43. XLIII.
WILL NEVER LEAVE WINCHESTER WITHOUT A FIGHT
—NEVER, NEVER!”
When I returned to head-quarters it was nearly midnight.
The General was absent, and ascertaining that he had ridden
into Winchester ten minutes before, I followed and came up with
him on Loudoun street.
To my brief report, his only reply was, “Good.” Then he rode
on in silence. I had never seen him look more gloomy and dejected.
Supposing that he was going to pay some private visit,
I said:
“Any thing further for me to do, General?”
He shook his head.
“I will, then, return to head-quarters.”
“Wait a moment—we will ride back together.”
And turning out of Loudoun street, he stopped before Mr.
G——'s again.
“Come in,” he said, in his brief voice.
I entered with him, and, as I had expected, found that no one
had retired. The announcement of the intended attack upon the
enemy had evidently banished sleep from every eyelid.
Jackson advanced into the apartment, looking so cast down
that his expression threw a gloom over every face. His heavy
boots seemed to drag over the floor; his sabre clanked drearily.
“I have come to tell you good-by,” he said, with drooping
head.
“Good-by! You are going to leave us, General?”
“Yes, yes, my dear friends,” was his reply. “Since I left
you, I have received an order by telegraph to evacuate Winchester.”
“From Richmond?”
He nodded, and I saw his eye glitter.
“They know best—or think they do.”
These words were uttered so quietly, that it was difficult to
perceive the sarcasm under them.
“I am ordered to fall back,” he continued, with great dejection;
“and perhaps it is best. The attack I intended might cost
too much. I cannot sacrifice my men.”
“Oh, General! you are going to leave us to the Yankees.”
“I must.”
Jackson's head sank upon his breast. Then it suddenly rose,
his cheeks flushed hotly, his eye flashed, and, clutching the hilt
of his sabre, he drew it a foot from the scabbard, and, rising to
his full height, exclaimed:
“I will never leave Winchester without a fight—never, never!”
At that moment the appearance of the soldier was superb.
His tall figure towered above the group, his eyes darted lightning,
his huge nostrils expanded like those of a war-horse “snuffing
the battle from afar.”
But the unwonted excitement did not last long; the color
died away from the cheeks, the fire from the eyes. The head of
the General again sank, his dejected expression returned, and,
driving back his sabre with a clash which rang out harshly in the
silence, he said in a gloomy voice:
“No, I must obey orders—I cannot sacrifice my men. I must
go without fighting.”
And he bade farewell to all, grasping the hands of one after
the other.
“Farewell,” he said, “and may Providence watch over you.”
I bade our kind host and his family good-by in my turn, and,
riding with General Jackson, who was silent and gloomy still,
returned to head-quarters.[1]
At daylight, the enemy were in front of the town, and I expected
every moment to see Jackson put his army in motion, in
obedience to his orders from Richmond, and retire before them.
He seemed, however, to have no intention of doing any such
thing. Instead of falling back, he advanced in full view of the
enemy, and manned his breastworks on the Martinsburg and
Berryville roads. Had the General changed his mind? Was he
going to fight in defiance of orders, and could there be some
truth in the views of those who called him “fool Tom Jackson,”
and declared that he was “crack-brained”? In his immediate
front was a force of thirty thousand men, ready to advance and
crush his small force of about four thousand; and, instead of taking
steps to retire before them, as the bravest general in the world
might have done without imputation on his nerve, he seemed determined
to fight them, and die where he was.
I scanned the countenance of the General curiously, as he rode
along the line of earthworks, to ascertain, if possible, what he
designed. But no mask could have been more immovable. His
face was inscrutable, and never relaxed its expression of calmness
and gravity.
The lines of earthworks now bristled with bayonets; firing
was heard in front from the cavalry skirmishers; and I expected
every moment to see Ashby retire, and a general battle
commence.
I was speedily to comprehend, however, the design of all this
manoeuvring—and from that time, the “crack-brained” theory
of the General's character never presented itself to my mind.
All at once, at a preconcerted signal, the infantry formed in
column, silently withdrew from the trenches, and, moving quietly
along the bottom of a sort of ravine in rear of the works, where
they were completely concealed from the view of the enemy, took
up the line of march westward, and around Winchester. The
“Round Hill,” as an eminence in rear of the town is called, was
encircled by the long lines of bayonets, still unseen by the enemy—the
little army advanced steadily, and, again obliquing,
struck into the Valley turnpike, about a mile and a half south
of the town.
Jackson had evacuated Winchester, and was completely out of
the clutch of his adversaries, at the moment when they were
preparing to charge him in his earthworks north of the place.
The infantry had thus disappeared—and soon the cavalry were
seen falling back slowly, in a long, dark line through the town,
their rear skirmishing with the advancing enemy.
