to learn. Passes are many and blind. Fords change--it
takes a native and an expert to feel safe with them. If I--" He turned
suddenly to his father in his enthusiasm. "Why don't you go, father? If
the President wants you--if your country needs you, why--" He saw the
look that crept into his father's face, and he understood. The young
fellow limped to his father's side and laid his left hand on his
shoulder.
"Father has done enough," he said, looking at the Governor. "Do not ask
him to do this. He fought his battle before the North came to it. He has
borne and suffered enough, Governor. Father is a Virginian, blood,
bone, and ancestry. He loves his people and his old home. We boys don't
remember it as he does, but to him--to him, it will always be home. They
will always be his people."
"Unless it is desperate and I am ordered, I shall not go," said
Griffith, looking up almost defiantly. "You need not ask me again,
Governor. I have done my share. I have done more for my country and
my conscience than many men will be called upon to do--I have done my
share."
The Governor gave it up, but he did not forget one phrase, "unless it is
desperate--unless I am ordered." That night he started for Washington,
and a week later Beverly returned to his command and to duty in the
field.