JACKSON
Harper’s Ferry, Virginia
April 23, 1861
Wes paced the dark street trying to keep his mind from wandering. Down the slope, the town was silent. It was, after all, the middle of the night when only spirits were abroad. The rivers gurgled in the distance, the wind whispered through the trees, and Wes shivered, feeling small and alone.
It had been a week since they had come to Harper’s Ferry. He and the other Guards had been among the first to arrive but, with the governor’s call to arms, the Ferry had become the focal point for troops because of the armory which was located there. At last count, there were well over four thousand men from cities all over the western part of Virginia. The streets were filled with carts, horses and various other articles of war. Daily, new militia units marched down the long hill to join the crowd, filling to double and triple capacity the already overcrowded buildings serving as makeshift barracks.
Wes had never seen so many people in one place at one time. There were men in wildly colorful uniforms with baggy pantaloons and strange, flat hats with tassels. There were men who had come right from the farm and who carried axes and pitchforks instead of rifles. There were men in coonskin hats and bearskin coats who looked as if they had never before been in a town. Morale was high and almost everyone enjoyed “playing soldier.” The various units engaged in daily marches up and down the streets in the center of town as officers struggled to learn how to move masses of men in the same direction at the same time. The Guards, because of their previous experience, performed better than most and, as a result, were required to drill for only an hour or two a day. The rest of the time was reserved for enjoyment, and they worked hard at it.
Whisky and ale were plentiful, appearing in huge quantities each night as if by magic. Wes had never been with people who drank so much, and he had spent most of the past week either drunk or hung over. During one of his stupors, he had apparently said something to an officer which was not appreciated. He didn’t recall the incident, but it had resulted in his pulling extra guard duty outside the town.
So he walked, trying to keep warm and awake because, even though there was little possibility of the Federals attacking tonight, he knew that if he were caught asleep at his post he would be thrown into the stockade – or worse. Several men in his company had already been caught asleep on duty. There had been talk of firing squads, but so far the offenders had merely been locked up for a while.
After a few hours, boredom set in and Wes began to fantasize in an attempt to stay alert. Various noises became approaching Federal scouts whom he surprised and captured. He imagined pointing his gun at the frightened enemy soldiers and herding them off toward town where he would sound the alarm. Then all the others would come storming out and see what he had done, congratulating him and praising his courage.
With a start, Wes came out of his reverie. What a moment ago had been nothing more than wind in the trees now formed itself into real hoof beats coming down the road, straight toward him. Instantly, all his boldness vanished. He fought off a painful fear that paralyzed his arms as he struggled to raise his gun in the direction of the approaching horsemen. Peering down the dark road in dread, he knew it was unlikely that another militia unit would be arriving this late.
The horsemen broke around the bend in the road with a suddenness that terrified Wes. His guard post was lit solely by two lanterns, one on either side of the road. He planted himself squarely between them and waited, aware that the lights made him a better target.
“Halt, or I shoot!” He had tried to yell it convincingly, but it came out more like a strangled soprano. The group, seeing him standing in their path, slowed and reined in ten yards away, their uniforms still obscured by the darkness. Wes pointed his gun unsteadily at them, knowing he should say something. With as much fierceness as he could regain he shouted, “Who goes there?”
The lead horsemen edged forward a few steps and the tall figure in the center spoke in a calm voice. “I’m here to take command, son. If you’ll relax for a few seconds, I’ll show you my orders.” The man waited a moment, then said, “Please put that gun down, soldier. It’d be a poor start to get shot by one of my own men.” The horsemen behind him laughed quietly in the darkness.
When Wes lowered his musket slightly, the man reached into his knapsack, pulled out a sheet of paper, leaned over and offered it to Wes. In the feeble light, Wes could see that the man was wearing the blue coat of the United States Army. This sent a confused shockwave through Wes. What if he was an enemy pretending to be a friend? Rather than taking the piece of paper, he raised his gun again, stepped back and said, “That uniform says you’re a Yankee.”
He could hear the officer sigh. “You’re doing your job well, soldier. But we don’t have any Confederate uniforms yet, now do we?” Wes shook his head as he began to understand the problem. “So rather than ride into camp in my long johns,” he continued, “I thought I’d wear the uniform I was wearing before the war started.” He paused, waiting for Wes to react.
Wes lowered his musket again and mumbled, “You may pass.”
