Hungry and but little refreshed, we resumed the march at daylight next
morning. When six miles from Strasburg the sound of artillery in our
front told us how narrow had been our escape. It was the gallant General
Charlie Winder contesting a mountain pass with Fremont until the army,
with its long train, should pass. We now felt comparatively safe, our
greatest fear having been that Fremont would pass the defile before we
could throw troops into it. Of Shields we had no fear, as our rapid
marching had thrown him far in our rear, and he could not possibly
overtake us. Fisher’s Hill was reached late that evening, and all danger
being past, the men were allowed some time to rest.
Six miles more to make that night, and then we should be compelled to go
supperless to bed: for the commissary wagon had stuck in the creek at
Newtown, and we had but little doubt it had fallen into the hands of the
enemy. It was all the fault of Commissary Captain John Howard, who would
insist upon placing in it a barrel of whisky and three barrels of
molasses, besides the regiment’s regular rations.
Tired and broken down from the excessive marching of the past few days,
the men were but little disposed to go farther, and when the command to
“fall in” was given it was but indifferently obeyed. The delay thereby
occasioned was, however, productive of good results, for presently the
sound of a wagon was heard approaching from the direction we had just
come, and in a moment more the missing commissary wagon came in sight,
in charge of private George Bush, of Company A. Colonel Johnson’s
countenance underwent a wonderful change, as did that of every man in
the regiment. Looking stern, however, he demanded to know of Bush “why
he had been straggling?”
“Why you see, Colonel,” he replied, “my feet were kind o’ sore, and I
couldn’t cotch up; so I seed this here wagon stuck in the mud, and knowd
it belonged to us; and you see I knowd as you know what was in it, and
so I says to myself, ‘Them ar Yanks shan’t have her;’ and so I
confisticated that are team; but it couldn’t pull it nary inch. So you
see, Colonel, as the crackers and meat wasn’t very heavy, but the whisky
and merlasses wor, so you see, Colonel, there was no alternation but ter
empty her out.”
“Empty her out, sir,” interrupted the Colonel, in a voice of thunder,
and with a countenance black as midnight; “empty her out, you rascal?
Why didn’t you save a _part_ of the contents, at least?”
“And so I did, sir. The meat and crackers wor ondispensable; but you
see, Colonel, them ere people about Newtown are mighty poor, and you
know, sir, I always wor kind o’ good-hearted, and then them merlasses
and the barrel of whisky wor so tarnal heavy”—
“And you gave them the whisky and the molasses?” roared the Colonel.
“Now, Colonel,” said Bush, “you must really excuse me this time if I
gave them all”—
“All?” interrupted the Colonel.
“Yes, sir; all the _superfluity but the barrel of whisky_.”
“Bush, you are a bad soldier,” said the Colonel, “and shall have a
week’s extra guard duty for wasting ‘them merlasses,’ as you call it,
though, under the circumstances, I might have done the same. But it
won’t do to encourage such extravagance in a well-disciplined command.
Captain Howard, knock the bung out of that barrel and give each of the
men a stiff drink, while you will take care and reserve an extra one for
the officers.”
It is needless to say the order was obeyed with alacrity, and the six
miles were made in quick time to the song of “Oh, let us be joyful!”
Our camp that night was about midway between Strasburg and Woodstock. At
midnight we were awakened from our sound slumbers by the rattle of small
arms in the direction of the former place, and shortly after a broken
and disordered mass of cavalry came dashing into our camp, riding
everything down that came in their way, and yelling at the top of their
voices that the enemy was upon us.
Convinced that we were in more danger of bodily harm from the cowardly
cavalrymen than from the enemy, we turned out _en masse_ and drove them
from the ground, and the last we saw of them they were making their way
at the top of their horses’ speed towards Woodstock. It afterwards
turned out that they had encountered a number of the broken down men,
and mistaking each other for enemies, in the dark, a fight had ensued,
in which the cavalrymen were routed.
Early next morning we resumed our march, the First Maryland being in the
rear of the infantry, with orders to support the cavalry and artillery
under Generals George H. Steuart and Turner Ashby, who were keeping the
enemy’s advance in check.
When within a mile or two of Woodstock, Fremont’s cavalry, under Colonel
Percy Wyndham, dashed upon the cavalry under Stewart and scattered it in
every direction. It was in vain that gallant officer endeavored to rally
the frightened troopers; but the harder he swore the faster they rode,
until they came upon the First Maryland in the streets of Woodstock.
“Get out of the way! get out of the way! the enemy are upon you!” they
called out at the top of their voices, as they dashed madly through the
town.
But Colonel Johnson, not understanding such tactics, coolly wheeled his
regiment across the street, and, charging them with the bayonet, drove
them back in the direction from whence they came. Some were rallied by
the General, who had by this time come up; but the majority took to the
fields, and made good their escape from both friends and foes.
In this disgraceful affair we came near losing two pieces of the
Baltimore Light Artillery. Entirely deserted by the cavalry supporting
them, they were at the mercy of the enemy; but the brave Griffin,
although surrounded, drove his guns through their ranks, and bore his
pieces off in triumph.
These skirmishes were of daily occurrence as the Confederate army
marched leisurely in the direction of Staunton. By burning bridges along
our route we were enabled to retard the enemy’s advance, and by easy
marches to rest and refresh our men and keep the wagon train and
prisoners well up.
Finally, in the afternoon of the 5th of June, the army reached
Harrisonburg, where we received intelligence that made the stoutest of
us tremble. The turnpike bridge across the Shenandoah had been
destroyed, and having no pontoons it was impossible to cross as the
stream was very high and rapid.
