CAPTURE OF RAILROAD TRAINS AT MANASSAS JUNCTION—BATTLE WITH TAYLOR'S NEW JERSEY BRIGADE—NIGHT MARCH BY LIGHT OF BURNING CARS
Our halts and opportunities for rest had been and continued to be few and of short duration, traveling steadily on throughout the twenty-four hours. It has been many years since, but how vividly some scenes are recalled, others vague and the order of succession forgotten. After passing through Thoroughfare Gap we moved on toward Manassas Junction, arriving within a mile or two of the place shortly after dawn, when we came upon a sleepy Federal cavalryman mounted on a fine young horse. Lieutenant Brown took him and his arms in charge and rode the horse for a few days, but, learning that he had been taken from a farmer in the neighborhood, returned him to his owner. As we approached the Junction several cannon-shots warned us that some force of the enemy was there, but not General Pope, as we had left him many miles in our rear.
In the regiment of our cavalry, acting as a vanguard, I had but two acquaintances—old college-mates—and these were the only two members of the command I met. One of them gave me a loaf of baker's bread, the other presented me with a handful of cigars, and they both informed us that they had made a big capture, which we would soon see. The samples they had brought made us the more anxious. Arriving in sight of the place, we saw the tracks of both railroads closely covered for half a mile with the cars filled with army supplies of every description. The artillery that had been firing a short time before opened on us again, while we were preparing to help ourselves, but not before one of my messmates had secured a cup of molasses. With the help of this, my loaf of bread was soon devoured, and with a relish contrasting very favorably with my sudden loss of appetite for the beans at Cedar Creek a few months before. On this occasion we managed to appease our hunger with very little interruption from the flying shells. The firing, however, was at long range and soon ceased, and we resumed the march, saddened to part with so rich a booty and the opportunity to fill our stomachs and empty haversacks.
As we moved quietly along with General Jackson and one or two of his staff riding at the front of the battery, there suddenly appeared, about a mile ahead of us, a line of bayonets glistening in the sunlight. As we halted I heard General Jackson and those about him questioning each other and speculating as to what troops they could be, whether friend or foe. Their bayonets were evidently too bright for our war-worn weapons, and the direction from which they came and, a little later, the color of their uniforms being distinguishable, no longer left room for doubt. It proved to be a brigade of New Jersey infantry commanded by General Taylor, who had just arrived by rail from Alexandria. Rodes's division was on our left and not three hundred yards distant. As the enemy advanced, Jackson ordered Rodes to halt. The Federal brigade came up on our right about one hundred and twenty-five yards from us, marching by companies in column.
Jackson ordered us to fire on them with canister, which we did, and very rapidly, as they passed. Then, limbering up, we galloped again to their flank and repeated the operation; meanwhile, one of our batteries immediately in their front firing at them with shells. Jackson, who accompanied us, then drew a white handkerchief from his pocket, and, waving it up and down, ordered them to surrender, in response to which one of them raised his gun and fired deliberately at him. I heard the Minie as it whistled by him. After limbering up our guns for the third time to keep in close range, I turned to get my blanket, which I had left on the ground while engaged, and, as I ran to overtake the guns, found myself between Rodes's line, which had now advanced, and the Federals, in easy range of each other. I expected, of course, to be riddled with bullets, but neither side fired a shot.
The Federals moved on in perfect order, then suddenly broke and came back like a flock of sheep; and, most singular of all, Rodes's division was ordered back and let them pass, we still firing. All in all, it was a fine sample of a sham battle, as I saw none of them killed and heard there were very few, and the only shot they fired was the one at General Jackson. After crossing a ravine along which ran a creek, they had a hill to ascend which kept them still in full view, while we fired at them with shells and solid shot as they streamed along the paths. Maupin, a member of our detachment, picked up a canteen of whiskey which had been thrown aside in their flight. As it was the only liquid to which we had access on that hot August day, we each took a turn, and soon undertook to criticise our gunner's bad shooting, telling him among other things that if he would aim lower he would do more execution.
