THE VALLEY CAMPAIGN.

At length the expected order to march came, and we moved south to Gordonsville.  In one of his letters to Madame du Deffand, Horace Walpole writes of the English spring as “coming in with its accustomed severity,” and such was our experience of a Virginian spring; or rather, it may be said that winter returned with renewed energy, and we had for several days snow, sleet, rain, and all possible abominations in the way of weather.  Arrived at Gordonsville, whence the army had departed for the Peninsula, we met orders to join Jackson in the Valley, and marched thither by Swift Run “Gap” the local name for mountain passes.  Swift Run, an affluent of the Rapidan, has its source in this gap.  The orders mentioned were the last received from General Joseph E. Johnston, from whom subsequent events separated me until the close of the war; and occasion is thus furnished for the expression of opinion of his character and services.

In the full vigor of mature manhood, erect, alert, quick, and decisive of speech, General Johnston was the beau ideal of a soldier.  Without the least proneness to blandishments, he gained and held the affection and confidence of his men.  Brave and impetuous in action, he had been often wounded, and no officer of the general staff of the old United States army had seen so much actual service with troops.  During the Mexican war he was permitted to take command of a voltigeur regiment, and rendered brilliant service.  In 1854 he resigned from the engineers to accept the lieutenant-colonelcy of a cavalry regiment.  When the civil war became certain, a Virginian by birth, he left the position of Quartermaster-General of the United States, and offered his sword to the Confederacy.  To the East, as his great namesake Albert Sidney to the West, he was “the rose and fair expectancy” of our cause; and his timely march from Patterson’s front in the Valley to assist Beauregard at Manassas confirmed public opinion of his capacity.  Yet he cannot be said to have proved a fortunate commander.  Leaving out of view Bentonville and the closing scenes in North Carolina, which were rather the spasmodic efforts of despair than regular military movements, General Johnston’s “offensive” must be limited to Seven Pines or Fair Oaks.  Here his plan was well considered and singularly favored of fortune.  Some two corps of McClellan’s army were posted on the southwest or Richmond side of the Chickahominy, and a sudden rise of that stream swept away bridges and overflowed the adjacent lowlands, cutting off these corps from their supports.  They ought to have been crushed, but Johnston fell, severely wounded; upon which confusion ensued, and no results of importance were attained.  Official reports fail, most unwisely, to fix the responsibility of the failure, and I do not desire to add to the gossip prevailing then and since.

From his own account of the war we can gather that Johnston regrets he did not fight on the Oostenaula, after Polk had joined him.  It appears that in a council two of his three corps commanders, Polk, Hardee, and Hood, were opposed to fighting there; but to call a council at all was a weakness not to be expected of a general of Johnston’s ability and self-reliant nature.

I have written of him as a master of logistics, and his skill in handling troops was great.  As a retreat, the precision and coolness of his movements during the Georgia campaign would have enhanced the reputation of Moreau; but it never seems to have occurred to him to assume the offensive during the many turning movements of his flanks, movements involving time and distance.  Dispassionate reflection would have brought him to the conclusion that Lee was even more overweighted in Virginia than he in Georgia; that his Government had given him every available man, only leaving small garrisons at Wilmington, Charleston, Savannah, and Mobile; that Forrest’s command in Mississippi, operating on Sherman’s communications, was virtually doing his work, while it was idle to expect assistance from the trans-Mississippi region.  Certainly, no more egregious blunder was possible than that of relieving him from command in front of Atlanta.  If he intended to fight there, he was entitled to execute his plan.  Had he abandoned Atlanta without a struggle, his removal would have met the approval of the army and public, an approval which, under the circumstances of its action, the Richmond Government failed to receive.

I am persuaded that General Johnston’s mind was so jaundiced by the unfortunate disagreement with President Davis, to which allusion has been made in an earlier part of these reminiscences, as to seriously cloud his judgment and impair his usefulness.  He sincerely believed himself the Esau of the Government, grudgingly fed on bitter herbs, while a favored Jacob enjoyed the flesh-pots.  Having known him intimately for many years, having served under his command and studied his methods, I feel confident that his great abilities under happier conditions would have distinctly modified, if not changed, the current of events.  Destiny willed that Davis and Johnston should be brought into collision, and the breach, once made, was never repaired.  Each misjudged the other to the end.

Ewell’s division reached the western base of Swift Run Gap on a lovely spring evening, April 30, 1862, and in crossing the Blue Ridge seemed to have left winter and its rigors behind.  Jackson, whom we moved to join, had suddenly that morning marched toward McDowell, some eighty miles west, where, after uniting with a force under General Edward Johnson, he defeated the Federal general Milroy.  Some days later he as suddenly returned.  Meanwhile we were ordered to remain in camp on the Shenandoah near Conrad’s store, at which place a bridge spanned the stream.

The great Valley of Virginia was before us in all its beauty.  Fields of wheat spread far and wide, interspersed with woodlands, bright in their robes of tender green.  Wherever appropriate sites existed, quaint old mills, with turning wheels, were busily grinding the previous year’s harvest; and grove and eminence showed comfortable homesteads.  The soft vernal influence shed a languid grace over the scene.  The theatre of war in this region was from Staunton to the Potomac, one hundred and twenty miles, with an average width of some twenty-five miles; and the Blue Ridge and Alleghanies bounded it east and west.  Drained by the Shenandoah with its numerous affluents, the surface was nowhere flat, but a succession of graceful swells, occasionally rising into abrupt hills.  Resting on limestone, the soil was productive, especially of wheat, and the underlying rock furnished abundant metal for the construction of roads.  Railway communication was limited to the Virginia Central, which entered the Valley by a tunnel east of Staunton and passed westward through that town; to the Manassas Gap, which traversed the Blue Ridge at the pass of that name and ended at Strasburg; and to the Winchester and Harper’s Ferry, thirty miles long.  The first extended to Richmond by Charlottesville and Gordonsville, crossing at the former place the line from Washington and Alexandria to Lynchburg; the second connected Strasburg and Front Royal, in the Valley, with the same line at Manassas Junction; and the last united with the Baltimore and Ohio at Harper’s Ferry.  Frequent passes or gaps in the mountains, through which wagon roads had been constructed, afforded easy access from east and west; and pikes were excellent, though unmetaled roads became heavy after rains.

But the glory of the Valley is Massanutten.  Rising abruptly from the plain near Harrisonburg, twenty-five miles north of Staunton, this lovely mountain extends fifty miles, and as suddenly ends near Strasburg.  Parallel with the Blue Ridge, and of equal height, its sharp peaks have a bolder and more picturesque aspect, while the abruptness of its slopes gives the appearance of greater altitude.  Midway of Massanutten, a gap with good road affords communication between Newmarket and Luray.  The eastern or Luray valley, much narrower than the one west of Massanutten, is drained by the east branch of the Shenandoah, which is joined at Front Royal, near the northern end of the mountain, by its western affluent, whence the united waters flow north, at the base of the Blue Ridge, to meet the Potomac at Harper’s Ferry.

The inhabitants of this favored region were worthy of their inheritance.  The north and south were peopled by scions of old colonial families, and the proud names of the “Old Dominion” abounded.  In the central counties of Rockingham and Shenandoah were many descendants of German settlers.  These were thrifty, substantial farmers, and, like their kinsmen of Pennsylvania, expressed their opulence in huge barns and fat cattle.  The devotion of all to the Southern cause was wonderful.  Jackson, a Valley man by reason of his residence at Lexington, south of Staunton, was their hero and idol.  The women sent husbands, sons, lovers, to battle as cheerfully as to marriage feasts.  No oppression, no destitution could abate their zeal.  Upon a march I was accosted by two elderly sisters, who told me they had secreted a large quantity of bacon in a well on their estate, hard by.  Federals had been in possession of the country, and, fearing the indiscretion of their slaves, they had done the work at night with their own hands, and now desired to give the meat to their people.  Wives and daughters of millers, whose husbands and brothers were in arms, worked the mills night and day to furnish flour to their soldiers.  To the last, women would go distances to carry the modicum of food between themselves and starvation to a suffering Confederate.  Should the sons of Virginia ever commit dishonorable acts, grim indeed will be their reception on the further shores of Styx.  They can expect no recognition from the mothers who bore them.

Ere the war closed, the Valley was ravaged with a cruelty surpassing that inflicted on the Palatinate two hundred years ago.  That foul deed smirched the fame of Louvois and Turenne, and public opinion, in what has been deemed a ruder age, forced an apology from the “Grand Monarque.”  Yet we have seen the official report of a Federal general wherein are recounted the many barns, mills, and other buildings destroyed, concluding with the assertion that “a crow flying over the Valley must take rations with him.”  In the opinion of the admirers of the officer making this report, the achievement on which it is based ranks with Marengo.  Moreover, this same officer, General Sheridan, many years after the close of the war, denounced several hundred thousands of his fellow citizens as “banditti,” and solicited permission of his Government to deal with them as such.  May we not well ask whether religion, education, science and art combined have lessened the brutality of man since the days of Wallenstein and Tilly?

