1. I.
The most uniformly fortunate General of the late war was
Beauregard. So marked was this circumstance, and so regularly
did victory perch upon his standard, that Daniel, the trenchant
and hardy critic of the Examiner, called him Beauregard Felix.
Among the Romans that term signified happy, fortunate, favoured
of the gods; and what is called “good luck” seemed to follow
the Confederate leader to whom it was applied. Often he
appeared to be outgeneralled, checkmated, and driven to the
“last ditch,” but ever some fortunate circumstance intervened to
change the whole situation. More than once the fortune of war
seemed to go against him, but he always retrieved the day by
some surprising movement. In the very beginning of his career,
at the first great battle of Manassas, when his left was about to
be driven to hopeless rout, his good genius sent thither Evans
and Jackson, those stubborn obstacles, and the battle which was
nearly lost terminated in a victory.
Of this famous soldier I propose to record some traits rather
of a personal than a military character. As elsewhere in this
series of sketches, the writer's aim will be to draw the outline of
the man rather than the official. History will busy itself with
that “official” phase; here it is rather the human being, as he
lived and moved, and looked when “off duty,” that I aim to
present. The first great dramatic scene of the war, the attack
on Sumter, the stubborn and victorious combat of Shiloh, the
defence of Charleston against Gilmore, the assault upon Butler
near Bermuda Hundred, and the mighty struggles at Petersburg,
will not enter into this sketch at all. I beg to conduct the
reader back to the summer of the year 1861, and to the plains
of Manassas, where I first saw Beauregard. My object is to
describe the personal traits and peculiarities of the great Creole
as he then appeared to the Virginians, among whom he came for
the first time.
He superseded Bonham in command of the forces at Manassas
about the first of June, 1861, and the South Carolinians said
one day, “Old Bory's come!” Soon the Virginia troops had an
opportunity of seeing this “Old Bory,” who seemed so popular
with the Palmettese. He did not appear with any of the
“pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war.” No flag was
unfurled before him; no glittering staff officers were seen galloping
to and fro; for some days the very presence of the man
of Sumter was merely rumour. Then the troops began to take
notice of a quiet-looking individual in an old blue uniform coat
of the United States Army, almost undecorated, who, mounted
on an unimposing animal not at all resembling a “war horse,”
moved about quite unattended, to inspect the works in process
of construction, or select new sites for others. Often this solitary
horseman of the reserved demeanour and unobtrusive air was
seen motionless in the middle of the plains, gazing around him;
or in clear relief against the sky, or looking toward Bull Run,
he peopled the landscape doubtless with imaginary squadrons in
hot conflict. Then another step was taken by the men in
making acquaintance with the new commander. The silent
horseman would pause as he passed by the camps, and speak to
the sentinels—briefly but not stiffly. When they returned to
their quarters they told how General Beauregard had thus
stopped upon his way, spoken with them familiarly as comrade
to comrade, and returned their salute at parting, with his finger
to the rim of his cap. Finally, the troops had “a good look at
him.” He reviewed a fine regiment from Tennessee, and all
eyes were fixed upon his soldierly figure with admiration—
upon the lithe and sinewy form, the brunette face and sparkling
black eyes, the erect head, the firm seat in the saddle, and the
air of command. When this nervous figure passed at a rapid
gallop along the line, the keen eyes peering from beneath the
Zouave cap, the raw volunteers felt the presence of a
soldier.
The hard battle of Manassas followed, and as noon approached
on that famous twenty-first of July, the Southern army seemed
completely flanked—Beauregard outgeneralled. McDowell had
turned the Confederate left, and, driving Evans, Bee, and Bartow
before him, seized on the Henry-House hill, the key of the
whole position. Beauregard was four miles off, awaiting an
advance of his right wing and centre on the Federal rear at
Centreville, ordered hours before. The order miscarried, and
the advance was not made; at near two o'clock the troops were
still within the lines of Bull Run, and on the extreme left
nothing but the two thousand six hundred and eleven muskets of
Jackson, with a few companies of Bee, was interposed between
the Southern troops and destruction. About thirty thousand
men under General Hunter were advancing upon about three
thousand—and to this critical point Beauregard now went at a
swift gallop, with General Johnston. The scene which followed
was a splendid exhibition of personal magnetism. Bee's men
were routed; his ranks broken to pieces; the battalions which
had breasted the torrent had been shattered by the weight of the
huge wave, and were now scarcely more than a crowd of fugitives.
Johnston, with the fiery dash which lay perdu under
his grave exterior, caught the colours of an Alabama regiment,
calling on the men to follow him; and Beauregard passed along
the lines at full gallop, rallying the men amid the terrific fire.
