History of Kershaw's Brigade / With Complete Roll of Companies, Biographical Sketches, Incidents, Anecdotes, etc.

by D. A. Dickert

But the scenes are soon to be shifted. Sheridan had been to Winchester, twenty miles away. He hears the firing of guns in the direction of Fisher's Hill, mounts his black charger, and with none to accompany him but an orderly, he begins his famous ride from Winchester. Louder and louder the cannon roar, faster and faster his faithful steed leaps over the stoney pike, his rider plunging the steel rowels into the foaming sides. Now he is near enough to hear the deep, rolling sound of the infantry, accompanied by the dreaded Rebel yell. He knew his troops were retreating from the sound he hears. [451] A few more leaps, and he comes face to face with his panic stricken troops. The road was crowded, the woods and fields on either side one vast swarm of fleeing fugatives. A few of the faithful were still holding the Confederates at bay, while the mass were seeking safety in flight. His sword springs from its scabbard, and waving it over his head, he calls in a loud voice, "Turn, boys, turn; we are going back." The sound of his voice was electrical. Men halt, some fall, others turn to go back, while a few continue their mad flight. A partial line is formed, Sheridan knowing the effect of a show of forward movement, pushes his handful of men back to meet the others still on the run. They fall in. Others who have passed the line in their rush, return, and in a few moments this wild, seething, surging, panic stricken mass had turned, and in well formed lines, were now approaching the cornfield and woods in which our pickets and skirmishers lay, all unconscious of the mighty change—a change the presence of one man effected in the morale of the routed troops. They rush upon our sharpshooters, capturing nearly the whole line, killing Captain Whitner, the commander, and either capturing or wounding nearly all the commissioned officers. Before we knew it, or even expected it, the enemy was in our front, advancing in line of battle. The men hadn't time to raise a gun before the bullets came whizzing over our heads, or battering against the stone wall. We noticed away to our right the lines give way. Still Kershaw's Brigade held their position, and beat back the enemy in our front. But in the woods on our left some troops who were stationed there, on seeing the break in the line beyond us, gave way also. Someone raised the cry and it was caught up and hurried along like all omens of ill luck, that "the cavalry is surrounding us." In a moment our whole line was in one wild confusion, like "pandemonium broke loose." If it was a rout in the morning, it was a stampede now. None halted to listen to orders or commands. Like a monster wave struck by the head land, it rolls back, carrying everything before it by its own force and power, or drawing all within its wake. Our battle line is forced from the stone fence. We passed over one small elevation, down through a vale, and when half way up the next incline, Adjutant Pope, who was upon the staff of our brigade commander, met the fleeing troops and made a masterly effort to stem [452] the tide by getting some of the troops in line. Around him was formed a nucleus, and the line began to lengthen on either side, until we had a very fair battle line when the enemy reached the brow of the hill we had just passed. We met them with a stunning volley, that caused the line to reel and stagger back over the crest. Our lines were growing stronger each moment. Pope was bending all his energies to make Kershaw's Brigade solid, and was in a fair way to succeed. The troops that had passed, seeing a stand being made, returned, and kept up the fire. It was now hoped that the other portion of the line would act likewise and come to our assistance, and we further knew that each moment we delayed the enemy would allow that much time for our wagon train and artillery to escape. But just as all felt that we were holding our own, Adjutant Pope fell, badly wounded by a minnie ball through the eye, which caused him to leave the field. Then seeing no prospects of succor on our right or left, the enemy gradually passing and getting in our rear, the last great wave rolls away, the men break and fly, every man for himself, without officers or orders—they scatter to the rear. The enemy kept close to our heels, just as we were rising one hill their batteries would be placed on the one behind, then grape and cannister would sweep the field. There were no thickets, no ravines, no fences to shield or protect us. Everything seemed to have been swept from off the face of the earth, with the exception of a lone farm house here and there. Every man appeared to be making for the stone bridge that spanned the creek at Strausburg. But for the bold, manly stand made by Y.J. Pope, with a portion of Kershaw's Brigade (the brigade commander was seldom seen during the day), the entire wagon train and hundreds more of our troops would have been lost, for at that distance we could hear wagons, cannons, and caissons crossing the stone bridge at a mad gallop. But in the rush some wagons interlocked and were overturned midway the bridge, and completely blocked the only crossing for miles above and below. Teamsters and wagoners leave their charge and rush to the rear. In the small space of one or two hundred yards stood deserted ambulances, wagons, and packs of artillery mules and horses, tangled and still hitched, rearing and kicking like mad, using all their strength to unloosen themselves from the matted mass of vehicles, animals, and [453] men, for the stock had caught up the spirit of the panic, and were eager to keep up the race. As by intuition, the flying soldiers felt that the roadway would be blocked at the bridge over Cedar Creek, so they crossed the turn-pike and bore to the left in order to reach the fords above. As I reached the pike, and just before entering a thicket beyond, I glanced over my shoulder toward the rear. One glance was enough! On the hill beyond the enemy was placing batteries, the infantry in squads and singly blazing away as rapidly as they could load and fire, the grape and cannister falling and rattling upon the ground like walnuts thrown from a basket. The whole vast plain in front and rear was dotted with men running for life's sake, while over and among this struggling mass the bullets fell like hail. How any escaped was a wonder to the men themselves. The solid shot and shell came bouncing along, as the boys would laughingly say afterwards, "like a bob-tailed dog in high oats"—striking the earth, perhaps, just behind you, rebound, go over your head, strike again, then onward, much like the bounding of rubber balls. One ball, I remember, came whizzing in the rear, and I heard it strike, then rebound, to strike again just under or so near my uplifted foot that I felt the peculiar sensation of the concussion, rise again, and strike a man twenty paces in my front, tearing away his thigh, and on to another, hitting him square in the back and tearing him into pieces. I could only shrug my shoulders, close my eyes, and pull to the rear stronger and faster.

