67. LXVII.
LEE STRIKES.
The campaign of the Valley ended on the 9th of June. On
the 26th, Jackson was at Ashland, within sixteen miles of Richmond,
rapidly advancing to throw his veteran corps against the
right flank of General McClellan.
I am not going to describe at length, my dear reader, the
great struggle which soon took place on the swampy banks of
the Chickahominy. See the histories. They are detailed, impartial,
and strictly reliable. There you will discover that both
sides whipped; that General McClellan was utterly defeated,
and yet only “changed his base;” that the great campaign
against Richmond was ended at a blow, and yet that the Federal
army secured a better position for more decisive operations.
All this and more you will learn from the histories, which
never fib. I am only going to record a few incidents.
Jackson received at Ashland a note from General Stuart, addressed,
“General T. J. Jackson, somewhere,” and his corps continued
its advance—now preceded by the cavalry—reaching the
vicinity of Old Cold Harbor House on the afternoon of the 27th,
just as A. P. Hill recoiled from McClellan's almost impregnable
position.
Immediately the veteran legions of the Valley were thrown
forward, and the woods reverberated.
Jackson was riding about on an old gaunt bay, peering out
from beneath his cap, drawn down upon his forehead, and sucking
a lemon. Calling a staff officer to him, he said:
“Major, ride to General Lee, present my compliments, and
say that I have closed in on the front and rear of the enemy,
and am pressing forward.”[1]
At this moment, Stuart—now brigadier-general—rode up,
and a warm greeting took place between the two commanders.
The blue eyes of the great cavalier flashed—in his ruddy,
heavily bearded face was the joy of the coming conflict.
“Well, General,” he said, “you are attacking?”
“Yes.”
“My command is ready to cut them off if they attempt to
retreat toward Old Church. I have told the men to get ready
for tough work.”
“Good. What gun is that, General, so hotly engaged in front?”
“One of Captain Pelham's Napoleons; he is a splendid young
fellow, and is fighting like a tiger!”
“Yes! There is one of my batteries about to relieve him.”
At the next moment a young officer, slender, beardless,
modest-looking, and covered with dust, came from the front.
His blue eyes flashed, his firm lips gave evidence of an unconquerable
spirit.
“This is Captain Pelham, General,” said Stuart; “he has
fought with one gun that whole battalion on the hill, at pointblank
range, for nearly an hour.”
Jackson held out his hand, and the young artillerist took it
with a low bow, blushing as he did so, like a girl.[2]
The battle had now begun to rage with fury, and, as Jackson
rode to and fro, in the great field by the Old Cold Harbor
House, courier after courier came and went, bringing him intelligence.
His calm expression had not left him; but under
his cap rim the dark eyes blazed.
A staff-officer galloped up.
“General Hood directs me to say, General, that his line is
enfiladed by a battery of thirty-pound Parrotts, which are
decimating his men, and making it impossible for him to
advance.”
Jackson rose in his stirrups and said:
“Give my compliments to General Hood, and tell him to hold
his position. I will silence the battery. Mr. Douglas,” he added,
to one of his staff, “go back and get fifteen or eighteen guns,
attack that battery, and see that the enemy's guns are either
silenced or destroyed.”[3]
In twenty minutes a tremendous fire was opened from the
left upon the Federal battery, and then Hood's men were seen
to rush forward, charging, with loud cheers.
At this stage of the action, I was sent by General Jackson with
a message to one of his generals; and only mention the incident
to record my first meeting with one whom I afterward knew
well—a very brave and remarkable person. I had delivered my
message, and was galloping back, when I saw a regiment almost
torn to pieces by the horrible fire of the artillery and infantry
on the crest in front. This fire was so appalling that the men
could not endure it, and were seeking everywhere in the low,
swampy ground, for some shelter from the hurricane of canister
which swept it.
I regarded it as my duty to attempt to rally the men, knowing,
as I did, that, if the line was broken at that point, Jackson's
whole position would be seriously endangered; and I accordingly
endeavored to induce the stragglers and scattered detachments
to rally again around their colors, and charge the artillery, which
was flaming in front.
