MANASSAS
Winchester, Virginia
July 17, 1861
For a week after they met the Federals, Wes and the rest of the company could talk of little else. The other regiments had fought a majority of the battle, but it was the arrival of the fresh Second Regiment on the field that had put the Yankees to flight.
Now, back in camp at Winchester, the military drills no longer seemed quite so harsh. Talk of going home had almost ceased, and the men yearned to have another shot at the Yankees. Wes could not forget the thrill of facing the enemy across a field, standing firm, and seeing him turn and run away. He thought back to that moment again and again, obsessed by their success.
It was the seventeenth of July and the heat had risen to an oppressive level. Wes, Kyd and Ben shed their woolen coats and sat down to dinner with the rest of the company after a hot morning of drilling, chatting like veterans about the ways of war.
“I think those northern politicians are having second thoughts about this whole thing,” one of the privates was saying. “I bet they’re pulling their armies back to Washington and we won’t even see them again.”
Sgt. McGuire snorted and scooped up a mouthful of broth with his hardtack, shoving it into his mouth and wiping his mustache. “Well, you boys are quite something, God’s truth.”
The others quieted, turning to look at McGuire. “What do you mean, Sarge?” one of the men asked.
“I mean, you’re all sitting here, talking tough, thinking tough. And ain’t a one o’ you been in a battle yet.” He chuckled sarcastically to himself.
The men protested, talking at once, backing up each other’s claims about the regiment’s accomplishment. Wes watched McGuire quietly continue his meal. Tommy Green, one of the boys whom Wes knew fairly well, spoke up. “What do you call what we did last week, Sarge?”
McGuire shook his head, a condescending smile on his face. “I call it an afternoon’s outing. ‘Twere barely a scuffle. You boys don’t know what a real fight is. But you will. Them Yankees ain’t gone. They’re just testing us. They want to see if we’re really serious.”
Tommy struck a manful pose, thumping his chest. “Well, just bring ‘em on, is what I say. We can whomp any damn Yankee any damn day.”
The others laughed and chorused agreement. McGuire looked at them, shaking his head, then retreated into silence, preferring to let the boys’ ignorance play itself out. Wes wasn’t laughing, however. He suddenly sensed that McGuire was right. He had stood there, staring at the northern soldiers, feeling that dreadful, exquisite fear crawl up his body, and he had known that, the next time, the Federals would not just walk away.
Tommy sat again, then leaned close to Wes. He had misread the serious expression on his face and said apologetically, “I didn’t mean you, Wes, when I was talking about the Yankees, you know.”
Wes nodded absently. He was watching a horseman gallop toward the captain’s tent. It was apparent that something was about to happen. A moment later, Captain Butler called McGuire over. The old Irishman jumped up and jogged the short distance. Ben was laughing at Tommy along with the rest of the group when Wes nudged him. “We’re moving out.”
Ben continued to laugh for a moment, then turned to his friend with a puzzled look. “What did you say?”
“I said, we’re moving out. Just wait. Here comes the Sarge.”
McGuire hustled back, a stern look on his face. He yelled over the boisterous laughter, “Form up!” The men froze for a second, slow to realize what was happening. Anticipating the order, Wes had grabbed his gun and was first in place. The others formed around him quickly, searching anxiously for some clue as to what was happening.
McGuire stood in front of the group, waiting for them to settle down. Then he snapped out the order in a tight, serious tone. “You’ve got five minutes to break camp and get ready to march. We’re going for a walk, boys. Now, MOVE!”
This last word was a roar, and the men shouted their approval. Chaos exploded within the camp as men tore down their tents and gathered their belongings. It took only seven minutes. By the time the men were back in line, Captain Butler had appeared, sitting high astride his horse. He examined the men carefully, then shouted the order to fall in line behind Company A. They began moving out even before some of the other companies had formed. Obviously, something important was going on. Wes noticed Jackson, already mounted, consulting with General Johnston. Junior officers hurried about them like worker bees, carrying messages to all parts of the army.
