 | IV.
THE SECOND MANASSAS. Hammer and rapier |  |
4. IV.
THE SECOND MANASSAS.
“This week is the crisis of our fate.”
Does the reader remember when and by whom
these words were written?
If they greet his eyes for the first time to-day, and
his sympathies be anti-Southern, he will say, perhaps:
“Johnston or Beaureguard wrote thus from Bull
Run in July, 1861—Jackson from Port Republic in
June, 1862—or Lee from Gettysburg in 1863.”
On the contrary, it was McClellan, who penned that
brief and pithy dispatch from Alexandria on the 1st
day of September, 1862, when the disorganized battallions
of Maj. Gen. Pope were hastening towards
the protecting defences of Washington.
To-day the world knows that his fears were well
founded. Never had the day looked darker for the
Federal cause than then. Never had the overthrow of
the Confederacy seemed so hopeless. Worse still—a
great and real danger menaced the Federal seat of
government. The authorities trembled in their bureaux;
each moment they expected to see the red
battle-flag of Lee upon the Arlington hills, each instant
to hear the tramp of his legions under the walls
of the Capitol.
Throughout the three preceding days they had heard
the long, continuous roar of cannon from the fields of
Prince William. Every hour great parties of stragglers
had made their appearance opposite Chain Bridge.
Every moment, almost, until the wires no longer worked,
depressing telegrams had come from the army of Gen.
Pope, and each one was more disheartening than the
last. All knew that a great battle had been fought
again on the bleak plains dotted with pine-trees, opposite
the weird Stone Bridge; that the fields of Manassas,
already crowded with dead, had become the
charnel house of other thousands—that the shadows
there had depeened, the spot become trebly cursed
again by blood and destruction. The result of that
three days' roar of cannon and rattle of musketry was
the pithy telegram which is given above:
“This week is the crisis of our fate.”
Now, what were the events which rolled the great
wave of battle once more to the shores of Bull Run,
adding a new and more tragic interest to the sombre
hills and ravines of this historic spot? The fifth act
of a tragedy is badly understood without a knowledge
of the acts which precede it. In rapidly tracing these,
time will not be lost, nor is it the amusement of the
reader which we aim at. The truth of the Virginia
campaigns has been buried beneath great tomes full of
falsehood—beneath enormous party pamphlets like
the “Report of the Committee on the Conduct of the
War,” where every grain of wheat is hidden by a
bushel of chaff—where, consequently, it is chiefly
chaff on which the reader feeds. Chaff is not a whole
these sketches are addressed.
What had occurred in that month of August, 1862,
was this:
Defeated before Richmond, Gen. McClellan had
drawn upon his devoted head the thunder and lightning
of the Federal displeasure. The world said that
the hapless issue there, resulted from the generalship
of Lee, and the fighting qualities of his troops.
Gen. Halleck said that it resulted from the incapacity
of McClellan. In vain did Gen. McClellan “propose
to cross James River at that point,” Harrison's
Landing, “attack Petersburg, and cut off the enemy's
communication by that route South,” which plan,
when Gen. Grant adopted it, was greeted with hosannahs.
What was thus approved in 1864, was contemptuously
scouted in 1862—McClellan suggested it,
not Grant—and the record remains. Gen. Halleck
“stated to him very frankly my views in regard to the
danger and impracticability of the plan;”[1]
he was
not allowed to carry out his “impracticable” scheme;
more still, he was summoned to Washington, shelved
there, and his forces were assigned to General Pope,
then bent upon a great advance toward the Rapidan.
Gen. Pope arrived at his head-quarters in a car
decked out with flags; stated, it is said, that hitherto
he had seen nothing of his enemies “but their backs;”
and issued an order to the army in which he said: “Let
us study the probable line of retreat of our opponents,
and leave our own to take care of itself. Let us look
the rear.”
The sequel, as the reader will perceive, was the most
grotesque of commentaries on the General's military
theory. It was on his “line of retreat” that Jackson
struck the mortal blow at him.
