The Long Roll
hills, lay Richmond, and at her eastern gates, on the marshy
Chickahominy were gathered one hundred and forty thousand men, blue
clad, led by McClellan. Bronzed, soldierly, chivalrous, an able if
over-cautious general, he waited, irresolute, and at last postponed his
battle. He would tarry for McDowell who, obeying orders from Washington,
had turned aside to encounter and crush a sometime professor of natural
philosophy with a gift for travelling like a meteor, for confusing like
a Jack-o'-lantern, and for striking the bull's-eye of the moment like a
silver bullet or a William Tell arrow. Between Richmond and the many and
heavy blue lines, with their siege train, lay thinner lines of
grey--sixty-five thousand men under the stars and bars. They, too,
watched the turning aside of McDowell, watched Shields, Ord, King, and
Fremont from the west, trappers hot on the path of the man with the old
forage cap, and the sabre tucked under his arm! All Virginia watched,
holding her breath.
Out of Virginia, before Corinth in Tennessee, and at Cumberland Gap, Armies
of the Ohio, of the Mississippi, of the West--one hundred and ten thousand
in blue, eighty thousand in grey, Halleck and Beauregard--listened for news
from Virginia. "Has Richmond fallen?" "No. McClellan is cautious. Lee and
Johnston are between him and the city. He will not attack until he is
further strengthened by McDowell." "Where is McDowell?" "He was moving
south from Fredericksburg. His outposts almost touched those of McClellan.
But now he has been sent across the Blue Ridge to the Valley, there to put
a period to the activities of Stonewall Jackson. That done, he will turn
and join McClellan. The two will enfold Lee and Jackson--the Anaconda
Scheme--and crush every bone in their bodies. Richmond will fall and the
war end."
Tennessee watched and north Alabama. In Arkansas, on the White River
were twelve thousand men in blue, and, arrayed against them, six
thousand, white men and Indians, clad in grey. Far, far away, outer
edges of the war, they, too, looked toward the east and wondered how it
went in Virginia. Grey and blue, Missouri, Louisiana, New Mexico,
Arizona--at lonely railway or telegraph stations, at river landings,
wherever, in the intervals between skirmishes, papers might be received
or messages read, soldiers in blue or soldiers in grey asked eagerly
"What news from Richmond?"--"Stonewall Jackson? Valley of
Virginia?"--"Valley of Virginia! I know!--saw it once. God's country."
At New Orleans, on the levees, in the hot streets, under old balconies
and by walled gardens, six thousand men in blue under Butler watched,
and a sad-eyed captive city watched. From the lower Mississippi, from
the blue waters of the Gulf, from the long Atlantic swells, the ships
looked to the land. All the blockading fleets, all the old
line-of-battle ships, the screw-frigates, the corvettes, the old
merchant steamers turned warrior, the strange new iron-clads and mortar
boats, engaged in bottling up the Confederacy, they all looked for the
fall of Richmond. There watched, too, the ram-fitted river boats, the
double-enders, lurking beneath Spanish moss, rocking beside canebrakes,
on the far, sluggish, southern rivers. And the other ships, the navy all
too small, the scattered, shattered, despairing and courageous ships
that flew the stars and bars, they listened, too, for a last great cry
in the night. The blockade-runners listened, the Gladiators, the
Ceciles, the Theodoras, the Ella Warleys faring at headlong peril to and
fro between Nassau in the Bahamas and small and hidden harbours of the
vast coast line, inlets of Georgia, Florida, Carolina. Danger flew with
them always through the rushing brine, but with the fall of Richmond
disaster might be trusted to swoop indeed. Then woe for all the wares
below--the Enfield rifles, the cannon powder, the cartridges, the
saltpetre, bar steel, nitric acid, leather, cloth, salt, medicines,
surgical instruments! Their outlooks kept sharp watch for disaster,
heaving in sight in the shape of a row of blue frigates released from
patrol duty. Let Richmond fall, and the Confederacy, war and
occupation, freedom, life, might be gone in a night, blown from
existence by McClellan's siege guns!
Over seas the nations watched. Any day might bring a packet with
news--Richmond fallen, fallen, fallen, the Confederacy vanquished, suing
for peace--Richmond not fallen, some happy turn of affairs for the
South, the Peace Party in the North prevailing, the Confederacy
established, the olive planted between the two countries! Anyhow,
anyhow! only end the war and set the cotton jennies spinning!
Most feverishly of all watched Washington on the Potomac. "The latest?"
"It will surely fall to-day. The thing is absurd. It is a little city--"
"From the Valley? Jackson has turned south from Harper's Ferry. Shields
and Fremont will meet at Strasburg long before the rebels get there.
Together they'll make Jackson pay--grind the stonewall small!"
The Army of the Valley had its orders from Strasburg the night of the
thirtieth. The main body moved at once, back upon Winchester, where it
gathered up stragglers, prisoners, and the train of captured stores.
Winder with the Stonewall Brigade, left to make a final feint at
Harper's Ferry, was not in motion southward till much later. Of the main
army the 21st Virginia led the column, convoying prisoners and the prize
of stores. There were twenty-three hundred prisoners, men in blue,
tramping sullenly. Stonewall Jackson had made requisition of all wagons
about Winchester. They were now in line, all manner of wagons,
white-covered, uncovered, stout-bodied, ancient, rickety, in every
condition but of fresh paint and new harness. Carts were brought, small
vans of pedlars; there were stranded circus wagons with gold scrolls.
