THE FOOT CAVALRY
Three armies had for their objective Strasburg in the Valley of
Virginia, eighteen miles below Winchester. One came from the northwest,
under Fremont, and counted ten thousand. One came from the southeast,
Shields's Division from McDowell at Fredericksburg, and numbered fifteen
thousand. These two were blue clad, moving under the stars and stripes.
The third, grey, under the stars and bars, sixteen thousand muskets, led
by a man on a sorrel nag, came from Harper's Ferry. Fremont, Indian
fighter, moved fast; Shields, Irish born, veteran of the Mexican War,
moved fast; but the man in grey, on the sorrel nag, moved infantry with
the rapidity of cavalry. Around the three converging armies rested or
advanced other bodies of blue troops, hovering, watchful of the chance
to strike. Saxton at Harper's Ferry had seven thousand; Banks at
Williamsport had seven thousand. Ord, commanding McDowell's second
division, was at Manassas Gap with nine thousand. King, the third
division, had ten thousand, near Catlett's Station. At Ashby's Gap was
Geary with two thousand; at Thoroughfare, Bayard with two thousand.
Over a hundred miles away, southeast, tree-embowered upon her seven
hills, lay Richmond, and at her eastern gates, on the marshy
Chickahominy were gathered one hundred and forty thousand men, blue
clad, led by McClellan. Bronzed, soldierly, chivalrous, an able if
over-cautious general, he waited, irresolute, and at last postponed his
battle. He would tarry for McDowell who, obeying orders from Washington,
had turned aside to encounter and crush a sometime professor of natural
philosophy with a gift for travelling like a meteor, for confusing like
a Jack-o'-lantern, and for striking the bull's-eye of the moment like a
silver bullet or a William Tell arrow. Between Richmond and the many and
heavy blue lines, with their siege train, lay thinner lines of
grey--sixty-five thousand men under the stars and bars. They, too,
watched the turning aside of McDowell, watched Shields, Ord, King, and
Fremont from the west, trappers hot on the path of the man with the old
forage cap, and the sabre tucked under his arm! All Virginia watched,
holding her breath.
Out of Virginia, before Corinth in Tennessee, and at Cumberland Gap, Armies
of the Ohio, of the Mississippi, of the West--one hundred and ten thousand
in blue, eighty thousand in grey, Halleck and Beauregard--listened for news
from Virginia. "Has Richmond fallen?" "No. McClellan is cautious. Lee and
Johnston are between him and the city. He will not attack until he is
further strengthened by McDowell." "Where is McDowell?" "He was moving
south from Fredericksburg. His outposts almost touched those of McClellan.
But now he has been sent across the Blue Ridge to the Valley, there to put
a period to the activities of Stonewall Jackson. That done, he will turn
and join McClellan. The two will enfold Lee and Jackson--the Anaconda
Scheme--and crush every bone in their bodies. Richmond will fall and the
war end."
Tennessee watched and north Alabama. In Arkansas, on the White River
were twelve thousand men in blue, and, arrayed against them, six
thousand, white men and Indians, clad in grey. Far, far away, outer
edges of the war, they, too, looked toward the east and wondered how it
went in Virginia. Grey and blue, Missouri, Louisiana, New Mexico,
Arizona--at lonely railway or telegraph stations, at river landings,
wherever, in the intervals between skirmishes, papers might be received
or messages read, soldiers in blue or soldiers in grey asked eagerly
"What news from Richmond?"--"Stonewall Jackson? Valley of
Virginia?"--"Valley of Virginia! I know!--saw it once. God's country."