“Oh,” said the horseman. “Now you don’t want to see my orders?” Wes glanced at the sheet of paper the man held out to him a second time, but in the dark he couldn’t make it out and, in any event, he was too rattled to read it. He handed it back and the man asked, “Who’s your commanding officer?”
Wes came to attention. “Um, Colonel Allen, I think.”
“You think?”
“Well, th-that is...” Wes stuttered, “he’s my commander. I-I’m not sure who his commander is.”
Looking down on Wes from high atop his horse, the new commander said, “Well, why don’t you take me to Colonel Allen, Private, and we can get this all sorted out.”
Wes, still trembling, knew he should lead the group to company headquarters. But he hesitated because there was an irrational feeling tingling up his spine that, if he turned around, they would shoot him in the back. The man on the horse said with impatience, “Son, I don’t think the Federals are going to attack tonight. And if we were the enemy, one of us would probably be dead by now. So, why don’t you just take us to your officers.”
“Yes sir,” Wes responded, his anxiety somewhat allayed. He turned and trotted off down the hill into town, glancing back every so often to make certain that the horsemen were not just illusions in the dark. They remained a few paces behind him, the large horses bobbing their heads nervously, bidding their riders to turn them loose.
Arriving at the house Colonel Allen was using as his headquarters, Wes marched up the front steps and knocked on the door. After a long, tense wait, during which he kept glancing nervously at the newcomers, the door was opened by a bleary-eyed young man wearing a disheveled lieutenant’s uniform.
“What?” the officer demanded unpleasantly.
Wes, standing as straight as he could, said, “I need to see Colonel Allen.”
The officer scoffed indignantly. “Who the hell are you?”
“Private Culp of the Hamtramck Guards.” Before the lieutenant could respond again, Wes felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, realizing that the lead horseman had dismounted and come up behind him.
“It’s all right,” the new commander said to Wes. “I’ll handle it from here. You did a fine job.” Then he turned his attention to the man in the doorway. “I’m here to see Colonel Allen. I’m the new commander, Colonel Jackson. Be so good as to wake him for me.” His tone was quiet but authoritative, and Wes felt suddenly secure beside this man whose face he still had not seen clearly. The lieutenant responded instantly to his commanding tone. He opened the door wide for him, then climbed the stairs to get the colonel, while the other horsemen followed their leader through the door. Wes, not knowing what was expected of him, stood quietly outside the open door.
Colonel Allen came down the stairs holding a lamp in one hand and trying to button his shirt with his other. The young lieutenant scurried behind him, holding another lamp aloft. As Allen reached the landing, his visitor stepped forward. “Good evening, Colonel. I am Colonel Thomas Jackson. I’m carrying orders from General Robert E. Lee authorizing me to take command here. I apologize for waking you, but I thought it best to begin straight away.” He handed Allen the sheet of paper he had shown Wes earlier.
For the first time, Wes could see Jackson’s face. It was thin and stern, with a drawn look which seemed to mask some inner pain. His reddish brown hair was receding, but was complemented by a healthy beard. He carried himself with a regal air made more pronounced by his perfectly erect posture. A tall man by any standard, more than six feet in height, he towered over Allen. But it was the Colonel’s eyes that Wes found most striking. They were pale blue, stern, yet kind. Wes found himself staring at him, momentarily forgetting that he should return to his guard post.
Allen cleared his throat as he finished studying the orders. “Yes, well...allow me to offer you my welcome, Colonel Jackson. I’m sorry I didn’t know you were coming. We would have turned out the men to greet you. But tomorrow I shall personally conduct you on an inspection tour of the encampment.”
“That will be appreciated. Now, if you would be so kind as to show my staff where they can sleep.”
Wes wondered if he should stay or silently vanish. As the lieutenant rushed out the door to seek shelter for the new commander and his men, Wes decided to make his escape. He turned to go, but Jackson’s voice halted him. “Private.”
He turned to face the dimly lit doorway. “Thank you for your help,” Jackson said quietly. “Now, don’t you think you should return to your post? I trust you will continue to guard the road with the same diligence you showed when we arrived.”
Wes felt a fierce pride rise though his body. He snapped to attention and saluted with a smart, “Yes, sir!” Then he was back out into the night.
