But a word of my companions: Atkins was an Irish gentleman of fortune, but passionately fond of military adventure. He first saw service in Garibaldi’s Italian war, where he made the acquaintance of the lamented Major Bob Wheat, and a strong attachment was the result. At the breaking out of the rebellion, Atkins came to this country, and hunting up his old companion-in-arms, whom he found encamped at Manassas, in command of a Louisiana battalion, he entered the ranks as a private, and at the First Manassas won his captain’s stripes. He continued to serve in the command with distinction up to the death of Wheat, and the disbanding of the battalion as just stated.
Grinnell (a son of Henry Grinnell, one of the merchant princes of New York) also came from Europe at the breaking out of the war, sacrificing a lucrative business, and joined the command of Wheat also, as a first lieutenant. In the fight with Kenly’s forces at Front Royal, he had the misfortune to lose a portion of his right hand by a piece of shell, and had just been declared convalescent, and was ready for the field, but found himself without a command.
Shellman had practiced law in Frederick, Maryland, and served with great credit as first lieutenant of my company from its organization.
Never having kept a diary, reader, you will excuse little discrepancies in dates, but I think it was about the 22d of August that Atkins marshalled his forces and marched them aboard a James River canal boat, en route for the anticipated scene of action—I mean to say we were, and not the canal boat. We were compelled to take this route owing to the Central Road being taxed to its utmost capacity in the transportation of troops to reinforce Lee’s army, and therefore our only alternative was to go by the way of Scottsville, Charlottesville, to Gordonsville, etc.
Arriving at the former place, we hired a rickety wagon, to which was attached a wretched specimen of the mule kind, and after a long and tedious ride made our entre into the ancient village of Charlotte, not with the “pomp, pride and circumstance of glorious war,” but amid the curses of an irate driver, and such expressions as “may the divil take the ass and his master for hathans,” from our illustrious brigadier.
A day of rest at the excellent hotel de Farish so refreshed us that when we resumed our trip we felt as though our brigade had assumed the proportions of a division, and every one of us an officer. Rapidan Station, the terminus of our trip by rail from Charlottesville, was reached late in the afternoon, and distributing our traps equally, we set out on foot to overtake Longstreet’s corps, the rear of General Lee’s army. Jackson had the advance, and was making a forced march to get in the rear of Pope’s army, at Manassas. Our march lay along the Orange and Alexandria Railroad, through Culpepper, where we diverged to the left and took the road to Salem and the Plains. Shortly after leaving Culpepper we overtook the stragglers and broken down men of the army—to be counted by thousands. The majority of the poor fellows—barefooted and with bleeding feet—were struggling manfully to reach their respective commands, whilst others were quietly building shelters and laying in a supply of green corn, to await, as they coolly informed us, “the return of the army.”
Marching rapidly, on the 28th day of the month we came upon the rear of Longstreet’s corps in bivouac a mile or two from Thoroughfare Gap. Heavy cannonading was going on in front, and upon inquiring the reason for it, we were informed the enemy in strong force were disputing the pass, but that heavy columns of infantry had been sent over the mountain to flank them, and it was not doubted for a moment but the movement would succeed.
A council of war was now called by our commandant, and the brigade unanimously resolved to go into camp for the night, as Atkins declared, “Divil the bit could he fight on an impty stomach, at all, at all.” Selecting a little strip of woods somewhat retired from the main body of the army, the brigade went supperless to rest.
The sun was at least an hour high when we awoke from our slumber, to find the corps of Longstreet gone, and already several miles on its way to relieve Jackson, who, rumor said, had been closely pressed for two days by overwhelming numbers, and with difficulty held his own. We arose feeling gloomy enough. The roar of artillery had ceased, as had the rattle of musketry of the previous evening, and everything was still as death. Poor, hapless little brigade, retiring supperless and arising breakfastless. Shellman was the first to complain, though having the least to sustain. “Who ever heard of a command without a commissary?” he muttered.
“Arrah, Mr. Shellman, you see I am economizing, for what in the divil is the use of having a commissary when there’s nothing to commissary, and the Confideracy is poor enough, God knows, except in shinplasters. Bad luck to ye.”