While in camp near Conrad’s store, the 7th Louisiana, Colonel Hays, a crack regiment, on picket down stream, had a spirited affair, in which the enemy was driven with the loss of a score of prisoners.  Shortly after, for convenience of supplies, I was directed to cross the river and camp some miles to the southwest.  The command was in superb condition, and a four-gun battery from Bedford county, Virginia, Captain Bowyer, had recently been added to it.  The four regiments, 6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th Louisiana, would average above eight hundred bayonets.  Of Wheat’s battalion of “Tigers” and the 7th I have written.  The 6th, Colonel Seymour, recruited in New Orleans, was composed of Irishmen, stout, hardy fellows, turbulent in camp and requiring a strong hand, but responding to kindness and justice, and ready to follow their officers to the death.  The 9th, Colonel Stafford, was from North Louisiana.  Planters or sons of planters, many of them men of fortune, soldiering was a hard task to which they only became reconciled by reflecting that it was “niddering” in gentlemen to assume voluntarily the discharge of duties and then shirk.  The 8th, Colonel Kelly, was from the Attakapas “Acadians,” the race of which Longfellow sings in “Evangeline.”  A home-loving, simple people, few spoke English, fewer still had ever before moved ten miles from their natal cabanas; and the war to them was “a liberal education,” as was the society of the lady of quality to honest Dick Steele.  They had all the light gayety of the Gaul, and, after the manner of their ancestors, were born cooks.  A capital regimental band accompanied them, and whenever weather and ground permitted, even after long marches, they would waltz and “polk” in couples with as much zest as if their arms encircled the supple waists of the Celestines and Melazies of their native Teche.  The Valley soldiers were largely of the Presbyterian faith, and of a solemn, pious demeanor, and looked askant at the caperings of my Créoles, holding them to be “devices and snares.”

The brigade adjutant, Captain (afterward Colonel) Eustace Surget, who remained with me until the war closed, was from Mississippi, where he had large estates.  Without the slightest military training, by study and zeal, he soon made himself an accomplished staff officer.  Of singular coolness in battle, he never blundered, and, though much exposed, pulled through without a scratch.  My aide, Lieutenant Hamilton, grandson of General Hamilton of South Carolina, was a cadet in his second year at West Point when war was declared, upon which he returned to his State a gay, cheery lad, with all the pluck of his race.

At nightfall of the second day in this camp, an order came from General Jackson to join him at Newmarket, twenty odd miles north; and it was stated that my division commander, Ewell, had been apprised of the order.  Our position was near a pike leading south of west to Harrisonburg, whence, to gain Newmarket, the great Valley pike ran due north.  All roads near our camp had been examined and sketched, and among them was a road running northwest over the southern foot-hills of Massanutten, and joining the Valley pike some distance to the north of Harrisonburg.  It was called the Keazletown road, from a little German village on the flank of Massanutten; and as it was the hypothenuse of the triangle, and reported good except at two points, I decided to take it.  That night a pioneer party was sent forward to light fires and repair the road for artillery and trains.  Early dawn saw us in motion, with lovely weather, a fairish road, and men in high health and spirits.

Later in the day a mounted officer was dispatched to report our approach and select a camp, which proved to be beyond Jackson’s forces, then lying in the fields on both sides of the pike.  Over three thousand strong, neat in fresh clothing of gray with white gaiters, bands playing at the head of their regiments, not a straggler, but every man in his place, stepping jauntily as on parade, though it had marched twenty miles and more, in open column with arms at “right shoulder shift,” and rays of the declining sun flaming on polished bayonets, the brigade moved down the broad, smooth pike, and wheeled on to its camping ground.  Jackson’s men, by thousands, had gathered on either side of the road to see us pass.  Indeed, it was a martial sight, and no man with a spark of sacred fire in his heart but would have striven hard to prove worthy of such a command.

After attending to necessary camp details, I sought Jackson, whom I had never met.  And here it may be remarked that he then by no means held the place in public estimation which he subsequently attained.  His Manassas reputation was much impaired by operations in the Valley, to which he had been sent after that action.  The winter march on Romney had resulted in little except to freeze and discontent his troops; which discontent was shared and expressed by the authorities at Richmond, and Jackson resigned.  The influence of Colonel Alek Boteler, seconded by that of the Governor of Virginia, induced him to withdraw the resignation.  At Kernstown, three miles south of Winchester, he was roughly handled by the Federal General Shields, and only saved from serious disaster by the failure of that officer to push his advantage, though Shields was usually energetic.

The mounted officer who had been sent on in advance pointed out a figure perched on the topmost rail of a fence overlooking the road and field, and said it was Jackson.  Approaching, I saluted and declared my name and rank, then waited for a response.  Before this came I had time to see a pair of cavalry boots covering feet of gigantic size, a mangy cap with visor drawn low, a heavy, dark beard, and weary eyes eyes I afterward saw filled with intense but never brilliant light.  A low, gentle voice inquired the road and distance marched that day.  “Keazletown road, six and twenty miles.”  “You seem to have no stragglers.”  “Never allow straggling.”  “You must teach my people; they straggle badly.”  A bow in reply.  Just then my créoles started their band and a waltz.  After a contemplative suck at a lemon, “Thoughtless fellows for serious work” came forth.  I expressed a hope that the work would not be less well done because of the gayety.  A return to the lemon gave me the opportunity to retire.  Where Jackson got his lemons “no fellow could find out,” but he was rarely without one.  To have lived twelve miles from that fruit would have disturbed him as much as it did the witty Dean.

Quite late that night General Jackson came to my camp fire, where he stayed some hours.  He said we would move at dawn, asked a few questions about the marching of my men, which seemed to have impressed him, and then remained silent.  If silence be golden, he was a “bonanza.”  He sucked lemons, ate hard-tack, and drank water, and praying and fighting appeared to be his idea of the “whole duty of man.”

In the gray of the morning, as I was forming my column on the pike, Jackson appeared and gave the route north which, from the situation of its camp, put my brigade in advance of the army.  After moving a short distance in this direction, the head of the column was turned to the east and took the road over Massanutten gap to Luray.  Scarce a word was spoken on the march, as Jackson rode with me.  From time to time a courier would gallop up, report, and return toward Luray.  An ungraceful horseman, mounted on a sorry chestnut with a shambling gait, his huge feet with outturned toes thrust into his stirrups, and such parts of his countenance as the low visor of his shocking cap failed to conceal wearing a wooden look, our new commander was not prepossessing.  That night we crossed the east branch of the Shenandoah by a bridge, and camped on the stream, near Luray.  Here, after three long marches, we were but a short distance below Conrad’s store, a point we had left several days before.  I began to think that Jackson was an unconscious poet, and, as an ardent lover of nature, desired to give strangers an opportunity to admire the beauties of his Valley.  It seemed hard lines to be wandering like sentimental travelers about the country, instead of gaining “kudos” on the Peninsula.

Off the next morning, my command still in advance, and Jackson riding with me.  The road led north between the east bank of the river and the western base of the Blue Ridge.  Rain had fallen and softened it, so as to delay the wagon trains in rear.  Past midday we reached a wood extending from the mountain to the river, when a mounted officer from the rear called Jackson’s attention, who rode back with him.  A moment later, there rushed out of the wood to meet us a young, rather well-looking woman, afterward widely known as Belle Boyd.  Breathless with speed and agitation, some time elapsed before she found her voice.  Then, with much volubility, she said we were near Front Royal, beyond the wood; that the town was filled with Federals, whose camp was on the west side of the river, where they had guns in position to cover the wagon bridge, but none bearing on the railway bridge below the former; that they believed Jackson to be west of Massanutten, near Harrisonburg; that General Banks, the Federal commander, was at Winchester, twenty miles northwest of Front Royal, where he was slowly concentrating his widely scattered forces to meet Jackson’s advance, which was expected some days later.  All this she told with the precision of a staff officer making a report, and it was true to the letter.  Jackson was possessed of these facts before he left Newmarket, and based his movements upon them; but, as he never told anything, it was news to me, and gave me an idea of the strategic value of Massanutten pointed out, indeed, by Washington before the Revolution.  There also dawned on me quite another view of our leader than the one from which I had been regarding him for two days past.

Convinced of the correctness of the woman’s statements, I hurried forward at “a double,” hoping to surprise the enemy’s idlers in the town, or swarm over the wagon bridge with them and secure it.  Doubtless this was rash, but I felt immensely “cocky” about my brigade, and believed that it would prove equal to any demand.  Before we had cleared the wood Jackson came galloping from the rear, followed by a company of horse.  He ordered me to deploy my leading regiment as skirmishers on both sides of the road and continue the advance, then passed on.  We speedily came in sight of Front Royal, but the enemy had taken the alarm, and his men were scurrying over the bridge to their camp, where troops could be seen forming.  The situation of the village is surpassingly beautiful.  It lies near the east bank of the Shenandoah, which just below unites all its waters, and looks directly on the northern peaks of Massanutten.  The Blue Ridge, with Manassas Gap, through which passes the railway, overhangs it on the east; distant Alleghany bounds the horizon to the west; and down the Shenandoah, the eye ranges over a fertile, well-farmed country.  Two bridges spanned the river a wagon bridge above, a railway bridge some yards lower.  A good pike led to Winchester, twenty miles, and another followed the river north, whence many cross-roads united with the Valley pike near Winchester.  The river, swollen by rain, was deep and turbulent, with a strong current.  The Federals were posted on the west bank, here somewhat higher than the opposite, and a short distance above the junction of waters, with batteries bearing more especially on the upper bridge.