Gen. Pope thus bade defiance to military science
and fate, and it connot be said that he conciliated the
smiles of Providence, the All-Merciful, who watches
over the helpless. Culpeper County was desolated
with fire and sword. When the Federal troops retreated,
it was one great waste, full of homeless and
starving women and children, whose cries went up to
God. But let that pass. The first blow struck by
Gen. Pope was not fortunate. He delivered battle
at Cedar Mountain, where, on the 9th of August, on a
lovely afternoon, he was defeated by Jackson. The
fight was obstinate, and the field covered with dead;
but the August moon, bathing the slopes of Slaughter
Mountain, saw the Southern banner floating on the battle-field,
and the Federal forces hastening back toward
Culpeper Court House, pursued by Jackson.
This battle, Gen. Pope said afterwards, was lost
by Gen. Banks, in consequence of his disobedience
of orders. That General denied the charge, and
brought a “railing accusation” against Gen. Pope,
of incapacity, and indisposition to venture on the field
of battle. The record does not make the truth apparent,
for the clearest issue of veracity is involved relating
to the orders.
Cedar Run was a defeat of the Federal forces, since
they retired; Jackson followed, and two days afterwards
dead. But heavy Federal reserves were behind, Jackson's
force was small, and he retreated behind the
Rapidan.
The Federal design was now developed. They had
abandoned all further efforts to take Richmond from
below, and had concentrated north of the Rappahannock.
Gen. Lee accordingly put his main body in
motion; advanced to the Rapidan, crossed the river,
and streamed forward to cut off his opponents from
the Rappahannock—a movement which induced them
to fall back with rapidity, and take up a position on
the northern margin of the stream.
Such was the first illustration of the Federal General's
theory in reference to lines of retreat. That disaster
lurked in the rear was now to receive a proof
more emphatic.
Before crossing the Rapidan, Gen. Stuart, commanding
the cavalry of the Longstreet army, had met with
a vexatious mishap. He had ordered one of his brigades
to rendezvous at the little village of Verdiersville
—had gone thither with his staff, and omitting, as
usual, every precaution looking to his personal safety,
had lain down on the porch of a small house in the
village, where he slept unguarded even by a single
vidette. The consequence was that a Federal cavalry
regiment, prowling around, surprised him just at dawn;
he was forced to leap on horseback and jump the fence
to escape—and so hasty was this movement, the enemy
being close upon him, that he left behind him his hat
and cape, which they bore off in triumph, to the great
disgust of the gay cavalier.
Verdiersville was thus a spot where Stuart had registered
a laughing oath of vengeance. He was now
about to fulfill it with a “poetic justice” seldom met
with outside of the covers of a romance.
Gen. Pope had retreated beyond the Rappahannock,
where he thundered at every ford with his numerous
artillery, and an attack in front was evidently injudicious,
if not impracticable. To flank him was evidently
the most judicious course, and to cut his communications
would seriously cripple him. Stuart set out with
his cavalry to cut them.
In the midst of night and storm, he struck the
Orange railroad at Catletts; charged pell-mell into the
Federal camps; threw everything into enormous confusion,
and ransacked the whole place. A singular
chance had directed him. Catletts was Gen. Pope's
head-quarters, but he was either absent or managed to
escape. He, however, left behind him his most private
official papers, and his personal effects, including his
uniform coat. These were borne off by Stuart and
safely brought back.
The papers contained the fullest statement of Gen.
Pope's forces, position, designs; his hopes, fears, all
that should be guarded, under triple steel, from an
adversary. If Gen. Lee had determined upon the
great flank movement which followed, these papers
confirmed his intention. If he had not, they decided
him.
Stuart returned laughing to his quarters. On the
way he met Gen. Jackson.
“Here is Pope's coat, General,” he said, holding it
back his coat.”
Jackson smiled, as he always did, when he heard the
laughing accents of that brave voice. Then he became
thoughtful again; he was developing in his
profound intellect the details of the great blow which,
in obedience to the orders of Lee, he was about to
deliver.
The design of Lee was more than daring, it was correct.
Absurdest of the absurd is that philosophy of
war which, ignorantly pointing to Caesar and Napoleon
as examples, erects adaucity above science, and decries
sound principles in warfare. Examine the campaigns
of Lee, the greatest living soldier, and his movements
everywhere will be found “correct.” Place him where
Gen. Pope then was—he would never have been
flanked and cut off. Gen. Pope's order desired the
men to “dismiss from their minds certain phrases—
lines of retreat, and bases of supply.” His destruction
followed.
