LITTLE MAC AND HIS GRAND ARMY--THE SECOND BULL RUN.
Probably the most popular commander of the Union forces in the civil war
was General George B. McClellan. Whatever his faults, he was idolized by
his men. Historians may write him up or down according to their bias, but
the boys who carried the muskets away back in ’62, who were with him at
Yorktown, Williamsburg, Malvern Hill, Fair Oaks and Antietam, believed in
him and through all the long years since then have had a warm place in
their hearts for the memory of Little Mac.
We saw McClellan’s army start out in the spring of ’62 for their
Peninsular campaign and our boys were hopping mad to think we were left
behind. The great majority of the men really felt that the war would be
ended before we had a chance to take a hand in. I may say that the drummer
boys, full of young red blood, were as eager for the fray as the older
men, but most of us had got enough of war before we reached Appomattox.
THE IDOL OF HIS MEN.
The greatest ovation that the writer ever saw given any general was on the
occasion of McClellan’s return to the army after the second battle of Bull
Run.
It will be remembered that on his return from the Peninsular campaign he
had been relieved and his troops had been ordered to join Pope’s forces.
Gen. Pope was the man who, on assuming command a few weeks before, had
announced with a flourish of trumpets that his headquarters would be “in
the saddle.” But he was no match for “Stonewall” Jackson, who kept him
running towards Washington, and would have annihilated his army at
Manassas but for the timely arrival of McClellan’s forces. As it was, the
army had to take refuge in the defenses of Washington and there was
anxiety for the safety of the capitol.
In the emergency President Lincoln appealed to McClellan to go over into
Virginia and resume command and reorganize the shattered hosts, and
McClellan, putting aside his personal feelings, consented to do so. The
condition of the troops was such that they were not inclined to enthuse
very much over any officer. They were ragged, nearly shoeless and
thoroughly worn out, but when one afternoon word was passed among them
that “Little Mac” was coming they rushed to the roadside, flung their
caps high in the air and cheered themselves hoarse.
McClellan loved his men and their reception pleased him. He rode the
entire length of the lines with bared head, smiling and bowing to the
right and left. Two days later he led 90,000 of them over into Maryland,
and won a grand victory at Antietam, sending Lee’s hosts back to Virginia
again, but it was the bloodiest battle of the war up to that time, for
each side had a loss of from 12,000 to 15,000 men.
Lincoln visited the army on the battlefield and personally thanked
McClellan for the victory, and the soldiers felt that they were to have
their old commander with them to the end, but political influences were at
work against him in Washington and he had to retire soon after.
It has always been an open question whether McClellan would not have been
the great general of the war if he had been given all the troops he wanted
and been allowed to act on his own judgment without dictation from Stanton
and Halleck. But it was not until later in the war that those in authority
at Washington learned that the general with his troops is the one to
command them.
GOING AFTER STONEWALL.
In August, 1862, our regiment received orders to march to join Gen. Pope’s
forces, then operating in the vicinity of Culpeper and Gordonsville, and
there was great rejoicing among the men, who had begun to fear that the
rebellion might collapse without their having a smell of powder.
The shades of evening were coming on when the bugles sounded the
“assembly” and we marched away with light hearts and heavy knapsacks, for
all green soldiers are bound to overload on their first march.
That night we lay out on the ground alongside of the Orange & Alexandria
railroad. When morning dawned we found that there were other troops bound
for somewhere, too. Every man made his own coffee and we ate our first
meal of “hardtack,” and were not long in finding out that the safest way
was to break them in small pieces and sort the worms out.
After that breakfast I went over to a sutler’s tent and filled up my
haversack with fried pies, cookies, crackers and other trash that a boy
likes.
Late that afternoon we started out on the “pike” in the direction of
Fairfax court house and were rushed along at a lively gait until nearly
midnight. The men were young and light hearted, and as we marched there
was the rollicking laugh, sharp joke, equally as keen a retort, queer and
humorous sayings, breaking out from the ranks here and there, and then all
would sing, “John Brown’s Body” and “We’ll Hang Jeff Davis to a Sour Apple
Tree.”