For the remaining hours of the watch, Wes had little trouble staying awake. He was relieved by a bleary-eyed young private, who looked more asleep than awake. Wes fell into bed just in time to be routed out again by the morning cannon. He frowned, wondering why the call had sounded so much earlier than usual, several hours before first light. The rest of the Guard stirred, moaning and swearing softly. Several got up but the majority stayed in their bedrolls and soon fell back to sleep. Wes, tired but not sleepy, turned out along with Kyd and several of the others to see what was happening. Putting their heads outside the barracks’ door, they saw horsemen at the far end of the main street, two of whom held torches over their heads to drive away the darkness.
“Who the hell is that?” asked the man beside Wes.
After several others offered their uninformed opinions, Wes spoke up. “That’s the new commander. Name’s Jackson. Came in last night while I was on guard duty.”
His pride in being the only one to know the situation was quickly dashed when his companion said, “Well, he must be one crazy son of a bitch to rout us out this early.” Wes started to defend Jackson but held his tongue when several of the others indicated their agreement. The Guards’ officers began yelling at the men to fall in, unceremoniously dumping several of the more reluctant members out of their beds. Still dressed from duty, Wes was the first man in formation. It took several more minutes for the entire Guards’ complement to muster. He glanced around and saw the shadows of several other companies forming on either side of them. The darkness came alive with the sound of shuffling feet and coughing men.
All the while, Jackson sat quietly on his horse watching the men form up. His face was impassive in the flickering torch light, but he seemed filled with a kind of patient energy as he waited. Wes saw Colonel Allen ride up to Jackson, salute and say something. The former commander was apparently unhappy with this change in routine. Jackson never took his eyes from the men assembling in front of him, but raised a hand high above his head as if waiting to be called upon by a teacher. This curious gesture apparently confused Allen and he ceased his complaints.
Finally, everyone was in place and waiting expectantly for Jackson to give his orders. Instead of speaking to the silent troops, he turned his head toward one of his subordinates, who listened respectfully, then galloped up to the nearest company and shouted loudly, “Right face!” This order was repeated by other non-coms down the line, and the regiment turned clumsily to face down the road. “Forward...March!” echoed across the way and the men stumbled forward, grumbling, to a clearing north of town.
As the sun rose, they began practicing a number of different maneuvers, each executed more awkwardly than the last. This continued into the morning until several companies became so entangled that their officers nearly came to blows trying to separate them. Jackson, meanwhile, remained on his horse, watching the proceedings with fatherly patience, occasionally raising his hand above his head in the same curious gesture.
After breakfast was eaten at a makeshift mess line, the maneuvers continued. By the noon meal, Wes was so weary from having missed an entire night’s sleep that he could barely stand. All afternoon, the drilling continued and the grumbling became louder. Several of the more churlish soldiers from other companies started yelling obscenities at their officers, much to the delight of their comrades. At this, Jackson, who had sat impassively until now, spurred his horse toward the profanity. With the help of several officers, the culprits were weeded out and hauled off under guard. This startling action served to stifle further verbal comments, at least those which could be heard beyond the individual rank. They marched until dark, practicing the same simple maneuvers over and over again until they could move through them half asleep, as Wes had been doing for the last several hours.
Supper was a quiet affair, after which the weary troops collapsed into informal groups. The primary topic of discussion was their new commander. Wes and Ben moved through the mess line and, as they carried their food back to join the rest of the Guards, overheard several young lieutenants talking among themselves.
“I knew Jackson at the Institute. He was one of my teachers. Worst one there. Couldn’t speak worth a damn. We called him ‘Tom Fool’ because he was crazy as a loon.”
Wes moved on, but had heard enough to make him reconsider his initial impression of Jackson. It was difficult to see what good all this drilling would do. Everyone knew that the war would be over in a few weeks. Soldiering was mostly an excuse to get away from the homestead, to drink and enjoy a good time with other men. Drilling the whole day was no one’s idea of a good time. He shared his thoughts with Ben and Kyd who also expressed their doubts about the new commander.
Suddenly, a voice in the shadows behind them spoke up. “Well, I’ll tell you something. This pitiful bunch has to have a leader if it’s ever going to be an army. I think Jackson is just what we need.” They turned and saw Patty McGuire sitting nearby, his back to a tree, quietly poking at his meal. McGuire was one of the few veterans in the Guards, having served during the war in Mexico. He was a sergeant now and most of the men, as well as the younger officers, looked to him for lessons in the ways of warfare.