Lee's plan was simply to send a column of about
twenty thousand men across the upper Rappahannock;
thence by a rapid march to Thoroughfare Gap; and
thence to Manassas, where Gen. Pope had established
his main depot of supplies. If the column was
pushed rapidly, it might arrive before Gen. Pope—
Mannassas would be destroyed—the Federal army
starved—Lee would follow, and thus the Southern
army would be concentrated on the enemy's line of
retreat—starving, faint, disheartened, they would find
in their path, strongly posted to receive them, the veteran
firm grasp of Lee.
To command the advance corps, Jackson was selected—that
great “right arm” whose loss Lee lamented
so bitterly after Chancellorsville. The peculiar
trait of Jackson as a soldier was that he always arrived
in time. Others failed often—he never did. He moved
with the mathematical accuracy of a machine. If he
undertook to arrive, he arrived, if not with his whole
force, with a part of it. Those broken down would
probably catch up—meanwhile, he attacked. For
great examples, take Kernstown, McDowell, and
Sharpsburg.
Jackson put his column in motion up the river, and
from that moment advanced like an avenging fate—
never pansing, allowing nothing to affect his fixed purpose.
Before the most rapid vidette could bear the
news to Gen. Pope, he had dragged his artillery
across the narrow, rock-ribbed, and forgotten ford at
Hinson's; pressed on to Orleans; and was heading
straight for Thoroughfare. For the time he
seemed to have forgotten the existence of roads. The
column moved apparently on the theory that where
two men can place their feet, an army can pass. When
they came to fences, they threw them down; when
they met with streams, they waded. Jackson thus advanced,
an eye-witness says, “across open fields, by
strange country roads, and comfortable homesteads,
on and on, as if he would never cease.” It was the
“bee line” that he was taking. When the Confederates
were marching over nearly the same ground in
were going.
“All right, Master,” replied the old man, smiling.
“You are going the same road Mas' Jackson took last
year, only he took the nigh-cuts.”
At sunset on the 25th of August, the column “moving
on briskly without a straggler,” was approaching
Salem. Jackson sat his horse with the light of sunset
on his bared forehead—for he had taken off his
old cap to salute the men—and his face was lit up
with a proud smile. No sound was heard but the
shuffling feet of the great column, and the rolling
wheels of the artillery; the men whispered, “Don't
shout, boys, the Yankees will hear us;” for orders had
been issued that music, cheers, shouts, should all be
stopped, as they were now approaching the enemy.
Jackson had counted, nevertheless, “without his
host.” There was something the men could not do,
and that was refrain from cheering their favorite.
For a time they passed by waving their hats in silence
to the bare-headed soldier. Then the stream broke
through. Some one, carried away at sight of the old
faded uniform, the dingy cap and the familiar face,
raised a shout—with that the torrent burst forth. A
roar, wild, thundering, tumultous, reverberated across
the fields and in the forests—and Jackson succumbed,
for that greeting stirred his soldier-pride and conquered
him.
“You see I can't stop them!” he said, turning to an
officer. “Who could fail to win victory with those
men?”
Strange confidence, had it not been justified by experience!
who ever, with their rags, affronted the sun!
Such scarecrows had never before carried muskets,
and that implement alone established their claim to
the title of soldiers. It is true that their method
of carying it removed all doubts. They were faint,
half-starved, weary unto death, and in rags; but they
laughed, and their bayonets were bright.
It was Gen. Lee who said that there was one occasion
when he was never ashamed of the appearance
of his soldiers—when they were fighting.
At dawn on the 26th, after a brief rest at Salem,
Jackson moved again, reached Thoroughfare Gap,
passed unopposed between its pine-clad ramparts;
and debouching through its eastern mouth, swooped
down upon the rear of Gen. Pope.
The march had been a complete success. Stuart's
cavalry had presented an impenetrable barrier to the
enemy's horsemen, thus completely shielding the great
movement; Jackson had arrived, next came the
fighting, and the cannon soon began to roar. The
plains around Manassas, silent, asleep, cursed it might
have been said, through those long months since
July, 1861, had started, opened affrighted eyes, and
again began to groan as the dogs of war coursed
backward and forward again over the fields where
the foot sank into graves.
