63. LXIII.
CUT OFF.
With Ashby seemed to pass away all the splendor, the glory,
the romance of the war. I could scarcely realize that the whole
scene which I had witnessed was not some hideous dream—some
nightmare of the hours of darkness.
Dead?—he who had passed unscathed through so many bloody
encounters—who had seemed to possess a charmed life which
no enemy's ball or blade could touch? Ashby, the hero of such
romantic adventures, splendid achievements, and heroic exploits,
dead, like a common, every day mortal, and never more to lead
his men, with flashing sabre, in the charge? The idea seemed
monstrous—incredible.
But slowly came the realization of the truth. He was gone—
the dauntless cavalier, the noble gentleman, the charming and
winning companion. Who could supply his place? Under
whom would the horsemen of the Valley fight so recklessly?—
and what other leader could inspire them with that spirit which
overthrows all obstacles?
I asked myself that question, and then came another thought
—where will you find another friend like this pure spirit?—who
can take his place with you?
I cannot draw the great outline of this splendid chevalier in
my hasty memoirs; some abler hand will trace it—some more
eloquent voice speak of his virtues. For me, I loved and will
ever love him, as the perfect flower of chivalry. When he disappeared,
the bloom seemed to pass away from the summer
flowers, the azure from the calm June sky. Brave men were
left, and the future was to be as glorious as the past—but, with
this gentle heart, this perfect chevalier, seemed to fade the splendor
and romance of the fresh dewy morning of the war. Thenceforth,
it was a thing of sweat and blood and toil under a burning
sky.
I come back to the narrative of events.
The column under General Fremont was now pressing hotly
upon Jackson's rear, between Harrisonburg and Port Republic;
and that under General Shields was hastening rapidly to place
itself between him and Brown's Gap—the avenue of exit from
the Valley. Jackson must retreat, if he retreated at all, by that
Gap, as the panic-stricken citizens had destroyed the bridges
above Harrisonburg; and, if General Fremont could only delay
his adversary sufficiently long to enable General Shields to come
up, the fate of the Confederate commander seemed decided.
From this moment commenced that admirable game of strategy
by which Jackson aimed to crush his adversaries in detail. He
had destroyed the bridge over the Shenandoah at Conrad's Store,
thereby preventing a junction between the two Federal columns;
and, establishing his head-quarters in the town of Port Republic,
prepared, with his main body, to attack General Shields, while
Ewell remained in front of General Fremont, and held him in
check. Shields once defeated, Jackson intended to recross to
the west bank of the Shenandoah, re-enforce Ewell, and, falling
upon General Fremont, decide every thing by a pitched battle.
I shall not stop here to speak of General Jackson's emotion
when he received intelligence of the death of Ashby. His opinion
of that officer was afterward expressed in his report. “An
official report,” wrote Jackson, “is not an appropriate place for
more than a passing notice of the distinguished dead; but the
close relation which General Ashby bore to my command, for
most of the previous twelve months, will justify me in saying
that, as a partisan officer, I never knew his superior. His daring
was proverbial; his powers of endurance almost incredible; his
tone of character heroic; and his sagacity almost intuitive in
divining the purposes and movements of the enemy.”
Such was the epitaph of Ashby, traced by the hand of Jackson.
It will live in the memories of the people of Virginia when
bronze has rusted away and the hard marble crumbled into dust.
Jackson's head-quarters had been established, as I have said,
at Port Republic—with his own division just opposite the town,
on the western bank of the Shenandoah, and Ewell at Cross
Keys, a few miles distant toward Harrisonburg—when, early on
the morning of the 8th of June, a company of cavalry, which had
been sent down the Luray Valley, came galloping panic-stricken
into the town, announcing the rapid approach of Shields.
The truth of the report was soon exhibited in a manner far
from agreeable.
The enemy's advance force of cavalry and artillery thundered
into the town; a gun was unlimbered and placed in battery near
the bridge over the Shenandoah, so as completely to command
it—and Jackson was cut off from his army!
He had hastily mounted, as the few scattering shots indicated
the rapid advance of the enemy; and, as he saw the Federal
artillery unlimber at the bridge, his face flushed.
“We are cut off, General!” exclaimed one of the staff.
“Yes!” came curtly from the General, “but I am not going
to remain cut off.”
And he rode, with perfect coolness, toward the bridge.
I followed, with an internal conviction that the whole party
would soon be enjoying an interview with General Shields, as
his prisoners.
What followed, took place in the space of two minutes.
Jackson rode straight toward the piece of artillery, whose grim
muzzle was pointed so as to rake the bridge in front of it, with
every cannoneer at his place.
When he was within twenty yards of the gun, he coolly rose
in his stirrups, and called out, in the calmest possible manner:
“Who ordered this gun to be placed here?”
I did not hear the reply of the officer in command of the piece,
but he evidently mistook Jackson for some general or colonel
of the Federal forces, and approached him with a deferential
salute.
“Bring the gun over here!” the General called out.
And, as the men hastened to obey, he set spurs to his horse
and darted at full gallop upon the bridge.
The whole scene had taken but a moment. At one instant the
colloquy with the Federal officer was taking place—at the next we
were clattering across the wooden flooring of the bridge.
I looked back as we went—the cannoneers were running to
their gun; they were seen rapidly to load; and then a roar was
heard, and a shell screamed over our heads. Another and another
followed, so close that we felt the wind which they made; but
suddenly we reached ground which afforded cover—and Jackson
was safe.
[1]
He still continued his way at full speed, and, reaching the
camps of his division, which had been suddenly aroused by the
firing, caught his cap from his head, and, waving it, exclaimed:
“Beat the long roll!”
The drums rolled; the troops fell into line; and, rushing his
artillery into position, Jackson opened a rapid fire upon the
enemy in the town.
Taliaferro's brigade now hastened forward; one of his regiments
charged across, capturing the gun which had fired upon
us; and the enemy's cavalry, with the infantry supports in their
rear, hastily retreated from the town, and were pursued down
the river.
Such was the narrow escape made by Jackson.
