Bull Run (7 page)

My eyes and pencil were in constant motion. Here, four cannons rumbled up the road. There, a pair of soldiers carried a wounded comrade upon their crossed rifles. Below me, a company shouted three cheers for the Union before plunging into the fray. I could scarcely contain my own excitement. After tramping across the countryside, I'd found myself a fine vantage point for observing McDowell's attack. How gallantly our men advanced into a perfect storm of bullets! The Confederates slowly began to give ground. The scene I was sketching continually changed before my eyes, like a cloud in the sky. Regiment upon regiment of Northerners rushed into the fight. I made out McDowell riding among them, in full dress and white gloves, urging them forward. I could no longer bear merely to record. I threw down my pencil, bolted to my feet, and cheered them on loudly myself.

General Beauregard seemed to be in a state of utter confusion. Five of our brigades should have crossed Bull Run on our right and attacked, yet we heard hardly a shot from that quarter. Before us, at Mitchell's Ford, where he'd expected the brunt of the Union assault, there was little shooting as well. He stared out the windows of the house we occupied. His orders had been maddeningly vague. Many seemed never to have been received. We lacked for couriers and were starved for reports. We who were directing the battle knew nothing! This fog was pierced by the undeniable fact of firing far to our left. This didn't accord with the general's plan. He'd weighted our line heavily to the right. Grudgingly, he sent some men west, still hoping to save his cherished offensive. The firing grew louder. I suggested he ride out and investigate, but he ignored me. He appeared paralyzed by the dilemma. General Johnston paced in a fury. He outranked General Beauregard, but had just come by train with his troops from the west and had left the campaign's command with him. Finally, he could stand it no more. He shook his hat at the smoke in the west. “The battle is there!” he announced. “I am going!”

The guns did fairly roar before us. Our drivers raised a fine roar of their own, swearing and snapping their whips to bring our fieldpieces into position. There were six guns in our battery, with eight men to a gun. We labored hard and fast, firing solid shot, then switched to shrapnel. Our mothers soon wouldn't have known our faces, black with powder and running with sweat. “May God have mercy on their guilty souls,” our lieutenant would shout, then yank on the lanyard. I had little leisure to watch the shells fly and could scarcely make out the Rebels for the smoke. Then I saw that the gun crew beside us was pointing. The enemy lines had broken and the men were scattering like rabbits. We were ordered forward. Didn't we crow! “They're whipped!” “Look at 'em all skedaddle!” “We'll hang Jeff Davis!” “The war is over!”

I lay on the grass, listening to the battle. Another doctor stood nearby, and two or three assistants. We were before a church, some miles from the fighting. Bees buzzed loudly from a hive nearby. A mockingbird went through his program, his song an unending river of gladness. Our ears, however, were cocked toward the distance. The first great battle of the war was taking place over the next hill. We knew the first wounded would shortly arrive. We'd set up two tables and readied our tourniquets, forceps, scalpels, and saws. We waited.

As the day was heartlessly hot and humid, I sat in my coach to keep out of the sun and exercised my jaws on a roll. My passengers' menu reached my nose and eyes but not, alas, my stomach. Virginia ham, softshell crabs, Chesapeake Bay oysters on ice. Some dined on pheasant. 'Tis a fact, bright as brass. They squinted at the smoke now and then, then returned to the clash of knife and fork. All at once an officer of some sort galloped up our way. “We've whipped them on all points!” he cried out. “They're retreating fast and we're after them!” He charged off again. The air rang with cheers. My passengers were so moved by the news that they filled my old tin cup with champagne.

We'd marched five miles and were perishing for water, then reached the battle and forgot we were thirsty. The balls whistled by us. It was a new sound to me. Jack, our mascot, a brave little bulldog, snapped at the bullets as if they were flies. I grabbed my friend Tuck to show him the sight, then saw he'd been shot straight in the heart. My own heart near quit. Then the call came to charge. I'd pledged to stay by him, but hadn't calculated on him getting killed. Men scurried past. An officer shouted and shoved me ahead with the others. I dearly disliked leaving Tuck behind and suddenly felt all alone in the world. We got cut up awful and dashed back a spell later. Then we spied a gray regiment coming, almost fainted for joy, drew close by—and were killed by the cartload when they opened fire. It was Sherman's men, gray-clad same as us. We cut dirt for our lives all the way to a creek. We formed a new line, but the shells and bullets fell upon us thick as rain. Men promised out loud to quit all their vices if only the Lord would spare their lives. General Bee glared back at Jackson, who was perched with his troops on a hill out of range. “He stands there like a damned stone wall!” he cried. “Why doesn't he come and support us?” He let loose a deal of blasphemy. The next minute he was shot dead off his horse.

My eyes opened and focused upon grass. I felt heavy and numb as a millstone. I was lying on the ground, tried to get up, but couldn't make my head or limbs move. I felt wet about my legs, thought it must be from blood, but couldn't tell where I'd been hit. I wondered how long I'd been lying there. The battle had moved ahead over the hill. I fixed my eyes on a man nearby. His eyes were looking straight back at me. Then I saw the red soaking through his shirt. Had the stretcher-bearers thought me dead as well? Was I wounded past helping? My head began pounding. “I mustn't die here!” I told myself. I stared at the green grass before me with envy. Then I thought of the woman who'd sewn my shirt, whose note I'd never forgotten. Her photograph was in my jacket pocket. I had no family of my own in this country, and I'd thought and worried about her as you would about a wife or relation. I spoke to her now, within my mind. I told her we were both meant to live longer. I begged her not to take her own life. I described the tuft of grass before me. I asked her to help me live.

I was jump-stomached all day, wonderin' who was winnin'. Past noon a soldier came wanderin' our way. He'd been shot through the ear and held a kerchief up against it, drippin' blood. I'd washed out all the master's clothes and was sittin' with the other slaves. He told us the Southern men were licked. I could hardly keep from yellin' for joy. I wouldn't have to run off to the North—the North was marchin' down to me! Some cannons fired just then, and I thought, The Lord's smitin' the South at last! The soldier shucked off his pack and sat down. He took out a mirror and studied his face. His ear had a rip. He almost cried to see it. “The Confederacy's finished,” he said. “And worse than that, my good looks is gone forever!”