To comprehend what followed, the reader must look
at the map. Many who read these lines, will probably
need no such reference—having fought there.
The “situation” may be conveyed in a few words.
Jackson, with twenty thousand men, was in Gen. Pope's
Pope, warned at last of the fate which threatened him,
was hastening back from the Rappahannock to extricate
himself from the terrible trap in which he was
nearly caught.
But his situation was by no means discouraging.
While Lee, with the great reserve under Longstreet,
moved over the are of the circle, by way of Thoroughfare,
the Federal commander could move over the
chord, by way of the Orange railroad. He had the
straight line to Manassas, that is to say, to Jackson,
whose twenty thousand men he ought surely, with
his large army, to be able to crush before Lee's arrival.
That result was indeed looked upon as certain, and
Northern correspondents—those children of enthusiasm—wrote
to their papers that the great Stonewall
Jackson was at last securely hemmed in, and out-generaled,
flanked, cut off, and as good as captured.
The personage thus threatened was meanwhile at
work. He knew that Gen. Pope's great column
would soon be hurled against him, mad with rage and
anticipated triumph; and the Virginian doubtless proceeded
on the hypothesis that nothing tempers rage in
men, as in animals, like starvation. The destruction
of the great stores at Manassas meant starvation for
Gen. Pope's followers, and Jackson hastened to destroy
them. Stuart rushed in with his cavalry, and an
infantry detachment. The mighty mass of stores was
kindled; the flames soared aloft, and that black cloud
of smoke upon the horizon must have announced to
Gen. Pope that his precious bread and meat, and forage,
were being destroyed.
What he could not do, being out-generaled, the
authorities at Washington did. They sent a brigade
under the brave Gen. Taylor to protect the depot; but
admirably as this brigade attacked, it was driven back,
pursued toward Alexandria, and the fate of Manassas
was sealed. The men of Jackson swarmed in and ransacked
it.
Many memoirs of that strange and grotesque scene
have been written. In the midst of the burning store
houses, burning cars, burning sutlers' shops, surrounded
by fire, smoke, utter confusion, amid shouts, cheers,
cries, laughter, the men were feasting on unheard-of
delicacies, and with thirsty throats guzzling rich wines
and cordials.
“'Twas a curious sight,” says one, “to see our ragged
and famished men helping themselves to every imaginable
article of luxury or necessity, whether of clothing,
food, or what not. For my part, I got a tooth-brush,
a box of candles, a quantity of lobster-salad, a barrel
of coffee, and other things which I forget. The scene
utterly beggared description. Our men had been living
on roasted corn since crossing the Rappahannock,
and we had brought no wagons, so we could carry
little away of the riches before us. But the men could
eat one meal at least. So they were marched up, and
as much of everything eatable served out as they could
carry. To see a starving man eating lobster-salad, and
drinking Rhine wine, barefooted and in tatters, was
curious; the whole thing was indescribable.”
A warlike music suddenly came to mingle itself
of Bristoe, a station on the Orange railroad, about four
miles from Manassas, came the long, continuous thunder
of artillery.
It was Ewell's. That commander had been sent to
hold the front, while Jackson proceeded to destroy the
great depot at Manassas, and he was scarcely in position
when the head of Gen. Pope's advancing army
struck him. It was commanded by Gen. Hooker,
whom Jackson was to overwhelm at Chancellorsville.
A rough wrestle followed. Ewell threw forward
three regiments, opened with artillery, and attacked so
boldly that Gen. Pope seems to have believed that he
had in front of him the entire Confederate force. He
consequently paused, hurried forward his main body,
and prepared for battle. Ewell continued to roar defiance
with his artillery, and show an unmoved front.
Pope advanced a heavy force; Ewell advanced to meet
it; the two columns seemed about to close in, in a
decisive struggle, when flames were seen to rise from
the bridge over Broad Run, between the opponents,
and when the smoke drifted away, Ewell had disappeared,
laughing grimly, doubtless, after his fashion,
at the result.
He had kept Gen. Pope off of Jackson's rear, while
Manassas was burning; that point was evacuated;
when Gen. Pope rushed in on the next morning, his
great adversary had disappeared. Nothing greeted
him but burning store houses and blackened ruins,
from which a few cavalry videttes retired at his
approach, disappearing in the woods.