At New Orleans, on the levees, in the hot streets, under old balconies
and by walled gardens, six thousand men in blue under Butler watched,
and a sad-eyed captive city watched. From the lower Mississippi, from
the blue waters of the Gulf, from the long Atlantic swells, the ships
looked to the land. All the blockading fleets, all the old
line-of-battle ships, the screw-frigates, the corvettes, the old
merchant steamers turned warrior, the strange new iron-clads and mortar
boats, engaged in bottling up the Confederacy, they all looked for the
fall of Richmond. There watched, too, the ram-fitted river boats, the
double-enders, lurking beneath Spanish moss, rocking beside canebrakes,
on the far, sluggish, southern rivers. And the other ships, the navy all
too small, the scattered, shattered, despairing and courageous ships
that flew the stars and bars, they listened, too, for a last great cry
in the night. The blockade-runners listened, the Gladiators, the
Ceciles, the Theodoras, the Ella Warleys faring at headlong peril to and
fro between Nassau in the Bahamas and small and hidden harbours of the
vast coast line, inlets of Georgia, Florida, Carolina. Danger flew with
them always through the rushing brine, but with the fall of Richmond
disaster might be trusted to swoop indeed. Then woe for all the wares
below--the Enfield rifles, the cannon powder, the cartridges, the
saltpetre, bar steel, nitric acid, leather, cloth, salt, medicines,
surgical instruments! Their outlooks kept sharp watch for disaster,
heaving in sight in the shape of a row of blue frigates released from
patrol duty. Let Richmond fall, and the Confederacy, war and
occupation, freedom, life, might be gone in a night, blown from
existence by McClellan's siege guns!
Over seas the nations watched. Any day might bring a packet with
news--Richmond fallen, fallen, fallen, the Confederacy vanquished, suing
for peace--Richmond not fallen, some happy turn of affairs for the
South, the Peace Party in the North prevailing, the Confederacy
established, the olive planted between the two countries! Anyhow,
anyhow! only end the war and set the cotton jennies spinning!
Most feverishly of all watched Washington on the Potomac. "The latest?"
"It will surely fall to-day. The thing is absurd. It is a little city--"
"From the Valley? Jackson has turned south from Harper's Ferry. Shields
and Fremont will meet at Strasburg long before the rebels get there.
Together they'll make Jackson pay--grind the stonewall small!"
The Army of the Valley had its orders from Strasburg the night of the
thirtieth. The main body moved at once, back upon Winchester, where it
gathered up stragglers, prisoners, and the train of captured stores.
Winder with the Stonewall Brigade, left to make a final feint at
Harper's Ferry, was not in motion southward till much later. Of the main
army the 21st Virginia led the column, convoying prisoners and the prize
of stores. There were twenty-three hundred prisoners, men in blue,
tramping sullenly. Stonewall Jackson had made requisition of all wagons
about Winchester. They were now in line, all manner of wagons,
white-covered, uncovered, stout-bodied, ancient, rickety, in every
condition but of fresh paint and new harness. Carts were brought, small
vans of pedlars; there were stranded circus wagons with gold scrolls.
Nor did there lack vehicles meant for human freight. Old family
carriages, high-swung, capacious as the ark, were filled, not with women
and children, belles and beaux, but with bags of powder and boxes of
cartridges. Superannuated mail coaches carried blankets, oilcloths,
sabres, shoes; light spring wagons held Enfield rifles; doctors' buggies
medicine cases corded in with care. All these added themselves to the
regular supply train of the army; great wagons marked C. S. A. in which,
God knows! there was room for stores. The captures of the past days
filled the vacancies; welcome enough were the thirty-five thousand
pounds of bacon, the many barrels of flour, the hardtack, sugar, canned
goods, coffee, the tea and strange delicacies kept for the sick. More
welcome was the capture of the ammunition. The ordnance officers beamed
lovingly upon it and upon the nine thousand excellent new small arms,
and the prisoner Parrotts. There were two hundred beautiful wagons
marked U. S. A.; the surgeons, too, congratulated themselves upon new
ambulances. Horses and mules that had changed masters might be restless
at first; but they soon knew the touch of experienced hands and turned
contented up the Valley. A herd of cattle was driven bellowing into
line.
