1. I.
My friend, Captain Longbow, is a very different personage from
Captain Darrell. The latter is brave, honest, simple, and candid.
He relates only what really occurred, and never unless you overcome
his repugnance to such narratives: he is modest, retiring—
the model of an officer and a gentleman.
Longbow is a striking contrast, I am sorry to say, to all this.
He is a tremendous warrior—according to his own account; he
has performed prodigies—if you can only believe him; more
moving accidents and hair breadth escapes have happened to
him than to any other soldier in the service—if they have only
happened. The element of confidence is thus wanting in the
listener when Longbow discourses, and you are puzzled how
much to believe, how much to disbelieve. But then the worthy
is often amusing. He has some of the art of the raconteur, and
makes his histories or stories, his real events or his fibs, to a
certain degree amusing. I am always at a loss to determine how
much of Longbow's narratives to believe; but they generally
make me laugh. It is certain that he mingles truth with them,
for many incidents related by him, in the course of his narratives,
are known to me as real circumstances; and thus there ever
remains upon the mind, when this worthy has ceased speaking,
an impression that although the narrative is fabulous, portions
of it are true.
These prefatory words are intended to introduce the following
account of Longbow's adventures in the Valley, when General
Johnston was opposed to General Patterson there, in the summer
of 1861, just before the battle of Manassas. Some of the incidents
related I know to be true; others, it is proper that I should
warn the reader, I regard as purely romantic. The manner in
which Longbow professed to have obtained his “blood bay” I
believe to be imaginary; the untimely end to which the animal
came may not, doubtless is not, of historical verity, but it is certain
that an officer did kill his horse under the circumstances
narrated. Thus the mind is left in a state of bewilderment as to
how much is true and how much is false in the worthy's story;
and perhaps the safest proceeding would be to set down the
whole as an “historical romance.”
I have thought it best to convey this caution to the reader,
lest the narrative here given might cast discredit upon the other
papers in these “Outlines,” which contain, with the exception of
“Corporal Shabrach” and “Blunderbus,” events and details of
strict historical accuracy.
I have never told you, said Longbow, of the curious adventures
which I met with in the Valley in 1861, and how I got my
fine blood bay, and lost him. I was then a private, but had
just been detailed as volunteer aide to Colonel Jackson—he was
not “General” or “Stonewall” yet—and had reported a few
days before the engagement at Falling Waters.
I need not inform you of the state of affairs at that time,
further than to say that while Beauregard watched the enemy in
front of Washington, with his headquarters at Manassas, Johnston
held the Valley against Patterson, with his headquarters at Winchester.
Well, it was late in June, I think, when intelligence
came that General Patterson was about to cross the Potomac at
Williamsport, and Colonel Jackson was sent forward with the
First Brigade, as it was then called, to support Stuart's cavalry,
and feel the enemy, but not bring on a general engagement.
This, the Colonel proceeded to do with alacrity, and he had soon
advanced north of Martinsburg, and camped near the little village
of Hainesville—Stuart continuing in front watching the
enemy on the river.
This was the state of things, when suddenly one morning we
were aroused by the intelligence that Patterson had crossed his
army; and Jackson immediately got his brigade under arms,
intending to advance and attack him. He determined, however,
to move forward first, with one regiment and a single gun—and
this he did, the regiment being the Fifth Virginia, Colonel
Harper, with one piece from Pendleton's battery.
I will not stop here to describe the short and gallant fight near
Falling Water, in which Jackson met the enemy with the same
obstinacy which afterwards gave him his name of “Stonewall.”
Their great force, however, rendered it impossible for him to
hold his ground with one regiment of less than four hundred
men, and finding that he was being outflanked, he gave the order
for his line to fall back, which was done in perfect order. It
was at this moment that Colonel Jackson pointed out a cloud of
dust to me on the left, and said:
“That is cavalry. They are moving to attack my left flank.
Where is Stuart? Can you find him?”
“I think so, Colonel.”
“Well, present my compliments to him, and tell him that the
enemy's cavalry will probably attack him. Lose no time,
Captain.”
I obeyed at once, and passing across the line of fire, as the
men fell back fighting, entered a clump of woods, and took a
narrow road, which led in the direction I wished.
