hopkinsROBERT HOWARD HOPKINS.
ROBERT HOWARD HOPKINS.
There fell into the hands of the Confederates 7000 prisoners, 30 cannon, 20,000 rifles. The captured stores, including two miles of loaded cars on the track, was enormous, much of which the Confederates had to burn.
This is called the Second Battle of Manassas to distinguish it from the first battle fought on the same ground, and called by the North the Battle of Bull Run, but by the South as the First Battle of Manassas.
Pope lost no time in getting behind his intrenchments at Washington. My command took part in the battle, and made a charge just as the sun was dropping behind the horizon. Lee did not follow Pope toward Washington, but moved in a straight line toward the Upper Potomac, leaving Washington to his right.
At this time my company was detached from the Sixth Regiment and made a bodyguard to Gen. Lee. We kept close to his person both night and day.
Part of the time Gen. Lee rode in an ambulance with both hands bandaged, his horse, "Traveler," having fallen over a log and crippled Lee's hands. This gave me a good opportunity of seeing the great soldier at close range.
I remember one afternoon, when toward sunset the army having gone into camp for the night, Gen. Lee's headquarters being established in a little farmhouse near Chantilla, I think in Loudoun county, the General went out with one of his staff officers for a walk into an apple orchard. They were gone perhaps an hour. While they were gone a guard had been set around the cottage with instructions to let none pass without an order from Gen. Lee.
When Gen. Lee returned with his aid by his side, he was halted by Frank Peak (a member of my company, now living in Alexandria, Va.). They both halted, and Peak said to them, "My instructions are to let none pass without an order from Gen. Lee." Gen. Lee turned to his aid and said, "Stop, the sentinel has halted us." The officer (I think it was Col. Marshall, who afterward lived in Baltimore, and died there not long ago) stepped forward and said, "This is Gen. Lee himself, who gives all orders." Peak saluted them, and they passed on.
Before day the next morning the army was in motion toward Maryland, Gen. Lee still riding in the ambulance, very much, no doubt, to the chagrin of "Traveler," who was led by a soldier, just behind the ambulance.
Owing to the hard-fought battles around Richmond, Cedar Run and Manassas (which followed each other in rapid succession), and the long, weary marches through the hot July days, often far into the night, many of Lee's soldiers, who were foot-sore and broken down, straggled from the ranks, being unable to keep up with the stronger men. So great was the number that it was said that half his army were straggling along the roads and through the fields, subsisting as they could on fruits and berries, and whatever food they could get from farmhouses.
As the army crossed the Potomac (four miles east of Leesburg) Gen. Lee had to make some provision for the stragglers. It would not do to let them follow the army into the enemy's country, because they would all be captured. He concluded to abandon his bodyguard and leave it at the river, with instructions to turn the stragglers and tell them to move toward Winchester, beyond the Shenandoah. This was the point, no doubt, that Gen. Lee had fixed as the place to which he would bring his army when his Maryland campaign was over.
It was with much regret that we had to give up our post of honor as guard to the head of the army to take charge of sore-footed stragglers. But a soldier's duty is to obey orders.
The army crossed the river into Maryland, and we were kept busy for a week sending the stragglers toward Winchester.
Some bore wounds received in the battles mentioned, and their bandages in many cases still showed the dried blood as evidence that they had not always been stragglers. Some were sick, and some too lame to walk, and it became necessary for us to go out among the farmers and procure wagons to haul the disabled. In doing so, it was my duty to call on an old Quaker family by the name of Janney, near Goose Creek meeting-house, Loudoun county, and get his four-horse wagon and order it to Leesburg. This I did in good soldier style, not appreciating the old adage that "Chickens come home to roost."
After seeing the wagon on the road, accompanied by friend Janney, who rode on horseback (the wagon being driven by his hired man), I went to other farms, doing the same thing. And thus the lame, sick and sore-footed and the rag-and-tag were pushed on, shoved on and hauled on toward Winchester.
Some years after this I had occasion to visit the same spot, in company with a young lady.
It was the Friends' quarterly meeting time at Goose Creek. We attended the services, and, of course, were invited out to dinner. It fell to our lot to dine at the home of friend Janney, from whom I had taken the wagon. I did not recognize the house or the family until I was painfully reminded of it in the following manner:
We were seated at a long table in the dining-room (I think there were at least twenty at the table), and several young ladies were acting as waitresses. I was quite bashful in those days, but was getting along very nicely, until one of the young waitresses, perhaps with no intention of embarrassing me, focusing her mild blue eyes upon mine, said, "I think I recognize thee as one of the soldiers who took our wagon and team for the use of Lee's army, en route for Maryland." I did not look up, but felt that twice twenty eyes were centered on me. I cannot recall what I said, but I am sure I pleaded guilty; besides, I felt that all the blood in my body had gone to my face, and that every drop was crying out, "Yes, he's the very fellow." It spoiled my dinner, but they all seemed to think it was a good joke on me.
Quakers, it must be remembered, were not as a rule in sympathy with the secession movement, which greatly intensified the discomfort of my position. My young friend, however, although a member of that society, never deserted me, and sometime afterward became more to me than a friend; she has been faithful ever since, and is now sitting by me as I write these lines.
Now I must go back to war scenes.
I cannot remember, of course, just the day, but while we were busy gathering up these stragglers we could distinctly hear the booming of the guns that told us the two armies had met and that there was heavy fighting on Maryland soil.
The first sounds came from toward Harper's Ferry, and we soon afterward learned the result.
Jackson had been detached from the main army, had surrounded and captured Harper's Ferry, taking 13,000 prisoners and many army supplies. Among the prisoners was A.W. Green of New York, who afterward became pastor of my church, St. John's, corner Madison avenue and Laurens street, Baltimore, Md.
Mr. Green says that when the prisoners were all lined up, Jackson rode along their front and tried to comfort them as best he could. He said, "Men, this is the fate of war; it is you today, it may be us tomorrow." After paroling his prisoners, Jackson hurried to rejoin Lee, who was being hotly pressed by McClellan at Antietam. Lee's united forces at this time could not have numbered over 40,000 men, while McClellan, who was still in command of the Union army, had a force of over 100,000.
McClellan made the attack, was repulsed with terrible loss, but the North claimed the victory, because Lee retired during the second night after the battle and re-crossed the Potomac, falling back to Winchester, where he was reinforced by the stragglers who had been gathering there for two weeks or more.
This series of battles, beginning with Richmond in the spring and ending at Antietam in the early fall, had so exhausted the armies that both sides were glad to take a rest. They had been marching and fighting from early spring all through the summer, and were thoroughly exhausted.
LEE'S ARMY IN A TRAP.
