Bull Run (5 page)

In June I joined General Beauregard's staff to advise him on strategy. I found that he felt in no need of advice. Though his celebrated assault on Fort Sumter had been nothing more than target practice, he'd been hailed a hero so loudly that he'd come to think he deserved the name. He was a man who bore watching. President Davis knew this, and knowing as well that our troops were both unready and greatly outnumbered, forbade us to take the offensive. We were to pick a strong defensive position and block any Union advance on Richmond. We decided to make our stand along the southern bank of the stream called Bull Run. I studied its meandering course for miles. The banks were steep, the fords easily defended. The hills overlooking the terrain from the south would offer us a commanding position. But defense held little allure for Beauregard. In utter violation of his orders, he planned to cross the creek, outflank the Yankees, cut them off from Washington, then take the city himself. He was short, like Napoleon, and believed himself to be as brilliant a general. In private, I feared that the similarity between them ended with their height.

By gravy, it was a glorious feeling! At last we were marching off to battle! All Washington crowded the streets something handsome. The regimental bands all blared. Standards fluttered. The summer sun glinted on bayonets by the thousands. We could no more keep from singing than from breathing. We filled the air with “Yankee Doodle” and “Rally 'Round the Flag, Boys” and “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” Between them the shout “On to Richmond!” boomed up and down the ranks like thunder. Richmond was only a hundred miles off. We expected to be there in a matter of days. The thought stirred me. I'd come from Maine, joined up as cannoneer, and hadn't before been south of the Kennebec. I'd never known a Southerner either. But I'd read enough to know that they were cruel-hearted, warloving villains and that peaceable citizens like myself would have to take up the gun against them.

We crossed the Potomac and followed the troops who were on the south bank toward Centreville, twenty-five miles away. The day was as hot as the hinges of Hades. Our fine, straight lines wavered, then broke. Men wandered off to refill their canteens or chase chickens or rest in the shade of a tree. Blackberries were ripe along the road, and whole companies left ranks to pick them, singing and joshing all the while. I admit that I was one of them. Officers bellowed to no effect. Half of
them
ended up picking berries. It was less a march than a picnic ramble, with plenty of halts on account of the heat. As the men weren't accustomed to marching any distance, they soon felt the need to lighten their packs. The road became strewn with cast-off blankets and such. All day and on into the night we lurched ahead and lay down by turns. Finally we stopped and made camp. We'd completed our first day's march and were filled with pride in ourselves. Then a sneering captain informed us, with great disgust, that we'd progressed just six miles.

I come up from Mississippi with the master. He was a lieutenant, or some such thing. I heard him braggin' to another man that he had five thousand acres and loads of slaves, which was a bare-headed lie. And that his slaves would sooner die than run off and leave him, which was a bigger lie yet. Lots of the soldiers brought their slaves with 'em. We washed and cooked and mended, same as back home. Except we weren't back home. There were different flowers on the ground—northern flowers. The Union men weren't any more than a few hills away. I'd look at them hills. They did call to me powerful. I was a young woman and fast as a fox. I knew I'd surely never get another chance. I made up my mind and picked the night I'd go. My heart beat hard all that day. I didn't tell nobody. Then at supper another slave told how those that crossed over were handed back to their owners
by the Yankees
! My bowl slipped right out of my hands. I'd thought the Yankees had come to save us. I must have looked sick. They wondered over me, but I didn't tell 'em. I sat down by the crick.

I told myself I'd keep where I was—till the big battle, anyway. And I told myself to stop lookin' at the hills.

With camera and wagon, I followed the army. It was three days before we reached Centreville. The village was small but the men's spirits high. They ripped down every Rebel flag, broke into houses, took what they liked. I saw a pair of them traipse back out to the road dressed up in plumed hats and satin gowns. Another, got up in a minister's garb, spoke Jefferson Davis' funeral service. Colonel Sherman rebuked them as Goths and Vandals and ordered them punished.

A few regiments went on to Bull Run, tested the Rebels, and were driven back. The men's mood changed when they got word of it. An ambulance wagon passed nearby, its passengers groaning for all to hear. The line for portraits grew suddenly long. The men looked glum. They knew they might die, and seemed desperate to see that they would live on, framed and set upon a table. That evening I announced that I would show my photograph of the human soul. The crowds were greater than ever before. An Irish chaplain paid his ten cents, viewed it, and praised my good works. I was pleased to see how the picture cheered the men. It had a similar effect upon me, for it brought in forty-nine dollars that night.

We drilled in Alabama, then took the railroad to Harpers Ferry, Virginia. I was getting so used to trains that I fancied myself an engineer after the war. We joined General Bee's brigade, but all the talk was of General Jackson. “Old Lemon-Squeezer” the men called him. He was forever sucking on half a lemon. His peculiar ways went a long chalk past that. At night he was known to sleep under a cold, wet sheet to help his digestion. He was famous for his praying as well. Twice I saw him speaking a prayer while riding his horse, his eyes blank as a statue's. He was upright and religious to a dreadful degree. The first thing he did in Harpers Ferry was search out every barrel of liquor and pour it all to waste in the street. It was said that some men shed tears at the sight.

When we heard that Patterson's Union troops were coming, we streaked it to Winchester. They could make us move, but they couldn't catch us. It was a comfort to know they wouldn't find any liquor. Then our colonel announced that off to the east the Union army was moving in force and that Beauregard would be larruped without us. We marched twenty miles in eighteen hours, forded the Shenandoah River, then boarded a train on the Manassas Gap line. Old Patterson's probably looking for us still.

As soon as we stepped off at Manassas Junction the cars returned to bring more soldiers. We were told that we'd likely see battle the next day. Some men whooped. Some looked as solemn as General Jackson praying. My friend Tuck and I made a pact then and there to stay side by side when the shooting commenced.

I spent a full day studying the terrain, revised my plan, and was ready to attack. Then I found that the army was out of food. The commissary wagons hadn't arrived. I squandered another day waiting for them, praying that Patterson had the Rebels in the west penned up beyond the Shenandoah. I made out the sound of train whistles far off, but thought little of it at the time.

All was finally in order. We would strike Beauregard on Sunday morning. On Saturday afternoon I was told that the Eighth New York Militia's term of service would end at midnight and that they planned to march north and not south. I addressed them, as did the Secretary of War. On the morrow, we told them, they'd at last have the chance to fire their rifles at secession and give the bayonet to treason. Without them, the Union might well be lost. The spirit of George Washington hovered above them, awaiting their decision. We spoke the same words to the Fourth Pennsylvania, and begged them to serve a single week more. In both cases, the men listened patiently, then continued making ready to leave.

The light faded. The moon came up. I rode back toward my lodgings through the encampments. Some were bedlams of noise and gaming and drunkenness. Others were quiet. One company of Scotsmen were singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” most beautifully. I moved on. In the distance a band was playing the soothing serenade from
Don Pasquale
. I couldn't help but notice the number of men clustered about the chaplains' tents. Some were shedding their sins, some dictating letters to the scribbling chaplains. I passed quite close to one and smiled to catch the words “no qualm, dearest Gwen, at dying for our precious Union.”