The bread, meat, and forage of his army was a heap
of ashes.
This destruction of his stores was truly unfortunate
for the Federal commander; but that was not all. His
enemy had vanished. Where was he? Gen. Pope
had fully expected to find him at Manassas; and, on
the preceding day, had written to McDowell: “If you
will march promptly and rapidly at the earliest
moment down upon Manassas Junction, we shall bag
the whole crowd.”
But “at the earliest dawn” of the 28th Jackson had
disappeared, leaving Gen. Pope greatly bewildered in
reference to his whereabouts. The cotemporary opinions
expressed by the subordinates of that officer are
not complimentary.
“All that talk about bagging Jackson,” wrote Gen.
Porter, “was bosh. That enormous gap, Manassas,
was left open, and the enemy jumped through.”
“Jackson's forces,” he added, “were reported to be
wandering around loose, but I expect that they know
what they are doing, which is more than any one here,
or anywhere, knows.” On the 28th, Gen. Pope is
declared to have hastened toward Centreville, “not
knowing at the time where was the enemy.”
And that enemy ought to have been looked for
where he ought to have been. He ought to have been
where he could form a junction with Lee, then approaching
Thoroughfare—that is to say, near Groveton.
Thither, in fact, Jackson had moved after the
destruction of Manassas, on the night of the 27th,
thus escaping Gen. Pope, who rushed into the great
28th, only to find that the bird had flown.
Let us glance now at the situation on that August
morning. Never was anything more “dramatic.”
Campaigns are often dull, halting, and inconsequential.
This one was rapid, fiery, with day linked to day by
great events—the whole tending, as though driven by
the Greek Necessity, with her iron wedge, toward the
bloody catastrophe. Jackson had advanced from the
Rappahanneck, as rapid and resistless as some baleful
meteor; and the meteor had fallen upon Manassas,
the great storehouse of the Federals, and consumed
it. Then warned of his danger, Gen. Pope had hastened
back, intent on hurling his great column against
the audacious intruder, and crushing him in the very
hour of his triumph. He would “bag the whole
crowd,” if he could only reach Manassas on the 28th.
He reached it on the 28th, but the game had flown.
Then, on that morning, Pope was at Manassas;
Jackson at Groveton, with his left at Sudley; Lee was
advancing toward Thoroughfare Gap with the veteran
corps of Longstreet; unless Pope could crush Jackson
before Lee arrived, he must engage the whole Southern
army. As to frightening the man of Kernstown,
Port Republic, and Cold Harbor into full retreat, that
was hopeless. That trained and resolute gladiator had
only fallen back far enough to get out of his adversary's
clutches for the moment; not too far to render
possible a junction with Lee, if a little time—only a
little time!—were given him. At bay on the old battle-field
of Manassas, the dangerous game awaited the
resist à l'outrance.
The precious hours hurried on now; every instant
counted; the merest novice in war could have told
Gen. Pope that the great, the indispensable thing
was to interpose a force between Lee and Jackson, hold
Thoroughfare Gap, and thus fight the Southern army
in detail. But some evil demon seems to have whispered
in the ear of the Federal commander: “Allow
Lee to unite with Jackson; do not interpose,” and the
advice was followed. The left wing, under McDowell,
had advanced to Gainesville, between Lee and Jackson,
and, on the evening of the 28th, it was ordered
thence to Manassas. Thoroughfare Gap, which should
have been defended at all hazards by a large force,
was defended by a division only, and this division retired
almost as soon as Lee's cannon began to thunder.
So trifling was the opposition, that, reaching the gorge
at sunset, Longstreet was passing through at nine in
the evening; before noon next day he was coming into
position on the right of Jackson. The latter had not
yet been attacked; but, as though weary of waiting,
he had advanced and taken the initiative. While
standing at bay, Jackson had seen a dust-cloud on his
right, and prepared for an attack. But suddenly from
this dust emerged an officer, coming at full gallop,
with the intelligence that the dust was caused by
Stuart's cavalry. At the same moment a long line of
Federal bayonets was seen on the Warrenton road in
front; Jackson turned to Ewell, who stood near by;
raised his arm aloft; then, letting it fall with a loud
slap upon his knee, he said, briefly:
“Ewell, advance!”