We have all heard of the famous lost dispatch that was picked up in the streets of Frederick, Md., after the place had been evacuated by the Confederates. It was called "Special Order No. 191." A copy of this order was sent by Gen. Lee to each of his generals. The one intended for Gen. A.P. Hill never reached him. It was dropped by a courier and fell into the hands of Gen. McClellan. This telltale slip of paper that might have ended the war was found wrapped around two cigars. It read as follows:
"Headquarters Army of Northern Virginia, near Frederick, Md. "September 9, 1862. "Special Orders, No. 191."The army will resume its march tomorrow, taking the Hagerstown road. General Jackson's command will form the advance, and, after passing Middletown, with such portion as he may select, take the route toward Sharpsburg, cross the Potomac at the most convenient point, and, by Friday night, take possession of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, capture such of the enemy as may be at Martinsburg, and intercept such as may attempt to escape from Harper's Ferry."General Longstreet's command will pursue the same road as far as Boonsborough, where it will halt with the reserve, supply and baggage trains of the army."General McLaws, with his own division and that of General R. H. Anderson, will follow General Longstreet. On reaching Middletown he will take the route to Harper's Ferry, and by Friday morning possess himself of the Maryland Heights and endeavor to capture the enemy at Harper's Ferry and vicinity."General Walker, with his division, after accomplishing the object in which he is now engaged, will cross the Potomac at Cheek's Ford, ascend its right bank to Lovettsville, take possession of Loudoun Heights, if practicable, by Friday morning. Key's Ford on his left, and the road between the end of the mountain and the Potomac on his right. He will, as far as practicable, co-operate with General McLaws and General Jackson in intercepting the retreat of the enemy."General D.H. Hill's division will form the rear guard of the army, pursuing the road taken by the main body. The reserve artillery, ordnance, supply-trains, etc., will precede General Hill."General Stuart will detach a squadron of cavalry to accompany the commands of Generals Longstreet, Jackson and McLaws, and with the main body of the cavalry will cover the route of the army and bring up all stragglers that may have been left behind."The commands of Generals Jackson, McLaws and Walker, after accomplishing the objects for which they have been detached, will join the main body of the army at Boonsborough or Hagerstown."Each regiment on the march will habitually carry its axes in the regimental ordnance wagons for use of the men at their encampments to procure wood, etc."By command ofGeneral R.E. Lee."
"Headquarters Army of Northern Virginia, near Frederick, Md. "September 9, 1862. "Special Orders, No. 191.
"The army will resume its march tomorrow, taking the Hagerstown road. General Jackson's command will form the advance, and, after passing Middletown, with such portion as he may select, take the route toward Sharpsburg, cross the Potomac at the most convenient point, and, by Friday night, take possession of the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad, capture such of the enemy as may be at Martinsburg, and intercept such as may attempt to escape from Harper's Ferry.
"General Longstreet's command will pursue the same road as far as Boonsborough, where it will halt with the reserve, supply and baggage trains of the army.
"General McLaws, with his own division and that of General R. H. Anderson, will follow General Longstreet. On reaching Middletown he will take the route to Harper's Ferry, and by Friday morning possess himself of the Maryland Heights and endeavor to capture the enemy at Harper's Ferry and vicinity.
"General Walker, with his division, after accomplishing the object in which he is now engaged, will cross the Potomac at Cheek's Ford, ascend its right bank to Lovettsville, take possession of Loudoun Heights, if practicable, by Friday morning. Key's Ford on his left, and the road between the end of the mountain and the Potomac on his right. He will, as far as practicable, co-operate with General McLaws and General Jackson in intercepting the retreat of the enemy.
"General D.H. Hill's division will form the rear guard of the army, pursuing the road taken by the main body. The reserve artillery, ordnance, supply-trains, etc., will precede General Hill.
"General Stuart will detach a squadron of cavalry to accompany the commands of Generals Longstreet, Jackson and McLaws, and with the main body of the cavalry will cover the route of the army and bring up all stragglers that may have been left behind.
"The commands of Generals Jackson, McLaws and Walker, after accomplishing the objects for which they have been detached, will join the main body of the army at Boonsborough or Hagerstown.
"Each regiment on the march will habitually carry its axes in the regimental ordnance wagons for use of the men at their encampments to procure wood, etc.
"By command ofGeneral R.E. Lee."
With this document in his hands and with Lee's army divided as it was McClellan felt that his hour had come. He sent the following dispatch to President Lincoln:
* * * "I have all the plans of the rebels, and will catch them in their own trap. * * * General Lee's order to his army accidentally came into my hands this evening, and discloses his plan of campaign."
The destruction of Lee's army at this time would certainly have ended hostilities. Gen. Longstreet was opposed to the movement against Harper's Ferry. He said it was fraught with too much danger. It was rendered much more so when McClellan came into possession of Lee's plans. The exact number of prisoners captured at Harper's Ferry and in its environments were 12,520, together with 73 cannon, 13,000 rifles, several hundred wagons and large quantities of provisions and other army stores.
From Antietam to Chancellorsville.
"Two armies covered hill and plain,Where Rappahannock's watersRan deeply crimsoned with the stainOf battle's recent slaughters."
After resting a while at Winchester Lee's army began its march leisurely back toward Richmond, and took up a position near Fredericksburg, a point about half way between Washington and Richmond.
McClellan was relieved of his command, and Gen. Burnside took his place and gathered a large army in front of Fredericksburg on the Rappahannock river.
About the middle of December Burnside crossed the river at Fredericksburg by means of pontoon bridges and attacked Lee and Jackson just outside of the town of Fredericksburg.
A severe battle was fought, and Burnside was defeated with terrible loss. He re-crossed the river and wept when he contemplated the awful slaughter that had been made in his army. This ended the campaign of 1862. It is said that more soldiers fell in this battle in four hours than were killed in the entire Boer War. The historian has placed Burnside's losses at 12,311; Lee's at 5409.
Both armies went into winter quarters, and there was no general battle until the next spring, but frequent skirmishes between bodies of cavalry on both sides as they marched to and fro protecting their respective encampments.
From Harper's Ferry to Staunton, Va., stretches a part of the Blue Ridge mountains that played a conspicuous part in the war.
The mountain is impassable for armies except through the gaps that occur every twenty to thirty miles. These gaps were always closely guarded by the Confederates, and through them the armies frequently marched and counter-marched as occasion required.
If Jackson needed reinforcements in the valley, they were sent to him through one of these gaps; and on the other hand, if the armies defending Richmond needed reinforcements, it was Jackson's custom to give the enemy a stinging blow and send him in full retreat down the valley toward Washington, then cross through one of these gaps with a portion of his army and reinforce the armies defending Richmond.
When the armies fell back from Winchester my company of cavalry was left to guard the Bluemount gap, then called Snickersville. A little later the gap was abandoned, and we were ordered to Ashby's gap, farther up the valley, where we encamped near the little town of Paris, at the foot of the mountain, and put out our pickets on the east side of the mountain below Upperville on the pike that leads through Middleburg and on to Alexandria, Va., just under the shadow of the capital of the Northern nation, I will call it.
One day our pickets reported "the enemy's cavalry advancing up the pike toward Upperville." Our captain (Bruce Gibson) ordered the bugle sounded, and 90 to 100 men were soon in the saddle and on the march to meet the enemy.
It was four miles to Upperville, and as we approached the town we could distinctly see the enemy's cavalry filling the streets.
We halted at a point just opposite the home of our captain (where the family were on the porch watching the movements of both sides). Many of the men of the company lived in that neighborhood. It was eight miles from my home, hence this was no place to show the "white feather."
I was riding a fiery young mare. She was never satisfied unless she was a little ahead. She had a mouth that no bit could hold.
The captain ordered us to move forward, and as we approached the town, four abreast, our speed was increased to a trot, then to a gallop.
