THE BATTLE IN THE SHENANDOAH
To me it has always seemed remarkable that after all my other battle
experiences--Antietam, Gettysburg, the Wilderness, ay! even including
that first fierce baptism of fire at Manassas--no action in which I ever
participated should remain so clearly photographed upon memory as this
last desperate struggle for supremacy in the Shenandoah. Every minute
detail of the conflict, at least so far as I chanced to be a personal
participant, rises before me as I write, and I doubt not I could trace
to-day each step taken upon that stricken field.
The reveille had not sounded when I first awoke and, rolling from my
blanket, looked about me. Already a faint, dim line of gray, heralding
the dawn, was growing clearly defined in the east, and making manifest
those heavy fog-banks which, hanging dank and low, obscured the valley.
The tired men of my troop were yet lying upon the ground, wrapped
tightly in their blankets, oblivious of the deadly work before them; but
I could hear the horses already moving uneasily at their picket-ropes,
and observed here and there the chilled figure of a sentry leaning upon
his gun, oddly distorted in form by the enveloping mist.
Directly in advance of where we rested, a long hill sloped gently upward
for perhaps a hundred yards, its crest topped with a thick growth of
young oak-trees, yet seemingly devoid of underbrush. No troops were
camped in our immediate front, and feeling curious to ascertain
something of our formation, as well as to examine the lay of the land
between us and the position occupied by the enemy, I walked slowly
forward, unhindered, until I attained the crest. Numberless birds were
singing amid the branches overhead, while the leaves of the low bushes I
passed on my way were glistening with dew. Except for those long rows
of sleeping soldiers, I seemed utterly alone within some rural solitude
upon a quiet Sabbath morning. Not an unwonted sound reached me to make
discord; so quiet, indeed, was all the earth that I became startled
by the sudden chatter of a squirrel disturbed at my approach, and
unthinkingly I stooped to pluck a delicate pink flower blooming in the
grass, and placed it in a ragged buttonhole of my old gray jacket.
The fog yet held the secrets of the valley safely locked within its
brown hand, and I could penetrate none of its mysteries. It was like
gazing down from some headland into a silent, unvexed sea. But directly
across from where I stood, apparently along the summit of another chain
of low hills similar to those we occupied, I could perceive the flames
of numerous camp-fires leaping up into sudden radiance, while against
the brightening sky a great flag lazily flapped its folds to the
freshening breeze. Evidently our opponents were first astir, and the
headquarters of some division of the enemy must be across yonder. As I
gazed, other fires burst forth to left and right, as far as the unaided
eye could carry through the gloom, and I was thus enabled to trace
distinctly those advanced lines opposing us. Experience told me their
position must be a strong one, and their force heavy.
As I turned to mark our own formation, the roll of drums rang out, while
the quickening notes of the reveille sounded down the long lines of
slumbering men. Life returned, as if by magic, to those motionless
forms, and almost in a moment all below me became astir, and I could
clearly distinguish the various branches of the service, as they
stretched away commingled upon either hand. We were evidently stationed
close to the centre of our own position. Our battle-line was not so
extended as the one across the valley; apparently there were fewer
troops along our front than theirs, nor could I perceive to the
southward, now that dawning day somewhat clarified the scene, any
evidence of reserve force; yet what I saw looked extremely well, and
my heart bounded proudly at the sturdy promise of our fighting men. The
cavalry appeared to be principally concentrated at the foot of the hill
upon which I stood, although at the distant wings I was able to perceive
some flying guidons that told me of the presence of numerous troops of
horse. I marked it all with eager, kindling eyes, for it was a sight
to cheer the heart of any soldier--those dark, dense squares where the
infantry were massed, and battery after battery of flying artillery
ranged along the ridge. But it seemed to me the larger, heavier force
had been concentrated upon our left, massed there in deeper lines, as if
that were the point selected from whence the attacking wedge was to be
driven. The intervening ground sloped so gently forward, while the hill
crest was so thickly crowned with trees, it looked an ideal position
from which to advance in line of attack. Upon my right there appeared a
break in the solidity of our line, but even as I noted it, wondering at
the oversight, the dense front of an infantry column debouched from
a ravine and, marching steadily forward, filled the gap. I could
distinctly mark the wearied manner in which the men composing it
flung themselves prostrate on the hard ground the moment they were
halted--doubtless all through the long hours of the black night they had
been toiling on to be in time.