Under instructions, my brigade was drawn up in line, a little retired from the river, but overlooking it the Federals and their guns in full view.  So far, not a shot had been fired.  I rode down to the river’s brink to get a better look at the enemy through a field-glass, when my horse, heated by the march, stepped into the water to drink.  Instantly a brisk fire was opened on me, bullets striking all around and raising a little shower-bath.  Like many a foolish fellow, I found it easier to get into than out of a difficulty.  I had not yet led my command into action, and, remembering that one must “strut” one’s little part to the best advantage, sat my horse with all the composure I could muster.  A provident camel, on the eve of a desert journey, would not have laid in a greater supply of water than did my thoughtless beast.  At last he raised his head, looked placidly around, turned, and walked up the bank.

This little incident was not without value, for my men welcomed me with a cheer; upon which, as if in response, the enemy’s guns opened, and, having the range, inflicted some loss on my line.  We had no guns up to reply, and, in advance as has been mentioned, had outmarched the troops behind us.  Motionless as a statue, Jackson sat his horse some few yards away, and seemed lost in thought.  Perhaps the circumstances mentioned some pages back had obscured his star; but if so, a few short hours swept away the cloud, and it blazed, Sirius-like, over the land.  I approached him with the suggestion that the railway bridge might be passed by stepping on the cross-ties, as the enemy’s guns bore less directly on it than on the upper bridge.  He nodded approval.  The 8th regiment was on the right of my line, near at hand; and dismounting, Colonel Kelly led it across under a sharp musketry fire.  Several men fell to disappear in the dark water beneath; but the movement continued with great rapidity, considering the difficulty of walking on ties, and Kelly with his leading files gained the opposite shore.  Thereupon the enemy fired combustibles previously placed near the center of the wagon bridge.  The loss of this structure would have seriously delayed us, as the railway bridge was not floored, and I looked at Jackson, who, near by, was watching Kelly’s progress.  Again he nodded, and my command rushed at the bridge.  Concealed by the cloud of smoke, the suddenness of the movement saved us from much loss; but it was rather a near thing.  My horse and clothing were scorched, and many men burned their hands severely while throwing brands into the river.  We were soon over, and the enemy in full flight to Winchester, with loss of camp, guns, and prisoners.  Just as I emerged from flames and smoke, Jackson was by my side.  How he got there was a mystery, as the bridge was thronged with my men going at full speed; but smoke and fire had decidedly freshened up his costume.

In the angle formed by the two branches of the river was another camp held by a Federal regiment from Maryland.  This was captured by a gallant little regiment of Marylanders, Colonel Bradley Johnson, on our side.  I had no connection with this spirited affair, saving that these Marylanders had acted with my command during the day, though not attached to it.  We followed the enemy on the Winchester road, but to little purpose, as we had few horsemen over the river.  Carried away by his ardor, my commissary, Major Davis, gathered a score of mounted orderlies and couriers, and pursued until a volley from the enemy’s rear guard laid him low on the road, shot through the head.  During my service west of the Mississippi River, I sent for the colonel of a mounted regiment from western Texas, a land of herdsmen, and asked him if he could furnish men to hunt and drive in cattle.  “Why! bless you, sir, I have men who can find cattle where there aint any,” was his reply.  Whatever were poor Davis’s abilities as to non-existent supplies, he could find all the country afforded, and had a wonderful way of cajoling old women out of potatoes, cabbages, onions, and other garden stuff, giving variety to camp rations, and of no small importance in preserving the health of troops.  We buried him in a field near the place of his fall.  He was much beloved by the command, and many gathered quietly around the grave.  As there was no chaplain at hand, I repeated such portions of the service for the dead as a long neglect of pious things enabled me to recall.

Late in the night Jackson came out of the darkness and seated himself by my camp fire.  He mentioned that I would move with him in the morning, then relapsed into silence.  I fancied he looked at me kindly, and interpreted it into an approval of the conduct of the brigade.  The events of the day, anticipations of the morrow, the death of Davis, drove away sleep, and I watched Jackson.  For hours he sat silent and motionless, with eyes fixed on the fire.  I took up the idea that he was inwardly praying, and he remained throughout the night.

Off in the morning, Jackson leading the way, my brigade, a small body of horse, and a section of the Rockbridge (Virginia) artillery forming the column.  Major Wheat, with his battalion of “Tigers,” was directed to keep close to the guns.  Sturdy marchers, they trotted along with the horse and artillery at Jackson’s heels, and after several hours were some distance in advance of the brigade, with which I remained.

A volley in front, followed by wild cheers, stirred us up to a “double,” and we speedily came upon a moving spectacle.  Jackson had struck the Valley pike at Middletown, twelve miles south of Winchester, along which a large body of Federal horse, with many wagons, was hastening north.  He had attacked at once with his handful of men, overwhelmed resistance, and captured prisoners and wagons.  The gentle Tigers were looting right merrily, diving in and out of wagons with the activity of rabbits in a warren; but this occupation was abandoned on my approach, and in a moment they were in line, looking as solemn and virtuous as deacons at a funeral.  Prisoners and spoil were promptly secured.  The horse was from New England, a section in which horsemanship was an unknown art, and some of the riders were strapped to their steeds.  Ordered to dismount, they explained their condition, and were given time to unbuckle.  Many breastplates and other protective devices were seen here, and later at Winchester.  We did not know whether the Federals had organized cuirassiers, or were recurring to the customs of Gustavus Adolphus.  I saw a poor fellow lying dead on the pike, pierced through breastplate and body by a rifle ball.  Iron-clad men are of small account before modern weapons.

A part of the Federal column had passed north before Jackson reached the pike, and this, with his mounted men, he pursued.  Something more than a mile to the south a road left the pike and led directly west, where the Federal General Fremont, of whom we shall hear more, commanded “the Mountain Department.”  Attacked in front, as described, a body of Federals, horse, artillery, and infantry, with some wagons, took this road, and, after moving a short distance, drew up on a crest, with unlimbered guns.  Their number was unknown, and for a moment they looked threatening.  The brigade was rapidly formed and marched straight upon them, when their guns opened.  A shell knocked over several men of the 7th regiment, and a second, as I rode forward to an eminence to get a view, struck the ground under my horse and exploded.  The saddle cloth on both sides was torn away, and I and Adjutant Surget, who was just behind me, were nearly smothered with earth; but neither man nor horse received a scratch.  The enemy soon limbered up and fled west.  By some well-directed shots, as they crossed a hill, our guns sent wagons flying in the air, with which “P.P.C.” we left them and marched north.

At dusk we overtook Jackson, pushing the enemy with his little mounted force, himself in advance of all.  I rode with him, and we kept on through the darkness.  There was not resistance enough to deploy infantry.  A flash, a report, and a whistling bullet from some covert met us, but there were few casualties.  I quite remember thinking at the time that Jackson was invulnerable, and that persons near him shared that quality.  An officer, riding hard, overtook us, who proved to be the chief quartermaster of the army.  He reported the wagon trains far behind, impeded by a bad road in Luray Valley.  “The ammunition wagons?” sternly.  “All right, sir.  They were in advance, and I doubled teams on them and brought them through.”  “Ah!” in a tone of relief.

To give countenance to this quartermaster, if such can be given of a dark night, I remarked jocosely:  “Never mind the wagons.  There are quantities of stores in Winchester, and the General has invited me to breakfast there to-morrow.”

Jackson, who had no more capacity for jests than a Scotchman, took this seriously, and reached out to touch me on the arm.  In fact, he was of Scotch-Irish descent, and his unconsciousness of jokes was de race.  Without physical wants himself, he forgot that others were differently constituted, and paid little heed to commissariat; but woe to the man who failed to bring up ammunition!  In advance, his trains were left far behind.  In retreat, he would fight for a wheelbarrow.

Some time after midnight, by roads more direct from Front Royal, other troops came on the pike, and I halted my jaded people by the roadside, where they built fires and took a turn at their haversacks.

Moving with the first light of morning, we came to Kernstown, three miles from Winchester, and the place of Jackson’s fight with Shields.  Here heavy and sustained firing, artillery and small arms, was heard.  A staff officer approached at full speed to summon me to Jackson’s presence and move up my command.  A gallop of a mile or more brought me to him.  Winchester was in sight, a mile to the north.  To the east Ewell with a large part of the army was fighting briskly and driving the enemy on to the town.  On the west a high ridge, overlooking the country to the south and southeast, was occupied by a heavy mass of Federals with guns in position.  Jackson was on the pike, and near him were several regiments lying down for shelter, as the fire from the ridge was heavy and searching.  A Virginian battery, Rockbridge artillery, was fighting at a great disadvantage, and already much cut up.  Poetic authority asserts that “Old Virginny never tires,” and the conduct of this battery justified the assertion of the muses.  With scarce a leg or wheel for man and horse, gun or caisson, to stand on, it continued to hammer away at the crushing fire above.