They were was marching southeast; the Federals were north. Even a child could figure out what was going on. Winchester, a little town too far north for its own good, was being deserted by the only people who could save it. A sense of betrayal was written on the faces that Wes saw. People lined the road, silent, resentful. Wes imagined their thoughts. They had worked all their lives to be free; they didn’t care about slavery because most of them were poor; it was the rare man in these parts who owned even one slave. This was the rich man’s fight, and now the army was being pulled back to protect the rich people further south, and the poor were being abandoned. In a fight that really didn’t concern them, they would be the first victims.
Wes’ company was in the van of the army, Wes himself only a few ranks behind the front line. Company A, being used as skirmishers, had been sent on ahead. Thus, it fell upon Company B to set the pace for the entire army. The men were proud of this honor, determined to make their unit look good.
Captain Butler flashed up on his red roan, which screamed in protest as he yanked on her reins. The sun shone down on the captain’s face as he halted the men for a moment. When he spoke, his deep voice carried easily to the hundred or so troops gathered before him.
“I’ve just had a word with General Johnston. He wished me to convey to you the urgency of this operation and the vital part we will play in it. The Confederate Army is drawing together near the towns of Centreville and Manassas, just south and west of Washington. General Beauregard is there with a good sized army, but he is presently threatened with attack by a much larger northern force. We are to make our way to Piedmont as fast as possible, where we will board trains which will take us to the aid of General Beauregard’s men.”
He paused to let his words sink in, taking his hat off and rubbing his forehead thoughtfully. “Men, if we do not reach our destination in time, General Beauregard may be defeated. His defeat may mean that we cannot rid ourselves of northern rule.” Wes was entranced by the rising passion in the captain’s voice. “We must not lose this battle. It’s time to fight for our beliefs. We must show that we are tougher and stronger than any northern unit ever formed.” He paused for effect, looking at his company with an expression of paternal pride. “Now, let’s move out!”
As one, the company broke into cheers, with Wes yelling as loudly as the rest. By now he had stopped thinking of himself as a northerner. A mere accident of birth could not outweigh the sense that he had become as southern as any man alive. He belonged here more than he had ever belonged up north. He was not fighting for the politicians or the rich and the powerful; he was certainly not fighting for the slave owners. He was fighting for his friends, fighting to defend his home, the only place where he belonged.
He began to run with the others, shouting, ecstatic. Their yells raised a stir which spread through the regiment, to the brigade, to the entire army. They ran to join Beauregard, the hero of Fort Sumter, to take their place by his side in history.
It was well after noon when they reached the Shenandoah River. Much of their earlier elation had evaporated, replaced by a grim determination. The intense heat made it difficult to maintain the pace. When, after a few hours, General Jackson called a halt, the men searched for shade and collapsed. Ten minutes later, the commander urged them forward again, setting a cycle which repeated itself for the remainder of the march: fifty minutes of marching, ten minutes of rest.
The men watched Company A, across the river, frolicking in the sun. Apparently, crossing the water had not been much of a problem. McGuire stripped off his uniform, rolled it into a bundle which he placed on his bayonet, and marched knee deep into the river. Turning to look back at his astonished men, he taunted, “Well, come on, lads. Are you a pack of old ladies, or what?”
As he turned to plow through the water, the men, hooting and laughing, stripped naked and followed him. The water felt so refreshing that Wes wished he could remain there all day. It reminded him of the water hole in Rock Creek back home. He knew it would be filled on a hot day like this. But then, he reasoned, most of the boys had joined up to fight with the North. He wondered where his brother was, whether he might be marching at this moment to confront him in the oncoming battle.
The water seemed to revitalize the company spirits and they set off again at a brisk pace. On they marched, as mile after mile fell behind them. Wes’ feet had grown numb as he stumbled on, past the point of pain, a human machine moving without conscious thought. The rest periods felt shorter each time and there was little talking in the ranks, only the lonely sound of thousands of shuffling feet. When the halt was finally called, it was well past midnight and Wes was asleep in an instant.