This is one of the most disagreeable portions of a staff-officer's
duty; for if the immediate commanders of troops—their captains
and colonels—cannot control them, it is still more difficult
for an unknown officer to do so. It was, nevertheless, my duty
to make the attempt, and I did so, but with small results. The
stragglers paid little heed to me—every one was “sick,” or
“wounded,” or in equally bad plight. In plain words, the fire
was so deadly that they were unwilling to charge in face of it.
Ill success had put me in something like a rage, as, with drawn
sword, I galloped up to a man separated from the regiment, and
ordered him, in a hot and imperious tone, to rejoin his command.
He turned and looked at me with a cool air of surprise, and,
as he had just loaded and capped a peculiar double-barrelled
English rifle which he held in his hand, he took deliberate aim
at a Federal officer, visible upon a hill near, and fired.
The officer fell, and as the personage with the rifle turned
round I had a good view of him.
He was a young man, apparently about twenty-five or six,
lighe, erect, and vigorously knit. He wore top-boots, a long
blue coat, with a belt, containing a pistol, strapped around his
waist; and over his forehead fell a brown hat, decorated with a
black feather. His face was handsome and intelligent; his eyes
dark and soft; his complexion sunburnt; and his mild-looking
lips were surmounted by a delicate black mustache.
There was an air of immovable calmness and repose about
this man, even at the instant when he brought down his enemy,
which was very striking.
“Did you speak to me?” he said, in a courteous voice, very
low-toned and mild.
I was in a rage at my ill success with the stragglers.
“Yes! Join your regiment there! Every man must be in
his place!”
“I do not belong to that regiment,” he said, as coolly as before.
“To what, then?”
“I am a staff-officer, sir—Captain Farley, of General Stuart's
staff.”
I saw the error into which my haste and hot blood had betrayed
me, and hastened to beg Captain Farley's pardon.
“No harm done, Major,” was his smiling reply, in his low,
peculiar voice. “I suppose you are trying to get the men up—
but you cannot do it. The line here is so thin, and the Yankees in
such a powerful position yonder, that nothing can be done without
re-enforcements.”
I saw the justice of these words, after reconnoitring the
Federal position.
“We will whip them,” said Captain Farley, philosophically.
“I went in with that regiment, as an amateur, the cavalry not
being engaged; and have been trying to blow up some caissons,
with explosive balls—but have had no luck. I have, however,
killed three officers.”
And the speaker quietly reloaded his empty barrel with a
peculiar-looking cartridge, which he took from a fine English
satchel made for the missile. He seemed entirely unconscious
of the hail-storm of bullets which hissed around him, cutting
twigs from the trees, during this operation; and, as I galloped
off, I saw him again taking deliberate aim at an officer waving
his sword in front of the Federal line upon the hill before us.[4]
In consequence of the intelligence I brought, Jackson immediately
moved a brigade to re-enforce the line where it threatened
to give way; and the battle raged more and more furiously.
Half an hour passed; and then a courier from General D. H.
Hill brought a dispatch, saying that he was hard pressed and required
re-enforcements.
“Where is the Stonewall Brigade?” asked Jackson, briefly.
“Just behind that hill, General,” replied one of the staff,
pointing to a wooded acelivity.
“Order it to advance to the support of General Hill.”
The officer galloped off, disappeared in the woods, and very
soon the long line of glittering bayonets emerged from the foliage—the
red battle-flag in front.
Jackson's eyes flashed.
“Good!” he said; “we will have good news in a few minutes
now!”[5]
The Stonewall Brigade rapidly crossed the wide field, plunged
into the woods, and then was heard the long, steady, continuous
roll of the musketry, as they came to the support of Hill.
From that moment, the battle was a mortal struggle—on the
enemy's part, to defend the bristling crest, frowning with triple
lines of breastworks; and on the part of the Southerners, to
storm and carry the works with the bayonet. The sun slowly
sank amid a haze of smoke, dust, and, you would have said, of
blood, so fiery was its drapery of cloud.
Jackson was talking with Stuart, his eyes glaring now, and
sucking his lemon, when a staff-officer galloped up and said:
“General Ewell directs me to say, sir, that the enemy do not
give way in his front.”