Any other man but Jackson would have given up in despair, and we should
have been lost. Not so with him. There was still another bridge that
spanned the river at Port Republic, and thither he determined to march,
over roads indescribable. Diverging to the left, therefore, about a mile
from Harrisonburg, he took the road to Port Republic, and, after
marching a mile or two, went into camp for the night, the enemy
occupying Harrisonburg.
The next morning, the 6th day of June,—a day that will ever be
remembered by us—the enemy’s videttes were within rifle-shot upon the
hills behind us. He was following us closely; and it was evident we
would be compelled to fight before reaching the river. Slowly we
retired, the enemy as slowly following.
In this way we marched about four miles, when Ashby, in command of the
rear guard, determined to give his persistent foe a little turn up.
Placing his men in the woods by the side of the road he quietly awaited
the attack. Catching sight of the man he had for days been endeavoring
to “bag,” the dashing Wyndham charged at the head of his New Jersey
troops; but, alas! he had reckoned without his host, for a counter
charge ordered by the brave Ashby, and made with irresistible
impetuosity, overthrew Wyndham, and scattered his Jersey Blues to the
four winds. The pursuit was continued until Ashby was nearly up with
their advanced infantry, the Pennsylvania Bucktails, who were encamped
about two miles from Harrisonburg. Gathering up his prisoners, among
whom was Wyndham himself, he fell back to the infantry, determined upon
attacking this body, for he deemed their capture an easy matter. Alas!
it was a sad, sad mistake, and cost many valuable lives, and among them
the incomparable Ashby himself.
Contrary to his own judgment, General Ewell yielded to General Ashby’s
earnest solicitations, and furnished him with three regiments of
infantry with which to attack and surprise the enemy’s advance. The
regiments selected for the work were the First Maryland and Fifty-Eighth
and Forty-Fourth Virginia. So fearful was General Ewell that some
disaster would befall the expedition that he accompanied it himself. The
troops moved with the utmost caution through the dense woods for about
three miles, when they were halted, and the companies of Captains
Herbert and Nicholas thrown forward as skirmishers. These were under the
command of Ashby, closely followed by the main body under command of
Ewell. In a few minutes the rattle of musketry in our front told us that
the enemy had been found, and the Fifty-Eighth was immediately sent in,
when the fight became very severe, the contending forces not being over
fifty yards apart. For about fifteen minutes the conflict continued,
when the Fifty-Eighth broke and came to the rear in great confusion. The
Forty-Fourth was then sent forward, and appeared to be faring but little
better, when General Ewell, who had been in the thickest of the fight
and exposed to much danger, dashed up to Colonel Johnson and called out,
“Charge, Colonel, charge, and end this matter!” For some minutes we had
been suffering from the enemy’s fire, and the order was therefore gladly
obeyed. Steadily the regiment moved through the woods to the attack,
guided by the firing, for not one of the foemen could be seen. At
length, feeling that he was within striking distance, Johnson gave the
command, “Forward, double quick,” and with a yell our fellows dashed up
the hill which shielded the enemy from our view; but, as we gained its
crest, a terrible volley was poured into our very faces, and the
regiment reeled and staggered, for Johnson was down struggling to
disengage himself from his dying horse, and some twenty of the officers
and men had fallen. The pause was but momentary, however, for collecting
themselves the brave fellows rushed furiously upon the enemy, and,
reserving their fire until they were within twenty paces of them, poured
into their ranks so destructive a volley that the survivors broke and
attempted to reach their main body. In this but few succeeded, as they
were compelled to recross an open field, about four hundred yards wide,
and all the while subjected to our fire, which was delivered with the
utmost coolness and precision.
Our loss in this unfortunate fight was severe, for besides the many
brave officers and men in the three little regiments, we had to mourn
the death of the chivalrous Ashby, the idol of the army. Early in the
conflict, while urging his men forward, and exposing himself most
recklessly, a ball passed through his body, and he fell dead.
[Illustration: Brig. Gen. BRADLEY T. JOHNSON.]
When the news of the death of this Christian gentleman and glorious
soldier became known to the army, a universal wail went up, and strong
men wept like children, for truly they had lost one they dearly loved.
Never more was his clarion voice to be heard as he led his fierce
legions in the headlong charge. Never more the piercing gray eye to
sparkle as he dashed with lightning speed through the ranks of the
foemen, dealing death blows at every stride, avenging his people’s
wrongs and the death of a basely-murdered brother.
The First Maryland had many of its noblest spirits to mourn for, and
among them the gallant Captain N. S. Robertson, Lieutenant Nicholas
Snowden, and privates Beatty, Schleigh, Harris, and others whose names I
do not remember. The loss of the enemy was very severe. Their commander,
Lieutenant-Colonel Kane, with several of his officers and many of the
men were wounded and prisoners in our hands, and, to use Kane’s own
words, “hardly a dozen of the command escaped.”
Sadly, as the dusk of evening came on, we gathered together our dead,
and the wounded of both sides who could bear removal, and mournfully
retraced our steps, and near midnight lay down to rest beside our cold,
inanimate companions.
As we lay there we could not but think how many of us would in a few
hours be with them, sleeping our last sleep; and the next morning, as we
listened to the reveille, we thought it might be our last, for our dead
comrades had heard it but yesterday. Such is the uncertainty of a
soldier’s life.
In a little churchyard attached to Union Church, near Cross Keys, we dug
the one grave that was to contain all that was left of them, and in
their uniforms, wrapt in their blankets, we lay them down to rest.
Theirs was the burial they would have most wished—a soldier’s burial.