Seven miles in length, train and convoying troops emerged from
Winchester in the early light and began a rumbling, bellowing, singing,
jesting, determined progress up the Valley pike. Ewell followed with his
brigadiers--Taylor, Trimble, Elzey, Scott, and the Maryland Line. The
old Army of the Valley came next in column--all save the Stonewall
Brigade that was yet in the rear double-quicking it on the road from
Harper's Ferry. As far in advance moved Stonewall Jackson's screen of
cavalry, the Valley horsemen under Ashby, a supple, quick-travelling,
keen-eyed, dare-devil horde, an effective cloud behind which to execute
intricate manoeuvres, a drawer-up of information like dew from every
by-road, field, and wood, and an admirable mother of thunderbolts. Ashby
and Ashby's men were alike smarting from a late rebuke, administered in
General Orders. They felt it stingingly. The Confederate soldier
enthroned on high his personal honour, and a slur there was a slur
indeed. Now the memory of the reprimand was a strong spur to endeavour.
The cavalry meant to distinguish itself, and pined for a sight of
Fremont.
The day was showery with strong bursts of sunshine between the slanting
summer rains. All along the great highway, in sun and shade, women,
children, the coloured people, all the white men left by the drag-net of
the war, were out in the ripening fields, by the roadside wall, before
gates, in the village streets. They wept with pride and joy, they
laughed, they embraced. They showered praises, blessings; they
prophesied good fortune. The young women had made bouquets and garlands.
Many a favourite officer rode with flowers at his saddle bow. Other
women had ransacked their storerooms, and now offered delicate food on
salvers--the lavish, brave, straightforward Valley women, with the men
gone to the war, the horses gone to the war, the wagons taken for need,
the crops like to be unreaped and the fields to be unplanted, with the
clothes wearing out, with supplies hard to get, with the children, the
old people, the servants, the sick, the wounded on their hands, in their
hearts and minds! They brought food, blessings, flowers, "everything for
the army! It has the work to do." The colours streamed in the wet
breeze, glorious in shadow, splendid when the sun burst forth. The
little old bands played
In Dixie Land whar I was born in
Early on one frosty mornin'!
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land!
Long, steady, swinging tread, pace of the foot cavalry, the main column
moved up the Valley pike, violet in the shadow, gold in the sun. The
ten-minutes-out-of-an-hour halts were shortened to five minutes. During
one of these rests Jackson came down the line. The men cheered him.
"Thirty miles to-day. You must do thirty miles to-day, men." He went by,
galloping forward to the immense and motley convoy. The men laughed,
well pleased with themselves and with him. "Old Jack's got to see if his
lemons are all right! If we don't get those lemon wagons through safe to
Staunton there'll be hell to pay! Go 'way! we know he won't call it
hell!"
"The butcher had a little dog,
And Bingo was his name.
B-i-n-g-o-go-! B-i-n-g-o-go!
And Bingo was his name!"
"_Fall in!_ Oh, Lord, we just fell out!"
Advance, convoy, main column, camped that night around and in Strasburg,
Strasburg jubilant, welcoming, restless through the summer night. Winder
with the Stonewall Brigade bivouacked at Newtown, twelve miles north. He
had made a wonderful march. The men, asleep the instant they touched the
earth, lay like dead. The rest was not long; between one and two the
bugles called and the regiments were again in motion. A courier had
come from Jackson. "_General Winder, you will press forward._"
Silent, with long, steady, swinging tread, the Stonewall moved up the
Valley. Before it, pale, undulating, mysterious beneath the stars, ran
the turnpike, the wonderful Valley road, the highway that had grown
familiar to the army as its hand. The Army of the Valley endowed the
Valley pike with personality. They spoke of it as "her." They blamed her
for mud and dust, for shadeless, waterless stretches, for a habit she
was acquiring of furrows and worn places, for the aid which she
occasionally gave to hostile armies, for the hills which she presented,
for the difficulties of her bordering stone walls when troops must be
deployed, for the weeds and nettles, thistles, and briars, with which
she had a trick of decking her sides, for her length. "You kin march
most to Kingdom Come on this here old road!" for the heat of the sun,
the chill of the frost, the strength of the blast. In blander moods they
caressed her name. "Wish I could see the old pike once more!"--"Ain't
any road in the world like the Valley pike, and never was! _She_ never
behaved herself like this damned out-of-corduroy-into-mud-hole,
bayonet-narrow, drunken, zigzag, world's-end-and-no-to-morrow cow
track!"