Aides were galloping furiously now among the scattered commands. The
obscuring fog slowly rose from off the face of the valley, but all the
central portion remained veiled from view. Suddenly, as I watched, the
brown cloud beneath me was rent asunder here and there by little spits
of fire, and it was curious to observe how those quick, spiteful darts
of flame swept the full length of my vista. I could distinguish no
reports,--it was too far away,--but realized that the opposing pickets
had caught sight of each other through the gloom. Then a big gun boomed
almost directly opposite me, its flame seeming like a red-hot knife
rending the mist. This had barely vanished when a sudden cheer rang out
upon my left, and I turned in time to behold a thin, scattered line of
gray-clad infantrymen swarm down the steep slope into the valley. With
hats drawn low, and guns advanced, they plunged at a run into the mist
and disappeared. Our skirmishers had gone in; the ball had opened.
I had tarried long enough; any moment now might bring “boots and
saddles,” and if I possessed the slightest desire for a breakfast to
fight on, it behooved me to get back within our lines. The memory
of that animated scene in front still fresh upon me, how quiet and
commonplace everything appeared down there in the hill shadow. No one
would have dreamed it to be a battle-line. The fires crackled gayly,
while the men lounged about them, smoking or eating. There was no sound
save the gentle rustling of leaves overhead, or the light laughter of
some group of story-tellers. Horses munched their grain just at our
rear, and now and then some careful trooper sauntered back to make sure
his mount was not neglected. One or two of the men were cleaning their
revolvers, and an old corporal was polishing his sabre where a spot of
rust disfigured its gleaming blade. You might have dreamed it a picnic,
a military review, possibly, were it not for the travel-soiled and
ragged uniforms, but a line held there for the stern purpose of deadly
conflict--it scarcely seemed credible.
“Captain,” said a white-faced lad of seventeen, as I sat down on
the ground to my coffee and corn bread, “did you see anything of the
blue-bellies out there?”
“Plenty of them, my boy,” I answered, noting the curls that clustered
upon his forehead, and wondering what mother prayed for him. “We have
plenty of hot work cut out for us to-day.”
“I hope they'll give us a charge before it's all over.” His blue eyes
danced as he strode off, whistling gayly.
“What has become of Bungay?” I questioned of Colgate, who was lying upon
his back with eyes fastened on a floating cloud.
“Do you mean the little mountaineer who came in with us last night?”
I nodded.
“Oh, his mule bolted at the first shot over yonder, and the little
fellow is after it. He's down the field there somewhere.”
How time dragged! The battery to left of us went into action, and began
firing rapidly; we could mark the black figures of the cannoneers at
the nearer guns, outlined against the sky over the crest, as they moved
quickly back and forth. Twice they bore motionless bodies to the rear,
and laid them down tenderly beyond the fierce zone of fire. Then the
heavier pieces of artillery farther down the line burst into thunder,
and we silently watched a large force of infantry move slowly past us
up the long slope until they halted in line of battle just behind its
summit, the advanced files lying flat upon their faces and peering over.
But no orders came for us.
The eagerly expectant men moved back toward their picketed horses in
anticipation of a hurried call, but as the minutes slowly passed and
none came, they broke into little groups, sitting about on the ground,
seemingly careless as to the dread rumbling in front, and the continuous
zip of Minié bullets through the trees overhead. One or two, I noticed
as I walked about, were writing what, possibly they dreamed, might be
final words of love to dear ones far away; one more careless group were
playing poker upon an outspread blanket; while a grizzled old sergeant,
a God-fearing man, had drawn forth his well-worn pocket Testament, and
was reading over again the familiar story of the Nazarene. The sullen
boom of the great guns, deep, ominous, began to blend with the sustained
rattle of musketry, telling plainly of heavy fighting by massed
infantry; the smoke clouds, obscuring the blue sky, rolled high above
the fringe of trees; the battle-line lying along the crest at our front
swept down the hill out of our sight into that hail of death below; but
we seemed to be forgotten.