Jackson, impassive as ever, pointed to the ridge and said, “You must carry it.”  I replied that my command would be up by the time I could inspect the ground, and rode to the left for that purpose.  A small stream, Abraham’s creek, flowed from the west through the little vale at the southern base of the ridge, the ascent of which was steep, though nowhere abrupt.  At one point a broad, shallow, trough-like depression broke the surface, which was further interrupted by some low copse, outcropping stone, and two fences.  On the summit the Federal lines were posted behind a stone wall, along a road coming west from the pike.  Worn somewhat into the soil, this road served as a countersink and strengthened the position.  Further west, there was a break in the ridge, which was occupied by a body of horse, the extreme right of the enemy’s line.

There was scarce time to mark these features before the head of my column appeared, when it was filed to the left, close to the base of the ridge, for protection from the plunging fire.  Meanwhile, the Rockbridge battery held on manfully and engaged the enemy’s attention.  Riding on the flank of my column, between it and the hostile line, I saw Jackson beside me.  This was not the place for the commander of the army, and I ventured to tell him so; but he paid no attention to the remark.  We reached the shallow depression spoken of, where the enemy could depress his guns, and his fire became close and fatal.  Many men fell, and the whistling of shot and shell occasioned much ducking of heads in the column.  This annoyed me no little, as it was but child’s play to the work immediately in hand.  Always an admirer of delightful “Uncle Toby,” I had contracted the most villainous habit of his beloved army in Flanders, and, forgetting Jackson’s presence, ripped out, “What the h are you dodging for?  If there is any more of it, you will be halted under this fire for an hour.”  The sharp tones of a familiar voice produced the desired effect, and the men looked as if they had swallowed ramrods; but I shall never forget the reproachful surprise expressed in Jackson’s face.  He placed his hand on my shoulder, said in a gentle voice, “I am afraid you are a wicked fellow,” turned, and rode back to the pike.

The proper ground gained, the column faced to the front and began the ascent.  At the moment the sun rose over the Blue Ridge, without cloud or mist to obscure his rays.  It was a lovely Sabbath morning, the 25th of May, 1862.  The clear, pure atmosphere brought the Blue Ridge and Alleghany and Massanutten almost overhead.  Even the cloud of murderous smoke from the guns above made beautiful spirals in the air, and the broad fields of luxuriant wheat glistened with dew.  It is remarkable how, in the midst of the most absorbing cares, one’s attention may be fixed by some insignificant object, as mine was by the flight past the line of a bluebird, one of the brightest-plumaged of our feathered tribes, bearing a worm in his beak, breakfast for his callow brood.  Birdie had been on the war path, and was carrying home spoil.

As we mounted we came in full view of both armies, whose efforts in other quarters had been slackened to await the result of our movement.  I felt an anxiety amounting to pain for the brigade to acquit itself handsomely; and this feeling was shared by every man in it.  About half way up, the enemy’s horse from his right charged; and to meet it, I directed Lieutenant-Colonel Nicholls, whose regiment, the 8th, was on the left, to withhold slightly his two flank companies.  By one volley, which emptied some saddles, Nicholls drove off the horse, but was soon after severely wounded.  Progress was not stayed by this incident.  Closing the many gaps made by the fierce fire, steadied the rather by it, and preserving an alignment that would have been creditable on parade, the brigade, with cadenced step and eyes on the foe, swept grandly over copse and ledge and fence, to crown the heights from which the enemy had melted away.  Loud cheers went up from our army, prolonged to the east, where warm-hearted Ewell cheered himself hoarse, and led forward his men with renewed energy.  In truth, it was a gallant feat of arms, worthy of the pen of him who immortalized the charge of the “Buffs” at Albuera.

Breaking into column, we pursued closely.  Jackson came up and grasped my hand, worth a thousand words from another, and we were soon in the streets of Winchester, a quaint old town of some five thousand inhabitants.  There was a little fighting in the streets, but the people were all abroad certainly all the women and babies.  They were frantic with delight, only regretting that so many “Yankees” had escaped, and seriously impeded our movements.  A buxom, comely dame of some five and thirty summers, with bright eyes and tight ankles, and conscious of these advantages, was especially demonstrative, exclaiming, “Oh! you are too late too late!” Whereupon, a tall Creole from the Teche sprang from the ranks of the 8th regiment, just passing, clasped her in his arms, and imprinted a sounding kiss on her ripe lips, with “Madame! je n’arrive jamais trop tard.”  A loud laugh followed, and the dame, with a rosy face but merry twinkle in her eye, escaped.

Past the town, we could see the Federals flying north on the Harper’s Ferry and Martinsburg roads.  Cavalry, of which there was a considerable force with the army, might have reaped a rich harvest, but none came forward.  Raised in the adjoining region, our troopers were gossiping with their friends, or worse.  Perhaps they thought that the war was over.  Jackson joined me, and, in response to my question, “Where is the cavalry?” glowered and was silent.  After several miles, finding that we were doing no good as indeed infantry, preserving its organization, cannot hope to overtake a flying enemy I turned into the fields and camped.

Here I will “say my say” about Confederate cavalry; and though there were exceptions to the following remarks, they were too few to qualify their general correctness.  The difficulty of converting raw men into soldiers is enhanced manifold when they are mounted.  Both man and horse require training, and facilities for rambling, with temptation so to do, are increased.  There was but little time, and it may be said less disposition, to establish camps of instruction.  Living on horseback, fearless and dashing, the men of the South afforded the best possible material for cavalry.  They had every quality but discipline, and resembled Prince Charming, whose manifold gifts, bestowed by her sisters, were rendered useless by the malignant fairy.  Scores of them wandered about the country like locusts, and were only less destructive to their own people than the enemy.  The universal devotion of Southern women to their cause led them to give indiscriminately to all wearing the gray.  Cavalry officers naturally desired to have as large commands as possible, and were too much indulged in this desire.  Brigades and regiments were permitted to do work appropriate to squadrons and companies, and the cattle were unnecessarily broken down.  Assuredly, our cavalry rendered much excellent service, especially when dismounted and fighting as infantry.  Such able officers as Stuart, Hampton, and the younger Lees in the east, Forrest, Green, and Wheeler in the west, developed much talent for war; but their achievements, however distinguished, fell far below the standard that would have been reached had not the want of discipline impaired their efforts and those of their men.

After the camp was established, I rode back to Winchester to look after my wounded and see my sister, the same who had nursed me the previous autumn.  By a second marriage she was Mrs. Dandridge, and resided in the town.  Her husband, Mr. Dandridge, was on duty at Richmond.  Depot of all Federal forces in the Valley, Winchester was filled with stores.  Prisoners, guns, and wagons, in large numbers, had fallen into our hands.  Of especial value were ordnance and medical stores.

The following day my command was moved ten miles north on the pike leading by Charlestown to Harper’s Ferry, and after a day some miles east toward the Shenandoah.  This was in consequence of the operations of the Federal General Shields, who, in command of a considerable force to the east of the Blue Ridge, passed Manassas Gap and drove from Front Royal a regiment of Georgians, left there by Jackson.  Meanwhile, a part of the army was pushed forward to Martinsburg and beyond, while another part threatened and shelled Harper’s Ferry.  Jackson himself was engaged in forwarding captured stores to Staunton.

On Saturday, May 31, I received orders to move through Winchester, clear the town of stragglers, and continue to Strasburg.  Few or no stragglers were found in Winchester, whence the sick and wounded, except extreme cases, had been taken.  I stopped for a moment, at a house near the field of the 25th, to see Colonel Nicholls.  He had suffered amputation of the arm that morning, and the surgeons forbade his removal; so that, much to my regret and more to his own, he was left.  We reached camp at Strasburg after dark, a march of thirty odd miles, weather very warm.  Winder, with his brigade, came in later, after a longer march from the direction of Harper’s Ferry.  Jackson sat some time at my camp fire that night, and was more communicative than I remember him before or after.  He said Fremont, with a large force, was three miles west of our present camp, and must be defeated in the morning.  Shields was moving up Luray Valley, and might cross Massanutten to Newmarket, or continue south until he turned the mountain to fall on our trains near Harrisonburg.  The importance of preserving the immense trains, filled with captured stores, was great, and would engage much of his personal attention; while he relied on the army, under Ewell’s direction, to deal promptly with Fremont.  This he told in a low, gentle voice, and with many interruptions to afford time, as I thought and believe, for inward prayer.  The men said that his anxiety about the wagons was because of the lemons among the stores.