My fortune was bad. I had scarcely galloped a quarter of a
mile when I ran full tilt into a column of Federal cavalry, and
suddenly heard their unceremonious “halt!”
Wheeling round, I dug the spurs into my horse, and darted
into the woods, but I was too late. A volley came from the
column; my horse suddenly staggered, and advancing a few
steps, fell under me. A bullet had penetrated his body behind
my knee, and I had scarcely time to extricate myself, when I
was surrounded. I was forced to surrender, and did so to a
gray-haired officer who came up a moment afterwards.
He saluted me, and seeing my rank from my uniform, said:
“I hope you are not hurt, Captain?”
“No, sir,” I said angrily; “and if my horse had not fallen,
you would never have captured me.”
The old officer smiled.
“When you are as old a soldier as I am, sir,” he replied,
“you will not suffer these accidents to move you so much. Are
you a line or staff officer?”
“A staff officer.”
“Who commands yonder?”
“The ranking officer.”
Another smile came to his face.
“I see you are prudent. Well, sir. I will not annoy you.
Take this officer to the rear,” he added to a subaltern; “treat
him well, but guard him carefully.”
The column continued its advance, and I was conducted to the
rear. I heard the firing gradually recede toward Martinsburg,
and knew that Jackson must be still falling back. Skirmishing
on the right of the column I moved with, indicated the presence
of Stuart; but this too gradually receded, and soon word was
passed along the line that the Colonel had received intelligence
of the Confederates having retreated. This announcement was
greeted with a cheer by the men, and the column continued to
advance, but soon halted.
That night I bivouacked by a camp fire, and on the next
morning was conducted into Martinsburg, which the enemy had
occupied in force.
I was on foot, and of course had been deprived of my arms.
I was placed in a house under guard, with some other Confederate
prisoners, and could only learn from the Federal Corporal
that our forces had fallen back, south of the town, losing
“a tremendous amount of stores, wagons, tents, commissary and
quartermaster stores, and all they had.” I laughed, in spite of
myself, at this magniloquent statement, knowing in what
“light marching order” Jackson had been, and resolved philosophically
to await the progress of events.
The day thus passed, and on the next morning I was aroused
from my bed upon the floor by a thundering salvo of artillery.
I started up joyfully, fully convinced that Jackson was attacking
the town, when the Corporal came in, and cried:
“Hurrah for the glorious Fourth!”
“Fourth what?” I said.
“Why, Fourth of July!”
“Oh, that is the cause of the firing, is it?” I growled; “then
I'll finish my nap.”
And I again lay down. Soon afterwards a breakfast of “hard
tack,” pork, and coffee, was supplied to the prisoners, and I had
just finished my meal when I was informed that General Patterson
had sent for me. Fifteen minutes afterwards I was conducted
through the streets, swarming with blue-coats, galloping cavalry,
and wagons, to a fine mansion in the southern suburbs of the
town, where the commanding General had established his headquarters—Colonel
Falkner's.
Here all was life and bustle; splendidly caparisoned horses,
held by orderlies, were pawing the turf of the ornamented
grounds; other orderlies were going and coming; and the impression
produced upon my mind was, that the orderly was an
established institution. At the door was a sentinel with a musket,
and having passed this Cerberus, my guard conducted me to
an apartment on the left, where I was received by a staff officer,
whose scowling hauteur was exceedingly offensive.
“Who are you?” he growled, looking at me in the most insolent
manner.
“Who are you?” was my response, in a tone equally friendly.
“I will have no insolence,” was his enraged reply. “Are
you the prisoner sent for by the General?”
“I am, sir,” was my reply; “and I shall ascertain from General
Patterson whether it is by his order that an officer of the Confederate
States Army is subjected to your rudeness and insults.”
He must have been a poor creature; for as soon as he found
that I would not endure his brow-beating he became polite, and
went to announce my arrival.
I was left alone in the ante-room with an officer, who wrote
so busily at his desk that he seemed not to have even been
aware of any one's presence; and this busy gentleman I afterwards
discovered was General Patterson's Adjutant-General.
