The Long Roll
rallied twice, finally gave way. Two Indiana regiments came up; the 5th
Virginia was flanked; other blue reinforcements poured in. The last grey
commands gave way. Fulkerson, too, on the left, his right now uncovered,
must leave his stone fence and save his men as best he might. Rockbridge
and Carpenter and Waters no longer thundered from the heights. The grey
infantry, wildly scattered, came in a slow surge back through the woods
where dead men lay among the spring flowers, and down the ridge and
through the fields, grey and dank in the March twilight, toward the
Valley pike. Night and the lost battle weighed upon the army. The
shadowy ambulances, the lights of the gatherers of the wounded flitting
few and far over the smoke-clouded field, made for a ghastly depression.
Sick at heart, in a daze of weariness, hunger and thirst, drunk with
sleep, mad for rest, command by command stumbled down the pike or
through the fields to where, several miles to the south, stretched the
meadows where their trains were parked. There was no pursuit. Woods and
fields were rough and pathless; it was now dark night, and Ashby held
the pike above.
A camp-fire was built for Stonewall Jackson in a field to the right of
the road, three miles from Kernstown. Here he stood, summoned Garnett,
and put him under arrest. The army understood next day that heavy
charges would be preferred against this general.
To right and left of the pike camp-fires flamed in the windy night.
Passing one of these, Richard Cleave cut short some bewailing on the
part of the ring about it. "Don't be so downcast, people! Sometimes a
defeat in one place equals a victory in another. I don't believe that
General Banks will join General McClellan just now. Indeed, it's not
impossible that McClellan will have to part with another division. Their
government's dreadfully uneasy about Washington and the road to
Washington. They didn't beat us easily, and if we can lead them up and
down this Valley for a while--I imagine that's what General Johnston
wants, and what General Jackson will procure.--And now you'd better all
go to sleep."
"Where are you going, Cleave?"
"To see about the colonel. They've just brought him to the farmhouse
yonder. Dr. McGuire says he will get well--dear old Brooke!"
He went, striding over the furrowed field past groups of men sleeping
and moaning as they slept. The stars were very bright in the clear,
cold, windy night. He looked at them and thought of the battle and of
the dead and the wounded, and of Judith and of his mother and sister,
and of Will in the 2d, and of to-morrow's movements, and of Stonewall
Jackson. A dark figure came wandering up to him. It proved to be that of
an old negro. "Marster, is you seen Marse Charlie?"
"Marse Charlie whom, uncle?"
"Marse Charlie Armetage, sah, mah young marster. I 'spec you done seed
him? I 'spec he come marchin' wif you down de pike f'om dat damn
battlefield? I sure would be 'bleeged ef you could tell me, sah."
"I wish I could," said Cleave, with gentleness. "I haven't seen him, but
maybe some one else has."
The old negro drew one hand through the other. "I's asked erbout fifty
gent'men ... Reckon Marse Charlie so damn tired he jes' lain down
somewhere an' gone ter sleep. Reckon he come down de pike in de mahnin',
shoutin' fer Daniel. Don' you reckon so, marster?"
"It's not impossible, Daniel. Maybe you'll find him yet."
"I 'specs ter," said Daniel. "I 'spec ter fin' him howsomever he's
a-lyin'." He wandered off in the darkness, and Cleave heard him speaking
to a picket, "Marster, is you seen Marse Charlie?"
CHAPTER XVI
RUDE'S HILL
Stonewall Jackson and his army in slow retreat up the valley came, the
second day after Kernstown, to the gorge of Cedar Creek. A bridge had
once been here; there remained the blackened cross-timbers and a portion
of the flooring. The water below was cold, deep, and rapid. Rather than
breast it, the army made shift to cross on the charred wood. An infantry
command, stepping gingerly, heard behind it shots and shouts--a Federal
cavalry charge upon the rear guard. Several of the men, listening too
absorbedly, or not content with the present snail-like motion, suddenly
left the timbers and entered the rough and swollen creek that poured
beneath. Their exclamations in this berth were piteous, and their
comrades fished them out with bayonets and laughter.
Upon the night of the 26th Banks's troopers occupied the northern shore
of Tom's Brook. Ashby held the southern side, and held it fast. Behind
that safe and vigilant and valiant screen the Army of the Valley moved
quietly and in good spirits to the points its general had in mind. The
army never knew what were these points until it found itself actually
upon the ground. It is morally certain that had he lived, a
recalcitrant, in former days, no amount of _peine forte et dure_ would
have opened the lips of Stonewall Jackson had he willed to keep them
closed. During their earlier acquaintance officers and men alike had
made many an ingenious endeavour to learn the plans they thought they
ought to know. They set quaint traps, they made innocent-seeming
remarks, they guided right, they guided left, they blazed beautiful
trails straight, they thought, to the moment of revelation. It never
came. He walked past and around and over their traps. Inquisitive
officers found themselves not only without a straw of information, but
under displeasure. Brilliant leading remarks shone a moment by their own
brilliancy, then went out. The troops conjectured one road--they went by
another; natives described the beauties of the village before which they
were sure to break ranks--at eve they experienced the hospitalities of
quite another town. Generals in the ranks demonstrated that they were
going to turn on Shields, or that they were going east by the old
Manassas Gap and whip Geary, or northeast and whip Abercrombie. They did
none of the three. They marched on up the valley to Rude's Hill near
Mount Jackson. About this time, or a little later, men and officers gave
it up, began to admire, and to follow blindly. A sergeant, one evening,
put it to his mess. "If we don't know, then Banks and Shields and
Fremont and Milroy and McClellan and Lincoln and Stanton don't know,
either!" The mess grew thoughtful; presently it took the pipe from its
mouth to answer, "Dog-gone it, Martin, that's true! Never saw it just
that way before."
