Bull Run (6 page)

It was a warm night. We knew there'd soon be a battle. The horses knew it too. Greta was restless as a flea-bit dog, stamping her hooves and flicking her tail. Most of the company played at cards. No one seemed to want to turn in. One read a letter from his father saying wars were uncivilized, low, immoral, and that civil wars were the worst of the brood. The letter was burned with great jollity. After a time, though, the men took to studying Bibles instead of poker hands. It struck me as strange that nearly all the legions of soldiers camped around me considered themselves to be whole-souled Christians, had heard preaching every Sunday of their lives, had memorized piles of Scripture verses, and yet were ready to break the commandment against killing the moment the order was given. I went walking. I came to a man who was reading
Gulliver's Travels
to a circle of listeners. I stopped and gave ear. Gulliver had come to a curious country where horses ruled and men were thought to be the foulest of beasts. The horses, wise as they were, had no wars. They could scarcely believe it when Gulliver told them that soldiers were men paid to kill each other. Then he described sabers, muskets, bullets, cannons that left the field of battle strewn with bloody limbs, and other clever inventions that had led humans to think themselves far advanced beyond horses. It was almost too frightful to laugh at. I dearly wished I might go to that land. When the man stopped reading, I promised myself that if I lived through the war I'd learn my letters and read the rest of that book. Then I visited with the horses a long spell, and tried not to think upon what was coming.

The drummers began drumming. I awoke and found it was two o'clock. The whole regiment was stirring. I fried some bacon. At three we marched, if it could be called that. We groped slowly down the road through the darkness, men stumbling over each other like drunkards. It was a still summer night, the stars wondrously clear. There were no bands playing, no singing, and little talk. The waiting was over, or nearly so. For half an hour we sprawled on the ground while a cannon was eased over a rickety bridge. We pushed on. The sky began to lighten. The man beside me mumbled the twenty-third psalm without end, as if it were a charm. Finally we approached a stone bridge that crossed Bull Run. The stream murmured softly. We halted. Not a shot had been heard. General Schenck called out a command. The artillery crew put a cannon in place and loaded it with a thirty-pound ball. At six o'clock they fired.

It was a Sunday, the twenty-first of July. I rose in the dark, studied two chapters of Exodus, then closed my eyes and started my prayers as usual. Not five minutes later a low, sullen boom sounded in the distance. I kept my eyes shut. I knew what it was without opening them. Another followed, and then a third. Then came the sharper rattling of rifles, painfully distinct. I saw my daughters' men in my mind. I left my chair, knelt on the floor, clasped my hands more tightly than before, and continued praying for a full two hours.

Don't speak to me of the soldiers' hard lot. I was up on my pegs before they were that morning. 'Tis a fact, solid as stone. I'd two congressmen and their wives in the coach, bound all the way to Centreville to watch the thrashing of the Rebs. All dressed in their best and fitted out with parasols and opera glasses, not forgetting two hampers of food, and champagne for toasting the victory. 'Twas dark as Hell's cellar when we left Washington. I'd thought they would sleep, but they chattered like sparrows. I caught a good deal of it, as usual. Cabmen dull witted as their nags? Don't be daft! They know more of Washington than the President. Though whenever a question is put to me, I ignore it until it's asked a fourth time, that my passengers mightn't suspect I have ears.

There were plenty of other spectators heading south. The shooting commenced as we neared Centreville. We passed through the village and found a fine grassy spot on a hill overlooking Bull Run. Every last horse and buggy for hire in Washington seemed to be there. Linen tablecloths were spread out and people of quality spread out upon 'em. My passengers were in a merry mood—all but one of the men, who let out that McDowell had been given command for no better reason than that he'd come from Ohio, whose governor had Lincoln's ear and had whispered “McDowell” in it constantly. 'Tis a fact. I feigned deafness, but took the precaution of noting our fastest route of retreat.

Since before first light I'd been standing about at General Beauregard's headquarters. Of a sudden, I was ordered to ride over to Colonel Evans, near the stone bridge, and bring back word on the Yanks' position. I'd been waiting to show my worth as a courier. I galloped toward the west. It dawned upon me that I was headed straight for the fighting. It dawned on my horse as well. The musket balls began to whiz past us. He slowed, two legs moving ahead while the other two tried to retreat. I wrestled him forward, past soldiers waiting to advance. Others were firing in the woods. I spied Colonel Evans, hopped to the ground, and tied the reins tight to a tree. Just then I heard someone shout “Pull her off!” The next moment there came a tremendous roar. It was one of our cannons. A man who'd been standing too close to the muzzle was thrown twenty feet. Blood gushed out of one of his ears. I wondered if I wasn't deaf myself. Then I turned, saw the broken reins, and realized I was a courier whose horse had sprinted away.

Our entire division was to march to the west, cross the stream where it was unguarded, and surprise the Rebels with an attack at dawn. This called for speed. Yet we idled an hour that morning while other troops used the narrow road. Our officers swore in German and English. General Hunter at last led us out, but took a wrong turning that doubled our march. It was nearly nine and already stifling when we finally reached Bull Run. Its waters were slow-moving and muddy. We filled our canteens, picked blueberries, then waded across, four hours late. A farmer saw us and galloped off. The Confederates must have been well warned without him. They met us with a volley of rifle fire, then artillery shells. The order was given to charge up a slope. I felt I was advancing into a dream. There were cries and explosions. The air stank of sulfur. I passed a man sitting with his intestines spread out in his lap and wondered if the sight was real. The men about me crouched and shot. Those behind us singed our hair with their bullets. I aimed at the smoke in the distance, fired, and saw my ramrod sail through the air. I'd forgotten to take it out of the barrel. My thoughts flew suddenly to Germany, to a toy gun I'd had as a child. I saw my mother in memory, and my aunts. Then my mind went black quick as a candle blown out.

Of a sudden our men got the call. They were to march west and join the fight. “Aim low and trust in God,” spoke an officer. “Let 'em know Georgia's here!” cried another. They formed up into ranks double quick. One soldier called Lincoln “the Illinois ape” and promised to bring back a lock of his hair. They set off smartly. All the band watched. We'd been ordered to keep far behind the fighting. Seeing them leave for battle, proud as stallions, filled me full of envy. I didn't care a cow tick for playing the fife and longed for a rifle in my hands instead. It was hard to endure. For me, leastways. Two of the horn players were drinking from flasks and toasting their wisdom at serving in the rear.