To the best of my recollection my position was about the middle of the command, but in spite of my tugging at the bit, my young steed carried me up to the front, and when we got close enough to the enemy to see the whites of their eyes, I was a little closer to them than I wanted to be, and I'll frankly confess it wasn't bravery that put me there. We were close enough to discover that we were running into a whole regiment of Union cavalry, and if we had continued, it would have meant annihilation.
The captain ordered right about, retreat! At this point to get those 100 horses turned around in that street and get out of the reach of 1000 guns in the hands of 1000 Bluecoats, was a knotty problem. If the enemy had charged us just at this time, our destruction would have been just as complete as it would have been if we had gone ahead; but they hesitated. Perhaps they were afraid of running into a trap.
I ran my horse up against a pump, and finally got turned around, and was soon leaving my comrades behind me, for she was fleet of foot. But all at once I felt my steed going down under me. I thought that she was shot, but did not have much time to think about it, for I was soon for a few minutes unconscious. My horse had tripped and fallen, and, of course, I could not keep the saddle, going at a speed like that. The horse just behind leaped over me, horse and all (so the rider afterward told me). When I came to myself I was standing in the middle of the road with a crowd of Yankees around me, among them the colonel of the regiment. I was holding in my hand the handle of my pistol, the barrel of which had been broken off by the fall. When called upon to surrender my arms I meekly handed up this handle, scarcely knowing what I was doing. One of the Yankees said, "I don't want that, I want your arms." My arms consisted of a sabre, a short cavalry gun and another pistol, that remained in its holder.
With some assistance I unbuckled my belt and gave up my arms. The colonel asked me if I was hurt, and some other questions which I cannot now recall.
His own horse had been down on its knees, which were badly skinned. He dismounted and mounted another horse that had been brought to him, and told me I could have the use of his horse. I mounted with some difficulty, and was taken to the rear. There was very little firing; only one man was killed and one horse on our side.
My horse, they afterward told me, passed through the command and did not stop until she got to Paris, four miles beyond.
The Yankees remained only a short time, when they began their retreat down the pike with one lone prisoner, myself. On the way they picked up three or four citizens, which gave me some company.
It was quite dark when we reached Middleburg, and the command halted in the town for an hour, during which time I sat on my horse just in front of the house now occupied by Edwin LeRoy Broun.
I could see the lights in the windows and see the family moving about, among them my sister. I made no effort to make myself known. After an hour's wait the command moved down the pike toward Washington, arriving at Fairfax Courthouse about midnight, where they went into camp. The next morning some 15 or 20 prisoners were brought in and put in an old log schoolhouse. We remained there all that day, and the next day the citizens were released, and the soldier prisoners (about a dozen) were started for Washington under a guard of four cavalrymen. We were taken to the old capitol at Washington and put in one of the rooms. I suppose there were several hundred prisoners there at the time. We remained about a month, when we were exchanged. We were taken to Richmond by boat and turned over to the authorities there, and our Government released a similar number of Union prisoners who returned on the same boat that brought us to Richmond. I took the train at Richmond, rode to Gordonsville, and footed it from there home, a distance of about 150 miles.
I found my horse awaiting me, and after a few days rest, I mounted and rejoined my command at the little town of Paris, Fauquier county, where I had left them for a visit to Washington as a guest of the United States Government.
As the winter came on the Confederates drew in their outposts, and likewise the enemy. This left the whole eastern part of Virginia free from the depredations of either army, except now and then a raid from one side on the other.
My regiment was at camp in the woods near Harrisonburg, while Jackson's main army was with Lee, south of Fredericksburg. Jackson spent much time during the winter in religious work among his soldiers. "My ambition," he said, "is to command a converted army." He himself was one of the most devout men in the army, and seemed to be always in communion with his God.
The winter was a hard one, and both armies kept pretty well within their winter quarters.
We had no tents, but took fence rails, and putting one end on a pole fastened to two trees, and the other on the ground, and covering the rails with leaves and fastening up each end, leaving the front open, then building a big fire just in front, we had a very comfortable place to sleep. We sat on logs around the fire during the day and far into the night telling stories and entertaining ourselves in various ways. At night we crept under the roof of our shed, which was about a foot deep in leaves, and slept as comfortably as any farmer's hogs would do under similar circumstances.
About the first of January my company was again detached from the regiment and sent to Orkney Springs, just at the foot of North mountain, west of Strasburg.
Our duty was to keep a dozen men on the opposite side of the mountain scouting and doing picket duty. It was our custom to relieve the men once a week by sending over another detachment and relieving those on duty.
While at Orkney Springs we occupied cottages that were intended for the summer guests prior to the breaking out of hostilities. But after remaining in the cottages some time, the health of the command was so poor that we were compelled to go back to the woods. In a short time the sickness disappeared from the camp, showing that the best place for a soldier is out in the open.
Shortly after this word came that the enemy was advancing up the valley turnpike, and the whole regiment was ordered down to meet them, our company in advance.
It was March. The day was a stormy one. It snowed and rained alternately all day long, far into the night.
When we left camp I was suffering with rheumatism in my hip, so that I had to use a stump to mount my horse, for I was determined to go with the regiment. Soldiers lying in camp idle soon get restless, and even cowards will hail with delight a chance to have a brush with the enemy.
So notwithstanding the weather and physical ailments of some of the men, all went out of camp that morning bright and happy.
We marched all day until long after dark, and then discovered it was a false alarm. The Yankees were snug in their tents, many miles away.
We went into camp in the woods. I remember that I was wet to the skin, and I can see myself now sitting on a log pulling off first one long-legged boot, then the other, and pouring the water out.
But before this, fires had sprung up all over the woods. In spite of the fact that everything was drenched and water was dripping from every twig, in an incredibly short time the whole woods were brilliantly illuminated by burning camp-fires.
We got out our bacon and crackers and enjoyed a supper that no habitue of a Delmonico could have relished more. The bacon (not sugar-cured) was stuck on a stick and roasted before the fire, while the grease was allowed to fall on the cracker on a chip below.
The Delmonico man might boast of a higher grade of food and better cooking, but the soldier wins on the appetite.
After supper we stood around the camp-fires drying the outside of our clothes, telling stories and smoking. Then we prepared for bed.
The men in the companies are always divided into messes; the average number of men in each was usually about six. The messes were like so many families that lived together, slept together and ate together, and stood by each other in all emergencies. There was no rule regulating the messes. The men simply came together by common consent. "Birds of a feather flock together."
In winter one bed was made for the whole mess. It consisted of laying down rubber cloths on the ground and covering them with a blanket, and another and another, as occasion required, and if the weather was foul, on top of that other rubber cloths. Our saddles covered with our coats were our pillows. The two end men had logs of wood to protect them. Only our coats and boots were removed.
On a cold winter night, no millionaire on his bed of down ever slept sweeter than a soldier on a bed like this.
In the summer each soldier had a separate bed. If it was raining, he made his bed on top of two fence rails, if he could not find a better place. If the weather was good, old Mother Earth was all the soldier wanted.
As this was a cold, stormy night, of course we all bunked together. My, what a nice, soft, sweaty time we had! The next morning all traces of my rheumatism had disappeared, and I felt as spry as a young kitten.
As the day advanced the clouds rolled by, the sun came out bright and smiling, and the command marched back to the old camp-ground, near Harrisonburg.