Nor did there lack vehicles meant for human freight. Old family
carriages, high-swung, capacious as the ark, were filled, not with women
and children, belles and beaux, but with bags of powder and boxes of
cartridges. Superannuated mail coaches carried blankets, oilcloths,
sabres, shoes; light spring wagons held Enfield rifles; doctors' buggies
medicine cases corded in with care. All these added themselves to the
regular supply train of the army; great wagons marked C. S. A. in which,
God knows! there was room for stores. The captures of the past days
filled the vacancies; welcome enough were the thirty-five thousand
pounds of bacon, the many barrels of flour, the hardtack, sugar, canned
goods, coffee, the tea and strange delicacies kept for the sick. More
welcome was the capture of the ammunition. The ordnance officers beamed
lovingly upon it and upon the nine thousand excellent new small arms,
and the prisoner Parrotts. There were two hundred beautiful wagons
marked U. S. A.; the surgeons, too, congratulated themselves upon new
ambulances. Horses and mules that had changed masters might be restless
at first; but they soon knew the touch of experienced hands and turned
contented up the Valley. A herd of cattle was driven bellowing into
line.
Seven miles in length, train and convoying troops emerged from
Winchester in the early light and began a rumbling, bellowing, singing,
jesting, determined progress up the Valley pike. Ewell followed with his
brigadiers--Taylor, Trimble, Elzey, Scott, and the Maryland Line. The
old Army of the Valley came next in column--all save the Stonewall
Brigade that was yet in the rear double-quicking it on the road from
Harper's Ferry. As far in advance moved Stonewall Jackson's screen of
cavalry, the Valley horsemen under Ashby, a supple, quick-travelling,
keen-eyed, dare-devil horde, an effective cloud behind which to execute
intricate manoeuvres, a drawer-up of information like dew from every
by-road, field, and wood, and an admirable mother of thunderbolts. Ashby
and Ashby's men were alike smarting from a late rebuke, administered in
General Orders. They felt it stingingly. The Confederate soldier
enthroned on high his personal honour, and a slur there was a slur
indeed. Now the memory of the reprimand was a strong spur to endeavour.
The cavalry meant to distinguish itself, and pined for a sight of
Fremont.
The day was showery with strong bursts of sunshine between the slanting
summer rains. All along the great highway, in sun and shade, women,
children, the coloured people, all the white men left by the drag-net of
the war, were out in the ripening fields, by the roadside wall, before
gates, in the village streets. They wept with pride and joy, they
laughed, they embraced. They showered praises, blessings; they
prophesied good fortune. The young women had made bouquets and garlands.
Many a favourite officer rode with flowers at his saddle bow. Other
women had ransacked their storerooms, and now offered delicate food on
salvers--the lavish, brave, straightforward Valley women, with the men
gone to the war, the horses gone to the war, the wagons taken for need,
the crops like to be unreaped and the fields to be unplanted, with the
clothes wearing out, with supplies hard to get, with the children, the
old people, the servants, the sick, the wounded on their hands, in their
hearts and minds! They brought food, blessings, flowers, "everything for
the army! It has the work to do." The colours streamed in the wet
breeze, glorious in shadow, splendid when the sun burst forth. The
little old bands played
In Dixie Land whar I was born in
Early on one frosty mornin'!
Look away, look away, look away, Dixie Land!
Long, steady, swinging tread, pace of the foot cavalry, the main column
moved up the Valley pike, violet in the shadow, gold in the sun. The
ten-minutes-out-of-an-hour halts were shortened to five minutes. During
one of these rests Jackson came down the line. The men cheered him.
"Thirty miles to-day. You must do thirty miles to-day, men." He went by,
galloping forward to the immense and motley convoy. The men laughed,
well pleased with themselves and with him. "Old Jack's got to see if his
lemons are all right! If we don't get those lemon wagons through safe to
Staunton there'll be hell to pay! Go 'way! we know he won't call it
hell!"
"The butcher had a little dog,
And Bingo was his name.
B-i-n-g-o-go-! B-i-n-g-o-go!
And Bingo was his name!"
"_Fall in!_ Oh, Lord, we just fell out!"
Advance, convoy, main column, camped that night around and in Strasburg,
Strasburg jubilant, welcoming, restless through the summer night. Winder
with the Stonewall Brigade bivouacked at Newtown, twelve miles north. He
had made a wonderful march. The men, asleep the instant they touched the
earth, lay like dead. The rest was not long; between one and two the
bugles called and the regiments were again in motion. A courier had
come from Jackson. "_General Winder, you will press forward._"
Silent, with long, steady, swinging tread, the Stonewall moved up the
Valley. Before it, pale, undulating, mysterious beneath the stars, ran
the turnpike, the wonderful Valley road, the highway that had grown
familiar to the army as its hand. The Army of the Valley endowed the
Valley pike with personality. They spoke of it as "her." They blamed her
for mud and dust, for shadeless, waterless stretches, for a habit she
was acquiring of furrows and worn places, for the aid which she
occasionally gave to hostile armies, for the hills which she presented,
for the difficulties of her bordering stone walls when troops must be
deployed, for the weeds and nettles, thistles, and briars, with which
she had a trick of decking her sides, for her length. "You kin march
most to Kingdom Come on this here old road!" for the heat of the sun,