We halted that night near a little place called Accotink and bivouacked in
a large open field, and I recall how quickly the rail fences were
converted into huge camp fires, for the Virginia nights are nearly always
chilly.
The march was resumed early the next morning and the day was a hot one.
The most aggravating thing to the soldiers on a march is the unevenness of
the marching. First you are rushed along so that the short legged ones are
compelled to double-quick to keep up, and then there will be a halt of
perhaps fifteen to thirty minutes when you are kept standing in the
broiling sun; then start again and stop five minutes later.
It struck me as funny that not one person in ten you met in the country
knew anything about distances. If you met a colored man and asked how far
it was to Manassas he would reply “’Deed, boss, I don’t know, ’spec ’tis a
right smart distance.”
Another would say it was eight miles, and after going a mile or two you
would ask again and would be told it was ten miles and a “bit.”
NOTHING LIKE HARDTACK.
I found on the second day’s march that the sutler’s “goodies” which I had
stocked up with had absorbed a little too much of the flavor of my
haversack to be palatable, so I returned to Uncle Sam’s ration of
hardtack, salt junk and coffee, which cannot be beaten for a steady diet
when campaigning.
We halted for a rest that noon near a beautiful old mansion between
Fairfax and Centreville. The boys made themselves pretty free with
whatever they wanted around the premises, notwithstanding the protests of
the women of the household, one of whom observed that “you’uns think you
are right smart now, but if Stonewall Jackson catches you he’ll lick you
so you won’t be so peart the next time you come this way.”
We little thought the prediction would come true in a brief twenty-four
hours, but such was the case and when hot, tired and choking with thirst
and dust, we stopped at the same place the next afternoon, thinking to
refresh ourselves with some sparkling water from the “moss covered bucket
that hung in the well,” we found that it, and in fact all of the
appliances for drawing water had been removed, and, looking back from this
distance, I think they served us right.
THE SECOND BULL RUN.
The night of Aug. 26, 1862, our regiment was preparing to go into camp at
Bull Run bridge when an excited horseman rode among us and asked for our
colonel. The rider proved to be Capt. Von Puttkamer, who with his own
battery, the 11th New York, and part of Battery C, 1st New York, had
preceded us by a few hours. He reported that the Confederates had attacked
Manassas Junction, capturing his battery and all the government stores at
that point and he implored our colonel to take his regiment and “git him
pack his pattery.”
Col. Von Wagner, after informing him that he “Vas prigadeer sheneral in
command,” ordered the captain to lead the way and he would make short work
of them “Shonnies.”
After marching and counter-marching around in the darkness part of the
night we lay down and waited for morn. Daylight revealed the enemy in
force. General Jackson had outwitted Pope completely and had a large part
of his army between Pope and Washington.
As soon as it was light enough we moved forward and a little later
encountered the enemy near Manassas.
Our skirmishers fired on the rebel cavalry, who retreated after two or
three volleys, behind some buildings. Several riderless horses were soon
galloping around, so we assumed that the shots had been effective.
Soon the enemy commenced to throw shell at us from numerous guns and
maintained a heavy fire for some time. We were ordered to lie down and
thus escaped with few casualties. My drum that was on the top of a pile of
officers’ luggage in the rear of the line was ruined by a piece of shell.
About 10 o’clock the Confederates attempted to turn our left flank, but
our line was changed to intercept the movement, which was unsuccessful.
The rebel infantry had been brought up to the front line and were firing
at us at a furious rate. It being apparent that we were outnumbered our
colonel ordered a retreat, which was conducted in an orderly manner until
Gen. Stuart sent his cavalry after us and then a panic ensued.