Jackson rose in his stirrups until his form was as stiff and
erect as an arrow. His eyes blazed—his teeth were ground
together. Stretching out his hand containing the lemon, he
said:
“Tell General Ewell, if they stand at sunset, to press them with
the bayonet!”*
General Stuart exclaimed:
“The officer may be shot!—send another, too, General.”
“Right!” said Jackson; and, turning to one of his couriers,
he said:
“You go!”
Major Pendleton, his adjutant-general, that young officer of a
courage so splendid, volunteered to carry the message; and soon
the roar of guns redoubled in front; then tumultuous cheers
were heard, as the Southern line charged.
Just as the sun sank, Jackson's whole line—Hood's Texans
before the rest—swept forward in one wild bayonet charge;
and, from the fury of the shouts, and the long crash of the
musketry, it was plain that the decisive assault was being made.
In a few moments, that electric shout which indicates success
rose from the woods, and made the pulses leap.
The Southern troops had charged the crest, flaming like a volcano,
upon which the enemy were posted—swept them from it
with the bayonet—and terminated the struggle.
It was like the conflict between the Titans and the gods of old
mythology—but the Titans stormed and took the heights from
which their opponents hurled the thunderbolts.
As the sun disappeared, McClellan's forces were in full retreat,
pursued by the Southern troops.
Jackson was riding in and out between the guns, still pouring
a steady fire—and the glare of the burning woods lit up his
flashing eyes as he conversed with Stuart.
McClellan was thus defeated, and in full retreat toward James
River. Jackson's corps held the front in the pursuit, and had
a hard fight at the bridge in White Oak Swamp.
Then came the desperate struggle of Malvern Hill, which was
a bad affair for us. The Federal commander massed his artillery,
held his ground until night, and then retreated to Harrison's
Landing, under cover of his gunboats.
“Now is the time,” exclaimed Jackson, “for an advance into
Pennsylvania! The Scipio Africanus policy is the best!”[6]
No such advance was made. Jackson's supreme military instinct
told him that General McClellan was paralyzed—but the
authorities at Richmond doubted. Thus the golden moment
passed. Soon intelligence came that another Federal army was
rapidly assembling north of the Rappahannock.
No new advance upon Richmond, however, was intended—
that army was to protect Washington. The Federal authorities
agreed with Jackson. They knew that the Army of Northern
Virginia ought to advance, and they acted upon the sound military
maxim, always to give an enemy credit for intending to do
what he ought to do.
But the hour of destiny had passed—the opportunity slipped
away. Who counselled this inaction? It is impossible that it
was General Lee, for one day after Malvern Hill, Jackson said
to an officer:
“I hear that some persons say General Lee is slow. He is not
slow. I have known him for five and twenty years, and he is
the only man I would follow blindfold!”[7]
It was on the field of Cold Harbor that I first saw General
Robert E. Lee; and I have never seen a nobler type of manhood
than this brave old cavalier—then known to very few—now one
of the immortals.
Here is his outline:
Fancy, my dear reader, a man apparently about fifty years of
age; tall in stature, erect as an arrow, and with a certain air of
simplicity and grandeur in every movement of his person. His
hair was gray, like his beard and mustache; his eye clear, penetrating,
benignant, and yet full of that latent fire which betrays
a powerful organization. His uniform was plain, and somewhat
faded—the riding cape, upon his shoulders, evidently an old
friend—and his brown felt hat was wholly without decoration.
But it was impossible to mistake the general. His calm and
collected air; his grave and measured courtesy without abandon;
his perfect seat in the saddle, for he had been a cavalry officer—
all pointed out the commander-in-chief. I have seen the noblest
figures of the war, but none can be compared to that of our old
captain. In every movement of his person, every tone of his
voice, every glance of his honest eye, was the perfect grace, the
sweet and yet stately courtesy of the old Virginia gentleman.
Health, happiness, and length of days to our old hero! His glory
is beyond the reach of hostile hands; and to-day, ten thousand
and ten thousand, who would have died with him, take off their
hats and salute him as the flower of truth and honor!