With every regiment there is a Company Q. Company Q is composed of lame ducks, cowards, shirkers, dead-beats, generally, and also a large sprinkling of good soldiers, who, for some reason or other, are not fit for duty. Sometimes this company is quite large. It depends upon the weather, the closeness of the enemy, and the duties that are being exacted. Bad weather will drive in all rheumatics; the coming battle will drive in the cowards; hard marching and picket duty will bring in the lazy. But then, as I have just said, there were some good soldiers among them—the slightly wounded or those suffering from any disability. Taking them altogether, Company Q resembled Mother Goose's beggars that came to town; "some in rags, some in tags, and some in velvet gowns." Company Q was always the butt of the joker.
A short time after the regiment had returned from its fruitless march down the pike, the four regiments composing the brigade under Gen. William E. Jones were ordered to break camp and move across the mountains into the enemy's country in West Virginia.
At that time I was almost blind with inflamed eyes. They looked like two clots of blood. Of course, I did not go with the command, but was forced to join Company Q. As well as I remember, the company numbered at that time over 100 men, among them two or three officers.
As the regiment expected to be absent for over a month and to return crowned with laurels, Company Q conceived the idea of doing something that would put them on an equal footing with their comrades when they returned from this expedition.
A company was formed of about 100 men, which were soon on the march down the valley pike. My eyes had so improved that I could join the company.
The enemy was encamped near Winchester, perhaps 75 miles away. Our destination was this camp. We were to march down the valley, make a night attack and come back with all the plunder we could carry off or drive off. Every fellow expected to bring back at least one extra horse.
We reached the west branch of the Shenandoah, near Strasburg, and went into camp for the night, having first put out pickets at the various fords up and down the river.
The enemy's camp was supposed to be ten miles beyond. We intended to remain at this camp until the next evening about dusk, and then start for the enemy, timing ourselves to reach their camp about midnight.
The next morning about 9 o'clock we came down from our camp into the open field to graze our horses. We had taken the bits out of their mouths and were lying around loose, while the horses cropped the grass, when all at once someone shouted "Yankees." Sure enough, there they were, a whole regiment of Union cavalrymen. They had crossed the river some distance below our pickets and had placed themselves directly in our rear, cutting off our retreat. We soon had our horses bridled, and mounting, made for the river. The commander sent me down the river to call in the pickets, but I did not go far until I met them coming in. They had heard the firing. We had a desperate race to join the fleeing company, but did so, narrowly escaping capture.
There was a small body of woods on the banks of the river, where we found shelter for the moment. We were entirely cut off from the fords, and there was no way of crossing the river but to swim. The banks were steep on each side, so it looked as if that would be the last of poor Company Q. We dismounted, got behind the trees, and were ready to give our tormentors a warm reception, but Providence seemed to smile on us. Someone discovered a little stream running into the river. We followed that down into the river, and the whole command swam across and climbed the banks on the other side, except one man (Milton Robinson) and myself. Our horses refused to swim. They behaved so ugly that we had to abandon them. Mine was the same "jade" that had dumped me on the Yankees a few months before. Now I had a chance to reciprocate. I tied her to a little sapling at the edge of the river, and Robinson and I hid in the bushes close by the banks. The Yankees came down and took our horses, and after searching around for some time, vacated the premises, much to our gratification.
The loss of our horses grieved us very much, but such is the life of a soldier.
The company in crossing the river were in the enemy's country, and were liable to be surrounded and captured at any time, but they made their escape in some way, and lost no time in getting back to camp, many miles away.
Robinson and I, of course, had to foot it, but in course of time we also landed in camp, much to the surprise of our comrades, who thought the enemy had us. Thus terminated ingloriously the well-planned expedition of Company Q.
In about ten days the brigade came back from the West Virginia expedition, and Company Q received the Sixth Regiment with open arms. Just what the expedition accomplished I am not able to say, but there is one little incident connected with it that has lingered lovingly in my memory to this day.
Every mess had in it a forager; that is, one skilled in the art of picking up delicacies. At least we called them such, as this term was applied to anything edible above hardtack and salt pork. We had such a one in our mess, and he was hard to beat. His name was Fauntleroy Neal. He was a close friend of mine. We called him Faunt.
Whenever he went on an expedition he always came back loaded. As he was with the brigade in West Virginia, we knew that when he returned (if he did return) he would bring back something good, and he did. I cannot remember all the things he had strapped to his saddle, but one thing looms up before my mind now as big as a Baltimore skyscraper. It was about half a bushel of genuine grain coffee, unroasted. There was also sugar to sweeten it. Grains of coffee in the South during the Civil War were as scarce as grains of gold, and when toasting time came and the lid was lifted to stir the coffee, it is said that the aroma from it spread through the trees and over the fields for many miles around. I forgot the long, weary march on foot back up the valley, forgot the loss of my horse, and really felt as if I had been fully compensated for any inconvenience that had come to me from the ill-starred tramp of Company Q.
But spring had fully come, the roads were dry, and the time for action was here.
Hooker, at the head of 120,000 Northern soldiers, was again crossing the Rappahannock, near Fredericksburg, to lock horns with Lee and Jackson.
Hooker had superseded Burnside in command of the Union army. They called him "fighting Joe."
Hooker handled his army the first two or three days with consummate skill, and at one stage of his maneuvers he felt confident that he had out-generaled Lee and Jackson. He believed they were in full retreat, and so informed the Washington Government. But he was doomed to a terrible disappointment. What Hooker took to be a retreat of the Confederates was simply a change of front, which was followed up by Jackson executing another one of his bold flank movements, the most brilliant of his brief career, the result of which was Hooker's defeat. The entire Union army was thrown into such confusion that it was compelled to retreat across the river, after sustaining heavy losses in killed and wounded.
The New Standard Encyclopedia gives Hooker's army as 130,000; Lee's, 60,000. Hooker's losses, 18,000; Lee's, 13,000.
Perhaps no general on either side during the entire war felt more keenly his defeat than did Hooker on this occasion. For awhile everything seemed to be going his way, when suddenly the tide turned, and he saw his vast army in a most critical situation, and apparently at the mercy of his opponent.
History tells the whole story in better language than I can. It calls it the "Battle of Chancellorsville."
Carl Schurz, one of the generals in Hooker's army, says that never did Gen. Lee's qualities as a soldier shine as brilliantly as they did in this battle. To quote his own language, "We had 120,000 men, Lee 60,000. Yet Lee handled his forces so skillfully that whenever he attacked he did it with a superior force, and in this way he overwhelmed our army and compelled its retreat, after suffering terrible losses not only in dead and wounded, but in prisoners."
But the Confederates also suffered a tremendous loss at Chancellorsville. Just at the moment when he was about to gather the fruit of his victory, which might have resulted in the surrender of Hooker's army, or the greater portion of it, Stonewall Jackson was fired on by his own men, mortally wounded, and died a few days afterwards.
The following account of the wounding of Jackson, as related by an eye-witness, will be of interest to the reader:
It was 9 o'clock at night. There was a lull in the battle, and Jackson's line had become somewhat disorganized by the men gathering in groups and discussing their brilliant victory. Jackson, noticing the confusion, rode up and down the line, saying, "Men, get into line, get into line; I need your help for a time. This disorder must be corrected."