Dawn of the following day (Sunday) was ushered in by the sound of Fremont’s guns.  Our lines had been early drawn out to meet him, and skirmishers pushed up to the front to attack.  Much cannonading, with some rattle of small arms, ensued.  The country was densely wooded, and little save the smoke from the enemy’s guns could be seen.  My brigade was in reserve a short distance to the rear and out of the line of fire; and here a ludicrous incident occurred.  Many slaves from Louisiana had accompanied their masters to the war, and were a great nuisance on a march, foraging far and wide for “prog” for their owners’ messes.  To abate this, they had been put under discipline and made to march in rear of the regiments to which they pertained.  They were now, some scores, assembled under a large tree, laughing, chattering, and cooking breakfast.  On a sudden, a shell burst in the tree-top, rattling down leaves and branches in fine style, and the rapid decampment of the servitors was most amusing.  But I must pause to give an account of my own servant, Tom Strother, who deserves honorable and affectionate mention at my hands, and serves to illustrate a phase of Southern life now passed away.

As under feudal institutions the arms of heiresses were quartered with those of the families into which they married, in the South their slaves adopted the surname of the mistress; and one curious in genealogy could trace the descent and alliances of an old family by finding out the names used by different slaves on the estate.  Those of the same name were a little clannish, preserving traditions of the family from which their fathers had come, and magnifying its importance.  In childhood I often listened with credulous ears to wondrous tales of the magnificence of my forefathers in Virginia and Maryland, who, these imaginative Africans insisted, dwelt in palaces, surrounded by brave, handsome sons, lovely, virtuous daughters, and countless devoted servants.  The characters of many Southern children were doubtless influenced by such tales, impressive from the good faith of the narrators.  My paternal grandmother was Miss Sarah Strother of Virginia, and from her estate came these Strother negroes.  Tom, three years my senior, was my foster brother and early playmate.  His uncle, Charles Porter Strother (to give him his full name), had been body servant to my grandfather, Colonel Richard Taylor, whom he attended in his last illness.  He then filled the same office to my father, following him through his Indian and Mexican campaigns, and dying at Washington a year before his master.  Tom served in Florida and Mexico as “aide-de-camp” to his uncle, after which he married and became father of a large family.  On this account I hesitated to bring him to Virginia, but he would come, and was a model servant.  Tall, powerful, black as ebony, he was a mirror of truth and honesty.  Always cheerful, I never heard him laugh or knew of his speaking unless spoken to.  He could light a fire in a minute under the most unfavorable conditions and with the most unpromising material, made the best coffee to be tasted outside of a créole kitchen, was a “dab” at camp stews and roasts, groomed my horses (one of which he rode near me), washed my linen, and was never behind time.  Occasionally, when camped near a house, he would obtain starch and flat-irons, and get up my extra shirt in a way to excite the envy of a professional clear-starcher; but such red-letter days were few.

I used to fancy that there was a mute sympathy between General Jackson and Tom, as they sat silent by a camp fire, the latter respectfully withdrawn; and an incident here at Strasburg cemented this friendship.  When my command was called into action, I left Tom on a hill where all was quiet.  Thereafter, from a change in the enemy’s dispositions, the place became rather hot, and Jackson, passing by, advised Tom to move; but he replied, if the General pleased, his master told him to stay there and would know where to find him, and he did not believe shells would trouble him.  Two or three nights later, Jackson was at my fire when Tom came to give me some coffee; where upon Jackson rose and gravely shook him by the hand, and then told me the above.

After the war was closed, Tom returned with me to New Orleans, found his wife and children all right, and is now prosperous.  My readers have had so much fighting lately, and are about to have so much more, as to render unnecessary an apology for introducing Tom’s history.

To return.  Cannonading continued without much effect, and Ewell summoned me to his presence, directing the brigade to remain in position till further orders.  Jackson, busy with his trains, was not at the moment on the field, which he visited several times during the day, though I did not happen to see him.  To reach Ewell, it was necessary to pass under some heavy shelling, and I found myself open to the reproach visited previously on my men.  Whether from fatigue, loss of sleep, or what, there I was, nervous as a lady, ducking like a mandarin.  It was disgusting, and, hoping that no one saw me, I resolved to take it out of myself the first opportunity.  There is a story of Turenne, the greatest soldier of the Bourbons, which, if not true, is ben trovato.  Of a nervous temperament, his legs on the eve of an action trembled to such an extent as to make it difficult to mount his horse.  Looking at them contemptuously, he said:  “If you could foresee the danger into which I am going to take you, you would tremble more.”  It was with a similar feeling, not only for my legs, but for my entire carcass, that I reached Ewell, and told him I was no more good than a frightened deer.  He laughed, and replied:  “Nonsense! ’tis Tom’s strong coffee.  Better give it up.  Remain here in charge while I go out to the skirmishers.  I can’t make out what these people are about, for my skirmish line has stopped them.  They won’t advance, but stay out there in the wood, making a great fuss with their guns; and I do not wish to commit myself to much advance while Jackson is absent.”  With this, he put spurs to his horse and was off, and soon a brisk fusillade was heard, which seemed gradually to recede.  During Ewell’s absence, surrounded by his staff, I contrived to sit my horse quietly.  Returning, he said:  “I am completely puzzled.  I have just driven everything back to the main body, which is large.  Dense wood everywhere.  Jackson told me not to commit myself too far.  At this rate my attentions are not likely to become serious enough to commit any one.  I wish Jackson was here himself.”  I suggested that my brigade might be moved to the extreme right, near the Capon road, by which Fremont had marched, and attempt to strike that road, as this would enable us to find out something.  He replied:  “Do so; that may stir them up, and I am sick of this fiddling about.”  Had Ewell been in command, he would have “pitched in” long before; but he was controlled by instructions not to be drawn too far from the pike.

We found the right of our line held by a Mississippi regiment, the colonel of which told me that he had advanced just before and driven the enemy.  Several of his men were wounded, and he was bleeding profusely from a hit in his leg, which he was engaged in binding with a handkerchief, remarking that “it did not pester him much.”  Learning our purpose, he was eager to go in with us, and was not at all pleased to hear that I declined to change General Ewell’s dispositions.  A plucky fellow, this colonel, whose name, if ever known, I cannot recall.  The brigade moved forward until the enemy was reached, when, wheeling to the left, it walked down his line.  The expression is used advisedly, for it was nothing but a “walk-over.”  Sheep would have made as much resistance as we met.  Men decamped without firing, or threw down their arms and surrendered, and it was so easy that I began to think of traps.  At length we got under fire from our own skirmishers, and suffered some casualties, the only ones received in the movement.

Our whole skirmish line was advancing briskly as the Federals retired.  I sought Ewell, and reported.  We had a fine game before us, and the temptation to play it was great; but Jackson’s orders were imperative and wise.  He had his stores to save, Shields to guard against, Lee’s grand strategy to promote; and all this he accomplished, alarming Washington, fastening McDowell’s strong corps at Fredericksburg and preventing its junction with McClellan, on whose right flank he subsequently threw himself at Cold Harbor.  He could not waste time chasing Fremont, but we, who looked from a lower standpoint, grumbled and shared the men’s opinion about the lemon wagons.

The prisoners taken in our promenade were Germans, speaking no English; and we had a similar experience a few days later.  In the Federal Army was a German corps, the 11th, commanded by General O.O.  Howard, and called by both sides “the Flying Dutchmen.”  Since the time of Arminius the Germans have been a brave people; to-day, in military renown, they lead the van of the nations; but they require a cause and leaders.  In our Revolutionary struggle the Hessians were unfortunate at Bennington, Saratoga, and Trenton.  We have millions of German citizens, and excellent citizens they are.  Let us hope that the foregoing facts may be commended to them, so their ways may be ways of peace in their adopted land.

Although the movement along the enemy’s line was successful, as described, it was rash and foolish.  Fremont had troops which, had they been in the place of these Germans, would have made us pass one of Rabelais’s unpleasant quarters of an hour.  Alarm and disgust at my own nervousness occasioned it, proving weak nerves to be the source of rash acts.

Fremont made no further sign, and as the day declined the army was recalled to the pike and marched south.  Jackson, in person, gave me instructions to draw up my brigade facing west, on some hills above the pike, and distant from it several hundred yards, where I was to remain.  He said that the road was crowded, and he wanted time to clear it, that Fremont was safe for the night, and our cavalry toward Winchester reported Banks returned to that place from the Potomac, but not likely to move south before the following day; then rode off, and so rapidly as to give me no time to inquire how long I was to remain, or if the cavalry would advise me in the event that Banks changed his purpose.  This was near sunset, and by the time the command was in position darkness fell upon us.  No fires were allowed, and, stacking arms, the men rested, munching cold rations from their haversacks.  It was their first opportunity for a bite since early morning.

I threw myself on the ground, and tried in vain to sleep.  No sound could be heard save the clattering of hoofs on the pike, which as the night wore on became constant.  Hour after hour passed, when, thinking I heard firing to the north, I mounted and looked for the pike.  The darkness was so intense that it could not have been found but for the white limestone.  Some mounted men were passing, whom I halted to question.  They said their command had gone on to rejoin the army, and, they supposed, had missed me in the dark; but there was a squadron behind, near the enemy’s advance, which, a large cavalry force, had moved from Winchester at an early period of the day and driven our people south.  This was pleasant; for Winder’s brigade had marched several hours since, and a wide interval existed between us.

