XXXIII. — BREATHED AND HIS GUN.
In the din and smoke of that desperate grapple of the infantry, I have lost sight of the incessant cavalry combats which marked each day with blood.
And now there is no time to return to them. A great and sombre event drags the pen. With one scene I shall dismiss those heroic fights—but that scene will be superb.
Does the reader remember the brave Breathed, commanding a battalion of the Stuart horse artillery? I first spoke of him on the night preceding Chancellorsville, when he came to see Stuart, at that time he was already famous for his “do-or die” fighting. A Marylander by birth, he had “come over to help us:” had been the right-hand man of Pelham; the favorite of Stuart; the admiration of the whole army for a courage which the word “reckless” best describes;—and now, in this May, 1864, his familiar name of “Old Jim Breathed,” bestowed by Stuart, who held him in high favor, had become the synonym of stubborn nerve and élan, unsurpassed by that of Murat. To fight his guns to the muzzles, or go in with the sabre, best suited Breathed. A veritable bull-dog in combat, he shrank at nothing, and led everywhere. I saw brave men in the war—none braver than Breathed. When he failed in any thing, it was because reckless courage could not accomplish it.
He was young, of vigorous frame, with dark hair and eyes, and tanned by sun and wind. His voice was low, and deep; his manners simple and unassuming; his ready laugh and off-hand bearing indicated the born soldier; eyes mild, friendly, and full of honesty. It was only when Breathed was fighting his guns, or leading a charge, that they resembled red-hot coals, and seemed to flame.
To come to my incident. I wish, reader, to show you Breathed; to let you see the whole individual in a single exploit. It is good to record things not recorded in “history.” They are, after all, the real glory of the South of which nothing can deprive her. I please myself, too, for Breathed was my friend. I loved and admired him—and only a month or two before, he had made the whole army admire—and laugh with—him too.
See how memory leads me off! I am going to give ten words, first, to that incident which made us laugh.
In the last days of winter, a force of Federal cavalry came to make an attack on Charlottesville—crossing the Rapidan high up toward the mountains, and aiming to surprise the place. Unfortunately for him, General Custer, who commanded the expedition, was to find the Stuart horse artillery in winter quarters near. So sudden and unexpected was Custer’s advance, that the artillery camps were entirely surprised. At one moment, the men were lying down in their tents, dozing, smoking, laughing—the horses turned out to graze, the guns covered, a profound peace reigning—at the next, they were running to arms, shouting, and in confusion, with the blue cavalry charging straight on their tents, sabre in hand.
Breathed had been lounging like the rest, laughing and talking with the men. Peril made him suddenly king, and, sabre in hand, he rushed to the guns, calling to his men to follow.
With his own hands he wheeled a gun round, drove home a charge, and trained the piece to bear upon the Federal cavalry, trampling in among the tents within fifty yards of him.
“Man the guns!” he shouted, in his voice of thunder. “Stand to your guns, boys! You promised me you would never let these guns be taken!”{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
A roar of voices answered him. The bull-dogs thrilled at the voice of the master. Suddenly the pieces spouted flame; shell and canister tore through the Federal ranks. Breathed was everywhere, cheering on the cannoneers. Discharge succeeded discharge; the ground shook: then the enemy gave back, wavering and losing heart.
Breathed seized the moment. Many of the horses had been caught and hastily saddled. Breathed leaped upon one of them, and shouted:—
“Mount!”
The men threw themselves into the saddle—some armed with sabres, others with clubs, others with pieces of fence-rail, caught up from the fires.
“Charge!” thundered Breathed.
At the head of his men, he lead a headlong charge upon the Federal cavalry, which broke and fled in the wildest disorder, pursued by the ragged cannoneers, Breathed in front, with yells, cheers, and cries of defiance.
They were pursued past Barboursville to the Rapidan, without pause. That night Stuart went after them: their officers held a council of war, it is said, to decide whether they should not bury their artillery near Stannardsville, to prevent is capture. On the day after this, they had escaped.
In passing Barboursville, on their return from Charlottesville, one of the Federal troopers stopped to get a drink of water at the house of a citizen.
“What’s the matter?” asked the citizen.
“Well, we are retreating.”
“Who is after you?”
