University of Virginia Library

46. XLVI.
THE VALUE OF TEN MINUTES.

The troops were so utterly broken down that I did not dream
of any further movement that day. The men would stagger,
and even fall, if they accidentally placed their feet upon a rolling
stone; they lay down in the road at every momentary cessation
of the advance; and their haggard faces, more than all else,
betrayed the immense prostration of the whole command. Under
these circumstances, I did not deem it credible, although Ashby
had found the enemy in our immediate front, that an attack
would be made that day. I did not know Jackson.

“Major,” he said, with great coolness, “the troops seem
somewhat tired.”

“They are broken down, General.”

“But they retain their good spirits?”

`Admirably, sir.”

“Well, I am going to attack.”

As he spoke, Ashby appeared, approaching at full speed, and
soon checked his horse and saluted.

“Any news, Colonel?”

“Very important, General. I have just received intelligence
from one of my scouts, who is entirely reliable, that a column
of about fifteen thousand men, under General Williams, has
passed the Blue Ridge, and is making in the direction of the
Rappahannock.”

Jackson's eye glittered under his cap, and he moved his head
up and down in a way common with him.

“Any thing further, Colonel?”

“I am fighting them in front, and the force here seems larger
than we supposed. I think a shell wounded one of their general
officers—perhaps my glasses deceived me, however.”

Jackson nodded gravely again, looked thoughtfully toward
Winchester, and said:

“Continue to press them on the turnpike, Colonel, and send
me prompt intelligence of any movement. I am going to
attack.”

“I am glad to hear it, General—I was afraid the troops were
too much exhausted.”

“They are very much so—but any delay will give the enemy
time to bring up re-enforcements. Besides, the advance of the
column under Williams must be arrested.”

Ashby bowed.

“You desire me, then, to make a determined attack?”

“I will be glad if you will do so, Colonel. My line of battle
will be formed here.” Ashby saluted again, disappeared at full
gallop, and soon the rapid and continuous firing in front showed
that he had attacked with ardor.

Line of battle was now rapidly formed, and, exhausted as they
were, the troops were full of alacrity. The force numbered three
thousand muskets, and, I think, about four or five batteries.

Jackson was rapidly making his dispositions, when a courier
from Ashby announced that the enemy were moving to flank his
left. The General's quick nod indicated that he had expected
this; and Fulkerson's Brigade, of two regiments, supported by
the Stonewall Brigade, was immediately moved rapidly in that
direction. Other forces were pushed forward under heavy fire
from the Federal guns on a hill in front, and the rattle of
musketry on the left soon indicated that the action had begun.

The battle of Kernstown was fought between the turnpike
and the North Mountain, on rolling ground, partly ploughed,
partly wooded, and the rest overgrown with broom-straw. The
fields were divided by worm-fences and stone walls—that ever-recurring
feature of the landscapes of the Valley.

Jackson hastened to form his line on an elevated piece of
ground, and, calling my attention to a heavy stone wall which
extended in front of his left, said:

“Tell Colonel Fulkerson to secure that wall.”

I had soon reached the point indicated and delivered my message,
which was followed by an instant advance of Fulkerson's
two regiments to gain the desired cover.

I had not arrived a moment too soon. As his line advanced
from the woods into the field, through the centre of which the
wall ran between him and his adversaries, the United States
flag was suddenly seen in the edge of the woods on the opposite
side; a long surging line of blue coats appeared; and, like their
opponents, they rushed forward to gain the wall.

The field was several hundred yards in width, and both lines
had a race for the prize. The spectacle was exciting. The
opposing flags flaunted defiance as their bearers rushed on—the
long lines crackled with musketry as they rolled forward—and
for a moment it was impossible to decide which would reach the
wall first. My heart was in my throat—it was a question of life
or death to many a brave fellow that he should gain that cover
—with straining eyes I followed the headlong race.

Suddenly I rose in the saddle and shouted. Fulkerson had
gained the wall when the Federal line was within thirty yards
of it; and, dropping on their knees, the men rested muskets on
the stonework, and delivered a staggering volley in the very
faces of their opponents.

Then rose a wild cheer. I saw the Federal flag go down.
The next moment their whole line broke and retreated, leaving
the ground strewed with dead.

