RUDE'S HILL
Stonewall Jackson and his army in slow retreat up the valley came, the
second day after Kernstown, to the gorge of Cedar Creek. A bridge had
once been here; there remained the blackened cross-timbers and a portion
of the flooring. The water below was cold, deep, and rapid. Rather than
breast it, the army made shift to cross on the charred wood. An infantry
command, stepping gingerly, heard behind it shots and shouts--a Federal
cavalry charge upon the rear guard. Several of the men, listening too
absorbedly, or not content with the present snail-like motion, suddenly
left the timbers and entered the rough and swollen creek that poured
beneath. Their exclamations in this berth were piteous, and their
comrades fished them out with bayonets and laughter.
Upon the night of the 26th Banks's troopers occupied the northern shore
of Tom's Brook. Ashby held the southern side, and held it fast. Behind
that safe and vigilant and valiant screen the Army of the Valley moved
quietly and in good spirits to the points its general had in mind. The
army never knew what were these points until it found itself actually
upon the ground. It is morally certain that had he lived, a
recalcitrant, in former days, no amount of _peine forte et dure_ would
have opened the lips of Stonewall Jackson had he willed to keep them
closed. During their earlier acquaintance officers and men alike had
made many an ingenious endeavour to learn the plans they thought they
ought to know. They set quaint traps, they made innocent-seeming
remarks, they guided right, they guided left, they blazed beautiful
trails straight, they thought, to the moment of revelation. It never
came. He walked past and around and over their traps. Inquisitive
officers found themselves not only without a straw of information, but
under displeasure. Brilliant leading remarks shone a moment by their own
brilliancy, then went out. The troops conjectured one road--they went by
another; natives described the beauties of the village before which they
were sure to break ranks--at eve they experienced the hospitalities of
quite another town. Generals in the ranks demonstrated that they were
going to turn on Shields, or that they were going east by the old
Manassas Gap and whip Geary, or northeast and whip Abercrombie. They did
none of the three. They marched on up the valley to Rude's Hill near
Mount Jackson. About this time, or a little later, men and officers gave
it up, began to admire, and to follow blindly. A sergeant, one evening,
put it to his mess. "If we don't know, then Banks and Shields and
Fremont and Milroy and McClellan and Lincoln and Stanton don't know,
either!" The mess grew thoughtful; presently it took the pipe from its
mouth to answer, "Dog-gone it, Martin, that's true! Never saw it just
that way before."
Rude's Hill formed a strong natural position. There was water, there
were woods, there was an excellent space for a drill-ground. Jackson's
directions as to drill-grounds were always characteristically explicit.
"_Major: You will see that a camp is chosen where there are wood, water,
and a drill-ground--_" emphasis on the drill-ground. At Rude's Hill they
drilled and drilled and drilled. Every morning rang out adjutant's call,
every morning there were infantry evolutions, artillery evolutions. The
artillery had some respite, for, turn by turn, the sections went forward
ten miles to do picket duty for Ashby, Chew's Horse Artillery being
continually engaged with the Federal outposts. But the infantry drilled
on, drilled and wondered at Banks. One week--two weeks!--and the general
in blue with nineteen thousand men still on the farther side of Tom's
Brook!
Despite the drilling the Army of the Valley had a good time at Rude's
Hill. Below brawled the Shenandoah, just to the east sprang the
Massanuttens. There was much rain, but, day by day, through the silver
veil or the shattered golden light, lovelier and more lovely grew the
spring. The army liked to see her coming. In its heart it felt a
springtime, too; a gush of hope and ardour. The men hardly counted
Kernstown a defeat. It was known that Old Jack had said to one of the
aides, "I may say that I am satisfied, sir." And Congress had thanked
the Army of the Valley. And all the newspapers sang its praises. The
battle of Pea Ridge in Arkansas, the shelling of Newbern in North
Carolina, the exploits of the Merrimac in Hampton Roads, the battle of
Kernstown in the Valley--so at the moment ran the newspapers. And day by
day recruits were coming in; comrades as well who had been in hospital
or home on furlough. In that fortnight the Army of the Valley grew to
number nearly six thousand men.
At Rude's Hill there was an election of company officers. The
proceedings--amazing enough to the professional soldier--put into camp
life three days of excitement and salt. Given a people of strong
political proclivities suddenly turned soldier; given human grudges and
likings, admirations and contempts; given the ballot in military as in
civil life; given a chance to inject champagne into the ennui of camp
existence, and in lieu of gun practice to send off sky-rockets and
catherine wheels; given a warm personal interest in each private's bosom
as to whom, for the next twelfth month (if the war lasted that long), he
was going to obey--and there resulted a shattering of monotony
comparable to a pitched battle.
