41. XLI.
THE DISPATCH FROM RICHMOND.
When I entered his tent, Jackson was reading his Bible, which
rested on his knees. At sight of me, he closed the volume, and,
rising, cordially pressed my hand, offering, after his habitual
fashion, to take my hat.
“I am pleased to see you again, Captain, or Major, as I must
now call you,” he said, smiling; “your escape has been truly
providential.”
“Thanks, General, for your good wishes, and my appointment,
which I suspect I owe to your friendship. Are you well of your
own wound?”
“Entirely; it was a trifle. I have reason to be thankful, when
so many brave men fell. Did you receive a message by flag of
truce from your brother? I mean Lieutenant Surry, of the
United States Army.”
“Thank you, General—yes; and replied to it.”
A fact of which I have neglected to speak. Will announced
that he was unhurt; and I had written from Eagle's-Nest.
Jackson shook his head, and said:
“This is a most unhappy conflict; and the enemy seem bent
upon our complete destruction. But the South must do her duty
and trust in Providence. I shall try to hold this region; but my
force is wholly inadequate.”
“I do not ask your plans, General, but would like to know the
state of affairs.”
“It is simple: the army is reorganizing—a bad arrangement;
and my plan is to put on as bold a front as possible, until the
troops are in a condition to take the field. What I desire is, to
hold my ground until we can advance then; with God's blessing,
let us make thorough work of it!”[1]
“What force has the enemy, General?”
“Nearly fifty thousand men. General Banks is at Charlestown
with about thirty-five thousand. General Kelly, succeeding Lander
at Paw-paw, with about eleven thousand; and others are distributed
along the Potomac.”
“Why, that is sufficient to swallow us!”
“I do not feel discouraged; and we may now look for war in
earnest.* I have long ago made up my mind on the point,
Major. If this Valley is lost, all is lost!* And, in defending it,
I gratify my own feelings. It contains the homes of my brave
soldiers;* and, with God's blessing, I intend to hold every
foot of it, whatever may be the force that is brought against
me!”
I listened in silence, and more than ever admired this determined
leader.
“It is incredible to me, General,” I said, “that the Government
does not send you more troops. They must understand as
well as you do that, if the enemy gain the upper Valley, Richmond
will be seriously threatened.”
The General shook his head.
“I don't think they have a great deal of confidence in me, Major,”
he said; “and I must do what I can with the force I have.”
“Nearly fifty thousand to four thousand! It is monstrous,
General!”
“Our place is to fight, not to count numbers. I intend to
oppose the advance of the enemy by every means in my power:
the rest I leave in the hands of Providence.”
Soon afterward, I rose to take my leave.
“To-morrow, if you have nothing for me to do, I will ride
over and see my friends in the First Brigade, General,” I said.
Jackson smiled.
“You must not call it the First Brigade, Major.”
“Why not, General?”
“Do you remember General Bee's exclamation at Manassas,
as he was rallying his men?”
“Perfectly, sir: he pointed to you, and compared you to a
stone wall.”
“I see you remember the very word. Well, the men insist
upon giving me the nickname of Stonewall; and they call the
old brigade the `Stonewall Brigade.' ”
“They deserve the name.”
“True; they are a noble body of men. The name belongs to
them, not to me; and, after this war, the survivors will be proud
to say, `I was a member of the Stonewall Brigade,' to their
children.”[2]
So it was the “Stonewall,” not the “First,” Brigade, I visited
next day, to greet my many old friends there. The aspect of the
camps at this time was inexpressibly dreary. They were situated
in the great fields north of the town, where the March winds had
full sweep; and, on the morning of my visit, a gust came which
prostrated the small “A” tents of a whole regiment. Every
thing was bare, bleak, chill, and gloomy. When I reflected that
Jackson's only dependence was the small and ragged force silvering
in these dilapidated tents, whose torn canvas fluttered
drearily in the wind, my heart sank.
The troops, however, were in perfectly good spirits. I never
saw men more ragged or merrier. The smoky canvas dens
resounded with songs—and I well remember the gay group
around the smouldering sticks in front of our tent, listening to
a song whose burden was:
“Oh! he was the boy with the auburn hair,
And his name it was MacElroy.”
It was sung by a brave youth of the Second Virginia, who afterward
passed gallantly through nearly every battle fought in
Virginia; became orderly sergeant of his company; and, when
it was swept away nearly to the last man, continued to call the
roll regularly every morning, going conscientiously over the
names of the dead and absent. The “Here!” which he uttered,
when calling his own name, was often the sole response to this
singular roll-call.
After passing some hours with my friends, I left them, and
rode forward to look at the ground north of Winchester, where
the enemy would probably make their attack.
I was riding along the chill, dreary, and wind-swept turnpike,
whose pulverized particles rose with every gust and blinded the
eyes, when a courier appeared, coming at full speed from the
direction of Martinsburg, and soon reached me.
“What news?” I said.
“The enemy are advancing, Major.”
“From Martinsburg?”
“And Charlestown, both.”
“Who are you from?” I called after him as he receded.
“Colonel Ashby.”
The next moment he disappeared in a dust-cloud.
I at once turned my horse's head, and rode back to General
Jackson. When I arrived I found him calmly engaged in issuing
orders for the disposition of his forces. The staff were soon
riding in every direction, and I assisted in the transmission of
the orders—disposing the regiments as directed, and returning
toward nightfall.
