Bull Run (9 page)

General Beauregard's head finally cleared. He cast aside his original plan and galloped off to the battle at last. I rode with him. As new troops arrived, he fit them into our lengthening line. He heartened them in spirited fashion, especially during the worst of the fighting, riding up and down the ranks, praising the men, shoring up their resolve, instantly mounting another horse when his own was shot from beneath him. When we saw the Northerners starting to flee, he led our entire line forward in attack. President Davis arrived by train from Richmond in time to watch the rout. The speed of the Union collapse was astounding. Their soldiers left everything that might slow them. In a matter of minutes the ground they'd stood on held muskets, cannons, colors, packs, ammunition, blankets, caps—but no men.

The shout went 'round, “The Rebels are upon us!” The words struck the picnickers like a storm, sent them shrieking into their coaches, and sent every coach bolting toward the road. My riders commanded that I put on all speed. Each driver heard the same demand. The road was narrow and choked with coaches. This mass of wheels and whips blocked the soldiers, who seemed even more eager than we to be gone. They were furious with us. How their teamsters swore! Those on foot rushed around us like an April torrent. They were bloody, dusty, and wild-eyed as wolves. “The Black Horse Cavalry is coming!” one bellowed. The air rang with rumors of hidden batteries, heartless horsemen, rivers red with blood, and visions worthy of the Book of Revelation. One frantic soldier cut a horse free from a wagon's team and took off bareback. Another fugitive tried to unseat me. I drove him off with my whip. 'Tis a fact. Then there came a terrific boom. Women screamed. A Rebel shell had fallen on the road. The caravan halted. The way was blocked by a tangle of overturned wagons. The soldiers scattered or froze in fear. Men fled their buggies. A second shell struck. Then a young officer galloped up, leaped down, and dragged the vehicles away. His courage was acclaimed. We jerked forward afresh. My sharp ear learned that the man's name was Custer. All predicted that he was destined for great deeds.

A slave came and told us the Union was beat. My heart dropped like a bucket down a well. A while later the master's friends came up the road, hootin' and carryin' on over the victory, noisy as jays. I couldn't pretend smilin' and just turned away. Then one of 'em told me my master was wounded and pointed where I'd find him. I gathered up a clean suit of clothes for him and some bandages and set off. Men were ridin' or walkin' every which way. I passed into the trees. Just some dead men there. I never did find my master. Never tried to neither. I told myself I couldn't sit and wait for the Northerners to whip the South. And if Union soldiers sent slaves back to their masters, I'd just have to keep clear of 'em. I set down the clothes when I came to Bull Run. Then I waded across and kept movin' north.

I came to my senses some hours later. I was shaking with cold, though the sun shone upon me. I listened and heard a few shots, very distant. The sun was much lower. It seemed days since that morning. I didn't think about the battle, about my regiment or my friends, but only of being found by someone. Then I heard a rustling. “A Barlow knife,” said a voice. “Got me two more pocket watches,” said another. My heart filled with hope. The ground shook around me. “Reckon I'll be ticking worse than a clock shop,” the same voice went on. Then a hand reached inside my jacket. I felt the heat of the man's warm arm. I found I could now move my own arm slightly, raised a finger to show him I lived, and spoke the words “Please help me.” The man gave a yelp. “Don't go!” I pleaded. But he bounded away, dropping the photograph of the seamstress on the grass. I slowly moved my arm that way, a task that seemed to take hours, and at last dropped my hand upon it and cursed the plunderer.

We rode off after the Northerners and took prisoners by the hundred. Some said we should march upon Washington, but our troops were dead-weary and dog-hungry. Winning had left us nearly whipped ourselves. I looked over the field. Dead horses were scattered about everywhere. Worse than them were the ones that were wounded, charging about without any rider, blood running down out their nostrils. Some who'd been hit in one leg perched on the other three, patient as you please. Some gnawed at their wounds all afrenzy. Others were under the guns they'd been hauling, crushed to death or squealing like pigs. I saw one, alive and looking about, hitched to a team of five others, all dead. I hadn't much stomach for celebrating. I ate some hardtack and emptied my canteen. Then I found a spade and began burying horses.

The bands had been left in Centreville that morning. They gave us a grand serenade all day, practicing up for their march into Richmond. Then the troops began streaming back our way. I was baffled. I'd expected to trail them south, taking piles of pictures of soldiers standing on captured flags and such. It was plain that these men had no desire to stop and sit for their portraits. They swept through as if the Devil were reaching for 'em. Those in the bands picked up the panic, threw down their instruments without a care, and jumped onto the backs of the teamsters' horses. I thought upon the matter a moment, then took a stroll, sat under a tree, and dined on some turkey and wine left behind by the society folks. I'd no cause to flee. The Rebels who were coming would be anxious to have their pictures made.

There were moments when my mind turned away from my work and imagined the rejoicing in Richmond. I saw the men packing the bar of the Spotswood Hotel, heard the crowds singing in the streets. Then my eyes returned to the crowd around me, sprawled on the ground, bloody, groaning, fanning the clouds of flies from their wounds or unconscious and unaware of their presence. We soon ran out of chloroform and whiskey and had to hold the men down while operating. We probed and sawed and stitched without stop and were soon as blood-covered as they were. A small mountain of amputated limbs grew up between our two tables, the feet often still bearing shoes. A few of the hands wore gloves. The sights and the stench were overpowering. A detachment of cavalry passing the scene bent over their pommels and retched, to a man. A victory? Indeed it was, for Death upon his pale horse.

We plodded past abandoned artillery, ammunition boxes, knapsacks beyond number, past mounds of flour and sugar and pork spilling out of broken barrels, cast out of wagons to make room for men. One private in my company loudly claimed that every army that had launched an attack on the Sabbath had been defeated. “The finger of the Almighty is in it!” he declared. The man beside me seemed in high spirits and clapped me on the shoulder. “Well, Able, we'll be back in Ohio in a week,” he said. His good cheer repelled me. I'd never become accustomed to my new name. But I determined that moment that I'd continue to use it, that I'd join a three-year regiment, and that I wouldn't return to Ohio until the Rebels had been beaten. This vow quickened my step, putting the dismal defeat farther behind me. I itched for the next battle to begin.