Just as the thunder from Thoroughfare began to
roar, Ewell threw forward his line, and attacked with
fury the Federal force in front of him. It was King's
division, and made a splendid fight. Though assailed
in flank, they did not give way, nor did they flinch
during the whole engagement. It was only at nine
o'clock at night, when the news of the abandonment
of Thoroughfare probably reached Gen. King, that
the Federal lines retired. They had been advancing
toward Stone Bridge; they fell back on Manassas.
Thus McDowell, Ricketts (at Thoroughfare) and King,
had all retired, one after another, upon Manassas. At
dawn on the 29th, the golden moment had flitted by;
the gate of destiny had silently turned upon its iron
hinge; Pope was “massed;” Lee was massed; it was
army against army. The brain of Gen. Pope was to
be measured against the brain of Gen. Lee.
Jackson had lost his right arm, Ewell—severely
wounded in the battle just fought—but the crushing
weight of a great anxiety had been lifted from his
breast. Lee had arrived; when that intelligence was
brought him, he drew a long breath of relief, and his
eyes were raised to heaven in prayer and gratitude.
All the morning Gen. Longstreet was coming into
position; part of his line of battle was formed, indeed,
by nine o'clock, and the whole line resembled an open
V. Jackson's force was the left wing; Longstreet's
the right. At the angle was Groveton, a small assemblage
of houses, near which Stephen D. Lee was in
command of about thirty pieces of artillery.
Longstreet was ready about noon. At five in the
evening Gen. Pope did not know of his arrival.
Does that statement seem absurd, and is it greeted
by any reader with incredulous laughter? Proof—
Porter was ordered at half-past four to attack the
right and rear of Jackson! “I believe,” says Gen.
Pope—“in fact, I am positive—that at five o'clock
in the afternoon of the 29th, Gen. Porter had in his
front no considerable body of the enemy. I believed
then, as I am very sure now, that it was easily practicable
for him to have turned the right flank of Jackson,
and to have fallen upon his rear; that if he had
done so we should have gained a decisive victory over
the army under Jackson, before he could have been
joined by any of the forces of Longstreet.”
The present writer spoke to Gen. Longstreet, within
twenty yards of his line of battle—kneeling on the
right knee, finger on trigger—before noon. Gen.
Fitz John Porter—that stubborn fighter on the Peninsula
and at Sharpsburg—was tried by court-martial,
and dismissed from the service, for not attacking Jackson's
right at five in the evening, “before he could
have been joined by any of the forces of Longstreet,”
as says Gen. Pope.
“The force of `party' could no further go!”
We have traced, perhaps tediously, the steps of the
two adversaries, by which they steadily advanced to
the moment and the place of decisive struggle. That
narrative, we thought, would interest the thoughtful
reader more than a florid series of paragraphs upon the
fighting. The movements which we have followed
had massed his army, the hour of destiny had struck.
The defeat of Gen. Pope was merely a question of
time and detail. That result might occur thus or thus:
it would certainly take place.
“The histories” will describe in detail the long,
obstinate, and bloody, but never doubtful conflict.
The present writer retires from the domain of that
great muse; it is only some salient points that he begs
to speak of. And even these may not be understood
without a diagram; for what is plain to those who saw
the ground, is the mystery of mysteries to those who
have never seen it.
Let us ascend that hill within sight of Groveton and
look. We are near the Southern centre. Those gray
lines, extending toward the left, are Jackson's. In his
front is a wood and an unfinished railroad cut, where
the adversaries are going to grapple in bitterest conflict
—to fire within a few paces of each other—to stab
and fence with their bayonets—to seize rocks and hurl
them, breaking each other's skulls. In the centre,
near at hand, are the guns of Stephen Lee—that
hardy soldier, and accomplished gentleman—waiting,
grim and silent, for the great assault from the woods
beyond Groveton, which round-shot, shell and canister
is going to meet. On the right, stretching far beyond
the Warrenton road, is the embattled line of Longstreet,
bristling with bayonets, and flanked with cannon.
He is there, though Gen. Pope is telling Porter
that he is not—there, firmly rooted, the most stubborn
of realities. On the right of Longstreet are the columns
the men sitting or standing by their horses.
Riding slowly to and fro along the lines are two or
three figures, whose appearance the troops greet with
shouts.
