CHAPTER VI.
MANASSAS.
While the never-ceasing march of time was unfolding the events which have been narrated, others of a more startling and melancholy character were evolving from the womb of the future. We have now reached the historical year of 1861, which has already taken its place along with other famous periods that have marked the turning points in humanity’s progress. The reader, in order fully to understand the present story, must again gaze in imagination at the gloomy clouds of war, and listen to the awful earthquake of battle, the sharp rattle of musketry, varied with the deep bass of cannon, the thundering tramp of cavalry, the deafening shouts of the victor, and the piteous groans of the wounded and dying.
On the morning of the 21st July 1861, at early dawn, the boom of a single cannon broke the solemn stillness and sacred silence of the Lord’s day. It was the signal gun of Manassas, fired by the Federal troops opposite the stone bridge which spans the now celebrated rivulet known as Bull Run. It was thirty minutes past six o’clock when this gun awoke the first echoes of the initial battle of the so-called great “Rebellion.”
General McDowell, as rapidly as possible, pushed forward his forces to the main point of attack, which was the left wing of the Confederate army, resting at the stone bridge. It appears that it was General Beauregard’s intention to make an aggressive movement by attacking the enemy’s left wing, but suddenly his plan was turned against himself, and he was forced to act upon the defensive. General Hunter threw his command forward, and crossed Bull Run some distance above the stone bridge. The extreme Confederate left was held by Evans who had only fifteen companies of infantry and Latham’s battery of six-pounders. A demonstration was made in his front at stone bridge while Hunter was crossing at Suddle ford. As soon as this movement of Hunter’s was reported to Evans, he took eleven companies, leaving four to guard the bridge, and with this small force rapidly went forward to sustain the shock of 30,000 men. It seemed impossible that this little Spartan band could stand before the impetuous onset of an enthusiastic army, outnumbering them by twenty to one. But Beauregard and Johnson were several miles off, and Evans must assume the responsibility of giving shape to the battle. History hardly gives this man the praise which is due, who, without any authority to order up reinforcements, had to initiate a movement of his own in the very face of the defeated plans of the commanding General. Had it not been for Evan’s prompt action and his quick comprehension of the critical situation, the whole Confederate army might soon have been thrown into inextricable confusion. But Evans, at once, perceived the necessity of checking McDowell’s army till Beauregard could form a new line of battle, and send forward the necessary reinforcements. The struggle that took place was bitter and determined, for both parties were in a state of military effervescence. The Northern army especially was drunk with enthusiasm, and anticipated an easy victory over the poorly-equipped “rebels.” Many Congressmen and citizens, including elegant ladies, had come from Washington to participate in the celebration of the grand victory which they had no doubt would be achieved. They had sent to Centerville all kinds of delicacies, fine wines and the like, with which they expected to have a splendid collation as soon as the battle should be ended. We may here mention a fact, to which Northern historians have never given much prominence, if they have not deliberately suppressed it: Several wagons were loaded with hand-cuffs, with which to manacle the captured “rebels” and lead them along the streets of Washington in triumph. The Federals were, therefore, much enraged when they found their march checked by this handfull of “rebels”—a single regiment from South Carolina and a company from Wheat’s battallion. It could not be expected that Evans could hold his position for any great length of time against such terrible odds. He was gradually driven back. But the gallant Bee soon came up. His arrival was most timely, for the whole Southern line was now giving way, reeling, staggering under the hot, concentrated fire of McDowell’s army. Bee rapidly advanced with four regiments, and the battle was, at once, renewed with additional fury. For an hour, this brigade, with the few bleeding companies of Evans, decimated by their heroic effort to check the advance of a whole army, stood their ground, and fought with a desperation born of pride and patriotism. It seems that Beauregard had made no preparations for an attack at this point.
Twelve o’clock arrived, and found the little army of Bee and Evans in a most critical condition. It was slowly falling back. There would soon have been a panic, had not Bee discovered the famous brigade of the immortal “Stonewall” Jackson, coming to his relief. “General,” groaned Bee, as he galloped back, begrimed with the smoke and dust of battle, “they are beating us back.” “Sir, we will give them the bayonet,” calmly and curtly replied the Man of Iron. Bee immediately rushed back to his disordered and disheartened soldiers, and pointing with his sword, cried out: “Look at Jackson, men, standing like a stone wall.” And thus on that bloody field, amid the roar of battle and the groans of the dying, the hero was christened with a name which has superseded that given by his parents.