So rapid had been the enemy's advance that their infantry
were now engaged with our cavalry only a few miles from the
town. The firing was rapid and continuous, and it was soon
evident that the cavalry required support. A force of infantry
was accordingly sent forward to their assistance, and Jackson
then drew up his entire command in line of battle, evidently
determined to give battle, whatever force was brought against
him.
I was riding with him about nightfall, when the firing in
front had ceased, and he said, with that quick glitter of the eye
which always showed that he was aroused:
“I do not intend to leave Winchester without a fight. With
the blessing of Providence, I believe I can check, if not drive
back, the enemy's force. At all events, Major, I am going to try.”
He soon afterward rode back to head-quarters, drank a glass
of milk, and said to me:
“I am going into Winchester, Major. If you would like to
accompany me, I will make you acquainted with a most estimable
family, and we can talk upon the way.”
“I will be very glad to go, General,” was my reply, and we
set forward.
Jackson stopped before a neat house, on one of the side streets,
and, fixing his bridle to the fence, entered the house, where he
was received and greeted with great cordiality by a clerical-looking
gentleman and his family.
Our host was in fact the Rev. Mr. G——, of the Presbyterian
Church, and those who knew the preference which Jackson
always exhibited for the society of clergyman will not be surprised
at hearing that Mr. G—— was his chosen friend.
An hour then passed in friendly conversation, and Jackson
then said:
“With your permission, Mr. G——, I will now read a chapter
in the Bible, and offer a prayer.”
“I will be glad if you would, General.”
The books were brought; Jackson read a chapter with great
solemnity, and then all knelt, and he offered up a fervent prayer.
When he rose his features were slightly flushed, and I observed
an animation in his eyes which was unusual.
He stood for a moment looking in silence at the family, who
were great favorites with him, and then, with a martial smile
upon his features, suddenly said:
“Would you like me to tell you a secret, my friends?”
“What is it, General?”
“And yet it will be against all military rules.”
Expectation was in every eye.
“I am going to attack the enemy to-night.”
A flutter ran through the auditory.
“My force is small,” he continued with animation, “but it will
be doubled by the suddenness of the attack. Shall I prove myself
a very bad General by telling you exactly what I design?
Well, I am going to flank them on the Martinsburg road, in one
hour from this time! You see that unless you can pass my pickets
within that time, and warn them, no harm is done by this disclosure.
Yes!” he added, with something almost like joy in his face,
“I shall attack suddenly with my whole force—I shall drive them
back—and our dear old Winchester will not be at their mercy!”
After a few more words, uttered in the same animated tone—I
had never before seen him so elated—the General bade them
good-night, and we left the house.[3]
Passing the telegraph office on Loudoun street, he called to
the courier on duty there for any dispatches.
“This has just this moment arrived, General.”
And a paper was handed him, which he read by the light
streaming through the window.
Suddenly I saw his brows knit together, and something like
gloom overspread his features. He crumpled up the paper in
his hand, dropped it, after his habit, and, growling in the curtest
tones, “Very good!” rode on, without uttering another word.
As we approached head-quarters he said curtly, in the stiffest
of military tones:
“Major Surry, direct General Garnett and the other commanders
to provide the troops immediately with three days' cooked
rations, and hold themselves in readiness to move.”
I saluted, and Jackson added in the same tone:
“Then ride on to Colonel Ashby—you will find him on the
Martinsburg road—and direct him to hold himself in readiness
to withdraw his command through Winchester. I wish this
movement to be deliberate—I will have no stampeding.”
I set off rapidly, and, having transmitted the orders to the
infantry commanders, rode on to the front, in search of Colonel
Ashby. I had some curiosity to see this officer. During my
visit to the First Brigade the conversation had turned upon his
character, and I had found my friends quite enthusiastic on the
subject. They seemed never to tire in relating his exploits. He
was unresting, a sleepless war-machine, ready night and day for
a raid, an attack, a battle—any thing, so that it had “fight” in it.
While others slept, he was in the saddle. Seen to-day at one
point on his swift white horse—to-morrow he would be at
another place, sixty or seventy miles distant, inspecting his
pickets, gaining information, and seeing that all was well.
Utterly reckless in action, and liking most to “come to the
sabre,” he was represented as the soul of courtesy and kindness.
His men idolized him—he was their beau ideal of chivalry, and
the whole army chanted his praises.
It is not surprising, therefore, that I was glad of an opportunity
to make the acquaintance of the Colonel. The opportunity was
at hand. In the extensive fields on each side of the road were
seen through the darkness the long lines of Ashby's cavalry in
line of battle—every man in the saddle.
There was always something especially picturesque and warlike,
to my eyes, in this spectacle of cavalry at night, drawn up
to await or make an attack. While the infantry sleep, the dark
figures on their black horses are watching. Only the clank of a
sabre now and then, or the shrill neigh of some impatient
animal, proves that the long line, silent there in the gloom, is
not composed of phantoms.
But I had no time to indulge in thoughts of the picturesque.
I inquired for Colonel Ashby; was directed to a tree, on a neighboring
hill, where a small fire glimmered like a star, and soon
reached it.