I went to carry the intelligence to Jackson, and found him
leading a charge of his centre, composed of the Stonewall
brigade—a mere handful to be called by the name—and other
troops. It was now obvious that the Federal force in his front
was considerable; and, in fact, it was afterward ascertained to
number eleven thousand men, of whom about eight thousand
were probably engaged. Jackson's force “up” was three
thousand and eighty-seven, of which number two thousand
seven hundred and forty-two were engaged.[1]

The sun was now declining, and the blood-red rays began to
pour their crimson stream upon the woods, and across the fields
of broom-straw waving in the melancholy wind. The battle
was raging furiously from end to end of the field, and charge
after charge was made by the Federal and Confederate lines—
each in turn—while the shell from the opposing batteries raced
overhead, crashing amid the timber, or descending on the heads
of the combatants in iron showers. I never saw a more determined
struggle, and the men of the South fought that day with
heroic gallantry. To see raw volunteers maintain their ground
with such unflinching nerve was a grand and noble spectacle;
and the long crash of musketry, rising and falling on the
wind, was like the determined and steady fire of veterans upholding
upon some world-famous field the destinies of a nation.
And they were all Virginians, if you leave out twenty or thirty
Marylanders. The men who fought here were the youths of the
Valley, in sight almost of their homes. It was this which must
have made them stand so obstinately, and charge with that fierce
enthusiasm which nothing could overcome. Three times I saw
the Federal banner fall; and once, as the long gray line rolled
forward, blazing everywhere with musketry, I thought, and
still think, that the enemy were on the point of giving way.
The victorious Southerners were carrying every thing before
them then, when suddenly a fresh Federal regiment, which had
been lying down behind a crest, rose up and met them with a
yell. They were forced back by this fresh and thoroughly-ammunitioned
line. They slowly retired; and I remembered the
occurrence afterward, when a Federal officer said that the
stand made by one of their regiments “alone saved them.”

Thus the battle reeled to and fro upon the bleak fields, and
the shades of night began to descend—each line moving still
toward the left to outflank its opponents. A sort of fury seemed
to inspire the combatants—they fought like tigers. Meanwhile,
the thunder of Ashby's guns came in a long, continuous roll
from the extreme right on the turnpike, where they were
pressing him hard; and on the extreme left the incessant crash
of musketry told how fierce the fight was there.

It was at this critical moment, when the opposing lines had
grappled breast to breast, that the old Stonewall Brigade,
which had borne the brunt of the fight, was seen to waver and
retire.

Jackson's eyes darted lightning as he galloped to the spot, and,
seizing a drummer boy, he growled:

“Beat the rally!”

The drum rolled, and the line re-formed. The brave Garnett
had only ordered it to retire a short distance, as the ammunition
of the men was entirely expended, and the brigade was
re-formed without difficulty under the hot fire.

But the battle was lost—the enemy's numbers swept every
thing. They were closing in rapidly on both flanks, and driving
the centre. The day was decided.

What the eye saw then by the last light of day was an army
falling slowly and sullenly back, with a victorious enemy closely
pressing them. Jackson was thus fairly beaten—but here is
a strange fact:

I was retreating like the rest, when a cavalry-man, crossing
the field at full gallop, recognized me, and asked for General
Jackson.

“A dispatch from Ashby?”

“Yes, sir.”

I seized and opened it. There was just light enough in the
sky to read it by.

It was in these words, hastily traced with a pencil:

In five minutes I had found Jackson, and given him the note.
He was sitting his horse in the midst of the retreating troops,
without exhibiting emotion of any sort; and read the note from
Ashby without moving a muscle in his face.

“I thought so,” was all he said in his curtest tones, as he
crumpled up and dropped the paper. “It is too late.”

And he turned his horse's head and rode on with the retiring
forces. We were approaching Newtown, about five miles
from the field, when the voice of Major Harman, chief quartermaster,
was heard in the darkness.

“Where is your train, Major?” was Jackson's brief question.

“Gone to the rear, General.”

“Bring it back.”

Major Harman bowed and was moving off.

“See that rations are issued to the men—they will camp here
to-night.”[2]

And he rode on. Darkness had now fully descended, and the
enemy, who had steadily followed, came to a halt. They seemed
to fear the presence of reserves—and upon this Jackson, no
doubt, counted. He certainly betrayed no sort of intention to
hurry away from the dangerous proximity, and the men were
soon ordered to halt, build fires, and cook rations. It was a
picturesque spectacle—the long lines of twinkling fires far down
the turnpike, and the dusky groups laughing and jesting around
them.

Jackson sat down by a fire, so near the enemy that we could
hear the men talking around their fires. Here he dictated his
orders: these directed the troops to move at daylight.

While thus engaged, some intrusive personage, who had
strolled up, said:

“A bad day, General.”

“I feel very well,”[3] was the curt response, accompanied by a
look which checked all further words. The General then went
on munching a piece of corn-bread, which he had taken from
his pocket, and giving his orders. Having finished, he picked
up an armful of corn which was lying in the road, and, carrying
it to a fence corner where his horse was standing, gave it to the
animal. Here some rails had been collected and a fire kindled;
and saying to Major Pendleton, his adjutant-general, “wake
me up at four in the morning, Major,” he wrapped himself in
his blanket, stretched himself upon the ground, and immediately
fell asleep.[4]

Before daylight he had mounted his horse, and the forces
were in motion, retreating up the Valley.

Such was the battle of Kernstown—a hard fight, and fair
defeat. “But such was the discipline of Jackson's forces,” says
General Shields in his report, “that at no time during the fight
or retreat did they give way to panic.”