Nearly noon by the red sun hiding behind the drifting powder cloud. The
ever-deepening roar of ceaseless contest had moved westward down the
valley, when an aide wheeled his smoking horse in front of the Colonel,
spoke a dozen hasty words, pointed impetuously to the left, and dashed
off down the line. The men leaped to their feet in eager expectancy, and
as the “Fall in, fall in there, lads,” echoed joyously from lip to lip,
the kindling eyes and rapid movements voiced unmistakably the soldier
spirit. We moved westward down the long, bare slope in the sunshine,
through a half-dozen deserted, desolate fields, and along a narrow,
rocky defile leading into a deep ravine. Every step of our horses
brought us closer to that deep roar of surging battle; the air we
breathed became pungent with powder smoke, and once or twice we heard
the deep hurrah of the North, the wild answering yell of the South, as
victory rolled from flag to flag. Streams of wearied and wounded men
began to pass us, white-faced and terror-stricken, or haggard and
silent, but all alike seeking the rear. The head of our advancing column
pushed them sternly aside, the troopers chaffing the uninjured without
mercy, but tender as women to those who suffered. Back among the rocks,
out of reach from plunging shells, a field hospital had been hastily set
up; the ground was already thickly strewn with bodies, while surgeons
labored above them, elbow-deep in blood. With averted, stern, set faces,
paling to the cries of agony, we rode past, more eager than ever to
strike the enemy.
At the mouth of the ravine we came forth into the broad valley, and
halted. Just in front of us, scarcely a half-mile distant, were the
fighting lines, partially enveloped in dense smoke, out from which broke
patches of blue or gray, as charge succeeded charge, or the wind swept
aside the fog of battle. The firing was one continuous crash, while
plunging bullets, overreaching their mark, began to chug into our own
ranks, dealing death impartially to horse and man. The captain of the
troop next mine wheeled suddenly, a look of surprise upon his face, and
fell backward into the arms of one of his men; with an intense scream
of agony, almost human, the horse of my first sergeant reared and came
over, crushing the rider before he could loosen foot from stirrup; the
Lieutenant-Colonel rode slowly past us to the rear, his face deathly
white, one arm, dripping blood, dangling helpless at his side. This was
the hardest work of war, that silent agony which tried men in helpless
bondage to unyielding discipline. I glanced anxiously along the front of
my troop, but they required no word from me; with tightly set lips, and
pale, stern faces, they held their line steady as granite, closing up
silently the ragged gaps torn by plunging balls.
“Captain,” said Colgate, riding to where I sat my horse, “you will see
that the paper I gave you reaches home safe if I fail to come out of
this?”
I reached over and gripped his hand hard.
“It will be the first thing I shall remember, Jack,” I answered
earnestly. “But we may have it easy enough after all--it seems to be an
infantry affair.”
He shook his head gravely.
“No,” he said, pointing forward, “they will need us now.”
As he spoke it seemed as though the sharp firing upon both sides
suddenly ceased by mutual consent. The terrible roar of small arms,
which had mingled with the continuous thunder of great guns, died away
into an intermittent rattling of musketry, and as the heavy smoke slowly
drifted upward in a great white cloud, we could plainly distinguish the
advancing Federal lines, three ranks deep, stretching to left and right
in one vast, impenetrable blue wall, sweeping toward us upon a run.
Where but a brief moment before the plain appeared deserted, it was
now fairly alive with soldiery, the sun gleaming on fixed bayonets,
and faces aglow with the ardor of surprise. Some one had blundered! The
thin, unsupported line of gray infantry directly in our front closed up
their shattered ranks hastily in desperate effort to stay the rush. We
could see them jamming their muskets for volley fire, and then, with
clash and clatter that drowned all other sounds, a battery of six black
guns came flying madly past us, every horse on the run, lashed into
frenzy by his wild rider. With carriage and caisson leaping at every
jump, the half-naked, smoke-begrimed cannoneers clinging to their seats
like monkeys, they dashed recklessly forward, swung about into position,
and almost before the muzzles had been well pointed, were hurling
canister into that blue, victorious advance. How those gallant fellows
worked! their guns leaping into air at each discharge, their movements
clockwork! Tense, eager, expectant, every hand among us hard gripped on
sabre hilt, we waited that word which surely could not be delayed, while
from end to end, down the full length of our straining line, rang out
the yell of exultant pride.