“You see, lads, an army isn’t just a bunch of men marching around in circles. It has to be a unit. Individuals don’t count. You’ve got to learn to think and act as a group. That takes a long time and a lot of marching. It may seem pointless now, but when you get into battle you’ll thank heaven you learned it.” He chewed for a moment. “And I’ll tell you another thing, lads. It’s no party we’re getting ready for. The Federals aren’t going to turn and run if we just yell ‘boo!’ This fight is going to last a while, and a lot of people are gonna get hurt.”
An hour after dark, several carts rumbled across the field and men began to unload canvas tents, the army’s shelter for the night. Wes realized that there would be no more sleeping in the comforts of town. Although others griped as they pitched their tents, this new element finally made Wes feel like a real soldier. He helped set up his tent with something close to excitement after which he, Ben, Kyd and another man crawled in and promptly fell asleep.
The next days brought more drilling. Many of the groups were reorganized and broken up. Their officers were sent home or back to the lines and replaced with Jackson’s own choices. The many diverse units were merged under the official sounding name “Army of the Shenandoah.” Between the hours of marching came more hours of digging, as they began work on what would eventually become twelve miles of defenses surrounding Harper’s Ferry. Guard duty, which until now had been somewhat careless, became serious business at all hours of the day and night.
Gradually, the men lost their own identities as they blended into the larger formations, moving mechanically in relation to all the others, performing maneuvers so often that they became second nature. The drills were more complex, with several simple maneuvers being combined into more demanding field exercises. Each time a new maneuver was mastered, an additional evolution was added. Jackson watched it all from his horse, moving quietly around the perimeter of the sweating troops. Every once in a while, the men would see his hand rise into the air, to be held there for several minutes. Wes and the others discovered that this was the Colonel’s own prescription for keeping the blood flowing evenly through his body. But regardless of his strange habits, Jackson appeared to be a good, if somewhat eccentric, officer. He paid particular attention to how his officers commanded their units, and frequently spoke privately with one or another of them. Wes watched as he offered advice, and observed how the junior officer was then able to help his unit maneuver more smoothly. Through it all, Jackson was a silent, dominating presence.
When the men were not marching, they practiced loading their weapons and firing at targets. Wes had a problem managing his gun. The barrel was so long that it was difficult for him, with his short arms, to use the ramrod properly. When he tried to shoot, he consistently missed the target altogether. The men began to take notice, heckling him, making fun of this Yankee who couldn’t hit the broad side of a southern barn.
“I hope all Yankees shoot as good as you do, Culp,” one of them called one day, amid the laughter of his comrades. “‘Cause if they do, we got this war won already.” The taunts made it harder to concentrate, and his performance continued to plummet. Wes fumed with resentment and, despite his best efforts, failed to improve.
One day, Sgt. McGuire pulled Wes aside and told him to fetch his gun. Wes carried it to McGuire’s tent and found the sergeant sitting on a small stool holding a saw in his hand. Grabbing the musket, McGuire looked it over, mumbling, “Let’s see now.” After a moment, he rose, placed the musket on the stool, planted a foot on it and began sawing on the end of the stock. At first, Wes was too shocked to object, but when McGuire’s saw was halfway through the stock, four inches in from the end, Wes asked in bewilderment, “What are you doing, Sarge?”
The sergeant ignored him, whistling contentedly. When he finished, he brushed off the splinters, inspected his work with satisfaction and handed the musket back to Wes. “There, now try that.” Wes took the gun, making a face as he examined its mutilated stock. “Aim it,” prompted McGuire. Wes raised the musket, sighting down the barrel, and felt it fit more snugly under his chin, the sights noticeably closer than before.
He was amazed at what a difference those four inches made. Not only could he load the musket more efficiently, but the next day he found he could hit the target three times out of four. The jeering of his fellow soldiers turned into grudging compliments, and even their initial jokes over the amputated stock soon died away. A night later, after Wes hit the bullseye five times in a row, he went back to his tent and carefully carved on the shortened stock the letters, “W. CULP.”
When they began to hear rumors that the Federal army was moving toward them, the drilling took on a new urgency. Rain or shine, reveille sounded at five a.m. Discipline increased, and the men began to act like professionals. Shirkers, who tried to escape the drudgery of army life by applying for sick leave, were examined first by Colonel Jackson, so that many simply gave up and returned to the ranks before ever seeing a doctor.
