THE BATTLE ON THE LEFT WING.
On the morning of the 21st, according to McDowell’s plan of battle, the left wing, composed of Colonel Miles’ division, was stationed at Centreville and at Blackburn’s Ford, the scene of Tyler’s disaster on the 18th. Thus during the heat and struggle of that awful day the greater portion of the left wing was six miles from the centre of action. But notwithstanding, no better service was rendered to the country on that day than that of this comparatively small handful of men. The first brigade of this command, under Colonel Blenker, occupied the heights of Centreville.
The second brigade, under Colonel Thomas A. Davies, of New York, and Richardson’s brigade, were ordered by Colonel Miles to take position before the batteries at Blackburn’s Ford, near the battle-ground of the 18th, to make demonstrations of attack. In pursuance of General McDowell’s order, Colonel Davies, being ranking officer, took command of Richardson’s brigade.
On his route from Centreville in the morning, when about half way to Blackburn’s Ford, Colonel Davies, while conversing with the guide who rode by him, saw a country road, apparently little used, leading through the woods to the left. “That road,” said the guide, a fine, intelligent fellow, “will give position farther left and nearer the enemy, for it runs directly to Beauregard’s headquarters.”
Colonel Davies, who had graduated at West Point and served in the Mexican war, was prompt to recognize the importance of a point which might enable the enemy to move upon his rear. He ordered a halt, and detailed the Thirty-first New York regiment, Colonel Pratt, and the Thirty-second, Colonel Mathewson, with a detachment of artillery, to guard the road at its junction, and deployed another regiment with a section of artillery on the road, which was shaded and hedged in on both sides by a heavy growth of timber.
This duty performed, the troops continued their march. Davies took his position in a wheat field with what was left of his brigade, leaving Richardson to make his own arrangements to defend the position in front of the enemy’s batteries at Blackburn’s Ford, the battle-ground of the 18th. Richardson posted his command in this place, on the road from Centreville heights to Blackburn’s Ford.
The wheat field which Davies occupied contained a hill which overlooked a ravine, thickly wooded, on the opposite slope. On this hill Hunt’s battery, commanded by Lieutenant Edwards, was placed, having been exchanged from force of circumstances for Green’s battery, which belonged to Davies’ command, but was now with Richardson. The battery was supported by Davies’ own regiment, the Sixteenth New York, and the Eighteenth, Colonel Jackson. This hill commanded a broad view of the country on every side. The battle-ground of the right wing, six miles off, was in full sight. Opposite his position, across the stream, was the road which led from Bull Run to Manassas, and also to Beauregard’s extreme right. Parallel with the river to his extreme left, it was plainly traced, except where groves and clumps of trees concealed it. This road, with all the high grounds sloping from Manassas, covered with broken ridges, rich pasture lands and splendid groves, lay before the men as they placed their battery.
On their rear the Centreville road stretched along a beautiful tract of country, hidden by a waving sea of luxuriant foliage. Indeed all the converging roads that threaded the vast battle-field were plainly visible from that point.
Posted in this commanding position, Davies opened his demonstration with two twenty-pound rifle guns from Hunt’s battery. The first shot hurled a shell into Beauregard’s headquarters, which sent the rebels scattering in every direction. Richardson also commenced firing across the Run, producing the desired effect of keeping the enemy at their defences in the neighborhood.
At ten o’clock Colonel Miles visited the command. Finding the two regiments and artillery posted at the country road, he ordered the regiments to move forward one-fourth of a mile, and the artillery to join Davies’ command, leaving the road exposed. He then sent two companies to reconnoitre the enemy’s position. They had a skirmish on the stream, at Blackburn’s Ford, and came back with little damage.
The moment Miles rode back to Centreville, Davies ordered out his brigade pioneer corps, all sturdy lumbermen of the North, with orders to fell trees and block up the country road thus left exposed.
For two hours these sturdy men swung their axes among the heavy timber, answering the distant roar of the battle-field with a wild, crashing music, that broke with a new and more startling expression of war through the familiar roll of cannon. With sharp, crashing groans, the great trees were hurled to the earth, locked their splintered and broken boughs across the road, and covered it with mangled foliage, forming a barricade one-fourth of a mile long, impassable as a thousand cactus hedges. The roar of cannon afar off, and the batteries belching iron close by, failed to drown the groaning rush of these forest monarchs; and when the near guns were silent for a little time, as often happened, the almost human shiver of a tree, in its last poise before it rushed downward with a wail in all its leaves and branches, conveyed an idea of death more thrilling than any noise that battle-field had to give. At twelve o’clock, just after the pioneers had returned to position, a body of the enemy came down this road from Bull Run, intending to march on Centreville and take Miles’ division in the rear. Clouds of red dust rising from the trees betrayed them just as they had discovered the barricade, and a storm of shell and shrapnel hastened their backward march.