“Steady, men; steady there, lads!” called the old Colonel, sternly, his
own eyes filled with tears. “Our turn will come.”
Torn, rent, shattered, bleeding, treading upon the dead and mangled in
rows, those iron men in blue came on. They were as demons laughing at
death. No rain of lead, no hail of canister, no certainty of destruction
could check now the fierce impetus of that forward rush. God knows
it was magnificent; the supreme effort of men intoxicated with the
enthusiasm of war! Even where we were we could see and feel the giant
power in those grim ranks of steel--the tattered flags, the stern, set
faces, the deep-toned chorus of “Glory, glory, hallelujah,” that echoed
to their tread. Those men meant to win or die, and they rolled on as
Cromwell's Ironsides at Marston Moor. Twice they staggered, when the mad
volleys ploughed ragged red lanes through them, but only to rally and
press sternly on. They struck that crouching gray line of infantry,
fairly buried it within their dense blue folds, and, with one fierce
hurrah of triumph, closed down upon the guns. Even as they blotted
them from sight, an aide, hatless and bleeding, his horse wounded and
staggering from weakness, tore down toward us along the crest. A hundred
feet away his mount fell headlong, but on foot and dying he reached our
front.
“Colonel Carter,” he panted, pressing one hand upon his breast to keep
back the welling blood, “charge, and hold that battery until we can
bring infantry to your support.”
No man among us doubted the full meaning of it--_we were to save the
army!_ The very horses seemed to feel a sense of relief, hands clinched
more tightly on taut reins to hold them in check; under the old battered
hats the eyes of the troopers gleamed hungrily.
“Virginians!” and the old Colonel's voice rang like a clarion down the
breathless line, “there is where you die! Follow me!”
Slowly, like some mighty mountain torrent gaining force, we rode forth
at a walk, each trooper lined to precision of review, yet instinctively
taking distance for sword-play. Halfway down the slight slope our line
broke into a sharp trot, then, as the thrilling notes of the charge
sounded above us, we swept forward in wild, impetuous tumult.
Who can tell the story of those seconds that so swiftly followed? Surely
not one who saw but the vivid flash of steel, the agonized faces, the
flame of belching fire. I recall the frenzied leap of my horse as we
struck the line ere it could form into square; the blows dealt savagely
to right and left; the blaze of a volley scorching our faces; the look
of the big infantryman I rode down; the sudden thrust that saved me from
a levelled gun; the quick swerving of our horses as they came in contact
with the cannon; the shouts of rage; the blows; the screams of pain; the
white face of Colgate as he reeled and fell. These are all in my memory,
blurred, commingled, indistinct, yet distressful as any nightmare.
In some way, how I know not, I realized that we had hurled them back,
shattered them by our first fierce blow; that the guns were once again
ours; that fifty dismounted troopers were tugging desperately at their
wheels. Then that dense blue mass surged forward once again, engulfed
us in its deadly folds, and with steel and bullet, sword and clubbed
musket, ploughed through our broken ranks, rending us in twain, fairly
smothering us by sheer force of numbers. I saw the old Colonel plunge
head-down into the ruck beneath the horses' feet; the Major riding stone
dead in his saddle, a ghastly red stain in the centre of his forehead;
then Hunter, of E, went down screaming, and I knew I was the senior
captain left. About me scarce a hundred men battled like demons for
their lives in the midst of the guns. Even as I glanced aside at them,
shielding my head with uplifted sabre from the blows rained upon me, the
color-sergeant flung up his hand, and grasped his saddle pommel to
keep from falling. Out of his opening fingers I snatched the splintered
staff, lifted it high up, until the rent folds of the old flag caught
the dull glow of the sunlight.
“----th Virginia!” I shouted. “Rally on the colors!” I could see them
coming--all that was left of them--fighting their way through the press,
cleaving the mass with their blows as the prow of a ship cuts the sea.
With one vicious jab of the spur I led them, a thin wedge of tempered
gray steel, battering, gouging, rending a passage into that solid blue
wall. Inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard, slashing madly with
our broken sabres, battling as men crazed with lust of blood, our very
horses fighting for us with teeth and hoofs, we ploughed a lane of death
through a dozen files. Then the vast mass closed in upon us, rolled
completely over us. There was a flash, a vision of frenzied faces, and I
knew no more.