He had just received information that a large body of fresh troops from the Union army was advancing to retake an important position that it had lost. Jackson had gone 100 yards in front of his own line to get a better view of the enemy's position. The only light that he had to guide him was that furnished by the moon. He was attended by half a dozen orderlies and several of his staff officers, when he was suddenly surprised by a volley of musketry in his front. The bullets began whistling about them, and struck several horses. This was the advance guard of the Federal lines. Jackson, seeing the danger, turned and rode rapidly back toward his own line. As he approached, the Confederate troops, mistaking them for the enemy's cavalry, stooped and delivered a deadly fire. So sudden was this volley, and so near at hand, that every horse which was not shot down recoiled from it in panic and turned to rush back, bearing his rider toward the approaching enemy. Several fell dead on the spot, and more were wounded, among them Gen. Jackson. His right hand was penetrated by a ball, his left was lacerated by another, and the same arm was broken a little below the shoulder by a third ball, which not only crushed the bone, but severed the main artery. His horse dashed, panic-stricken, toward the enemy, carrying him beneath the boughs of the trees, which inflicted several blows, lacerated his face, and almost dragged him from the saddle. His bridle hand was now powerless, but seizing the rein with his right hand, notwithstanding its wound, he arrested his horse and brought the animal back toward his own line.
He was followed by his faithful attendants. The firing of the Confederates had now been arrested by some of the officers, who realized their mistake, but the wounded and frantic horses were rushing without riders through the woods, where the ground was strewn with the dead and dying. Here Gen. Jackson drew up his horse and sat for an instant, gazing toward his own line, as if in astonishment at their cruel mistake, and in doubt whether he should again venture to approach them. He said to one of his staff, "I believe my arm is broken," and requested him to assist him from his horse and examine whether the wounds were bleeding dangerously. Before he could dismount he sank fainting into their arms, so completely prostrated that they were compelled to disengage his feet from the stirrups. They carried him a few yards into the woods north of the turnpike to shield him from the expected advance of the Federalists. One was sent for an ambulance and a surgeon, while another stripped his mangled arm in order to bind up the wound. The warm blood was flowing in a stream down his wrist. His clothes impeded all access to its source, and nothing was at hand more efficient than a penknife to remove the obstruction.
Just at this moment Gen. Hill appeared upon the scene with a part of his staff. They called upon him for assistance. One of his staff, Maj. Leigh, succeeded in reaching the wound and staunching the blood with a handkerchief. It was at this moment that two Federal skirmishers approached within a few feet of the spot where he lay, with their muskets cocked. They little knew what a prize was in their grasp. When, at the command of Gen. Hill, two orderlies arose from the kneeling group and demanded their surrender, they seemed amazed at their nearness to their enemy, and yielded their arms without resistance.
Lieut. Morrison, suspecting from their approach that the Federalists must be near at hand, stepped out into the road to examine, and by the light of the moon he saw a cannon pointing toward them, apparently not more than 100 yards distant. Indeed, it was so near that the orders given by the officers to the cannoneers could be distinctly heard. Returning hurriedly, he announced that the enemy were planting artillery in the road and that the general must be immediately removed. Gen. Hill now remounted and hurried back to make arrangements to meet this attack. In the combat which ensued, he himself was wounded a few moments after, and compelled to leave the field. No ambulance or litter was yet at hand, and the necessity for immediate removal suggested that they should bear the general away in their arms. To this he replied that if they would assist him to rise, he would walk to the rear. He was accordingly raised to his feet, and leaning upon the shoulders of two of his staff, he went slowly out of the highway, and toward his own troops.
meetingTHE LAST MEETING OF LEE AND JACKSON AT CHANCELLORSVILLE.
THE LAST MEETING OF LEE AND JACKSON AT CHANCELLORSVILLE.
The party was now met by a litter, which someone had sent from the rear, and the general was placed upon it and borne along by two of his officers. Just then the enemy fired a volley of canister shot up the road, which passed over their heads, but they proceeded only a few steps before the charge was repeated with more accurate aim. One of the officers bearing the litter was struck down, when Maj. Leigh, who was walking by their side, prevented the general from being precipitated to the ground. Just then the roadway was swept by a hurricane of projectiles of every species, before which it seemed no living thing could survive. The bearers of the litter and all the attendants except Maj. Leigh and the general's two aids left him and fled into the woods on either side to escape the fearful tempest, while the sufferer lay along the road with his feet toward the foe, exposed to all its fury. It was now that his three faithful attendants displayed a heroic fidelity which deserves to go down with the immortal name of Jackson into future ages.
Disdaining to save their lives by deserting their chief, they lay down beside him in the causeway and sought to protect him as far as possible with their bodies. On one side was Maj. Leigh, and on the other Lieut. Smith. Again and again was the earth around them torn with volleys of canister, while shells and minie balls flew hissing over them, and the stroke of the iron hail raised sparkling flashes from the flinty gravel of the roadway. Gen. Jackson struggled violently to rise, as though to endeavor to leave the road, but Smith threw his arm over him and with friendly force held him to the earth, saying, "Sir, you must lie still; it will cost you your life if you rise." He speedily acquiesced, and lay quiet, but none of the four hoped to escape alive. Yet, almost by miracle, they were unharmed, and after a few moments the Federalists, having cleared the road of all except this little party, ceased to fire along it, and directed their aim to another quarter.
They now arose and resumed their retreat, the general walking and leaning upon two of his friends, proceeded along the gutter at the margin of the highway in order to avoid the troops, who were again hurrying to the front. Perceiving that he was recognized by some of them, they diverged still farther into the edge of the thicket. It was here that Gen. Pender of North Carolina, who had succeeded to the command of Hill's division upon the wounding of that officer, recognized Gen. Jackson, and said, "My men are thrown into such confusion by this fire that I fear I shall not be able to hold my ground." Almost fainting with anguish and loss of blood, he still replied, in a voice feeble but full of his old determination and authority, "Gen. Pender, you must keep your men together and hold your ground." This was the last military order ever given by Jackson.
Gen. Jackson now complained of faintness, and was again placed upon the litter, and after some difficulty, men were obtained to bear him. To avoid the enemy's fire, which was again sweeping the road, they made their way through the tangled brushwood, almost tearing his clothing from him, and lacerating his face in their hurried progress. The foot of one of the men bearing his head was here tangled in a vine, and he fell prostrate. The general was thus thrown heavily to the ground upon his wounded side, inflicting painful bruises on his body and intolerable agony on his mangled arm, and renewing the flow of blood from it. As they lifted him up he uttered one piteous groan, the only complaint which escaped his lips during the whole scene. Lieut. Smith raised his head upon his bosom, almost fearing to see him expiring in his arms, and asked, "General, are you much hurt?" He replied, "No, Mr. Smith, don't trouble yourself about me." He was then replaced a second time upon the litter, and under a continuous shower of shells and cannon balls, borne a half mile farther to the rear, when an ambulance was found, containing his chief of artillery, Col. Crutchfield, who was also wounded. In this he was placed and hurried toward the field hospital, near Wilderness Run. From there he was taken to a farmhouse, his left arm amputated, and a few days afterward he died. His wife and little child were with him. Thus ended the life of one of the world's greatest warriors and one of Christ's greatest soldiers.