The men were reorganized into new units. The Hamtramck Guards from Shepherdstown became Company B of the Second Virginia Volunteer Regiment. There were nine other companies in the regiment made up of men from all over the state: Winchester, Martinsburg, Charlestown, Clark County, Floyd County. All told, the army at Harper’s Ferry consisted of eight other regiments like the Second, each approximately the same size, plus four regiments of artillery.
On May 23rd, General Joseph Johnston arrived with orders from General Lee to take command of The Army of the Shenandoah. Colonel Jackson, during his four weeks in charge, had succeeded in preparing the raw troops for battle and was satisfied to turn command over to the senior officer. By this point Wes, along with many others, had to confess a grudging admiration for Jackson. They acknowledged that he had transformed them from farmers into fighting men, from civilians into soldiers. Many of the men, who only weeks before had talked of their hatred for the man, were now reluctant to see him replaced by Johnston. They were pleased, therefore, when General Johnston divided the Army of the Shenandoah into two brigades, giving command of the first of these to Jackson. This resulted, appropriately, in Jackson being promoted to Brigadier General. Wes’ 2nd Regiment was one of four which composed Jackson’s 1st Brigade.
This change of command brought about a corresponding change of attitude on the part of the men. Jackson became increasingly popular with his troops, who had learned to trust him. Now, when he rode by, he was greeted with loud cheers instead of whispered oaths. He was proud and fierce, and this pride communicated itself to his men, who stopped calling him “Tom Fool” and adopted the more respectful “Old Jack,” or “Old Blue Light” in reference to the fierce sparkle that lit his eyes when he was angry or excited.
Days and weeks passed, the endless drills made more urgent by renewed rumors of Federal advances. Suddenly, in the middle of June, without prior warning, Wes’ regiment was told to pack for a long march. By nightfall they were a dozen miles back toward Shepherdstown, leaving the rest of the army behind. Everyone talked excitedly about the possibility of a battle, thinking that they had been chosen over the rest of the brigade to start the fighting.
When they arrived in Shepherdstown, the day had begun to fade. It was quiet and there were no signs of Federal troops anywhere. Colonel Allen, now the regimental commander, ordered them north of town to a bridge that spanned the Potomac River. He dismounted and surveyed the location while the troops stood by.
Kyd nudged Wes gently. “We’re going to burn that bridge, I’ll bet.”
Wes nodded in agreement. Then he saw Kyd looking up the hill at a large house that sat on the opposite side of the river. The home looked beautiful in the fading light. Wes was surprised to see a great sadness in Kyd’s eyes. Moved by his friend’s apparent distress he asked, “What’s wrong?”
“That’s my home over there,” he said quietly, indicating the house on the hill. Then he pointed to the wooden span which Colonel Allen was inspecting so carefully. “My father is one of the owners of that bridge.” He shook his head. “This is how it begins. We burn our own property and cut ourselves off from our own families. I pray to God that he watches over us because after tonight there’ll be no turning back.” The two of them stood staring across the once friendly river which the war had now transformed into a barricade against the enemy.
Soon orders were given, torches were lit, and Company B was sent forward to set the fires. They moved over the bridge, crossing the dark waters which separated friend from foe. The weathered wood was set ablaze and the men came rushing back to the southern end to watch the bridge die. The flames grew higher and higher, lighting the buildings with an eerie glow. For a long time, the thousand men of the regiment were completely silent, realizing the symbolism of what they were doing: they had now physically cut themselves off from their former countrymen in the North. Finally, after a quarter hour, the bridge began to sag, moaning like a dying animal. There were scattered cheers from various members of the Guard. Wes and Kyd did not feel like cheering.
Before noon the next day, they arrived south of Martinsburg, rejoining the rest of the army which had marched up from Harper’s Ferry. They made camp, setting up their tents and shelters, and were given the luxury of relaxing for the rest of the day. They bivouacked near a line of railroad tracks and several trains passed them before nightfall. After dark, the regiment began ripping up the tracks which ran through a stretch of land north of the town.
The following day, they were posted along the gap in the tracks, waiting for the first train to steam into sight. It arrived several hours later. The engineer, seeing the break in the tracks, brought his engine to a stop opposite Wes and his companions. With shouts of delight, they rushed into the cab, blowing the whistle and ringing the bell in celebration of their capture.