More firing, near and distinct, was heard, and the command was ordered down to the pike, which it reached after much stumbling and swearing, and some confusion.  Fortunately, the battery, Captain Bowyer, had been sent forward at dusk to get forage, and an orderly was dispatched to put it on the march.  The 6th (Irish) regiment was in rear, and I took two companies for a rear guard.  The column had scarce got into motion before a party of horse rushed through the guard, knocking down several men, one of whom was severely bruised.  There was a little pistol-shooting and sabre-hacking, and for some minutes things were rather mixed.  The enemy’s cavalry had charged ours, and driven it on the infantry.  One Federal was captured and his horse given to the bruised man, who congratulated the rider on his promotion to a respectable service.  I dismounted, gave my horse to Tom to lead, and marched with the guard.  From time to time the enemy would charge, but we could hear him coming and be ready.  The guard would halt, about face, front rank with fixed bayonets kneel, rear rank fire, when, by the light of the flash, we could see emptied saddles.  Our pursuers’ fire was wild, passing over head; so we had few casualties, and these slight; but they were bold and enterprising, and well led, often charging close up to the bayonets.  I remarked this, whereupon the Irishmen answered, “Devil thank ’em for that same.”  There was no danger on the flanks.  The white of the pike alone guided us.  Owls could not have found their way across the fields.  The face of the country has been described as a succession of rolling swells, and later the enemy got up guns, but always fired from the summits, so that his shells passed far above us, exploding in the fields.  Had the guns been trained low, with canister, it might have proved uncomfortable, for the pike ran straight to the south.  “It was a fine night intirely for divarsion,” said the Irishmen, with which sentiment I did not agree; but they were as steady as clocks and chirpy as crickets, indulging in many a jest whenever the attentions of our friends in the rear were slackened.  They had heard of Shields’s proximity, and knew him to be an Irishman by birth, and that he had Irish regiments with him.  During an interlude I was asked if it was not probable that we would encounter Shields, and answering affirmatively, heard:  “Them Germans is poor creatures, but Shields’s boys will be after fighting.”  Expressing a belief that my “boys” could match Shields’s any day, I received loud assurance from half a hundred Tipperary throats:  “You may bet your life on that, sor.”  Thus we beguiled the weary hours.  During the night I desired to relieve the guard, but was diverted from my purpose by scornful howls of “We are the boys to see it out.”  As Argyle’s to the tartan, my heart has warmed to an Irishman since that night.

Daylight came, and I tried to brace myself for hotter work, when a body of troops was reported in position to the south of my column.  This proved to be Charles Winder with his (formerly Jackson’s own) brigade.  An accomplished soldier and true brother-in-arms, he had heard the enemy’s guns during the night, and, knowing me to be in rear, halted and formed line to await me.  His men were fed and rested, and he insisted on taking my place in the rear.  Passing through Winder’s line, we moved slowly, with frequent halts, so as to remain near, the enemy pressing hard during the morning.  The day was uncommonly hot, the sun like fire, and water scarce along the road; and our men suffered greatly.

Just after midday my brisk young aide, Hamilton, whom I had left with Winder to bring early intelligence, came to report that officer in trouble and want of assistance.  My men were so jaded as to make me unwilling to retrace ground if it could be avoided; so they were ordered to form line on the crest of the slope at hand, and I went to Winder, a mile to the rear.  His brigade, renowned as the “Stonewall,” was deployed on both sides of the pike, on which he had four guns.  Large masses of cavalry, with guns and some sharp-shooters, were pressing him closely, while far to the north clouds of dust marked the approach of troops.  His line was on one of the many swells crossing the pike at right angles, and a gentle slope led to the next crest south, beyond which my brigade was forming.  The problem was to retire without giving the enemy, eager and persistent, an opportunity to charge.  The situation looked so blue that I offered to move back my command; but Winder thought he could pull through, and splendidly did he accomplish it.  Regiment by regiment, gun by gun, the brigade was withdrawn, always checking the enemy, though boldly led.  Winder, cool as a professor playing the new German game, directed every movement in person, and the men were worthy of him and of their first commander, Jackson.  It was very close work in the vale before he reached the next crest, and heavy volleys were necessary to stay our plucky foes; but, once there, my command showed so strong as to impress the enemy, who halted to reconnoiter, and the two brigades were united without further trouble.

The position was good, my battery was at hand, and our men were so fatigued that we debated whether it was not more comfortable to fight than retreat.  We could hold the ground for hours against cavalry, and night would probably come before infantry got up, while retreat was certain to bring the cavalry on us.  At this juncture up came General Turner Ashby, followed by a considerable force of horse, with guns.  This officer had been engaged in destroying bridges in Luray Valley, to prevent Shields from crossing that branch of the Shenandoah, and now came, much to our satisfaction, to take charge of the rear.  He proceeded to pay his respects to our friends, and soon took them off our hands.  We remained an hour to rest the men and give Ashby time to make his dispositions, then moved on.

Before sunset heavy clouds gathered, and the intense heat was broken by a regular downpour, in the midst of which we crossed the bridge over the west branch of the Shenandoah a large stream at Mount Jackson, and camped.  There was not a dry thread about my person, and my boots would have furnished a respectable bath.  Notwithstanding the flood, Tom soon had a fire, and was off to hunt forage for man and beast.  Here we were less than ten miles from Newmarket, between which and this point the army was camped.  Jackson was easy about Massanutten Gap.  Shields must march south of the mountain to reach him, while the river, just crossed, was now impassable except by bridge.

We remained thirty-six hours in this camp, from the evening of the 2d until the morning of the 4th of June a welcome rest to all.  Two days of light marching carried us thence to Harrisonburg, thirty miles.  Here Jackson quitted the pike leading to Staunton, and took the road to Port Republic.  This village, twelve miles southeast of Harrisonburg, lies at the base of the Blue Ridge, on the east bank of the Shenandoah.  Several streams unite here to form the east (locally called south) branch of that river; and here too was the only bridge from Front Royal south, all others having been destroyed by Ashby to prevent Shields from crossing.  This commander was pushing a part of his force south, from Front Royal and Luray, on the east bank.

The army passed the night of June 5 in camp three miles from Harrisonburg toward Port Republic.  Ewell’s division, which I had rejoined for the first time since we met Jackson, was in rear; and the rear brigade was General George Stewart’s, composed of one Maryland and two Virginia regiments.  My command was immediately in advance of Stewart’s.  Ashby had burnt the bridge at Mount Jackson to delay Fremont, and was camped with his horse in advance of Harrisonburg.  The road to Port Republic was heavy from recent rains, causing much delay to trains, so that we did not move on the morning of the 6th.  Early in the day Fremont, reenforced from Banks, got up; and his cavalry, vigorously led, pushed Ashby through Harrisonburg, where a sharp action occurred, resulting in the capture of many Federals among others, Colonel Percy Wyndham, commanding brigade, whose meeting with Major Wheat has been described.  Later, while Ewell was conversing with me, a message from Ashby took him to the rear.  Federal cavalry, supported by infantry, was advancing on Ashby.  Stewart’s brigade was lying in a wood, under cover of which Ewell placed it in position.  A severe struggle ensued; the enemy was driven, and many prisoners were taken.  I had ridden back with Ewell, and so witnessed the affair, uncommonly spirited, and creditable to both sides.  Colonel Kane of Philadelphia was among the prisoners and painfully wounded.  Having known his father, Judge Kane, as well as his brother, the Arctic explorer, I solicited and obtained from Jackson his parole.

Colonel Nicholls, left wounded near Winchester, had married a short time previous to the war, and his young wife now appeared, seeking to join her husband.  Jackson referred her request to Ewell, who passed it to me.  Of this I was informed by Captain Nicholls, 8th regiment, brother to the colonel, killed a few days after at Cold Harbor.  Much cavalry skirmishing was still going on around Harrisonburg, dangerous for a lady to pass through; and besides, she had come from Port Republic, seen our situation, and might be indiscreet.  These considerations were stated to Captain Nicholls, but his sister-in-law insisted on seeing me.  A small, fairy-like creature, plucky as a “Dandie Dinmont” terrier, and with a heart as big as Massanutten, she was seated in a nondescript trap, drawn by two mules, driven by a negro.  One look from the great, tearful eyes made of me an abject coward, and I basely shuffled the refusal to let her pass on to Jackson.  The Parthian glance of contempt that reached me through her tears showed that the lady understood and despised my paltering.  Nicholls was speedily exchanged, became a general officer, lost a foot at Chancellorsville, and, after leading his people up out of captivity, is now the conservative Governor of Louisiana.

The skirmishing spoken of in the above connection developed into severe work, in which General Ashby was killed.  Alluding to his death in an official report, Jackson says, “As a partisan officer I never knew his superior.”  Like Claverhouse, “with a face that painters loved to limn and ladies look upon,” he was the most daring and accomplished rider in a region of horsemen.  His courage was so brilliant as to elicit applause from friend and foe, but he was without capacity or disposition to enforce discipline on his men.  I witnessed his deep chagrin at the conduct of our troopers after the enemy had been driven from Winchester in May.  With proper organization and discipline, his bold riders under his lead might have accomplished all that the lamented Nolan claimed as possible for light cavalry.  Popular imagination, especially the female, is much in error as to these matters.  Graceful young cavaliers, with flowing locks, leaping cannon to saber countless foes, make a captivating picture.  In the language of Bosquet, “’Tis beautiful, but ’tis not war”; and grave mishaps have been occasioned by this misconception.  Valor is as necessary now as ever in war, but disciplined, subordinated valor, admitting the courage and energies of all to be welded and directed to a common end.  It is much to be desired that the ladies would consent to correct their opinions; for, after all, their approval stimulates our best fighting.