Rude's Hill formed a strong natural position. There was water, there
were woods, there was an excellent space for a drill-ground. Jackson's
directions as to drill-grounds were always characteristically explicit.
"_Major: You will see that a camp is chosen where there are wood, water,
and a drill-ground--_" emphasis on the drill-ground. At Rude's Hill they
drilled and drilled and drilled. Every morning rang out adjutant's call,
every morning there were infantry evolutions, artillery evolutions. The
artillery had some respite, for, turn by turn, the sections went forward
ten miles to do picket duty for Ashby, Chew's Horse Artillery being
continually engaged with the Federal outposts. But the infantry drilled
on, drilled and wondered at Banks. One week--two weeks!--and the general
in blue with nineteen thousand men still on the farther side of Tom's
Brook!
Despite the drilling the Army of the Valley had a good time at Rude's
Hill. Below brawled the Shenandoah, just to the east sprang the
Massanuttens. There was much rain, but, day by day, through the silver
veil or the shattered golden light, lovelier and more lovely grew the
spring. The army liked to see her coming. In its heart it felt a
springtime, too; a gush of hope and ardour. The men hardly counted
Kernstown a defeat. It was known that Old Jack had said to one of the
aides, "I may say that I am satisfied, sir." And Congress had thanked
the Army of the Valley. And all the newspapers sang its praises. The
battle of Pea Ridge in Arkansas, the shelling of Newbern in North
Carolina, the exploits of the Merrimac in Hampton Roads, the battle of
Kernstown in the Valley--so at the moment ran the newspapers. And day by
day recruits were coming in; comrades as well who had been in hospital
or home on furlough. In that fortnight the Army of the Valley grew to
number nearly six thousand men.
At Rude's Hill there was an election of company officers. The
proceedings--amazing enough to the professional soldier--put into camp
life three days of excitement and salt. Given a people of strong
political proclivities suddenly turned soldier; given human grudges and
likings, admirations and contempts; given the ballot in military as in
civil life; given a chance to inject champagne into the ennui of camp
existence, and in lieu of gun practice to send off sky-rockets and
catherine wheels; given a warm personal interest in each private's bosom
as to whom, for the next twelfth month (if the war lasted that long), he
was going to obey--and there resulted a shattering of monotony
comparable to a pitched battle.
The elections were held in beautiful, vernal groves. That there would be
changes it was believed; change was in the air! For days beforehand the
character for conduct, courage, and general agreeableness of every man
who wore three bars on his collar, or two, or one, or who carried
chevrons of silk or chevrons of worsted, had been strictly in the zone
of fire. Certain officers nearing certain camp-fires felt caucuses
dissolving at their approach into an innocence of debating societies
engaged with Fabius Maximus or Scipio Africanus. Certain sergeants and
corporals dreamed bars instead of chevrons, and certain high privates,
conscious of merit, saw worsted chevrons, silk chevrons, and gold bars
all in one blissful night.
But when election day dawned bright and clear, with a fine chorus of
birds and an especial performance by the regimental bands, when roll
call was over, and camp duties were over, and morning drill was over (no
relaxation here! There was only one day in the week on which Old Jack
let up on drill, and that wasn't election day!) and the pickets had
reluctantly marched away, leaving their votes behind them, and a section
of artillery had gone off, swearing, to relieve Chew, and the men could
at last get down to work, to happy babbling, happy speechifying, happy
minding the polls, and when in the cool of the afternoon the returns
were announced, there were fewer changes than had been predicted. After
all, most of the officers were satisfactory; why let them down with a
jolt? And the privates were satisfactory, too. Why take a capital
comrade, a good cook and forager and story-teller, and make him
uncomfortable by turning him into an officer? He was nice enough as he
was. Not that there were no alterations. Several companies had new
captains, some lieutenants stepped down, and there was a shifting of
non-commissioned officers. In Company A of the 65th Lieutenant Mathew
Coffin lost out. The men wished to put up Allan Gold for the
lieutenancy, but Allan declined. He had rather, he said, be scout than
lieutenant--and what was the use in changing, anyhow? Lieutenant Coffin
was all right. Hadn't he been as brave as a lion at Kernstown--and any
man is liable to lose his temper at times--and wouldn't we hate him to
have to write back to that young lady at home--? The last plea almost
settled it, for the Confederate heart might be trusted to melt at the
mention of any young lady at home. But all the Thunder Run men were
against Coffin, and Thunder Run turned the scale. In the main, however,
throughout the army, company officers were retained, and retained
because they were efficient. The election was first-rate fun, and the
men cheered the returns, then listened to the orders of the evening from