It was not only the road. All nature had new aspects for the Confederate
soldier; day by day a deeper shade of personality. So much of him was
farmer that he was no stranger to the encampment of the earth. He was
weather-wise, knew the soil, named the trees, could _orientate_ himself,
had a fighting knowledge, too, of blight and drouth, hail, frost, high
wind, flood, too little and too much of sun fire. Probably he had
thought that he knew all that was to be told. When he volunteered it was
not with the expectation of learning any other manual than that of arms.
As is generally the case, he learned that what he expected was but a
mask for what he did not expect. He learned other manuals, among them
that of earth, air, fire, and water. His ideas of the four underwent
modification. First of all he learned that they were combatants, active
participants in the warfare which he had thought a matter only of armies
clad in blue and armies clad in grey. Apparently nothing was passive,
nothing neutral. Bewilderingly, also, nothing was of a steadfast faith.
Sun, moon, darkness and light, heat and cold, snow, rain, mud, dust,
mountain, forest, hill, dale, stream, bridge, road, wall, house,
hay-rick, dew, mist, storm, everything!--they fought first on one side
then on the other. Sometimes they did this in rapid succession,
sometimes they seemed to fight on both sides at once; the only attitude
they never took was one immaterial to the business in hand. Moreover
they were vitally for or against the individual soldier; now his
friend, now his foe, now flattering, caressing, bringing gifts, now
snatching away, digging pitfalls, working wreck and ruin. They were
stronger than he, strong and capricious beyond all reckoning. Sometimes
he loved these powers; sometimes he cursed them. Indifference, only, was
gone. He and they were alike sentient, active, conscious, inextricably
mingled.
To-night the pike was cool and hard. There were clouds above, but not
heavy; streams of stars ran between. To either side of the road lay
fields of wheat, of clover, of corn, banded and broken by shadowy
forest. Massanutton loomed ahead. There was a wind blowing. Together
with the sound of marching feet, the jingle of accoutrements, the
striking of the horses' hoofs against loose stones, the heavy noise of
the guns in the rear, it filled the night like the roar of a distant
cataract. The men marched along without speech; now and then a terse
order, nothing more. The main army was before them at Strasburg; they
must catch up. To the west, somewhat near at hand in the darkness, would
be lying Fremont. Somewhere in the darkness to the east was Shields.
Their junction was unmade, Stonewall Jackson and his army passing
between the upper and the nether millstone which should have joined to
crush.
The stars began to pale, the east to redden. Faintly, faintly the swell
and roll of the earth gathered colour. A cock crew from some distant
farmhouse. The Stonewall swung on, the 65th leading, its colonel,
Richard Cleave, at its head. The regiment liked to see him there; it
loved him well and obeyed him well, and he in his turn would have died
for his men. Undoubtedly he was responsible for much of the regiment's
tone and temper. It was good stuff in the beginning, but something of
its firm modelling was due to the man now riding Dundee at its head. The
65th was acquiring a reputation, and that in a brigade whose deeds had
been ringing, like a great bell, sonorously through the land. "The good
conduct of the 65th--" "The 65th, reliable always--" "The 65th with its
accustomed courage--" "The disciplined, intelligent, and courageous
65th--" "The gallantry of the 65th--"
The light strengthened; pickets were reached. They belonged to Taylor's
Brigade, lying in the woods to either side of the pike. The Stonewall
passed them, still figures, against the dawn. Ahead lay Strasburg, its
church spires silver-slender in the morning air. Later, as the sun
pushed a red rim above the hills, the brigade stacked arms in a fair
green meadow. Between it and the town lay Taliaferro. Elzey and Campbell
were in the fields to the east. General Jackson and his staff occupied a
knoll just above the road.
