101. CI.
IN A CARRIAGE WINDOW.
Millwood is a pleasant little village, dropped like a bird's-nest
in the midst of smiling fields and the foliage of noble forests.
The region around is charming—all flowers and pretty faces.
So at least it appeared to that bird of passage, Surry, who lightly
touched and went; but not so quickly as to miss seeing the bright
eyes of maidens, true as steel in blood and heart and soul to the
cause of the South.
McClellan had advanced, but Jackson had halted. While the
Federal commander was streaming toward the Rappahannock,
Jackson remained idle near Millwood. What did it mean? I
did not know then, but now all is plain. With that dangerous
foe upon his flank, and in a position to strike his rear, McClellan
advanced with doubt and fear. Who could tell at what moment
the formidable Stonewall Jackson would put his column in motion,
hasten through Ashby's Gap, and strike the Federal rear,
while Lee attacked in front?
General McClellan, however, continued to move southward,
Lee everywhere facing him, when suddenly his head went to the
block, and General Ambrose Burnside reigned in his stead.
Thus made his final exit from the stage the greatest of the
Federal commanders.
“Off with his head! So much for Backingham!”
The days passed on, but we lingered still in this lovely land,
the Valley of the Shenandoah. Slowly the glories of the autumn
faded. The russet brown of winter came, and the trees, of late
so beautiful with their variegated trappings, began to be denuded
by the chill blasts preluding winter. But still the sunshine slept
serenely—dim, memorial, and pensive—on the yellow woods;
the wild geese made the far depths of the November heavens
musical with their plaintive cry; and any one given to revery
and dreams might have found still in the noble forests haunts full
of quiet beauty, starred with wild autumn flowers, where hour
after hour would glide by silently, and no sound would be heard
but the murmur of the Shenandoah, flowing to the Potomac, its
eternity.
This land and this people Jackson loved more than all the rest;
and there was not a face that did not glow with pleasure, or an
eye that did not look brighter at his coming. His corps was full
of young men from this very region—the Second Regiment, indeed,
was almost made up of brave youths born here—and their
mothers, sisters, and cousins constantly visited the camps.
With these, the famous General was an enormous favorite.
All the world admired his great achievements, but the people of
the Shenandoah Valley looked upon him as their own especial
hero, their great defender and beloved chieftain. Not the strong
men only, who had estimated coolly his grand military genius,
nor the matrons who had recognized in him the perfect type of
Christian manhood—it was the girls who, more than all, grew
wildly enthusiastic about the shy, retiring General Stonewall, in
his dingy old coat, his faded cap, his heavy boots—a figure so
unlike the young, flashing military heroes of the imagination! I
was riding with him in the neighborhood of Millwood one day,
when we passed a carriage full of young girls; and I remember
how one of them looked at the famous soldier. As he approached,
the maiden leaned through the window, her cheeks glowing,
her eyes sparkling, and, ever as General Stonewall came, leaned
further still and further, with the same long, ardent gaze, “all
her soul in her eyes,” until that look, as if by some irresistible
magnetism, drew his eyes to her glowing face. What would you
give to be looked at in that manner by a Virginia girl, good
friend? I think it would be better than to have a “brown-stone
front” on Fifth or any other avenue.
Jackson caught the flashing glance of the admiring eyes, colored
slightly, saluted, and rode on, followed by those sparkling
eyes. At least she had seen him!
From the woods below Millwood the General moved his head-quarters
to a picturesque spot called “The Glen,” near an old
house known as “Saratoga.” Here, for a brief space, the white
tents glittered on the greensward in the sunshine, and the quiet
scene was full of couriers, noise, hoof-strokes, rattling sabres, and
floating plumes.
Then all this passed away. The tents disappeared, and silence
again reigned in the secluded glen of “Saratoga.”
Jackson was on the march.
The Federal army, under its new commander, General Burnside,
had continued to advance toward the Rappahannock. Soon
vigorous attempts were made to cross the upper waters; but
everywhere the blue column found in its path the serried ranks
of Lee. To cross the river in face of the great captain was a
hazardous affair; and Burnside changed the direction of his
march, and turned the head of his column toward Fredericksburg.
When he reached the heights on the Rappahannock opposite
that town, there was General Lee still facing him.
Such was the condition of things about the 1st of December,
when any one who had been in the woods which cover the long
crest of hills along the Massaponnax, near Fredericksburg, might
have heard an echoing shout which rang for miles, and seemed to
indicate the reception of some joyful intelligence by the men of
Longstreet.
The long-continued cheering was succeeded by the glitter of
bayonets, the tramp of Jackson's veterans.
He had marched from Millwood up the Valley, passed the
Massinutton and Blue Ridge at Newmarket and Thornton's Gaps,
descended from the mountains, and, traversing Orange, followed
the plank road through the Wilderness to the woods of the Massaponnax.
Taking his position on the right of Longstreet's corps, Jackson
prepared for another conflict; and it soon took place.
His presence meant combat and victory.