Just before our march to the front the son of an officer of the regiment
came to make his father a visit, and being there when we got orders to
take the field, he thought it would be a fine thing to go along and see
the sights--a sort of picnic. We, being somewhere near the same age, were
in each other’s company a great deal. When the regiment became engaged at
Bull Run we were the source of much anxiety to our fathers and, not being
of any particular use on the firing line, were sent to the rear, where the
baggage wagons and “coffee coolers” were assembled. When the break in the
lines occurred and the troops rushed pell mell to the rear there were some
lively movements. Everybody went and stood not on the order of their
going. Charley Rogers of our company--a former resident of Lorraine--drove
a four-horse team which drew a wagon loaded with baggage belonging to the
officers of the regiment. Charley saw us boys and called out to “get
aboard,” and be “damn lively about it, too.” It was one of the old style
government wagons, canvas-covered with a round hole at the rear end. We
crawled up in front and sat with our backs against Charley’s seat and
facing the rear. Didn’t we get a shaking up, though? For Rogers sent the
horses for all they were worth. Occasionally there would be a jam in the
road caused by some wagon breaking down. Near Bull Run Bridge a blockade
occurred, and while we sat there expecting that the rebel cavalry would
swoop down and demand our surrender we were terrorized by seeing the point
of a bayonet looking at us through the hole at the rear of the wagon.
Before we recovered ourselves enough to speak somebody behind that gun and
bayonet gave it a shove and the glittering piece of cold steel passed
between us two boys and embedded itself in the back of Charley’s seat.
Then the pale face of a soldier was stuck through the hole and instead of
a Johnnie reb it was one of our regiment by the name of Hawkins.
When near Bull Run bridge the road became so blocked that we could not
move.
A section of a light battery came along and the drivers thought they could
pull out to the roadside and pass. In doing so the wheels of one gun sank
in the soft ground and, toppling over on the side, became entangled in the
fence.
Nearly all of the men deserted it and ran for dear life.
One driver stuck to his horses and plied the whip, but the carriage
refused to move.
The enemy were coming steadily on and the bullets began to whistle
unpleasantly. We had gotten out of our wagon, intending to go ahead on
foot.
About this time along came a member of our company by the name of Will
McNeil, who was serving as a teamster. He had abandoned his wagon and was
riding one of his big mule team and leading the other.
Hawkins hailed him, saying “See here McNeil, hitch your mules on ahead of
these artillery horses and let’s save this gun from capture.”
“All right,” says McNeil, and in less time than it takes to tell it Mc’s
mules were made the lead team and McNeil and Hawkins stood at their side
and plied the whips, and they lifted the gun and saved it from falling
into the hands of the enemy, for it would surely have been captured, but
for Hawkins and McNeil.
Between Bull Run and Centreville we met Gen. Taylor and his Jersey brigade
that had been sent out by rail from Alexandria to try and regain the lost
fight, but Jackson had pushed forward A. P. Hill’s and Bristol’s divisions
and several batteries, and the Jersey troops were quickly routed, Gen.
Taylor himself losing a leg in the encounter.
The story of the battle, the skeedaddle, etc., is a matter of history. It
was a contest of several days and both armies became involved.
Thousands of brave men were killed and wounded and among the officers who
gave up their lives on the Union side was the beloved and dashing Gen.
Phil Kearney, who made such a record at the battle of Seven Pines.
The story of his conduct that day has been told in verse by the poet,
Stedman:
“So that soldierly legend is still on its journey
That story of Kearney who knew not to yield!
’Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry and Birney,
Against twenty thousand he rallied the field.
Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,
Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine,
Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,
No charge like Phil Kearney’s along the whole line.”
* * * * *
“He snuffed like his charger the wind of the powder,
His sword waved us on and we answered the sign;
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder;
There’s the devil’s own fun, boys, along the whole line!
How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten
In the one hand still left, and the reins in his teeth!
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten,
But a soldier’s glance shot from his visor beneath.
Up came the reserves to the melee infernal,
Asking where to go in--thro’ the clearing or pine?
‘O anywhere! Forward! ’Tis all the same, colonel;
You’ll find lovely fighting along the whole line!’”
* * * * *