The Stonewall fell to getting breakfast--big tin cups of scalding
coffee! sugar! fresh meat! double allowance of meal! They broiled the
meat on sharpened sticks, using the skillets for batter bread; they
grinned at the sugar before they dropped it in, they purred over the
coffee. Mingling with the entrancing odours was the consciousness of
having marched well, fought well, deserved well. Down the pike, where
Taylor kept the rear, burst a rattle of musketry. The Stonewall
scrambled to its feet. "What's that? Darn it all! the Virginia Reel's
beginning!" An officer hurried by. "Sit down, boys. It's just a
minuet--reconnoissance of Fremont and Dick Taylor! It's all right. Those
Louisianians are damned good dancers!" A courier quitting the knoll
above the pike gave further information. "Skirmish back there, near the
Capon road. Just a feeler of Fremont's--his army's three miles over
there in the woods. Old Dick's with General Taylor. Don't need your
help, boys--thank you all the same! Fremont won't attack in force. Old
Jack says so--sitting up there on a hickory stump reading the Book of
Kings!"
"All right," said the Stonewall. "We ain't the kind to go butting in
without an invitation! We're as modest as we are brave. Listen! The blue
coats are using minies."
Down the pike, during an hour of dewy morning, the Louisiana Brigade and
Fremont's advance fired at each other. The woods hereabouts were dense.
At intervals the blue showed; at intervals Ewell dispatched a regiment
which drove them back to cover. "Old Dick" would have loved to follow,
but he was under orders. He fidgeted to and fro on Rifle. "Old Jackson
says I am not to go far from the pike! I want to go after those men. I
want to chase them to the Rio Grande! I am sick of this fiddling about!
Just listen to that, General Taylor! There's a lot of them in the woods!
What's the good of being a major-general if you've got to stick close to
the pike? If Old Jackson were here he would say Go! Why ain't he here?
Bet you anything you like he's sucking a lemon and holding morning
prayer meeting!--Oh, here are your men back with prisoners! Now, you men
in blue, what command's that in the woods? Eh?--What?" "_Von Bayern bin
ich nach diesem Lande gekommen._" "_Am Rhein habe ich gehort dass viel
bezahlt wird fur...._" "Take 'em away! Semmes, you go and tell General
Jackson all Europe's here.--Mean you to go? Of course I don't mean you
to go, you thundering idiot! Always could pick Caesar out of the crowd.
When I find him I obey him, I don't send him messages. ----! ---- ----!
They've developed sharpshooters. Send Wheat over there, General
Taylor--tell him to shake the pig-nuts out of those trees!"
Toward midday the army marched. All the long afternoon it moved to the
sound of musketry up the Valley pike. There was skirmishing in
plenty--dashes by Fremont's cavalry, repulsed by the grey, a short
stampede of Munford's troopers, driven up the pike and into the infantry
of the rear guard, rapid recovery and a Roland for an Oliver. The
Valley, shimmering in the June light, lay in anything but Sabbath calm.
Farmhouse and village, mill, smithy, tavern, cross-roads store, held
their breath--Stonewall Jackson coming up the pike, holding Fremont off
with one hand while he passes Shields.
Sunset came, a splendid flare of colour behind the Great North Mountain.
The army halted for the night. The Louisiana Brigade still formed the
rear guard. Drawn upon high ground to either side of the pike, it
lighted no fires and rested on its arms. Next it to the south lay
Winder. The night was clear and dark, the pike a pale limestone gleam
between the shadowy hills. Hour by hour there sounded a clattering of
hoofs, squads of cavalry, reports, couriers, staff. There was, too, a
sense of Stonewall Jackson somewhere on the pike, alert with grey-blue
eyes piercing the dark. Toward one o'clock firing burst out on the
north. It proved an affair of outposts. Later, shots rang out close at
hand, Fremont having ordered a cavalry reconnoissance. The grey met it
with clangour and pushed it back. Wheat's battalion was ordered
northward and went swinging down the pike. The blue cavalry swarmed
again, whereupon the Louisianians deployed, knelt first rank, fired rear
rank, rose and went forward, knelt, fired and dispersed the swarm. From
a ridge to the west opened a Federal gun. It had intent to rake the
pike, but was trained too high. The shells hurtled overhead, exploding
high in air. The cannonade ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Day
began to break in violet and daffodil.