He woke with the bugle, so tired it felt as though he had not slept at all. His legs were badly cramped from the previous day’s effort. He and Ben stood quietly, sipping hot coffee and trying to ease their stiffness. Kyd rushed up from somewhere, looking fresh and ready for another day. “Did you hear about Old Jack?” he asked with a glow in his eye. Wes and Ben shook their heads as Kyd grabbed some coffee and took a gulp. “Well, after we called it quits last night, no one turned out for guard duty. The officers were going to kick some of the boys awake but Old Jack, he just told them to let us sleep. He stayed up all night and guarded us himself.”
Wes and Ben shook their heads in wonder and looked over to where Jackson sat on a fence rail, sipping coffee and reading from his Bible. He was by himself, absorbed in his reading, but just then he happened to look in Wes’ direction. For a mystical moment, Wes fancied that his commander was looking him straight in the eye. Then the general dropped his head and went back to his reading. Wes felt strangely invigorated, as though some of Jackson’s strength had flowed into him.
Kyd talked on and on about what a great leader Jackson was. He told them that he was writing some friends to see about getting an appointment as an officer, so he could become an aide for Jackson.
They set out as the sun rose, and in a few hours reached the town of Piedmont. It consisted of a few buildings around a new stop on the railroad. As they came over the rise into town, Wes saw three locomotives standing by the platform, a string of boxcars behind each one.
They halted near the trains and fell out of formation, using the time to relax, eat, and talk about the upcoming fight. Many of the men still didn’t believe there would be a battle. Wes did not share that opinion. On the contrary, his mind was troubled by what might lie ahead. He wondered what it would be like if he had to face a former acquaintance in battle. Then he remembered all the accumulated insults and humiliations he had endured across the years, the people in Gettysburg who had made fun of him, his brother who had always belittled him. Somehow, in that moment, all the frantic fist fights and painful defeats he had suffered throughout his life blended into one long battle which he had never been able to win. Now even Ginnie was lost to him, another casualty in his private war. The thought generated a rage that burned away considerations of friendship and home, even of compassion. He sat listening to the others, but in his mind he was fighting a new battle, one for which he had waited all his life. This time he would be victorious.
When the rest of the brigade arrived, they all filed onto the train, several cars for each company. Wes was pulled up into a dark and musty freight car that smelled of manure. There was barely enough room to sit, and many of the men found it more comfortable to stand. After a long wait, the train finally jerked into motion, slowly picking up speed. The clacking of the wheels produced a soothing rhythm and a cool breeze flowed in through the open door. Wes was soon asleep, knowing that he would have little time to rest in the days to come.
They off-loaded late in the afternoon, uncertain where they were. They could not hear any gunfire, but the acrid smell of gunpowder in the air made Wes wonder if they had missed the battle. Ordered to form up, they set off again, passing a row of fresh graves. No words were spoken as the men walked by, but all eyes were focused on the mounds of dirt.
They made camp in a row of pines, and taps was beat early. Wes lay awake for a long time, thinking about the next day. He heard others nearby tossing restlessly in their bedrolls, and knew that they too were wondering about their fate.
He awoke with a start as a distant explosion shook the earth. The sun had barely risen. Wes sat up, listening as the booming continued. McGuire announced, “Cannon off to the north.” He was already up, making a pot of coffee. Wes struggled out of his bedding and sat on the log beside the sarge. The cannon fire was not close, but Wes couldn’t help feeling frightened. He tried to mask his fear from McGuire who was stoking the fire. “God-awful sound, ain’t it?” McGuire commented.
Wes glanced down at the sergeant and was surprised to see a flicker of fear in his eyes. He blurted out the question before he could stop himself. “Are you scared, Sarge?”
McGuire stopped his work, looked up at Wes and smiled. “Of course I’m scared, son. I’d be stupid not to be.” He struggled to his feet. “Trouble with you young tikes is that you’re afraid of your own fear. Fear ain’t bad unless it takes control of you. I’ve seen it happen to many a brave man. They hold it all bunched up inside themselves, pretending they ain’t scared. Then they see the enemy and their legs are running before their brains can stop ‘em.” He poured himself more coffee, then stared at Wes. “Don’t be afraid to admit that you’re frightened, son. It’ll keep you humble. And it may just keep you alive.”