About this time the road on the other side of Bull Run was one cloud of flying dust. It was Johnston’s forces, a close line, going up to snatch victory from the brave army at Stone Bridge. The advance of these forces became visible at first in tiny curls of dust rising from the woods. Then it swelled into clouds, through which jaded horses and tired men seemed struggling onward in a continued stream.
At this time the distant cannonading became louder and more continuous; the far-off woods rolled up vast volumes of smoke, and where the battle raged, a black canopy hung suspended in mid-air. How those brave men, chained to their post by inevitable military law, panted to plunge into that hot contest! The inaction forced upon them when a struggle of life and death was going on in the distance, was worse than torture. They suspected the character of those troops moving forward in the red cloud, and followed them with eager, burning eyes. But they soon had work of their own to do!
The firing on the right slackened between three and four o’clock, growing fainter and fainter. About five, Colonel Davies received a line from Richardson, saying: “The army is in full retreat;” but the line was written in the haste and agitation of bad news, and was indistinct. Davies read it: “The enemy is in full retreat.” But for this providential mistake, the battle of that day would have had a darker record than we are making now; for the retreat, disastrous as it was, would have been cut off, and Washington probably taken.
Believing the army victorious, these brave men bore the restraints of their position more patiently, but still panted for a share in the work.
At this time Beauregard’s telegraph, opposite the left of Davies’ position, had been working half an hour; and from lines of dust concentrating there and at Davies’ front, he anticipated an attack, and made disposition accordingly.
At five o’clock, the enemy appeared on the left, as Davies formed in line parallel to Bull Run, and about eight hundred yards distant. Between the hill which he occupied, and the slope down which they came from the road, was the valley or ravine, about four hundred yards from Hunt’s battery.
They filed down the road and formed in the valley, marching four abreast, with their guns at right shoulder shift, shining like a ripple of diamonds in the sunshine, and moving forward in splendid style.
At first Davies viewed them in silence, and standing still; but as the column began to fill the valley, he changed front to the left, and ordered the artillery to withhold its fire till the rear of the enemy’s column presented itself, and directed the infantry to lie down on their faces, and neither fire nor look up without orders. This was done that the enemy might not learn his strength and charge on the battery.
The rear of the column at last presented itself, an officer on horseback bringing it up. Then an order to fire was given, and Lieutenant Benjamin, a brave young fellow from West Point, fired the first shot from a twenty-pound rifled gun.
A cloud of dust, with a horse rearing, and its rider struggling in the midst, was all the result that could be observed. The rear of the enemy’s column then took the double-quick down the valley, and six pieces of artillery opened on them. The effect was terrible; at the distance of only four hundred yards, the enemy took the raking downward fire in all its fury. An awful cry rang up from the valley; the men had been swept down like wheat before a scythe, and their moans filled the air.
This murderous fire was repeated over and over again. There was no waiting to swab the guns, but, fast as powder and ball could be served, the ordnance sent out its volleys. The enemy made a desperate stand, but every shot swept down the men in masses. A vacant space appeared for a moment, then fresh men filed in. Twice they attempted to reform and charge the battery, but the rapidity with which the pieces were served, and the peculiar nature of the ground, rendered every shot effective, and they were swept back, cut down, speedily disorganized, and fled for the woods.
During all this action, Lieutenant-Colonel Marsh, of the Sixteenth, and Colonel Pratt, of the Thirty-first (the former since killed, and the latter wounded before Richmond), controlled their men perfectly. Not an infantry shot was fired during the engagement. Balls from the enemy struck the ground in volleys before the men, filling their eyes with dust. No man gave way; they were compelled to change position three times during the fight. Although so many of the enemy were killed, this spot being named, in the secession reports, as giving the heaviest mortality of the day, only two men of Davies’ command were hurt. One man was wounded, and Lieutenant Craig, a brave young officer from West Point, was killed.