On the 7th of June we marched to a place within four miles of Port Republic, called Cross Keys, where several roads met.  Near at hand was the meeting-house of a sect of German Quakers, Tunkers or Dunkards, as they are indifferently named.  Here Jackson determined to await and fight Fremont, who followed him hard; but as a part of Shields’s force was now unpleasantly near, he pushed on to Port Republic with Winder’s and other infantry, and a battery, which camped on the hither bank of the river.  Jackson himself, with his staff and a mounted escort, crossed the bridge and passed the night in the village.

Ewell, in immediate charge at Cross Keys, was ready early in the morning of the 8th, when Fremont attacked.  The ground was undulating, with much wood, and no extended view could be had.  In my front the attack, if such it could be called, was feeble in the extreme an affair of skirmishers, in which the enemy yielded to the slightest pressure.  A staff officer of Jackson’s, in hot haste, came with orders from his chief to march my brigade double-quick to Port Republic.  Elzey’s brigade, in second line to the rear, was asked to take my place and relieve my skirmishers; then, advising the staff officer to notify Ewell, whom he had not seen, we started on the run, for such a message from Jackson meant business.  Two of the intervening miles were quickly passed, when another officer appeared with orders to halt.  In half an hour, during which the sound of battle at Cross Keys thickened, Jackson came.  As before stated, he had passed the night in the village, with his staff and escort.  Up as usual at dawn, he started alone to recross the bridge, leaving his people to follow.  The bridge was a few yards below the last house in the village, and some mist overhung the river.  Under cover of this a small body of horse, with one gun, from Shields’s forces, had reached the east end of the bridge and trained the gun on it.  Jackson was within an ace of capture.  As he spurred across, the gun was fired on him, but without effect, and the sound brought up staff and escort, when the horse retired north.  This incident occasioned the order to me.  After relating it (all save his own danger), Jackson passed on to Ewell.  Thither I followed, to remain in reserve until the general forward movement in the afternoon, by which Fremont was driven back with loss of prisoners.  We did not persist far, as Shields’s force was near upon us.  From Ewell I learned that there had been some pretty fighting in the morning, though less than might have been expected from Fremont’s numbers.  I know not if the presence of this commander had a benumbing influence on his troops, but certainly his advanced cavalry and infantry had proved bold and enterprising.

In the evening we moved to the river and camped.  Winder’s and other brigades crossed the bridge, and during the night Ewell, with most of the army, drew near, leaving Trimble’s brigade and the horse at Cross Keys.  No one apprehended another advance by Fremont.  The following morning, Sunday, June 9, my command passed the bridge, moved several hundred yards down the road, and halted.  Our trains had gone east over the Blue Ridge.  The sun appeared above the mountain while the men were quietly breakfasting.  Suddenly, from below, was heard the din of battle, loud and sustained, artillery and small arms.  The men sprang into ranks, formed column, and marched, and I galloped forward a short mile to see the following scene: 

From the mountain, clothed to its base with undergrowth and timber, a level clear, open, and smooth extended to the river.  This plain was some thousand yards in width.  Half a mile north, a gorge, through which flowed a small stream, cut the mountain at a right angle.  The northern shoulder of this gorge projected farther into the plain than the southern, and on an elevated plateau of the shoulder were placed six guns, sweeping every inch of the plain to the south.  Federal lines, their right touching the river, were advancing steadily, with banners flying and arms gleaming in the sun.  A gallant show, they came on.  Winder’s and another brigade, with a battery, opposed them.  This small force was suffering cruelly, and its skirmishers were driven in on their thin supporting line.  As my Irishmen predicted, “Shields’s boys were after fighting.”  Below, Ewell was hurrying his men over the bridge, but it looked as if we should be doubled up on him ere he could cross and develop much strength.  Jackson was on the road, a little in advance of his line, where the fire was hottest, with reins on his horse’s neck, seemingly in prayer.  Attracted by my approach, he said, in his usual voice, “Delightful excitement.”  I replied that it was pleasant to learn he was enjoying himself, but thought he might have an indigestion of such fun if the six-gun battery was not silenced.  He summoned a young officer from his staff, and pointed up the mountain.  The head of my approaching column was turned short up the slope, and speedily came to a path running parallel with the river.  We took this path, the guide leading the way.  From him I learned that the plateau occupied by the battery had been used for a charcoal kiln, and the path we were following, made by the burners in hauling wood, came upon the gorge opposite the battery.  Moving briskly, we reached the hither side a few yards from the guns.  Infantry was posted near, and riflemen were in the undergrowth on the slope above.  Our approach, masked by timber, was unexpected.  The battery was firing rapidly, enabled from elevation to fire over the advancing lines.  The head of my column began to deploy under cover for attack, when the sounds of battle to our rear appeared to recede, and a loud Federal cheer was heard, proving Jackson to be hard pressed.  It was rather an anxious moment, demanding instant action.  Leaving a staff officer to direct my rear regiment the 7th, Colonel Hays to form in the wood as a reserve, I ordered the attack, though the deployment was not completed, and our rapid march by a narrow path had occasioned some disorder.  With a rush and shout the gorge was passed and we were in the battery.  Surprise had aided us, but the enemy’s infantry rallied in a moment and drove us out.  We returned, to be driven a second time.  The riflemen on the slope worried us no little, and two companies of the 9th regiment were sent up the gorge to gain ground above and dislodge them, which was accomplished.  The fighting in and around the battery was hand to hand, and many fell from bayonet wounds.  Even the artillerymen used their rammers in a way not laid down in the Manual, and died at their guns.  As Conan said to the devil, “’Twas claw for claw.”  I called for Hays, but he, the promptest of men, and his splendid regiment, could not be found.  Something unexpected had occurred, but there was no time for speculation.  With a desperate rally, in which I believe the drummer-boys shared, we carried the battery for the third time, and held it.  Infantry and riflemen had been driven off, and we began to feel a little comfortable, when the enemy, arrested in his advance by our attack, appeared.  He had countermarched, and, with left near the river, came into full view of our situation.  Wheeling to the right, with colors advanced, like a solid wall he marched straight upon us.  There seemed nothing left but to set our backs to the mountain and die hard.  At the instant, crashing through the underwood, came Ewell, outriding staff and escort.  He produced the effect of a reenforcement, and was welcomed with cheers.  The line before us halted and threw forward skirmishers.  A moment later, a shell came shrieking along it, loud Confederate cheers reached our delighted ears, and Jackson, freed from his toils, rushed up like a whirlwind, the enemy in rapid retreat.  We turned the captured guns on them as they passed, Ewell serving as a gunner.  Though rapid, the retreat never became a rout.  Fortune had refused her smiles, but Shields’s brave “boys” preserved their organization and were formidable to the last; and had Shields himself, with his whole command, been on the field, we should have had tough work indeed.

Jackson came up, with intense light in his eyes, grasped my hand, and said the brigade should have the captured battery.  I thought the men would go mad with cheering, especially the Irishmen.  A huge fellow, with one eye closed and half his whiskers burned by powder, was riding cock-horse on a gun, and, catching my attention, yelled out, “We told you to bet on your boys.”  Their success against brother Patlanders seemed doubly welcome.  Strange people, these Irish!  Fighting every one’s battles, and cheerfully taking the hot end of the poker, they are only found wanting when engaged in what they believe to be their national cause.  Excepting the defense of Limerick under brilliant Sarsfield, I recall no domestic struggle in which they have shown their worth.

While Jackson pursued the enemy without much effect, as his cavalry, left in front of Fremont, could not get over till late, we attended to the wounded and performed the last offices to the dead, our own and the Federal.  I have never seen so many dead and wounded in the same limited space.  A large farmhouse on the plain, opposite the mouth of the gorge, was converted into a hospital.  Ere long my lost 7th regiment, sadly cut up, rejoined.  This regiment was in rear of the column when we left Jackson to gain the path in the woods, and before it filed out of the road his thin line was so pressed that Jackson ordered Hays to stop the enemy’s rush.  This was done, for the 7th would have stopped a herd of elephants, but at a fearful cost.  Colonel Hays was severely wounded, among many others, and the number of killed was large.  Upon my promotion to Major-General, Hays succeeded to the command of the brigade, served through the war, returned to the practice of the law, and died in New Orleans.  He was brother to Colonel Jack Hays, formerly of Texas, now of California, and shared much of the fighting ability of that renowned partisan.

The young officer who guided us through the wood deserves mention, as he was one of the first to reach the battery, where he was killed.  Lieutenant English, near Harper’s Ferry, Virginia, proved to be his name and place of birth.