Other companies went through the passenger and freight cars where they found luggage and supplies destined for the North. In addition, they discovered half a dozen Northern sympathizers trying to make their escape before the traffic north was halted and trains were no longer allowed to cross the Mason-Dixon line. A spontaneous party broke out after the capture, lubricated by bottles of whiskey liberated from the train, with entertainment provided by the disconcerted passengers-turned-prisoners whose flight north had been so rudely interrupted. Over the next week, the brigade captured all of the trains coming north along the track until the engines were stacked for a mile back along the Virginia countryside.
One day, Kyd received a message from a college friend by the name of DeWitt Clinton Rench. Kyd’s friend lived in Williamsport, Maryland, twenty miles upriver and on the opposite side from Shepherdstown. Rench had visited Kyd in camp and had met Wes and Ben and some of the others. The visit had so excited him that he had made up his mind to cross the Potomac permanently and join them, enlisting as a private in Company B. He was due to arrive three days later.
Kyd was obviously excited by the news and was up before dawn on the day of Rench’s scheduled arrival. By noon, the new recruit had still not arrived, but Kyd kept his vigil, constantly watching the road from the north. The next morning, another letter addressed to Kyd arrived. He opened it with some apprehension. As his friends watched him read the letter, they saw his face turn ashen. He dropped the note and walked away from them, obviously wanting to be alone.
Ben picked up the letter and read it to Wes. It was from Rench’s father, reporting that several people in Williamsport had learned that Rench was going south to join the rebels. He said that the anti-Confederate feeling was so strong in town that a mob had pulled him from his horse, brutally beaten and then shot him. They had left his body lying in the street as a warning to others who might want to turn rebel.
Ben went off to find Kyd while Wes reread the account of the boy’s death. A cold fear swept over him as he realized that the same fate might be in store for him if he ever returned to Gettysburg. He sat in thought for a long time, staring north into the darkness.
A few days later, the brigade received word of another Federal advance. When they arrived in the area of the sighting, the brigade was divided in half, the Second remaining in place with the Fourth while the other two regiments continued on toward the enemy. This time there was a tension among the officers that Wes had never felt before. Everyone seemed to sense that this was the real thing, at last.
The quiet was suddenly broken when hundreds of guns began firing up ahead. A deathly silence fell over the two reserve regiments as the troops watched the horizon intently and listened to the sounds of battle. Several minutes later, a horseman galloped over the hill at full speed. It was one of the younger officers on Jackson’s staff. He proceeded to Colonel Allen who was waiting impatiently on his horse several hundred paces in front of his men. The two consulted for a moment, after which Colonel Allen spurred his horse back to the waiting troops. Wes watched him breathlessly, excited but almost dreading his words.
“By rank, forward...march!” The men moved ahead mechanically, heading directly toward the clamor of battle. Wes, feeling as though he was walking in a dream, knew that his first real test as a soldier had arrived. All the preparations had been leading him to this place, equipping him for this moment.
As they came up over the rise, they were met by the other regiments retreating toward them. No one was running, but the two forward units were marching slowly back in Wes’ direction. As they came, they fired into the distance behind them, the smoke from their guns obscuring their targets. The smell of gunpowder stung his nose and an electric energy hung in the air, creating a sense of both excitement and dread.
Then, a shifting breeze lifted the smoke and, for one heart-stopping moment, Wes could see another group of men, this one in blue, firing in his direction. His heart pounded as he realized that he had just caught sight of his first Federal soldiers. They were moving directly toward him.
The Second was ordered to halt, to stand in place while the other regiments passed through them and formed in the rear. Wes was now standing in the front line of Confederate troops, looking down the road at the approaching enemy. There was no one between him and these men whose only purpose was to kill him and his friends. Wes ducked instinctively as a bullet whizzed by. It was a familiar sound to him but altogether unnerving when he realized that he was the target. He waited to be hit, every muscle in his body tensed with fear. The bullets continued to fly past but he and the others managed to remain in place, waiting until the enemy got a little closer before they fired their first volley.
Then Wes realized that the bluecoats were no longer moving. They had stopped and were holding their position just beyond range of the first rebel volley. After a few minutes of incredible tension, during which the two sides sized each other up, the Federals began to move away. It took Wes a moment to realize what was happening. Then everyone understood, and a wild cheer went up from the men in gray.
It was unbelievable, too much to comprehend. Wes’ mind whirled as he cheered at the top of his lungs along with the rest. They had met the enemy. And they had beaten them.