Wes mulled this over as he sipped McGuire’s coffee. After a few minutes, there was a flurry of activity and shouted orders. The stiff and sleepy men grabbed their things and formed up, marching off to cover a distant bridge threatened by the Federals.
They had been standing for nearly three hours, waiting for the Federals to attack their bridge when, just before noon, a courier galloped up to Capt. Butler and delivered a message. A moment later, Sgt. McGuire ordered an about face and Wes found himself running back the way he had come. They jogged more than a mile, moving along a slight rise which bordered some woods. To their right sat a little farmhouse overlooking a valley in which, from the sound of it, the fight was happening. The brigade formed, the 2nd Regiment toward the left, next to the 33rd. Wes was sweating freely by this time, anxiously trying to see what was happening. They formed two double rows. Wes was in the second rank of the front row, so that he was looking over the head of the man who was kneeling in front of him.
The pounding from the big guns was getting louder and each new explosion etched deeper anxiety on the men’s faces. They faced the white farmhouse, a hundred yards to the north. Beyond, in the valley, a cloud of smoke hung, blue and ominous in the afternoon sun. Capt. Butler walked across the front of the line and yelled at them to lie down. They fell on their bellies, gratefully hugging the cool grass. The explosions marched toward them until the shells were roaring overhead. The noise was overwhelming, intermingled with moans, and Wes began to feel real terror for the first time. From the valley in front of them, they could hear the sounds of men screaming, but the battle itself was still invisible.
Then, over the rise, came a group of bloody men, running as fast as their wounds would allow them. They were in gray, although it was difficult to tell because of the grime and gunpowder and blood that covered them.
“We’re beaten,” one particularly bloody soldier yelled. “Go back. Save yourselves while there’s still time.” The men shot frightened looks at each other. Ben’s eyes were enormous and bright with fear, and Wes felt his terror intensify, realizing that he was surrounded by people who were as frightened as he was. McGuire stood and began to walk among the prostrate men, talking all the while in a soothing voice. “Steady boys. Steady. They’ll have to do better than that to scare us.”
The retreating soldiers passed through the Second and disappeared over the hill behind them. Another wave of soldiers came after them, a little more military in their bearing, loading their guns and turning to fire as they retreated. They moved through the Second and the 33rd, then paused just behind them in front of the woods.
Wes’ heart was beating so violently that he could feel it in his throat. He knew that no one was left between him and the Federals. The thunder of the guns in front of them seemed to redouble as the bluecoats found the range to the top of the hill. Suddenly, several deafening explosions sounded to the right. Wes quickly realized that these were their own cannon returning the fire. Although the waiting was difficult, it felt good to know that someone was shooting back at the Federals coming up the hill toward them. Wes could still see nothing of what was going on in the valley below him; billowing tempests of smoke obscured nearly everything.
McGuire yelled to the men over the incredible noise of the battlefield, but Wes could only hear a few words. He saw others beginning to load their guns and he did the same. It was a difficult job because his hands were shaking badly, but Wes put the stock on the ground, the barrel pointed upward. Reaching into the pack at his waist with one hand, he grabbed a charge, tore off the edge with his teeth, the familiar taste of gunpowder burning his tongue. Carefully he poured it down the barrel, pressing the wadding and minie ball into the barrel after the gunpowder. He pulled the rammer from its place under the barrel and flipped it around, hammering the minie ball down tight. After he replaced the ramrod, he carefully opened the tiny tin that carried the caps. Picking one up with trembling fingers, he replaced the cover, put the tin away in his waist pack, cocked the musket’s hammer and tried to press the round cap onto the firing pin. It took him three attempts before he succeeded.