The elections were held in beautiful, vernal groves. That there would be
changes it was believed; change was in the air! For days beforehand the
character for conduct, courage, and general agreeableness of every man
who wore three bars on his collar, or two, or one, or who carried
chevrons of silk or chevrons of worsted, had been strictly in the zone
of fire. Certain officers nearing certain camp-fires felt caucuses
dissolving at their approach into an innocence of debating societies
engaged with Fabius Maximus or Scipio Africanus. Certain sergeants and
corporals dreamed bars instead of chevrons, and certain high privates,
conscious of merit, saw worsted chevrons, silk chevrons, and gold bars
all in one blissful night.
But when election day dawned bright and clear, with a fine chorus of
birds and an especial performance by the regimental bands, when roll
call was over, and camp duties were over, and morning drill was over (no
relaxation here! There was only one day in the week on which Old Jack
let up on drill, and that wasn't election day!) and the pickets had
reluctantly marched away, leaving their votes behind them, and a section
of artillery had gone off, swearing, to relieve Chew, and the men could
at last get down to work, to happy babbling, happy speechifying, happy
minding the polls, and when in the cool of the afternoon the returns
were announced, there were fewer changes than had been predicted. After
all, most of the officers were satisfactory; why let them down with a
jolt? And the privates were satisfactory, too. Why take a capital
comrade, a good cook and forager and story-teller, and make him
uncomfortable by turning him into an officer? He was nice enough as he
was. Not that there were no alterations. Several companies had new
captains, some lieutenants stepped down, and there was a shifting of
non-commissioned officers. In Company A of the 65th Lieutenant Mathew
Coffin lost out. The men wished to put up Allan Gold for the
lieutenancy, but Allan declined. He had rather, he said, be scout than
lieutenant--and what was the use in changing, anyhow? Lieutenant Coffin
was all right. Hadn't he been as brave as a lion at Kernstown--and any
man is liable to lose his temper at times--and wouldn't we hate him to
have to write back to that young lady at home--? The last plea almost
settled it, for the Confederate heart might be trusted to melt at the
mention of any young lady at home. But all the Thunder Run men were
against Coffin, and Thunder Run turned the scale. In the main, however,
throughout the army, company officers were retained, and retained
because they were efficient. The election was first-rate fun, and the
men cheered the returns, then listened to the orders of the evening from
the same old bars and chevrons. The sun went down on a veritable love
feast--special rations, special music, special fires, and, between
supper and tattoo, an entertainment in each regiment.
The 65th had a beautiful programme, its debating and literary societies,
its glee clubs, chess and checker circles, old sledge associations,
Thespians and Greek Letter men all joining forces. The stage was a piece
of earth, purple brown with pine needles. Two huge fires, one at either
side, made a strong, copper-red illumination. The soldier audience sat
in a deep semicircle, and sat at ease, being accustomed by now to the
posture of tailor or Turk. Only recruits sought logs or stones upon
which to sit. Tobacco smoke rose like incense.
The chief musician "sounded on the bugle horn." The Glee Club of Company
C filed on the stage with three banjos and two guitars, bowed elegantly,
and sang the "Bonny Blue Flag." The applause was thunderous. A large
bearded man in the front row lifted a voice that boomed like one of
Ashby's cannon. "Encore! Encore!" Company C sang "Listen to the Mocking
Bird." The audience gently sighed, took the pipe from its lips, and
joined in--
"Listen to the mocking bird--Listen to the mocking bird....
The mocking bird still singing o'er her grave.
Listen to the mocking bird--Listen to the mocking bird....
Still singing where the weeping willows wave."
The pine trees took it up, and the hazel copses and the hurrying
Shenandoah.
"Twas in the mild September--September--September,
And the mocking bird was singing far and wide."
"_Far and wide_.... That's grand, but it sure is gloomy. Next!" The
chief musician, having a carrying voice, made announcements. "No. 2.
Debate. Which will first recognize the Confederacy, England or France?
With the historic reasons for both doing so. England, Sergeant Smith.
France, Sergeant Duval.--The audience is not expected to participate in
the debate otherwise than judicially, at the close."
The close saw it decided by a rising vote that England would come
first--Sergeant Smith, indeed, who chanced to be a professor of
belles-lettres at a great school, having declared, with the gesture of
Saint John on Patmos, that he saw approaching our shores a white winged
ship bearing her declaration of amity. "No. 3," intoned the first
musician. "Recitation by Private Edwin Horsemanden."