As the hours went on they became fiery hot and dry. The dust cloud was
high again over advance with great wagon train, over main column and
rear. Water was scarce, the men horribly weary; all suffered. Suffering
or ease, pain or pleasure, there was no resting this day. Fremont, using
parallel roads, hung upon the right; he must be pushed back to the
mountains as they passed up the Valley pike. All morning blue cavalry
menaced the Stonewall; to the north a dense southward moving cloud
proclaimed a larger force. Mid-day found Winder deployed on both sides
of the pike, with four guns in position. The Louisianians sent back to
know if they could help. "No--we'll manage." A minute later Jackson
appeared. Wherever matters drew suddenly to a point, there he was
miraculously found. He looked at the guns and jerked his hand in the
air. "General Winder, I do not wish an engagement here. Withdraw your
brigade, sir, regiment by regiment. General Ashby is here. He will keep
the rear."
Ashby came at the moment with a body of horse out of the wood to the
east. He checked the black stallion, saluted and made his report. "I
have burned the Conrad Store, White House and Columbia bridges, sir. If
Shields wishes to cross he must swim the Shenandoah. It is much swollen.
I have left Massanutton Gap strongly guarded."
"Good! good! General Winder, you will follow General Taylor. Tell the
men that I wish them to press on. General Ashby, the march is now to
proceed undisturbed."
The second of June burned onward to its close, through heat, dust,
thirst, and relentlessly rapid marching. In the late afternoon occurred
a monstrous piling up of thunder clouds, a whistling of wind, and a
great downpour of rain. It beat down the wheat and pattered like elfin
bullets on the forest leaves. Through this fusillade the army came down
to the west fork of the Shenandoah. Pioneers laid a bridge of wagons,
and, brigade by brigade, the army crossed. High on the bank in the loud
wind and dashing rain, Jackson on Little Sorrel watched the transit. By
dusk all were over and the bridge was taken up.
On the further shore Ashby now kept guard between Fremont and the host
in grey. As for Shields, he was on the far side of the Massanuttons,
before him a bridgeless, swollen torrent and a guarded mountain pass.
Before becoming dangerous he must move south and round the Massanuttons.
Far from achieving junction, space had widened between Shields and
Fremont. The Army of the Valley had run the gauntlet, and in doing so
had pushed the walls apart. The men, climbing from the Shenandoah,
saluting their general, above them there in the wind and the rain,
thought the voice with which he answered them unusually gentle. He
almost always spoke to his troops gently, but to-night there was almost
a fatherly tone. And though he jerked his hand into the air, it was
meditatively done, a quiet salute to some observant commander up there.
Later, in the deep darkness, the army bivouacked near New Market.
Headquarters was established in an old mill. Here a dripping courier
unwrapped from a bit of cloth several leaves of the whitey-brown
telegraph paper of the Confederacy and gave them into the general's
hand.
Next morning, at roll call, each colonel spoke to his regiment. "Men!
There has been a great battle before Richmond--at a place called Seven
Pines. Day before yesterday General Johnston attacked General McClellan.
The battle raged all day with varying fortune. At sunset General
Johnston, in the thickest of the fight, was struck from his horse by a
shell. He is desperately wounded; the country prays not mortally.
General Lee is now in command of the Armies of Virginia. The battle was
resumed yesterday morning and lasted until late in the day. Each side
claims the victory. Our loss is perhaps five thousand; we hold that the
enemy's was as great. General McClellan has returned to his camp upon
the banks of the Chickahominy. Richmond is not taken.--The general
commanding the Army of the Valley congratulates his men upon the part
they have played in the operations before our capital. At seven in the
morning the chaplains of the respective regiments will hold divine
services."