With his musket loaded, Wes felt a little more secure. The cannon fire was getting louder, and suddenly there were explosions to the left and a howling noise that ripped close over their heads. Several shells hit at once near the cannon to the right. Wes could see the troops off to his left begin to move back toward him as they retreated from Federals who were firing obliquely into their flank. Two Federal cannon were only a few hundred feet away and Wes could see their crews working feverishly to reload them. Since each was serviced by only a few men, Wes wondered why the 33rd was running away from them.
Those retreating men spilled over them in a wave, forcing Wes and the others in his regiment to fall back in confusion. But others, on the far left of the 33rd, sensing perhaps what Wes had seen, began yelling for their comrades to return. The tide shifted again, reversing its course, and the 33rd flowed back to its former position. The confusion made it difficult to understand what was happening: horsemen rode in all directions, cannon fire on Wes’ right was answered by Union artillery from the bottom of the hill, geysers of earth erupted all around him, blasting screaming men into the air.
Suddenly, another great cheer rose from the men of the 33rd. They were running down the rise away from Wes toward the two cannon. The whole regiment charged at the battery as the undermanned Federals tried to reload their pieces. To this point, Wes had seen nothing of the bluecoats except the tiny battery that the 33rd was attacking. The firing intensified dramatically as Wes tried to make out what was happening with the large mass of men struggling off to his left. The smoke covered their frantic contest, obscuring all but muzzle blasts and an occasional glimpse of flailing barrels and bayonets. Drawn into this desperate struggle, the entire regiment seemed to disappear before Wes’ eyes, devoured by the smoke.
Then, looking toward the rise, he saw the 33rd returning in disarray, many of the men being dragged back by comrades. The straight lines and crisp formations had been shattered, and all that remained was chaos. As they approached, Wes turned to look for Jackson. He sat calmly on his horse, tall and straight, looking through his binoculars at the valley below. Wes could see the intense expression on his face. He gave orders to several mounted men who galloped off.
Captain Butler paced the lines with McGuire, calming and helping where he could. As the men from the 33rd fell back through their lines, many of the troops from the 2nd tried to follow, jumping up and heading for the rear. But Butler and the junior officers worked them back into place, trimming up the lines once again. An officer raced up to Butler, who listened intently to the message from the colonel. He saluted and turned to the men. They all watched him expectantly. “Bayonets!” he roared. As one, the men pulled their knives free and shoved them home over the barrels of their muskets.
“Now, men,” Butler cried, “wait until they are fifty yards away. Then fire and fire well. Aim low. After the volley, we will charge, and when we charge we will scream like the furies of hell and frighten them back to Washington.”
They stood, nervously watching the confusion ahead. Gradually, like evil apparitions, rows of men emerged from the smoke, marching toward them, their guns lowered, the sun glinting from their bayonets. Wes felt his throat tighten. Jackson rode by yelling, “Steady, men! Steady! Don’t forget to yell when you charge.” Wes watched the blue-coated men grow larger as they surged up the hill. The Federals opened fire and a few men near Wes were hit and fell out of line, cursing loudly, but most of the shots missed completely. The Federals kept coming, and Wes ached to fire at them, impatient for the signal.
Time slowed, each moment seeming an eternity, waiting, waiting. Then McGuire yelled, “Fire!” Wes fired, not really aiming. He pulled the trigger, then started to run down the hill, following the men in front of him. All around him the air was filled with a high-pitched wail which rose over the din of battle. Wes added his voice to the hellish sound. They could see the Union soldiers stop, shaken by this unexpected charge. The blue line faltered, then began to turn back, but those in front ran into the secondary lines. The perfect order which had existed a moment before dissolved into frantic disorder, and Wes and the others rushed forward, plowing madly into the enemy on a full run, abandoning every thought in their insane passion to kill.
Instantly, they found themselves in a horrifying nightmare, all order gone, man battling man, hatred smashing into rage as elemental instincts broke loose. The roiling mass of men turned into maddened animals filled with a consuming blood lust.
Wes faced a terrified young boy who pointed his gun tentatively at him. Wes deflected the gun with the barrel of his musket, then rammed his bayonet into the boy’s chest with such force that the blade pierced his back. The boy shuddered and fell, pinning Wes’ gun to the ground. Wes, momentarily disarmed, was panicked by the realization that three or four men were charging directly at him. Desperate, he stood on the corpse’s belly and tore his bayonet loose, ripping the boy’s small chest apart in the effort.