After the enemy had disappeared from our sight, and the battery had gone into park, I borrowed Sergeant Dick Payne's horse to ride to the creek, over which the enemy had retreated, for a canteen of water. When within a few steps of the branch, I passed two artillerymen from another battery on foot, who were on the same errand, but none of us armed. We saw a Yankee infantryman a short distance off, hurrying along with gun on shoulder. We called to him to surrender, and, as I rode to get his gun, another one following came in sight. When I confronted him and ordered him to throw down his gun, he promptly obeyed. The gun, a brand-new one, was loaded, showing a bright cap under the hammer. The man was a German, and tried hard, in broken English, to explain, either how he had fallen behind, or to apologize for coming to fight us—I could not tell which.
We now had full and undisturbed possession of Manassas Junction and of the long trains of captured cars, through the doors and openings of which could be seen the United States army supplies of all kinds and of the best quality. On a flat car there stood two new pieces of artillery made of a bronze-colored metal, and of a different style from any we had yet seen. In our last battle, that of Slaughter's Mountain, we had noticed, for the first time, a singular noise made by some of the shells fired at us, and quite like the shrill note of a tree-frog on a big scale. Since then we had sometimes speculated as to what new engine of war we had to contend with. Here it was, and known as the three-inch rifled gun, a most accurate shooter, and later on much used by both Federals and Confederates.
In view of the fact that almost all of the field artillery used by the Confederates was manufactured in the North, a supply for both armies seemed to have been wisely provided in the number they turned out. Here we spent the remainder of the day, but not being allowed to plunder the cars did not have the satisfaction of replacing our worn-out garments with the new ones in sight. We were very willing to don the blue uniforms, but General Jackson thought otherwise. What we got to eat was also disappointing, and not of a kind to invigorate, consisting, as it did, of hard-tack, pickled oysters, and canned stuff generally.
Darkness had scarcely fallen before we were again on the march, and before two miles had been traveled the surrounding country was illuminated by the blazing cars and their contents, fired to prevent their falling again into the hands of their original owners. The entire night was spent marching through woods and fields, but in what direction we had no idea. Notwithstanding the strict orders to the contrary, two of our boys—Billy Bumpus and John Gibbs—had procured from a car about half a bushel of nice white sugar, put it in a sack-bag, and tied it securely, they thought, to the axle of a caisson. During the night either the bag stretched or the string slipped, letting a corner drag on the ground, which soon wore a hole. When daylight broke, the first thing that met their eager gaze was an empty bag dangling in the breeze and visions of a trail of white sugar mingling with the dust miles behind. Many times afterward, in winter quarters or during apple-dumpling season, have I heard them lament the loss of that sweetening.
There are various scenes and incidents on the battlefield, in camp, and on the march which leave an indelible impression. Of these, among the most vivid to me is that of a column of men and horses at dawn of day, after having marched throughout the night. The weary animals, with heads hanging and gaunt sides, put their feet to the ground as softly as if fearing to arouse their drowsy mates or give themselves a jar. A man looks some years older than on the preceding day, and his haggard face as if it had been unwashed for a week. Not yet accustomed to the light, and thinking his countenance unobserved, as in the darkness, he makes no effort to assume an expression more cheerful than in keeping with his solemn feelings, and, when spoken to, his distressful attempt to smile serves only to emphasize the need of "sore labor's bath." Vanity, however, seems to prevent each one from seeing in his neighbor's visage a photograph of his own. But, with an hour of sunlight and a halt for breakfast with a draught of rare coffee, he stands a new creature. On the morning after our departure from Manassas Junction, having marched all night, we had a good illustration of this.
About seven o'clock we came to a Federal wagon which had upset over a bank and was lying, bottom upward, in a ditch below the road. Around it were boxes and packages of food, desiccated vegetables red with tomatoes and yellow with pumpkin. Here a timely halt was called. Across the ditch, near where we went into park, the infantry who had preceded us had carried from the overturned wagon a barrel of molasses with the head knocked out. Surging around it was a swarm of men with canteens, tin cups, and frying-pans—anything that would hold molasses. As each vessel was filled by a dip into the barrel it was held aloft, to prevent its being knocked from the owner's grasp as he made his way out through the struggling mass; and woe be to him that was hatless! as the stream that trickled from above, over head and clothes, left him in a sorry plight.