This brilliant engagement, so important in its results, sprang out of a singular series of accidents: first, in the mistake made in reading Richardson’s dispatch, and again in a failure of orders. When the main army began its retreat past Centreville, at four o’clock, Colonel Miles sent his aid, Captain Vincent, to order Davies and his command back to Centreville, but Vincent, instead of coming first to Davies, stopped to give orders to Richardson, and two regiments of Davies’ brigade, stationed to guard his rear. After ordering Richardson back, Vincent came over the ravine to deliver his orders to Davies, when he heard his firing on the extreme left, went back to Centreville, to report, and returned just as the firing ceased, to direct Colonel Davies to retire on Centreville.
Davies, ignorant that Richardson had already fallen back, rode over to order his retreat, but to his astonishment, almost horror, found that the whole brigade, with two regiments of his own forces left to guard his rear, had been gone a full hour. Thus it happened that this important engagement had been fought and won with a single battery and two regiments of infantry, utterly alone and unsupported on the deserted battle-field, against a large body of men, endeavoring to sweep to the rear and cut off the army in its retreat.
It was near six o’clock when this contest terminated—two hours after the main army were in full retreat. If ever delay and accident were providential on this earth, it was here; for brave as these men were, no sane leader would have felt justified in exposing them to such peril upon a deserted battle-field, and in the face of a whole victorious army, after all chance of protection had been withdrawn.
When this band of victorious men reached Centreville, a stream of jaded, wounded and heavy-hearted men were pouring through the village, while General McDowell was making a desperate effort to collect all the troops that still kept a show of organization, under his own command. These troops were principally composed of the left wing, which came off the ground in good order. McDowell, about eight o’clock, left Centreville for Fairfax Court House. Before going Colonel Miles was relieved from his command of the left wing, and the following order, written on the back of a visiting card, was handed to Colonel Davies:
Colonel Davies is consigned to the command of the left wing, as the troops are now formed. By command,
J. B. Fry, a. a. g.
July 21.
Under this running order Colonel Davies assumed command of all that was left of the army in Centreville, and marched them in good order to Alexandria and Washington, Blenker’s division being the last to leave the field. This gallant officer had been among the bravest and most resolute in protecting the retreat, and had by his firmness held the enemy in check during the afternoon and evening.
THE BATTLE-FIELD AT NIGHT.
At night the calm air, the gently falling dew, visited that blasted earth sweetly as they had done the night before, when the valley was fresh with verdure and beautiful with thrifty crops. But the scene it presented was O, how different! In mercy the deep shadows cast by the woods concealed its worst features, and the smoke had risen so densely between earth and sky that the moon looked down upon it mournfully, through a veil. The battle-field was still, save when the solemn shiver of the leaves came like a painful and mighty sigh, or the troubled waves of the Run continued it in hoarser murmurs. If human moans broke the stillness, they were lost on that vast field, and only heard by the pitying angels.
But solitary lights wandered over the field, like stars dropped by a merciful heaven to light the departing souls through the valley and shadow of death. They were indeed heavenly rays, for all that is divine in human mercy sent them forth. Kind men, and more than one heroic woman carried them from point to point over that dreary battle-field, searching among the dead for those who, breathing yet, might suffer for water or Christian comfort.
There was a house on the hill-top where Griffin’s battery had stood, and where the Connecticut troops had planted the stars and stripes in their last desperate charge. Through all the fight, a helpless and frightened family had found precarious shelter in their own dwelling. The household was composed of a son, a daughter, and the mother, a gentle Christian woman, who had been confined to her bed for years. There was no hopes of flight for her, poor soul, and neither son nor daughter would abandon her when the storm of battle was at their threshold. Hoping to find a place of safety, the devoted children carried her to a neighboring ravine, sheltering her with their own persons.
But this spot became at last more dangerous than the house. So the harassed children took their parent back to her home, and placing her in bed again, stood to screen her from the bullets that broke like hail through the walls and windows. While her house was riddled with cannon balls and musket shot, and the missiles of death plunged through her chamber and into her bed, three bullets pierced her frail person. Still she outlived the battle tempest that raged around her, a tempest that she had not even dreamed of approaching her dwelling when that fatal day dawned upon it. When the night came on she died peacefully, and the troubled moon looked down on a mournful scene here also. Within the riddled walls and under the torn roof, this gentle woman lay, in a quieter sleep than she had known for many a long night, and by her bed knelt the bereaved children who had dared so much, weeping that a life so peaceful should have met that violent ending. Painful as this was, there lay many poor soldiers on the field that hour, whose children would never have the privilege of weeping over them.