Private Edwin Horsemanden gave the title of his selection, a poetic
selection. Some of his fellow privates looked puzzled. "'Oz
Etaliahn?'--What does 'Oz Etaliahn' mean? Cherokee or Choctaw, which?
Explain it to us, Eddy. Is it something to eat--or to drink? ''T is
true, 'tis pity, 'tis pity 'tis 'tis true'--but most of us never went to
college!... Oh, an opera house!--In Paris, do you say? Go on, Eddy, go
on!"
"At Paris it was, at the opera there,--
And she looked like a queen in a book that night--"
"Never saw one out of a book, did you?... Yes, I saw a gypsy queen
once.... And the queen of the circus.... There's a man in Company D once
saw the queen of England, saw her just as plain! She was wearing a scoop
bonnet with pink roses around her face.... Sh! Shh!"
"Of all the operas that Verdi wrote."
"Who's Verdi?"
"The best, to my taste, is the 'Trovatore.'"
"'Trovatore?' Eddy, isn't that the serenading fellow who goes on singing
till they hang him? Oh, Lord, yes! And the anvil chorus! The anvil
chorus comes in there. Go on, Eddy. We feel perfectly at home."
"And Mario"
"Hm! stumped again."
"can sooth with a tenor note
The souls in Purgatory."
The large bearded man was up once more. "I rise to object. There isn't
any such place. The com--commanding general'll put him in irons for
misrepresenting the sidereal system. There's only heaven, hell, and the
enemy.--_Yaaaaih, Yaai.... Yaaai, yaaaah, yaaaaih!_ Certainly, sergeant.
The pleasure is mine, sir. Don't mention it, I beg. Mum's the word!"
"The moon on the tower slept soft as snow"--
"Gee-whiz! what a snowball! Didn't the tower break down? No! You amaze
me. Go on, Eddy, go on. We know the natural feelings of a sophomore."
"And who was not thrilled in the strangest way
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,
'_Non ti scordar di me?_'"
"What's that? Wait a minute, Eddy! Let's get the words. I always did
want a chance at German.--Now you say them slowly and we'll repeat....
Why, man alive, you ought to be proud of your linguistic
accomplishments!... Well, I'll begin, and we'll fire by platoons.
"Non ti scordar di me?--"
"Attention! Company A!"
"Non ti scordar di me?--
Non ti scordar di me?"
"Very good! We'll get the meaning after we learn the words. Company B!"
"Non ti scordar di me?"
"Well roared, Bottom! Company C!"
"Non ti scordar di me?"
"Look out, or General Banks'll be sending over Tom's Brook to know
what's the matter! Company D!"
"Non ti scordar di me?"
"Company D goes to the head of the class! Company E!"
"Non ti scordar di me?"
"'Ware pine cones! Company E's shaking them down.... This class's
getting too big. Let's all learn the words together, so's Private
Horsemanden can go on with his piece! Attention, 65th! Make ready! Take
aim! Fire!"
"NON TI SCORDAR DI ME?"
"Now Eddy.... Oh, yes, you go on! You aren't going to cheat us that way.
We want to know what happened when they stopped talking German! Hasn't
anything happened yet."
"Non ti--"
"Sh! Go on, Eddy boy, and tell us exactly what occurred."
Private Edwin Horsemanden had pluck as well as sentiment, and he went
on. Moreover he had his revenge, for at bottom the 65th was itself
tender-hearted, not to say sentimental. It believed in lost loves and
lost blossoms, muslin dresses, and golden chains, cypress shades and
jasmine flowers,
"And the one bird singing alone to his nest,
And the one star over the tower."
The 65th sighed and propped its chin on its hand. Presently the 65th
grew misty-eyed.
"Then I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower
She used to wear in her breast
It smelt so faint and it smelt so sweet.--"
The pipe dropped from the 65th's hand. It sat sorry and pleased. Private
Edwin Horsemanden went on without interruption and finished with eclat.
The chief musician cleared his throat. "The Glee Club of Company H will
now--"
The Glee Club of Company H was a large and popular organization. It took
the stage amid applause. The leader bowed. "Gentlemen, we thank you.