One is that of a man of about thirty-eight, in a
dingy old coat and faded cap, who rides with his knees
drawn up, and raises his chin to look from beneath his
cap rim, rarely speaking, apparently sunk in deep revery.
That is Jackson.
Another is portly, athletic, with a long brown beard
and mustache, half covering the broad, calm face,
which habitually smiles—a man apparently of invincible
coolness, almost apathetic-looking, but notable.
That is Longstreet, Lee's “Old War-Horse”—a man
to count on when hard and stubborn fighting is necessary—when
to spring like the tiger and never let go,
like the bull-dog, is the order of the day.
A third is the gay cavalier yonder, with the heavy
mustache, the laughing blue eyes, the gauntleted hand
stroking the heavy beard, the lofty forehead, surmounted
by the plumed hat, the tall cavalry boots and
the rattling sabre. That is Stuart.
Of Jackson, Lee will say when he falls, “I have lost
my right arm.”
Of Stuart, “I can scarcely think of him without
weeping.”
When he parts with Longstreet, his “Old War-Horse,”
at Appomattox, there will be tears in the eyes
of each of them, as they remember all those glorious
encounters, one of which we are now essaying to describe.
We have looked at the Southern lines, on the Groveton
heights—the gray-backs lying down in a crescent-shaped
order of battle, and ready; but we have forgotten
the Federal line, as the laughing “rebels” appear
to have done. It is a crescent too, with artillery on
every knoll, cavalry ready at every opening. The
bristling bayonets of the great host curve round, following
the formation of the Southern line. The two
crescents will not fit into each other without the
cement of blood.
Gen. Pope attacked in the afternoon, and his first
movement was resolute. He threw his right against
Jackson's left; a wedge of Federal bayonets pierced a
gap in A. P. Hill's line, and the extreme left of the
Confederate army seemed about to be annihilated.
Hard fighting only saved it; the enemy were repulsed,
and when they attacked again with fury, they were
again driven back. Gen. McGowan reported that
“the opposing forces at one time delivered their volleys
into each other at a distance of ten paces,” and
Hill stated that his division repulsed “six separate and
distinct assaults.”
This attack was made by Gen. Kearney, one of the
bravest and most accomplished officers of the Federal
army. It nearly crushed Hill, but reinforcements enabled
him to hold his ground, and at night Kearney
retired. Thus terminated the first day's operations;
the railroad cut was full of dead and wounded, riddled
with bullets, pierced with bayonets, and torn by shell,
but both lines retired.
The dawn of Saturday, the 30th of August, found
the adversaries still face to face. Gen. Pope had de
to Centreville, he would have united with Franklin and
Sumner, coming from Alexandria, been nearer his base,
—that is to say, his rations,—and would have occupied
a position greatly stronger than at Groveton.
But the evil fate of the Federal commander drove
him on, and blinded him. On the 30th, incredible as
it may appear, he seems not to have known of the presence
of Longstreet,[2]
and he still cherished the hope of
crushing Jackson. An attack in force was accordingly
directed against the Confederate left and centre, and
the second battle of Manassas, about three in the afternoon,
commenced in all its fury.
It was one of the most desperate of the war, and one
of the bloodiest. The Lieutenants of Gen. Pope were
abler than their commander, and, if his own countrymen
are authority, possessed more military nerve. They
attacked with a gallantry which more than once threatened
to sweep before it the Confederate line of battle;
and, in charge after charge, in the face of frightful
volleys of small arms and artillery, essayed to break
through the bristling hedge of bayonets before them.
The assault upon the Confederate centre was desperate.
To this, the attention of the present writer was partienlarly
called.
The charge was made from Groveton, right in the
in column of brigades. The first brigade advanced at
a double-quick from the woods, so admirably dressed,
that the half-bent knees of the men moved in a line
as perfect as on parade. Before, however, they had
reached the centre of the open field in front, thirty
pieces of artillery opened upon them; the air was filled
with shell, bursting in front, above, on the right, on the
left of them; great gaps appeared; the line wavered,
then broke, then it disappeared, a mere mass of fugitives,
in the woods. In ten minutes, however, a second
brigade appeared, advanced at a double-quick, like the
first, and was in like manner torn to pieces by the
frightful fire, disappearing, like the first, beneath the
protecting shadows of the woods. A third charge was
made; a third and more bloody repulse succeeded;
then the great field between the adversaries suddenly
swarmed with Jackson's men, rushing forward in the
wildest disorder—without pretence of a line, and
“every man for himself” toward the enemy.