The sun had now set. A squadron of the enemy's cavalry came at headlong speed down the pike; the clatter of the horses hoofs upon the hard-bedded stones added to the panic, and caused many who had not reached the roadway to fall and surrender. About one hundred and fifty of the Third Regiment had kept close at my heels (or I had kept near their front, I can't say which is the correct explanation), with a goodly number of Georgians and Mississippians, who had taken refuge in a thicket for a moment's breathing spell, joining our ranks, and away we continued our race. We commenced to bend our way gradually back towards the stone bridge. But before we neared it sufficiently to distinguish friend from foe, we heard the cavalry sabering our men, cursing, commanding, and yelling, that we halted for a moment to [454] listen and consult. In the dim twilight we could distinguish some men about one hundred yards in front moving to and fro. Whether they were friends, and like ourselves, trying to escape the cavalry in turn and creep by and over the bridge, or whether they were a skirmish line of the enemy, we could not determine. The Captain of a Georgia regiment (I think his name was Brooks), with four or five men, volunteered to go forward and investigate. I heard the command "halt," and then a parley, so I ordered the men to turn towards the river. The command came after us to "halt, halt," but we only redoubled our speed, while "bang, bang," roared their guns, the bullets raining thick and fast over our head. I never saw or heard of my new found friends again, and expect they, like many captured that day, next enjoyed freedom after Lee and Johnston had surrendered. When we reached the river it was undecided whether we could cross or not. So one of my men, a good swimmer, laid off his accoutrement and undertook to test the depth. In he plunged, and was soon out of sight in the blue waters. As he arose he called out, "Great God! don't come in here if you don't want to be drowned. This river has got no bottom." Our only alternative was to go still higher and cross above the intersection of the north and south prongs of the Shenandoah, where it was fordable. This we did, and our ranks augmented considerable as we proceeded up the banks of the stream, especially when we had placed the last barrier between us and the enemy. We had representatives of every regiment in Early's Army, I think, in our crowd, for we had no regiment, as it naturally follows that a man lost at night, with a relentless foe at his heels, will seek company.

We returned each man to his old quarters, and as the night wore on more continued to come in singly, by twos, and by the half dozens, until by midnight the greater portion of the army, who had not been captured or lost in battle, had found rest at their old quarters. But such a confusion! The officers were lost from their companies—the Colonels from their regiments, while the Generals wandered about without staff and without commands. The officers were as much dazed and lost in confusion as the privates in the ranks. For days the men recounted their experiences, their dangers, their hair-breadth escapes, the exciting chase during that memorable rout in the morning [455] and the stampede in the evening, and all had to laugh. Some few took to the mountains and roamed for days before finding an opportunity to return; others lay in thickets or along the river banks, waiting until all was still and quiet, then seek some crossing. Hundreds crowded near the stone bridge (the Federal pickets were posted some yards distance), and took advantage of the darkness to cross over under the very nose of the enemy. One man of the Fifteenth came face to face with one of the videttes, when a hand to hand encounter took place—a fight in the dark to the very death—but others coming to the relief of their comrade beat the Confederate to insensibility and left him for dead. Yet he crawled to cover and lay concealed for a day and night, then rejoined his regiment in a sickening plight.

A man in my company, Frank Boozer, was struck by a glancing bullet on the scalp and fell, as was thought, dead. There he lay, while hundreds and hundreds trampled over him, and it was near day when he gained consciousness and made his way for the mountain to the right. There he wandered along its sides, through its glens and gorges, now dodging a farm house or concealing himself in some little cave, until the enemy passed, for it was known that the mountains and hills on either side were scoured for the fugitives.

Captain Vance, of the Second, with a friend, Myer Moses, had captured a horse, and they were making their way through the thickets, Moses in front, with Vance in rear, the darkness almost of midnight on them. They came upon a squad of Federal pickets. They saw their plight in a moment, but Moses was keen-witted and sharp-tongued, and pretended that he was a Yankee, and demanded their surrender. When told that they were Federals, he seemed overjoyed, and urged them to "come on and let's catch all those d——n Rebels." But when they asked him a few questions he gave himself away. He was asked:

"What command do you belong to?"

"Eighty-seventh New York," Moses answered, without hesitation.

"What brigade?" "What division?" etc. "We have no such commands in this army. Dismount, you are our prisoners."

But Captain Vance was gone, for at the very outset of the parley he [456] slid off behind and quietly made his escape. In such emergencies it was no part of valor to "stand by your friend," for in that case both were lost, while otherwise one was saved.

What was the cause of our panic, or who was to blame, none ever knew. The blame was always laid at "somebody else's" door. However disastrous to our army and our cause was this stampede—the many good men lost (killed and captured) in this senseless rout—yet I must say in all candor, that no occasion throughout the war gave the men so much food for fun, ridicule, and badgering as this panic. Not one man but what could not tell something amusing or ridiculous on his neighbor, and even on himself. The scenes of that day were the "stock in trade" during the remainder of the war for laughter. It looked so ridiculous, so foolish, so uncalled for to see twenty thousand men running wildly over each other, as it were, from their shadows, for there was nothing in our rear but a straggling line of Federals, which one good brigade could have put to rout.