“Nobody but old Jim Breathed and his men, armed with fence-rails."{1}
{Footnote 1: His words.}
Such was one of a dozen incidents in Breathed’s life. Let me come to that which took place near Spottsylvania Court-House.
Grant had moved, as we have seen, by his left flank toward that place. General Fitzhugh Lee opposed him on the way, and at every step harassed the head of the Federal column with his dismounted sharp-shooters and horse artillery. Near Spottsylvania Court-House, it was the stand made by Fitz Lee’s cavalry that saved the position, changing the aspect of the whole campaign.
Sent by Stuart with a message to the brave “General Fitz,” I reached him near Spottsylvania Court-House, at the moment when he had just ordered his cavalry to fall back slowly before the advancing enemy, and take a new position in rear.
Two guns which had been firing on the enemy were still in battery on a hill; upon these a heavy Federal skirmish line was steadily moving: and beside the guns, Breathed and Fitzhugh Lee sat their horses, looking coolly at the advancing line.
“Give them a round of canister, Breathed!” exclaimed General Fitz Lee.
Breathed obeyed, but the skirmish line continued bravely to advance. All at once, there appeared in the woods behind them, a regular line of battle advancing, with flags fluttering.
To remain longer on the hill was to lose the guns. The bullets were whizzing around us, and there was but one course left—to fall back.
“Take the guns off, Breathed!” exclaimed the general; “there is no time to lose! Join the command in the new position, farther down the road!”
Breathed looked decidedly unwilling.
“A few more rounds, general!”
And turning to the men, he shouted:—
“Give them canister!”
At the word, the guns spouted flame, and the canister tore through the line of skirmishers, and the Federal line of battle behind; but it did not check them. They came on more rapidly, and the air was full of balls.
“Look out for the guns, Breathed! Take them off!” exclaimed the general.
Breathed turned toward one of the pieces, and ordered:—
“Limber to the rear!”
The order was quickly obeyed.
“Forward!”
The piece went off at a thundering gallop, pursued by bullets.
“Only a few more rounds, general!” pleaded Breathed; “I won’t lose the guns!”
“All right!”
As he spoke, the enemy rushed upon the single gun.
Breathed replied by hurling canister in their faces. He sat his horse, unflinching. Never had I seen a more superb soldier.
The enemy were nearly at the muzzle of the piece.
“Surrender!” they were heard shouting; “surrender the gun!” Breathed’s response was a roar, which hurled back the front rank.
Then, his form towering amid the smoke, his eyes flashing, his drawn sabre whirled above his head, Breathed shouted,—
“Limber up!”
The cannoneers seized the trail; the horses wheeled at a gallop; the piece was limbered up; and the men rushed down the hill to mount their horses, left there.
Then around the gun seemed to open a volcano of flame. The Federal infantry were right on it. A storm of bullets cut the air. The drivers leaped from the horses drawing the piece, thinking its capture inevitable, and ran down the hill.
In an instant they had disappeared. The piece seemed in the hands of the enemy—indeed, they were almost touching it—a gun of the Stuart horse artillery for the first time was to be captured!
That thought seemed to turn Breathed into a giant. As the drivers disappeared, his own horse was shot under him, staggered, sunk, and rolled upon his rider. Breathed dragged himself from beneath the bleeding animal, rose to his feet, and rushing to the lead horses of the gun, leaped upon one of them, and struck them violently with his sabre to force them on.
As he did so, the horse upon which he was mounted fell, pierced by a bullet through the body.
Breathed fell upon his feet, and, with the edge of his sabre, cut the two leaders out of the traces. He then leaped upon one of the middle horses—the gun being drawn by six—and started off.
He had not gone three paces, when the animal which he now rode fell dead in turn. Breathed rolled upon the ground, but rising to his feet, severed the dead animal and his companion from the piece, as he had done the leaders.
He then leaped upon one of the wheel-horses—these alone being now left—struck them furiously with his sabre—started at a thundering gallop down the hill—and pursued by a hail-storm of bullets, from which, as General Lee says in his report, “he miraculously escaped unharmed,” carried off the gun in safety, and rejoined the cavalry, greeted by a rolling thunder of cheers.
Such was the manner in which Breathed fought his artillery, and the narrative is the barest and most simple statement of fact.
Breathed came out of the war a lieutenant-colonel only. Napoleon would have made him a marshal.