Again the battle was renewed. Jackson held his position for an hour, which enabled Beauregard to hurry forward troops from the lower fords of Bull Run. When Beauregard and Johnson arrived on the field about twelve o’clock, the day was going against the Confederates. But fortunately, while the “rebels” were wavering, and would in a short time have been utterly defeated, there was an inexplicable lull in the fight. The Federals had halted. At that time they were novices in the art of war, and did not appreciate the importance of those critical junctures when the fortunes of both parties are trembling in the balance, or when nothing is needed but a vigorous movement to secure a decided victory. But in half an hour, Beauregard had reestablished his lines, and the contest was again renewed. Fresh troops were arriving on both sides.
From one till after three o’clock, the historian is unable to follow the cloud of this battle. This period was what an elegant writer calls the quid obscurum of battle. The war-cloud was broken up, and floated about in uncertainty. Victory, trembling in doubt, hovered over one party and then the other. Nobody can tell what was done. Tactics had become useless. Each individual soldier was his own commander. It was a wild sozzle—an enormous street melee. Batteries were charged and captured, and in a moment afterwards, re-captured. There was no base anywhere; everything was shifting. Volumes of smoke rolled up; cannon roared; muskets rattled; shouts and groans—all mingled together in one horrid bedlam of confusion. For two hours there was this irregular contest, in which men fought more as individuals than as companies.
Three o’clock came. The fortunes of the Confederates were extremely dark. They had lost some of their best and bravest officers. Hampton was shot while leading on his men in desperation. The noble Bee, who had baptized Jackson with blood, fell mortally wounded at the head of the Alabamians in the thickest of the fray, grasping his sword and urging on his men with his dying breath. The magnanimous Barton, while rallying the seventh Georgia, was shot through the head, and as he fell, exclaimed: “They have killed me, but never give up the field,” and his pure, brave spirit winged its flight away from this awful scene of carnage, confusion and death. Fisher, of the “old North State,” was killed; Colonels Gartrell and Falkner were hors de combat. Many officers of lower grade, whose names will never be known, lay stretched upon the ground, never to rise again.
But the supreme moment had come. Both parties now prepared for the final blow. It was four o’clock, and the evening was hot and sultry. The Federal army was drawn up in the form of a crescent. They begin to advance. They expect, it seems, to flank the left wing of the Confederate army. What was their amazement to find themselves suddenly confronted and flanked on their right wing by 1700 fresh troops. It was the army of Kirby Smith, for which Johnson had been so anxiously looking for several hours. Indeed, he had gone back to hasten forward these troops, who came on the railroad; but as there was not a moment to lose, the cars were stopped, and the troops were hastily hurried from the train in the forest. This arrival added another feature to Bull Run that made up its similarity to the battle of Waterloo in 1815. If the reader will take the trouble to compare these two battles, he will discover that there was a striking resemblance between them, in several respects. Hugo’s letter A, with some slight modifications, will apply to Bull Run. The whole fight of Waterloo was for the plateau of Mont St. Jean: the whole fight of Bull Run was for a plateau, where the battle began and ended. In the afternoon, there was the same irregular contest. Toward nightfall Blucher burst upon the field like a terrible avalanche, before which the dismayed French fled in terror. About four o’clock in the evening of that Sabbath day, just as Beauregard gave the order to his entire line to advance, Kirby Smith, like Blucher, suddenly emerged from the woods, and burst like a thunder-clap upon the scene. This, at once, changed the whole aspect of the fight. The disheartened Federals gave way on the right, and fled before the intrepid soldiers of Kirby Smith. At the same time, the entire “rebel” army charged with reviving hopes and renewed energy. The Federals disappeared like phantoms from the gory scene, leaving clouds of smoke, abandoned wagons, wounded and dead men, to mark the spot where they had so lately fought with a courage and desperation worthy of their blood. Kirby Smith had saved the day.
Soon the roar of battle ceased, and the “rebel yell” announced to those in the distance that the first important battle of the war had terminated in favor of the “Great Rebellion.” The “Grand Army,” which had, that Sabbath morning, marched out with so firm a step, rolled back upon Washington in broken fragments. It may appear a strange fact in history, but that one battle terminated the whole campaign of the year 1861.
The enemy has gone, and the storm of battle has subsided. We can now quietly walk over the terrible field, and examine its gory wake. In the final charge, the second Mississippi, with the exception of one regiment, was on the extreme left wing of the Confederate army. Just at the time that Kirby Smith’s bayonet flashed like lightning into the cloud of battle, a young officer was seen to wave his sword, and fall to the earth with a groan. It was Ernest Edgefield.