Many hours passed in discharge of sad duties to the wounded and dead, during which Fremont appeared on the opposite bank of the river and opened his guns; but, observing doubtless our occupation, he ceased his fire, and after a short time withdrew.  It may be added here that Jackson had caused such alarm at Washington as to start Milroy, Banks, Fremont, and Shields toward that capital, and the great valley was cleared of the enemy.

We passed the night high up the mountain, where we moved to reach our supply wagons.  A cold rain was falling, and before we found them every one was tired and famished.  I rather took it out of the train-master for pushing so far up, although I had lunched comfortably from the haversack of a dead Federal.  It is not pleasant to think of now, but war is a little hardening.

On the 12th of June the army moved down to the river, above Port Republic, where the valley was wide, with many trees, and no enemy to worry or make us afraid.  Here closed Jackson’s wonderful Valley campaign of 1862.

The Louisiana brigade marched from its camp near Conrad’s store, to join Jackson at Newmarket, on the 21st of May.  In twenty days it marched over two hundred miles, fought in five actions, of which three were severe, and several skirmishes, and, though it had suffered heavy loss in officers and men, was yet strong, hard as nails, and full of confidence.  I have felt it a duty to set forth the achievements of the brigade, than which no man ever led braver into action, in their proper light, because such reputation as I gained in this campaign is to be ascribed to its excellence.

For the first time since several weeks, friend Ewell and I had a chance to renew our talks; but events soon parted us again.  Subsequently he was wounded in the knee at the second battle of Manassas, and suffered amputation of the leg in consequence.  His absence of mind nearly proved fatal.  Forgetting his condition, he suddenly started to walk, came down on the stump, imperfectly healed, and produced violent haemorrhage.

About the close of the war he married Mrs. Brown, a widow, and daughter of Judge Campbell, a distinguished citizen of Tennessee, who had represented the United States at the court of St. Petersburg, where this lady was born.  She was a kinswoman of Ewell, and said to have been his early love.  He brought her to New Orleans in 1866, where I hastened to see him.  He took me by the hand and presented me to “my wife, Mrs. Brown.”  How well I remember our chat!  How he talked of his plans and hopes and happiness, and of his great lot of books, which he was afraid he would never be able to read through.  The while “my wife, Mrs. Brown,” sat by, handsome as a picture, smiling on her General, as well she might, so noble a gentleman.  A few short years, and both he and his wife passed away within an hour of each other; but his last years were made happy by her companionship, and comfortable by the wealth she had brought him.  Dear Dick Ewell!  Virginia never bred a truer gentleman, a braver soldier, nor an odder, more lovable fellow.

On the second day in this camp General Winder came to me and said that he had asked leave to go to Richmond, been refused, and resigned.  He commanded Jackson’s old brigade, and was aggrieved by some unjust interference.  Holding Winder in high esteem, I hoped to save him to the army, and went to Jackson, to whose magnanimity I appealed, and to arouse this dwelt on the rich harvest of glory he had reaped in his brilliant campaign.  Observing him closely, I caught a glimpse of the man’s inner nature.  It was but a glimpse.  The curtain closed, and he was absorbed in prayer.  Yet in that moment I saw an ambition boundless as Cromwell’s, and as merciless.  This latter quality was exhibited in his treatment of General Richard Garnett, cousin to Robert Garnett, before mentioned, and his codisciple at West Point.  I have never met officer or soldier, present at Kernstown, who failed to condemn the harsh treatment of Garnett after that action.  Richard Garnett was subsequently restored to command at my instance near Jackson, and fell on the field of Gettysburg.

No reply was made to my effort for Winder, and I rose to take my leave, when Jackson said he would ride with me.  We passed silently along the way to my camp, where he left me.  That night a few lines came from Winder, to inform me that Jackson had called on him, and his resignation was withdrawn.

Charles Winder was born in Maryland, graduated at West Point in 1850, embarked soon thereafter for California in charge of a detachment of recruits, was wrecked on the coast, and saved his men by his coolness and energy.  He left the United States army to join the Confederacy, and was killed at Cedar Run some weeks after this period.  Had he lived, he would have reached and adorned high position.

And now a great weariness and depression fell upon me.  I was threatened with a return of the illness experienced the previous autumn.  For many weeks I had received no intelligence from my family.  New Orleans had fallen, and my wife and children resided there or on an estate near the city.  I hoped to learn of them at Richmond; change might benefit health, and matters were quiet in the Valley.  Accordingly, a short leave was asked for and granted; and although I returned within three days to join my command on the march to Cold Harbor, we were absorbed in the larger army operating against McClellan, and I saw but little of Jackson.

I have written that he was ambitious; and his ambition was vast, all-absorbing.  Like the unhappy wretch from whose shoulders sprang the foul serpent, he loathed it, perhaps feared it; but he could not escape it it was himself nor rend it it was his own flesh.  He fought it with prayer, constant and earnest Apollyon and Christian in ceaseless combat.  What limit to set to his ability I know not, for he was ever superior to occasion.  Under ordinary circumstances it was difficult to estimate him because of his peculiarities peculiarities that would have made a lesser man absurd, but that served to enhance his martial fame, as those of Samuel Johnson did his literary eminence.  He once observed, in reply to an allusion to his severe marching, that it was better to lose one man in marching than five in fighting; and, acting on this, he invariably surprised the enemy Milroy at McDowell, Banks and Fremont in the Valley, McClellan’s right at Cold Harbor, Pope at second Manassas.

Fortunate in his death, he fell at the summit of glory, before the sun of the Confederacy had set, ere defeat, and suffering, and selfishness could turn their fangs upon him.  As one man, the South wept for him; foreign nations shared the grief; even Federals praised him.  With Wolfe and Nelson and Havelock, he took his place in the hearts of English-speaking peoples.

In the first years of this century, a great battle was fought on the plains of the Danube.  A determined charge on the Austrian center gained the victory for France.  The courage and example of a private soldier, who there fell, contributed much to the success of the charge.  Ever after, at the parades of his battalion, the name of Latour d’Auvergne was first called, when the oldest sergeant stepped to the front and answered, “Died on the field of honor.”  In Valhalla, beyond the grave, where spirits of warriors assemble, when on the roll of heroes the name of Jackson is reached, it will be for the majestic shade of Lee to pronounce the highest eulogy known to our race “Died on the field of duty.”

I reached Richmond, by Charlottesville and Lynchburg, the day after leaving camp, and went to the war office, where I found letters from my family.  My wife and children had left New Orleans on a steamer just as Farragut’s fleet arrived, and were on the Atchafalaya River with friends, all well.  While reading my letters, an acquaintance in high position in the office greeted me, but went on to say, if I knew what was afoot, my stay in Richmond would be short.  Taking the hint, and feeling improved in health in consequence of relief from anxiety about my family, I returned to the station at once, and took rail to Charlottesville.  Arrived there, I met the Valley army in march to the southeast, and joined my command.

That night we camped between Charlottesville and Gordonsville, in Orange County, the birthplace of my father.  A distant kinsman, whom I had never met, came to invite me to his house in the neighborhood.  Learning that I always slept in camp, he seemed so much distressed as to get my consent to breakfast with him, if he would engage to have breakfast at the barbarous hour of sunrise.  His house was a little distant from the road; so, the following morning, he sent a mounted groom to show the way.  My aide, young Hamilton, accompanied me, and Tom of course followed.  It was a fine old mansion, surrounded by well-kept grounds.  This immediate region had not yet been touched by war.  Flowering plants and rose trees, in full bloom, attested the glorious wealth of June.  On the broad portico, to welcome us, stood the host, with his fresh, charming wife, and, a little retired, a white-headed butler.  Greetings over with host and lady, this delightful creature, with ebon face beaming hospitality, advanced, holding a salver, on which rested a huge silver goblet filled with Virginia’s nectar, mint julep.  Quantities of cracked ice rattled refreshingly in the goblet; sprigs of fragrant mint peered above its broad rim; a mass of white sugar, too sweetly indolent to melt, rested on the mint; and, like rose buds on a snow bank, luscious strawberries crowned the sugar.  Ah! that julep!  Mars ne’er received such tipple from the hands of Ganymede.  Breakfast was announced, and what a breakfast!  A beautiful service, snowy table cloth, damask napkins, long unknown; above all, a lovely woman in crisp gown, with more and handsomer roses on her cheek than in her garden.  ’Twas an idyl in the midst of the stern realities of war!  The table groaned beneath its viands.  Sable servitors brought in, hot and hot from the kitchen, cakes of wondrous forms, inventions of the tropical imagination of Africa, inflamed by Virginian hospitality.  I was rather a moderate trencherman, but the performance of Hamilton was Gargantuan, alarming.  Duty dragged us from this Eden; yet in hurried adieus I did not forget to claim of the fair hostess the privilege of a cousin.  I watched Hamilton narrowly for a time.  The youth wore a sodden, apoplectic look, quite out of his usual brisk form.  A gallop of some miles put him right, but for many days he dilated on the breakfast with the gusto of one of Hannibal’s veterans on the delights of Capua.