Wes charged on, following the front wave as it continued forward. All around him, a maniacal scene was acting itself out. Muskets exploded at close range, the wounded shrieked in agony, metal clanged on metal as bayonets dueled, the air filled with the grunts of men straining to kill other men, curses and yells rose louder than the gunshots.
The ground beneath him became slick with blood and he lost his footing, falling face down into a mangled mass that had been a Union soldier. Rolling off, he looked down at himself, smeared with blood and, for one mad instant, thought he had been killed. But, realizing it was the blood of other men, he jumped up and moved on. Ahead of him, one of the men he knew fell to the ground holding his eye, blood trickling between his fingers.
McGuire ran to and fro, yelling at his troops, warning them of imminent attacks, punching, tearing, stabbing, shooting at everyone in front of him. He turned toward a cannon guarded by three Federals, running the nearest one through with his bayonet. The others turned to run, but were pushed back into position by a blue-coated officer. Wes and several others arrived at the same moment to help McGuire. Tommy Green was beside Wes and, using his musket like a club, he smashed the head of one of the remaining bluecoats. As the man fell away, another Union soldier tried to stab Tommy but ran into Wes’ bayonet as he charged by. He hung there for a moment, turning to Wes with a stupid look on his face, before crumpling to the ground.
With the cannon’s crew down, only the officer was left standing behind the piece. He was armed with a large revolver which he pointed coolly at McGuire. Just as Wes yelled a warning, the officer fired. McGuire staggered, paused, then reached down to his chest which had a huge black hole in its center. A moment later, the black turned red and McGuire slid to the ground. Wes, screaming in rage, turned to see the officer reloading his revolver. Racing toward him around the cannon wheel, Wes held his musket out for a bayonet strike. But in his blind fury, he missed his thrust and crashed into the man, knocking him flat and dropping his gun. The officer, lying on his back, frantically tried to reload his weapon. When Wes leaned over to retrieve his musket, the Yankee grabbed Wes’ collar. Trapped, whimpering with terror and exertion as he stumbled on top of him, Wes butted his head viciously into the man’s nose, then rolled off and scrambled to his feet. With a howl of animal rage, he smashed his musket butt like a pile driver into the man’s face.
Spotting McGuire on the ground, he ran and knelt by him and stared into the old man’s pale face and glazed eyes. The sergeant tried to speak but no sound came. Wes bent low, trying to hear his words, but the Irishman only choked, spitting blood all over the side of Wes’ face. Then he was silent, his eyes staring up at the sky. Wes wiped the blood off his own face with revulsion, as if the death it had brought to McGuire might be contagious.
Standing again, he looked around self-consciously, realizing that for a whole minute he had been vulnerable, oblivious to everything except McGuire’s body. Anyone might have come up and killed him. But the tide of battle had moved on, its roar having subsided into a constant low moaning from the wounded, sprawled everywhere among the dead,
The remainder of the fight was a blur. He was numb, unthinking, unfeeling. The hand-to-hand combat continued for some time as Jackson’s men chased the Federals back into the valley and beyond. Wes, able to find only the fringes of the fight, was too dazed to understand any longer what was happening. At one point, it seemed to him that the overwhelming horror and excruciating effort of this battle blotted out all memory of the rest of his life, that it distorted his consciousness to where he believed that he had always been in the midst of this ghastly nightmare, knowing that at any second he might die screaming.
The two sides fought to an exhausted standstill, until fresh Confederates arrived and drove the remaining Federals into a flat-out retreat. By then, Wes had been reduced to a mindless machine, running, pausing to reload, firing, running again, until there were no targets left to shoot.
Darkness finally made it difficult to see more than a few yards ahead. When the fighting finally wound down and the halt was called, Wes realized that he didn’t recognize any of the Confederate soldiers around him. He turned back and began searching for the rest of his company.