For a few moments the field thus presented a spectacle
of apparent disorganization, which would have made
a European officer tremble. Then suddenly all changed.
As the men drew near the enemy, they checked their
headlong speed; those in front stopped, those in rear
closed up; the lines were dressed as straight as an arrow,
with the battle-flags rippling as they moved; cheers
resounded, and the regiments entered the woods, from
which rose the long, continuous crash of musketry, as
the opposing lines came together.
That was late in the evening, and the Federal forces
lines everywhere advanced.
Longstreet swept steadily round, closing in, with his
inexorable grip, upon the enemy's left, toward the Henry
House hill. Jackson's whole command advanced. Night
descended upon a last infuriate grapple of infantry,
clash of cavalry, and duel of artillery, amid which it
was easy to distinguish those tumultuous Confederate
cheers, whose resounding echoes had, on many battle-fields,
announced the hard-won victory.
Gen. Pope was defeated; his cannon glared in the
dark from the Henry House hill, and near the Old
Stone House; then night swallowed the great scene
of wounds and death. Gen. Pope retreated in the
darkness to Centreville, whence he speedily continued
his withdrawal to Washington.
This was Saturday. It was on Monday that Gen.
McClellan telegraphed from Alexandria:
“This week is the crisis of our fate.”
Such was the great “Second Battle of Manassas,”
and it possesses an interest of its own, a strange character
separating it from almost all other conflicts.
Few events in the annals of war exceed it in that
singularly dramatic character which the locality gave
it. In July, 1861, Jackson's brigade had here decided
the issue of a great battle. Now, in August, 1862,
the same commander had grappled with the old adversary,
upon almost the very same ground,—almost, but
not quite,—for the opponents had changed sides. Hunter
had fought Evans and Bee with his back to Sudley;
it was Jackson now who held that position. Johnston
and Beauregard had assailed, in old days, from the
base there—a shifting base, soon to be transferred, as
we have seen, to Alexandria!
And all those old familiar objects made a singular
impression upon the minds of the soldiers—at least,
the writer, who saw the fight, can speak for himself.
Before him lies a leaf with these lines in pencil—
written on the night of the battle: “Strange, passing
strange! Yonder, a mile or two away, is the ground
where Evans commenced the `battle of the 21st.' A
dispatch, just arrived, says `Jackson is at the Stone
House'—we sleep upon the soil, bathed a year ago in
Southern blood.”
“Batteries were planted and captured yesterday,”
said a writer, “where they were planted and captured
last year. The pine thicket, where the Fourth Alabama
and the Eighth Georgia suffered so terribly in the first
battle, is now strewn with the slain of the invader.
We charged through the same woods yesterday, though
from a different point, where Kirby Smith, the Blucher
of the day, entered the fight before.”
Thus this bloody action had come to add additional
shadows to the already weird and sombre fields of Manassas.
Again the Federal power was broken; a second
time the banks of this stream, once so insignificant,
were baptized with the blood of battle.
There are spots on the world's surface over which
seem to lower huge, shadowy figures, uttering lugubrious
groans, which the winds bear away, and pointing,
with distended eyes, and arms in sable drapery, to the
yawning graves which curse the beautiful face of
nature. Manassas and Cold Harbor are among these
for here men have twice met in mortal grapple
—here the graves are double in number; so thick are
they, that you tread on them.
You tread on few flowers; hear the sigh of the wind
in the leaves of few trees; rarely the birds of spring
sing there, and the sunshine itself seems sad.
These spots, with Gettysburg, are the three Golgothas
of the Western World.
“A wounded Confederate soldier.... reported that he had
heard his comrades say that `Jackson was retiring to unite with
Longstreet.'.... Pope, who had not that day been to the front,
accepted the story as indicating a real falling back, and telegraphed
to Washington that the enemy was `retreating to the mountains.' ”
—Mr. Swinton's Army of the Potomac, p. 188.
| IV.
THE SECOND MANASSAS. Hammer and rapier | |