The following ode to Stonewall Jackson was written by a Union officer (Miles O'Reiley), and is inserted here in preference to others that may have been quite as appropriate, because of the added beauty of sentiment it conveys from the fact that its author wore the blue:
He sleeps all quietly and coldBeneath the soil that gave him birth;Then break his battle brand in twain,And lay it with him in the earth.No more at midnight shall he urgeHis toilsome march among the pines,Nor hear upon the morning airThe war shout of his charging lines.No more for him shall cannon parkOr tents gleam white upon the plain;And where his camp fires blazed of yore,Brown reapers laugh amid the grain!No more above his narrow bedShall sound the tread of marching feet,The rifle volley and the crashOf sabres when the foeman meet.Young April o'er his lowly moundShall shake the violets from her hair,And glorious June with fervid kissShall bid the roses blossom there.And white-winged peace o'er all the landBroods like a dove upon her nest,While iron War, with slaughter gorged,At length hath laid him down to rest.And where we won our onward way,With fire and steel through yonder wood,The blackbird whistles and the quailGives answer to her timid brood.And oft when white-haired grandsires tellOf bloody struggles past and gone,The children at their knees will hearHow Jackson led his columns on!
I have only referred incidentally to Jackson's Valley Campaign. It was short, but intensely dramatic. For bold maneuvering, rapid marching and brilliant strategy, I believe it has no parallel in history. As for results, without it Richmond doubtless would have been in the hands of McClellan in the spring of 1862.
Perhaps it is not extravagant to say that as the tidings reached the people all over the South that their idol was dead, more sorrow was expressed in tears than was ever known in the history of the world at the loss of any one man.
As the Israelites saw Elijah depart they exclaimed, "The chariots of Israel and the horsemen thereof!"
The South felt that in the loss of Stonewall Jackson they were parting with the "better half" of their army.
The North had the men, the money and the munition of war, but the South had Lee and Stonewall Jackson. And in having them they felt that they were more than a match for the North. Now that Jackson was gone the question was, What will Gen. Lee do?
To go back to the valley, I was indebted to my friend Faunt Neal for the loan of a horse, he being fortunate enough to have two.
After the battle of Chancellorsville almost the entire force in the valley passed over the Blue Ridge and joined Lee's army on the Rappahannock. Of course, this included my command.
Lee's army still occupied the south bank of the Rappahannock, near the late battlefield, while just opposite, on the north bank, was the Union army waiting to see what the next move would be. I believe I have mentioned the fact that Gen. J.E.B. Stuart commanded Lee's entire cavalry force, about 10,000 men with several batteries of artillery. This force was encamped higher up the river, in Culpeper county, in and around Brandy Station, and might be called the left wing of Lee's army, although separated from it by several miles.
Just opposite Stuart's cavalry and on the north bank of the river was the entire cavalry force of the Union army, supported by a corps of infantry.
From Chancellorsville to Gettysburg
"It was the wild midnight—The storm was on the sky;The lightning gave its light,And the thunder echoed by."
After resting awhile and mourning the loss of our great soldier, Lee's army began to move. The question was (not only on our side of the river, but on the other), "What is Gen. Lee up to now?"
The Northern commander determined to investigate, and early in the morning of the ninth of June, 1863, a portion of the Union army began to cross the Rappahannock at every ford for miles, up and down the river.
I was on picket at one of the fords, and was relieved at 3 o'clock in the morning, another soldier taking my place.
I went up through the field into the woods where our reserves (some 20 men) were in camp. It was from this squadron that pickets were sent out and posted along the river.
I hitched my horse, and wrapped in a blanket, lay down to sleep. But I was soon rudely awakened by the watchman, who shouted that the enemy was crossing the river. We all jumped up and mounted our horses. Our captain was with us.
The day was just breaking. The pickets were hurrying up from the river in every direction, firing their pistols to give the alarm.
Our captain formed the men in the edge of the woods for the purpose of checking for a few minutes the advancing enemy, so as to give the 10,000 cavalrymen that were encamped a mile or so in the rear time to saddle and mount their horses and prepare for battle.
The enemy came pouring up from the river, and we opened fire on them, checking them for the moment. Two of our men were killed, several wounded, and two horses killed.
Two couriers had gone ahead to arouse the camp. We soon followed them along the road through the woods, the enemy hard on our heels.
I was riding with the captain in the rear. We were not aware that the Yankees were so close to us, and the captain was calling to the men to check their speed. I looked behind, called to the captain and told him they were right on us, and just as I spoke two bullets went hissing by my head. The captain yelled to his men to move forward, and bending low on the necks of our horses, we gave them the spur.
As we came out of the woods into the fields we met the Sixth Virginia (my regiment), under Col. Flournoy, coming down the road at full gallop. Just on his left, and almost on a line with the Sixth, was the Seventh Regiment coming across the fields (for there were no fences then). These two regiments entered the woods, one on the right and one on the left, and stretching out on either side, poured a volley into the advancing enemy that caused them to halt for awhile.
The roar of the guns in the woods at that early hour in the morning was terrific. What was going on in front of us was being enacted up and down the river for at least three miles.
Our forces then fell back into the open country, and the battle continued, at intervals, all day long.
The Yankees were supported by infantry, while we had nothing but cavalry and artillery.
Our enemies could have driven us back farther if they had tried to, but they seemed to be afraid of getting into trouble. I do not know what our commander, Gen. Stuart, knew, but I did not suppose that Gen. Lee was within 30 miles of us. Toward sunset I saw him come riding across the fields on his gray horse, "Traveler," accompanied by his staff. He seemed as calm and unconcerned as if he were inspecting the land with the view of a purchase.
Whether it was the presence of Gen. Lee himself, or the fear that he had his army with him, I know not, but simultaneously with the appearance of Gen. Lee the enemy began to move back and recross the river. We did not press them, but gave them their own time.
We re-established our picket line along the river, and everything was quiet for a day or two.
We went down the next day to the spot where the first fight took place, and found our two men lying dead by the side of a tree, and several dead horses. The enemy had removed their dead (if they had any). It was too dark when we were fighting for us to see whether we did any execution or not at this particular point. We buried our two men where they fell and went back to camp. Total losses as reported by each side—Confederate, 485; Federal, 907.
The next day we were quietly resting in the woods, watching the infantry as they tramped by all day long, moving in a northeasterly direction. The question was asked 10,000 times perhaps that day, "What is Marse Robert up to now? Where is he taking us?" (Gen. Lee was called Marse Robert by his soldiers.)
In the afternoon we noticed a long string of wagons of a peculiar construction, each drawn by six horses, and loaded with something covered with white canvas. Of course, we were all curious to know what these wagons contained. The secret soon leaked out. They were pontoon bridges. And then we began to speculate as to what rivers we were to cross. Some said we were destined for the Ohio, others for the Potomac.
Just before sunset the bugle sounded "saddle up," and soon Stuart's cavalry was in the saddle and on the march.
Everything was trending one way, namely, northeast.
The infantry went into camp at night, but the cavalry marched through most of the night, crossing the Rappahannock several miles above where we had been fighting.
Lee's entire army was en route for Pennsylvania, as we afterward learned, the cavalry keeping in between the two armies, protecting the wagon trains and concealing, as far as possible, our army's destination.[2]
The infantry, artillery and baggage train crossed the Blue Ridge at the various gaps, fording the Shenandoah river, and moved down the valley of Virginia toward the Potomac.
Lee's cavalry kept on the east side of the mountain, holding the enemy back as much as possible.
