Bull Run (8 page)

We weren't far from the battle. It went quiet for a time, then struck up again louder than ever. I rejoiced at this. Finally, I felt sure, we'd be called to join the fight. I was wrong. We sat on the ground, an entire brigade of three thousand men, there by the stone bridge where we'd been sitting all day. Our role had been to fire a few shots and serve as decoys to mask McDowell's main attack. Had I trained for months and journeyed a thousand miles only to pretend to fight? Had we been forgotten? I boiled with disappointment. While our comrades fought for freedom and the Union, the man beside me took aim at a turkey.

I never did catch up with that horse. I soon found another without a rider. There was blood on the saddle. I wiped it off and wondered if a ghost weren't watching me. We galloped back and forth, carrying orders and news, most of it bad. About noon I heard whistles at Manassas Junction. It was General Smith's regiments. They were the last of Johnston's men to make the trip from the Shenandoah. I was sent to tell them to hurry to the battle. The general saw the stragglers on the road, bleeding, crying for water, limping along or running for home like madmen. I told him the fight was all but lost. He ordered his troops to march at quickstep.

Twelve-pound balls, canister, shrapnel. We sent them all at the Southerners. Then their artillery took our measure and commenced to devil us in return. We'd fire and they'd fire. I expect they crouched when they heard a shell coming, same as we did. I almost felt I'd a double across the lines. I took to wondering whether their men were truly all savages, as I'd heard tell. They pulled back and hid their guns behind a house. Union shells ripped right through the walls. There was a woman inside, it turned out, and some of her kin. A man ran out, screaming “They've killed my mother!” over and over. I asked myself why soldiering was praised up as something to be proud of. We then pulled our guns to a hill far forward, with no infantry to protect us. We protested, but it was McDowell's order. A line of men in blue marched toward us. Captain Griffin swore they were Rebels, but Major Barry swore even louder that they were our infantry support. There was no wind at all, so their flag hung limp. We couldn't make it out, and held our fire. They came almost among us. Then the air exploded. That murderous volley dropped half our men and every last one of our horses. I was lucky to be struck only in both arms, leaving me free to run for my life.

We were mounted and waiting. We were tucked in the trees, ready to spring upon the Yanks. Jeb Stuart was our colonel. He did love a surprise. He was even fonder of dressing up fine, and I thought sure his duds would give us away. Gold silk sash, gold spurs, white buckskin gloves, and an ostrich plume in his hat. He squinted out between the trees. The battle was almighty thick and hot. Finally, he gave the sign. He led us out of the woods and charged down into a line of Zouaves got up even gaudier than he was. They looked as frighted as if we'd ridden up out of Hell. There were cries and shots and smoke on every side. We were packed in tight. It was one great confusion. A Yank came at me with his bayonet. I jerked the reins left and he missed my leg. Then he aimed it at my horse. I shot him without thinking. I was amazed to see him pitch back, and gawked at the blood running down his side. I could scarcely believe I was the cause. I'd shot a man, a thin man with red whiskers. I might have just made his younguns into orphans, same as me. I felt shaky and shameful. We pulled back toward the woods. I found I was hoping the man would live.

My flanking attack had succeeded superbly. Despite the delays, despite the fact that my men were no more than summer soldiers, despite the losses they'd absorbed, we'd driven the enemy backward all day. I paused for a time to re-form my line. I was then ready to deliver the death blow, ending the battle and the Confederacy both. Beauregard, though, had made use of the lull and had shifted many more men west. I ordered my artillery forward, to pound his line at close range. But the infantry who were to support them lost their way and were shattered by cavalry. Our gunners, through an error, were then slaughtered by the Rebels, who turned our cannons about upon us. We stormed the hill and reclaimed them more than once, but each time were forced to retreat. My men were collapsing from exhaustion and thirst. Some died of sunstroke in the fearsome heat. Fresh Southern troops, brought east by train, then reached the field, to great cheers from their comrades. I cursed old General Patterson anew. They fell upon us with their bloodcurdling yell. The right end of my line began to buckle. Then I watched it give way like a dam.

I didn't reckon I could bear it another minute. The very battle I'd wanted a part in was booming just a few miles off, while I sat on a log and whittled a stick. The older Georgia boys who'd joined would come home loaded down heavy as peddlers with Yankee guns and medals and glory. And with scars to put on public display. I'd stare like the rest, quiet as a clam. I'd have been there as well, but would have to ask
them
to tell me exactly what had happened. The thought chafed me fierce. I snapped my knife shut. I stood up and snuck off toward the fighting.

It takes but a pebble to start an avalanche. The sight of some of our soldiers fleeing infected all the others with fear. Just at that moment, some Union teamsters drove their empty ammunition carts feverishly away from the battle and toward the rear, in full view of our men. They lashed their horses, no doubt that they might quickly return with supplies for our gunners. The troops, though, seemed to think them in desperate flight and concluded the cause was lost. Regiments suddenly ceased to exist. A vast tide of men began streaming from the field, slowly at first, then in a mad flood. My eyes were disbelieving. My thoughts swirled. These weren't the same soldiers I'd sketched earlier. My notebook held heroes, marching in unison, bravely advancing, disdainful of death. I refused to draw the scene before me, or to sit idly by. I dashed toward the throng. I picked up a New York regimental standard flung down in the dust, and held it high. “Rally 'round, New York!” I shouted above the tumult. “Make a stand!” The men ignored me, surging past in a panic. I waved the standard back and forth. “New Yorkers, form up! Stand your ground and the day is yours! Why do you run?” “Because I can't fly!” a voice called back.