If he is ever painted, it should be as he appeared that day;
eyes flaming, the sallow face in a blaze of enthusiasm, the drawn
sword pointing to the enemy, as with a sonorous voice which
rang above the firing, he summonded the men to stand for their
firesides, and all they held dear upon earth. Beauregard was
the superb leader at that moment, and the cheeks of the gray-haired
soldier of to-day must flush sometimes as he recalls
that death grapple in which the flash of his sword led the
charge.
When not thus filled with hot blood, the face of the great
Creole, even amid the heat of battle, was composed, firm, set, and
did not exhibit, save in a slight deepening of the dusky tint of
the complexion, any unwonted feeling. The man was quiet,
silent, and seemed to be waiting calmly. I never saw a smile
upon his face until some months after the battle, when President
Davis came to review the troops at Fairfax Court-House. That
smile was caused by a little incident which may entertain some
readers. The present writer was sent one day as aide-de-camp
in waiting, to escort the wife and little son of General Stuart
from the Court-House to the nearest station on the Orange railroad;
when, just as the ambulance reached a point midway
between the two points, a company of cavalry made its appearance
in front, and the officer commanding requested that the
vehicle should draw out of the road to “make way for the
President.” This was done at once, and soon his Excellency,
President Davis, appeared, riding between Stuart and Beauregard—the
latter wearing his dress uniform with a Zouave cap,
the crown of which was an intensely dazzling circle of scarlet,
burning in the sunshine. As soon as young J. E. B. Stuart, a
little gentleman who used to call himself General Stuart, Jr.,
saw his father, he stretched out his arms and exclaimed, “Papa,
papa!” in a tone so enthusiastic that it attracted attention, and
General Stuart said, “This is my family, Mr. President.”
Whereupon Mr. Davis stopped, saluted the young lady, patted
the boy upon the head, and endeavoured to attract his attention,
in which he failed however, as the boy's mind was absorbed in
the effort to climb before his father. The scene made everybody
laugh, from the grave President to the men of the escort, and
among the rest General Beauregard. His laugh was peculiar;
the eyes sparkled, the firm muscles slowly moved, and the
white teeth came out with a quite startling effect under the
heavy black moustache. When the cavalcade passed on he was
still smiling.
I pray the reader to pardon this long description of a smile.
The strangest of all phenomena is the manner in which trifles
cling to the memory.
One more personal recollection of Beauregard as I saw him—
not on review, neither at Manassas, Fairfax, or elsewhere; a
stiff official figure in front of the lines, but in private, and this
time on the outpost. It was at “Camp Qui-Vive,” the headquarters
of Stuart, beyond Centreville, and in December, 1861.
He came to dine and ride out on the lines to inspect the cavalry
pickets; and it is not difficult to recall what manner of man he
was—so striking was his appearance. He wore the uniform coat
of an officer of the United States Army, dark blue with gilt
buttons and a stiff collar. The closely buttoned garment displayed
his vigorous chest; from the upper edge protruded a
sharp, white, standing collar, and he wore the inseparable Zouave
cap, with its straight rim projecting over the eyes.
The face of the soldier speedily drew attention, however, from
his dress. The countenance, with its broad brow, firm mouth,
covered with a heavy black moustache, and protruding chin, full
of courage and resolution, was that of a French Marshal of the
Empire to the very life. The iron nerve of the man was indelibly
stamped upon his features. It was impossible to doubt the
fighting instincts of the individual with that muscular contour
of face which seemed to defy opposition. The rest of the physiognomy
was gaunt, hard, somewhat melancholy. In the complexion
was observable the Southern creole descent of the soldier;
it was brunette, sallow, and the sun and wind had made
it resemble bronze. It had the dusky pallor, too, of care and
watching—that bloodless hue which the pressure of heavy
responsibilities produces in the human face. The position of an
army leader is not a bed of roses, and the bloom of youth and
health soon fades from the cheeks which are hollowed by the
anxieties of command. Such was the appearance of the “Man
of Sumter,” but I have omitted the most striking feature of his
face—the eyes. Large, dark, melancholy, with the lids drooping
and somewhat inflamed by long vigils—of a peculiar dreamy
expression—those eyes impressed the beholder very strangely.
It was the eye of the bloodhound with his fighting instincts
asleep, but ready at any moment to be strung for action. It was
impossible not to be impressed by this resemblance. Not that
there was any ferocity or thirst for blood in that slumbrous
glance; but if ever “fight” was plain in any look—obstinate,
pertinacious, hard “fight”—it was plain in Beauregard's.