When we reached Fauquier and Loudoun counties the Union cavalry made a desperate effort to drive in our cavalry and discover the route of our main army.
Heavy fighting began at Aldie, below Middleburg, and was continued up the pike through the town of Middleburg up as far as Upperville, where I had been captured the year before.
The enemy's cavalry was supported by infantry, and our forces fell back fighting foot by foot until they reached Upperville, where we met a division of infantry that Gen. Lee had sent to help us beat back the enemy. The Confederates who were killed in this action are buried in Middleburg and Upperville, in the cemeteries just outside of the two towns, and the ladies of these villages and the country round about were kept busy caring for the wounded.
I escaped some of the heaviest of this fighting by being detailed to guard the prisoners back to Winchester.
The night before the battle I was sent out along the road at the foot of the mountain to discover whether the enemy was approaching from that direction or not. After a lonely ride of several hours I came back and had a time finding Gen. Stuart, to whom I was instructed to report. I found him asleep on the porch of the home of Caleb Rector. I aroused him and delivered my message. His reply was, "All right." I looked up my own command, and lay down for the remainder of the night.
Lee's army crossed the river at Williamsport, Md., on the pontoon bridge.[3]The Northern army crossed between Harper's Ferry and Washington, and our cavalry, strange to say, went below the Union army and crossed the river near Washington, thus circling the Union army and arriving at Gettysburg the last day of the battle. Stuart captured and destroyed many wagons and much property on this expedition.
My brigade of cavalry did not follow Stuart, but followed the main army, bringing up the rear.
After crossing the river, Lee led his main army straight for Chambersburg, Pa. I cannot describe the feeling of the Southern soldiers as they crossed the line separating Maryland and Pennsylvania, and trod for the first time the sacred soil of the North. Many of our soldiers had been on Maryland soil before this, and although Maryland was not a part of the Confederacy, we felt that she was one of us, and while marching over her roads and fields we were still in our own domain, but not so when we crossed into Pennsylvania. We were then in the enemy's territory, and it gave us inexpressible joy to think that we were strong enough and bold enough to go so far from home and attack our enemy upon his own soil. The joy of our soldiers knew no bounds. We were as light-hearted and as gay as children on a picnic, and we had no fear as to result of the move.
Marching along the pike one day, the cavalry halted, and just on our left there was a modest home of a farmer. The garden was fenced, and came out and bordered on the road. His raspberries were ripe, and our soldiers sat on their horses, and leaning over were picking the berries from the vines. One soldier was bold enough to dismount and get over into the garden. We saw the family watching us from the window. The impudence on the part of this soldier was a little too much for the farmer. He came out with an old-fashioned shotgun and berated us in a manner most vehement, but did not shoot. This stirred the risibles of our soldiers to such an extent that the whole command broke out with loud laughter and hurrah for the brave farmer, who single-handed, and with a single-barrel shotgun, was defying the whole rebel horde. If the entire command had leveled its guns at him I think he would have stood his ground, but he could not stand our ridicule, so he went back into his house, and all was quiet again. Presently the command moved off, leaving what berries they did not have time to pick. From Chambersburg, Lee turned his columns southward and moved toward Gettysburg to meet the Union army that was advancing in the opposite direction. The armies met, and the whole world knows the result.
The battle lasted three days. The first two days were decidedly in favor of the Confederates. My command took an active part in the battle, and the adjutant of my regiment was killed, also several in my company, and some were badly wounded and had to be left. I was struck with a ball on the shoulder, marking my coat, and had a bullet hole through the rim of my hat; but as the latter was caused by my own careless handling of my pistol, I can't count it as a trophy.
As the years go by the students of history are more and more amazed at the boldness of Gen. Lee in placing his army of 75,000, some say 65,000, at Gettysburg,[4]when he knew that between him and the capital of the Confederacy (which his army was intended to protect) was the capital of the United States protected by an army of not less than 200,000 soldiers, and I might add by the best-equipped army in the world, for the United States Government had the markets of the world to draw supplies from.
In the morning of the third day of the battle of Gettysburg there had been a terrible artillery duel that made the earth tremble for miles around, and was heard far and wide.
When the guns got too hot for safety the firing ceased, the noise died away and the soldiers lay down to rest.
During this interval Gen. Lee called his generals together for counsel. They discussed the situation for some time, which had grown serious. Lee's losses had been heavy in killed and wounded, and his stock of ammunition was growing low.
After considerable discussion Lee mounted his gray horse, rode off a few paces to a slight elevation, and lifting his field glass to his eyes looked intently at the long lines of blue that stretched along the slopes, in the hope of finding some weak point which he might attack. Then returning to his officers he said in a firm voice: "We will attack the enemy's center, cut through, roll back their wings on either side and crush or rout their army." Then he said: "Gen. Pickett will lead the attack."
Pickett was a handsome young Virginian, a splendid rider, a brave commander, and one of the most picturesque figures in the Confederate army. Bowing his head in submission, he mounted his horse, and tossing back his long auburn locks, rode off and disappeared among the trees. The other officers soon joined their several commands, and Gen. Lee was left alone with his staff.
There was ominous silence everywhere; even the winds had gone away, and the banners hung limp on their staffs. The birds had all left the trees, the cattle had left the fields, and the small squadrons of cavalry that had been scouting between the two armies retired and took position on either flank. Yonder in front, stretching along the slopes, lay the blue lines of the enemy, like a huge monster asleep, while behind were the hilltops, all frowning with wide-mouthed cannon loaded to the lips.
Soon long lines of gray came stealing out of the woods like waves out of the sea. Long lines of gray moved over the fields like waves over the sea. These were Pickett's men; and Pickett, handsome Pickett, was at their head riding in silence.
The polished steel of the guns, as the lines rose and fell over the uneven ground, caught the rays of the bright July sun, developing a picture of dazzling splendor.
I wonder what was passing through the minds of those boys (their average age perhaps not much over twenty) as they moved step by step toward those bristling lines of steel in their front?
They were thinking of home. Far over the hills, "Way down south in Dixie."
Step by step came the gray, nearer and nearer, when suddenly there was a sound that shook the hills and made every heart quake. It was the signal gun.
Simultaneously with the sound came a cannon ball hissing through the air, and passing over the heads of the advancing columns, struck the ground beyond.
Then suddenly the whole slope was wreathed in smoke and flame, accompanied with a noise like the roar of a thousand cataracts.
Was it a huge volcanic eruption? No. The Blue and the Gray had met. The smoke rose higher and higher, and spread wider and wider, hiding the sun, and then gently dropping back, hid from human eyes the dreadful tragedy.
But the battle went on and on, and the roar of the guns continued. After a while, when the sun was sinking to rest, there was a hush. The noise died away. The winds came creeping back from the west, and gently lifting the coverlet of smoke, revealed a strange sight.
The fields were all carpeted, a beautiful carpet, a costly carpet, more costly than axminster or velvet. The figures were horses and men all matted and woven together with skeins of scarlet thread.
The battle is over and Gettysburg has passed into history.
The moon and the stars come out, and the surgeons with their attendants appear with their knives and saws, and when morning came there were stacks of legs and arms standing in the fields like shocks of corn.
The two armies confronted each other all day long, but not a shot was fired. Up to noon that day, I think I can safely say there was not a man in either army, from the commanders-in-chief to the humblest private in the ranks, that knew how the battle had gone save one, and that one was Gen. Robert E. Lee.