Gentlemen, you have just listened to a beautiful novelty--a pretty
little foreign song bird brought by the trade-wind, an English
nightingale singing in Virginian forests.--Gentlemen, the Glee Club of
Company H will give you what by now is devil a bit of a novelty--what
promises to be as old as the hills before we have done with it--what our
grandchildren's grandchildren may sing with pride--what to the end of
time will carry with it a breath of our armies. Gentlemen, the Glee Club
of Company H gives you the Marseillaise of the South. _Attention!_"
"Way down South in the land of cotton,
'Simmon seed and sandy bottom--"
The 65th rose to its feet. Its neighbour to the right was the 2d
Virginia, encamped in a great open field; to the left the 5th, occupying
a grove of oaks. These regiments were busied with their own genial hour,
but when the loudly sung air streamed across from the 65th they
suspended their work in hand. They also sung "Dixie." Thence it was
taken up by the 4th and the 33d, and then it spread to Burk and
Fulkerson. The batteries held the top of Rude's Hill, up among the night
wind and the stars. The artillerymen took the air from the infantry.
Headquarters was situated on the green bank of the Shenandoah. Staff and
couriers and orderlies hummed or sang. Stonewall Jackson came to the
door of his tent and stood, looking out. All Rude's Hill throbbed to
"Dixie."
On went the programme. "Marco Bozzaris" was well spoken. A blacksmith
and a mule driver wrestled for a prize. "Marmion Quitting the Douglas's
Hall" was followed by "Lula, Lula, Lula is Gone," and "Lula" by
"Lorena," and "Lorena" by a fencing match. The Thespians played
capitally an act from "The Rivals," and a man who had seen Macready gave
Hamlet's Soliloquy. Then they sang a song lately written by James
Randall and already very popular,--
"I hear the distant thunder hum,
Maryland!
The Old Line bugle, fife and drum--"
An orderly from headquarters found Richard Cleave. "General Jackson
wishes to see you, sir."
The general's tent was not large. There were a table and two stools, on
one of which sat Jackson in his characteristic position, large feet
accurately paralleled. On the table, beside the candle, lay three
books--the Bible, a dictionary, and "Napoleon's Maxims." Jackson was
writing, his hand travelling slowly across a sheet of dim blue, lined,
official paper. The door flap of the tent was fastened back. Cleave,
standing in the opening, saluted.
"Take a seat, sir," said the general, and went on to the end of his
page. Having here signed his name, he dropped the quill and slightly
turned so as to face the waiting officer. From under his high bronzed
forehead his blue eyes looked quietly upon Cleave.
The younger man returned the gaze as quietly. This was the first time he
had been thus summoned since that unlucky winter evening at Bloomery
Gap. He remembered that evening, and he did not suppose that his general
had forgotten it. He did not suppose that Jackson forgot anything. But
apparently it was no longer to be counted against him. Jackson's face
wore the quiet, friendly, somewhat sweet expression usual to it when all
was calm within. As for Cleave himself, his nature owned a certain
primal flow and bigness. There were few fixed and rigid barriers.
Injured pride and resentment did not lift themselves into reefs against
which the mind must break in torment. Rather, his being swept fluid,
making no great account of obstacles, accepting all turns of affairs,
drawing them into its main current, and moving onward toward some goal,
hardly self-conjectured, but simple, humane, and universal. The anger he
might have felt at Bloomery Gap had long passed away. He sat now
attentive, collected, broad-browed, and quiet.
"Major Cleave," said Jackson, "you will take an orderly with you and
ride across the mountains. General Ewell is at Gordonsville with a
somewhat larger force than my own. You will take this letter to him," he
folded it as he spoke, "and you will talk to him as one intelligent man
to another."
"Do you mean, sir, that I am to answer his questions?"
"Yes, sir. To the best of your ability. There is impending a junction
between General Ewell and myself. He wishes to know many things, and
seems to think it natural that I should tell him them. I am not a great
letter writer. You will give him all the information that is common to
the army."
Cleave smiled. "That, sir, is not a great deal."
"Perhaps it is not, sir. You are at liberty to give to General Ewell
your own observations and expectations. You will, however, represent
them as your own."
"May I ask, sir, when this junction is to occur?"
"I have not decided, sir."
"Does General Ewell know when it will occur?"
"Not precisely. He will be told in good time."
"Whether, when you move, you move north or west or south or east, is, I
suppose, sir, purely a matter of conjecture?"
"Purely, sir."
"But the _morale_ of the army, its efficiency and spirit, may be freely
praised and imparted?"
"Yes, sir, freely. Upon your return I shall want from you your
impression of General Ewell and the troops he commands." He drew toward
him a map which lay on the table. "You will ride through Massanutton Gap
by Conrad's Store and Swift Run Gap. Thence you will make a detour to
Charlottesville. There are stores there that I wish reported upon and
sent on to Major Harman at Staunton. You will spend one day upon that
business, then go on to Ewell."