In an orchard of young trees, just forming their fruit, lay many a prostrate Southron, sent to his long account; for the enemy had suffered terribly there. The northern verge of the field was blackened by a fine grove in which a Georgia regiment had fought, and under its black shadows the dead lay thick and numerous. Here Lamar had fallen, and many a brave Northman slept side by side with the foe he had sent into eternity but a moment in advance of himself. The fatal hill, scorched and blackened in every tree and blade of grass, was strewn with the dead of both sections, among them some of the bravest leaders that the enemy boasted.
There have been rumors of great cruelty on the battle-field after the fight was over—of men prowling like fiends among the dead, and murdering the wounded; but these things should be thrice proven before we believe them of American citizens. Rumor is always triple-tongued, and human nature does not become demoniac in a single hour. One thing is certain, many an act of merciful kindness was performed that night, which an honest pen should prefer to record. Certain it is that Southern soldiers in many instances shared their water—the most precious thing they had—with the wounded Union men. A soldier passing over the field found two wounded combatants lying together—one was a New Yorker, the other a Georgian. The poor wounded fellow from New York cried out piteously for water, and the Georgian, gathering up his strength, called out: “For God’s sake give him drink; for I called on a New York man for water when his column was in retreat, and he ran to the trench at the risk of his life and brought it to me!”
One brave young enemy lost his life after passing through all the perils of the battle, in attempting to procure drink for his wounded foes.
If there were individual instances of cruelty on either side, and this is possible—let us remember that there was kindness too; and when the day shall come—God grant it may be quickly—when we are one people again, let the cruelty be forgiven and the kindness only remembered.
And now our record of the battle of Bull Run is at an end. It was valiantly contended on both sides, and won only from superior numbers and reinforcements of fresh troops, poured upon the exhausted soldiery of the Union. To gain this contest the South sent her best and very bravest generals. Her forces were led by Beauregard and Johnston, both experienced officers. They were also cheered by the near presence of Jefferson Davis, who came upon the field when the victory was assured, amid the shouts of a soldiery, the more enthusiastic because they had just been rescued from almost certain defeat. They had the choice of position and had fortified it with wonderful skill; a thorough knowledge of the country, and troops unwearied by long marches—indeed, the advantages were altogether on their side. The North, never dreaming that an open rebellion would break out, was utterly dependant on undisciplined troops; while the South, having premeditated resistance to the Government, had been drilling men for months, if not years. There was no one point except in the actual bravery of their leaders and soldiers in which the enemy was not superior to the Union forces. In personal valor the Southerners themselves have never claimed to surpass that exhibited in this battle by their foes.
The smallest estimate of the forces actually engaged on the Southern side is eighteen thousand—while the Union forces which crossed Bull Run did not at any time count more than thirteen thousand. One brigade of McDowell’s eighteen thousand was not in the action, except in a vain effort to check the retreat. This brigade, of General Tyler’s division, was stationed at Stone Bridge, and never advanced upon the actual battle-field. The attack repulsed by Davies on the left wing, at Blackburn’s Ford, took place nearly two hours after the army was in retreat.
In the loss of officers, the enemy was even more unfortunate than the Union army. The fall of General Bee, one of the bravest of their leaders, Bartow, Colonel Thomas, Colonel Hampton, Colonel Johnson, Lamar, and others, shed a gloom upon their victory, and greatly weakened their cause in the future. The Union loss was heavy, for the men who fell or were taken prisoners were among the bravest that marched with the army, but the loss of officers by death was inferior to that of the enemy, and though Corcoran and Wilcox were wounded and taken prisoners, they were not lost to their country. In ordnance and munitions of war the conquest was less important than might have been supposed. Many of the Union guns were rescued from the field during the next day. Of the fine horses attached to the ordnance a large proportion were killed, and others were saved by their drivers, who cut the traces, and rode them from the scene of battle. The loss in killed and wounded on the Union side, was 481 killed, 1,011 wounded, and 1,216 missing: total, 2,708. That of the enemy numbered, by Beauregard’s report, 393 killed, 1,200 wounded.
The victory was a very important one to the South, as it gave prestige and force to a rebellion which, had the position of things been reversed, would, it is probable, have expired before the year went out. But in the North it only served to arouse the people to a pitch of excitement hitherto unparalleled; if troops had been sent forth in regiments before, they came in brigades after that defeat.