About 4 o'clock in the afternoon, while the cavalrymen were grazing their horses in the rear of the infantry, a low, rumbling sound was heard resembling distant thunder, except that it was continuous. A private (one of my company) standing near me stood up and pointing toward the battlefield said, "Look at that, will you?" A number of us rose to our feet and saw a long line of wagons with their white covers moving toward us along the road leading to Chambersburg.
Then he used this strange expression: "That looks like a mice." A slang phrase often used at that time. He meant nothing more nor less than this: "We are beaten and our army is retreating."
The wagons going back over the same road that had brought us to Gettysburg told the story, and soon the whole army knew the fact. This is the first time Lee's army had ever met defeat.
It is said that the loss of the two armies was about 50,000. This probably included the prisoners; but there were not many prisoners taken on either side. The major portion of the losses were in killed and wounded.
The badly wounded were left on the field to be cared for by the enemy. Those who could walk, and those who were able to ride and could find places in the wagons, followed the retreating army.
The wagon train was miles and miles long. It did not follow the road to Chambersburg very far, but turned off and took a shorter cut through a mountainous district toward the point where the army had crossed the river into Maryland. This wagon train was guarded by a large body of cavalry, including my command.
Just as the sun was going down, dark ominous clouds came trooping up from the west with thunder and lightning, and it was not long before the whole heavens were covered and rain was falling in torrents.
I am not familiar with the topography of the country through which we retreated, but all night long we seemed to be in a narrow road, with steep hills or mountains on either side. We had with us a good many cattle with which to feed the army. These got loose in the mountains and hills covered with timber, and between their constant bellowing and the flashes of lightning and crashing thunder the night was hideous in the extreme. Wagons were breaking down, others getting stalled, and, to make matters worse, about midnight we were attacked by the Union cavalry.
This mountainous road came out on a wide turnpike, and just at this point Kilpatrick (commanding the Union cavalry) had cut our wagon train in two and planted a battery of artillery with the guns pointing toward the point from which we were advancing.
The cavalry which was stretched along the wagon train was ordered to the front. It was with great difficulty that we could get past the wagons in the darkness, and hence our progress was slow, but we finally worked our way up to the front and were dismounted and formed in line as best we could on either side of the road among the rocks and trees and then moved forward in an effort to drive the battery away from its position so we could resume our march. The only light we had to guide us was from the lightning in the heavens and the vivid flashes that came from the enemy's cannon. Their firing did not do much execution, as they failed to get a proper range. Besides, we were so close to them they were firing over our heads, but the booming of the guns that hour of night, with the roar of the thunder, was terrifying indeed, and beyond description. We would wait for a lightning flash and advance a few steps and halt, and then for a light from the batteries and again advance.
In the meantime day was breaking, and the light from the sun was coming in, and at this point our enemy disappeared and the march was resumed. We were afraid that the wagons that had already passed out on the open turnpike had been captured. There were about 200 of them, but such was not the case.
With these wagons was our brigadier commander, Gen. Wm. E. Jones, and two regiments of cavalry. They got so mixed up with the enemy's cavalry that night that it was almost impossible to distinguish friend from foe. Our general was a unique character, and many are the jokes that are told on him. While this fighting was going on those about him would address him as general. He rebuked them for this and said, "Call me Bill." The explanation was that the enemy was so close to them (in fact, mixed up with them) that they did not want him to know that there was a general in the crowd.
Two days afterwards we got hold of one of the county papers, which, in giving the account of this attack, stated that the rebel, Gen. Wm. E. Jones, was captured. Perhaps but for the shrewdness of Gen. Wm. E. Jones in having his men call him "Bill" instead of "General," it might have been true. The firing among the horses attached to the wagons that had gone out on the open pike frightened them to such an extent that they were stampeded, and we saw the next morning as we rode along that some of the wagons had tumbled over the precipice on the right, carrying with them the horses; also the wounded soldiers that were riding in the wagons.
The retreat was continued all the next day, the enemy's cavalry attacking us whenever they could, but without effect.
When we reached the river we found that our pontoon bridge had been partly swept away by the flood caused by the storm I have just spoken of. There was nothing to do but make a stand until the bridge could be repaired, or until the river should fall sufficiently to allow us to ford it.
My recollection is that we remained on that side of the river about a week. In the meantime the whole Northern army gathered in our front and threatened us with destruction, but they seemed to be about as afraid of us as we were of them; for instead of attacking us, they began to throw up breastworks in their front to protect themselves from attack. This greatly encouraged us, and even the privates in the ranks were heard to remark, "We're in no danger, they're afraid of us; look at their breastworks."
By the time the bridge was restored the river had fallen sufficiently to allow the cavalry to ford it. The army leisurely crossed, the infantry, artillery and wagons crossing on the bridge, while the cavalry waded through the water. The passage was made at night.
Gen. Meade, who commanded the Northern army, was very much censured for not attacking Lee while he was on the north side of the river. The Government at Washington seemed to think it would have resulted in the surrender of his army; but we in the ranks on the Confederate side had no fear of such a disaster.
It is true, we were short of ammunition, but the infantry had the bayonet and the cavalry the sabre, and we felt satisfied that we were not in much danger.
I neglected to say that as we marched through the towns of Pennsylvania it was distressing to see the sad faces of the populace as they gathered at their front doors and windows watching us as we moved through their streets. It resembled a funeral, at which all the people were mourners.
It was so different when we were marching through the cities and towns of the South. There we were greeted by the people with waving flags and smiling faces. Another thing we noticed which was quite different from what we witnessed in our own land was a great number of young men between the ages of 18 and 45 in citizen's clothes. This had a rather depressing effect upon us, because it showed us that the North had reserves to draw from, while our men, within the age limit, were all in the army.
It is said that misfortunes never come singly.
No sooner had we reached the south bank of the Potomac than we heard the distressing news that Vicksburg had fallen. This opened the Mississippi river to Farragut's fleet of warships stationed at the mouth of that river, and cut the Confederacy in two.
Then disaster followed disaster in that part of the field; but as I said in the beginning, I am not writing a history of the war, and hence will not attempt to follow the movements of the Western armies.
The question is often asked, "Why did Gen. Lee take his army into Pennsylvania?" That question is easily answered.
For the same reason that the children of Israel went down into Egypt. There was a famine in the land, and they went there for corn. Food was growing scarcer and scarcer in the South, and it became a serious question not only as to how the army was to be fed, but also the citizens at home, the old men, women and children.
No supplies could be brought from beyond the Mississippi. Tennessee and Kentucky were in the hands of the enemy, a great portion of Virginia; in fact, the richest farming sections were ravished first by one army, then by the other, making it impossible for the farmers to put in their grain or reap their harvests.
The other States of the South grew mostly cotton and tobacco. All the Southern ports were closely blockaded; hence the problem of sustaining human life was growing more serious every day.
If Gen. Lee had been successful at the battle of Gettysburg his army would have remained north of the Potomac until late in the fall, and would have subsisted upon the country surrounding his camps. At the same time, the farmers on the eastern side of the Blue Ridge and in the rich valley of Virginia could have planted and reaped an abundant harvest, which would have sufficed to have taken care of man and beast during the long winter months; but Providence ruled otherwise, and Lee was compelled to move his army back and provide for it as best he could.