The Second Corps, marching by the Fairfield road, marched in rain and wind and weariness. Ewell, wooden-legged now, irascible, heroic, sighing for “Old Jackson,” handling his corps as “Old Jackson” would have approved, rode in front. Jubal Early, strange compound but admirable fighter,—Jubal Early guarded the rear with the brigades of Hoke and Smith and Gordon and Harry Hays. Between were Rodes’s division—Iverson and Daniels, Dole, Ramseur and O’Neal—and “Alleghany” Johnson’s division—Steuart and Jones and Nicholls and the Stonewall Brigade. With each division heavily moved upon the road its artillery—Charlottesville Artillery, Staunton Artillery, Louisiana Guard Artillery, Courtney Artillery, King William Artillery, Orange Artillery, Morris Artillery, Jeff Davis Artillery, Chesapeake Artillery, Alleghany Artillery, First Maryland Battery, Lee Battery, Powhatan Artillery, Salem Artillery, Rockbridge Artillery, Third Richmond Howitzers, Second Richmond Howitzers, Amherst Artillery, Fluvanna Artillery, Milledge’s Georgia Battery.
The Stonewall Brigade bent its head and took the blast. The rain streamed from the slanted forest of rifle barrels; the wind blew out the officer’s capes; the colours had to be furled against it. All the colours were smoke-darkened, shot-riddled. The Stonewall was a veteran brigade. It had an idea that it had been engaged in war since the rains first came upon the earth. Walker, its general, a good and gallant man, plodded at its head, his hat brim streaming wet, his horse’s breath making a little cloud. Tramp! tramp! behind him marched the Stonewall—a long, swinging gait, a “foot cavalry” gait.
The Sixty-fifth Virginia, Colonel Erskine, covered the way with a mountain stride. It was nearing now the pass of the South Mountain, and its road lay uphill. It had done good service at Gettysburg, and it had its wounded in that anguished column over on the Chambersburg Pike. It had left its dead upon the field. Now, climbing the long hills, colours slanted forward, keen, bronzed faces slanted forward, man and beast streaming rain and all battling with the gusty wind, the Sixty-fifth missed its dead, missed its wounded, knew that the army had suffered defeat, knew that the high hopes of this campaign lay in ashes, knew that these days formed a crisis in the war, knew that all the sky had darkened over the South, knew that before it lay grim struggle and a doubtful end. The units of the Sixty-fifth knew many things that in the old piping time of peace they had never thought to know.
The grain in the fields was all broken down, the woods clashed their branches, through flawed sheets of dull silver the distant mountain crests were just divined. The wind howled like a banshee, and for all that it was July the air was cold. The Sixty-fifth thought of other marches. Before McDowell—Elk Run Valley—that was bad. Elk Run Valley was bad. Before Mechanicsville—coming down from Beaver Dam Station—that was bad. Bath to Romney—that was worst.... We’ve had plenty of bad marches—plenty of marches—plenty of heroic marches. We are used to marching—used to marching.... Marching and fighting—marching and fighting....
Tall and lean and tanned, the Thunder Run men opposed the wind from the mountains. Allan Gold and Sergeant Billy Maydew exchanged observations.
“I wouldn’t be tired,” said Billy, “going up Thunder Run Mountain. I air not tired anyhow.”
“No, there’s no help in being tired.... I hope that Tom and Sairy are dry and warm—”
“I don’t mind wet,” said Billy, “and I don’t mind cold, and I can tighten my belt when I’m hungry, but the thing that air hard for me to stand air going without sleep. I tell my will to hold hard and I put tobacco in my eyes, but sleep sure air a hard thing for me to go without. I could sleep now—I could sleep—I could sleep.... Yes; I hope all Thunder Run air dry and warm—Mr. Cole and Mrs. Cole and Mother and Christianna and Violetta and Rosalinda and the children and Grandpap and the dawgs and Steve Dagg—No; I kinder hope Steve air wet and whimpering.... Thunder Run’s a long way off. I could go to sleep—and sleep—and sleep ...”
“I’m not sleepy,” said Allan. “But I wish I had a pitcher of milk—”
The Sixty-fifth determined to try singing.