Three

Bull Run

 

George Armstrong Custer spent several hours in New York City to visit the well-known military equipment firm of Horstmann’s and purchased a lieutenant’s uniform, saber, sash, Colt side-hammer pocket pistol, spurs, and other accouterments—and had his photo taken for his sister. He then boarded a train to complete his journey to the nation’s capital, where he would receive orders directing him to his first duty assignment.1

Custer arrived in Washington on Saturday morning, July 20. His first stop was at the Ebbitt House, a hotel where he briefly visited with Jim Parker, his former roommate. Parker had accepted a commission in the Confederate army. Custer made an effort to persuade his friend to reconsider his decision on the grounds that he had sworn an oath of allegiance at West Point. The argument fell on deaf ears. Perhaps part of Parker’s decision to shun the Union was because he had received 102 demerits during his final semester and had been denied graduation from the Academy. Regardless of reasons, good friends Parker and Custer were now on opposite sides of the war.2

That afternoon, Custer reported to the adjutant general’s office at the War Department. He was informed that he had been assigned to Company G of the Second United States Cavalry, commanded by Major Innes Palmer. His unit was presently part of General Irvin McDowell’s Union forces at Centreville, where the battle for possession of nearby Manassas Junction, Virginia, was presumed imminent. The adjutant general was about to direct a subordinate to write out Custer’s orders when he paused to ask, “Perhaps you would like to be presented to General Scott, Mr. Custer?”3

Lieutenant General Winfield Scott, the seventy-five-year-old hero of the Mexican War from Virginia, had turned down a Confederate commission and was serving as President Lincoln’s chief military advisor. “Old Fuss and Feathers,” as he was known for his meticulous dress and attention to military protocol, was a virtual legend, having served in every U.S. conflict since the War of 1812, where he had been severely wounded in the shoulder.4

Custer was certainly impressed. “Scott was looked up to as a leader whose military abilities were scarcely second to those of Napoleon,” he wrote, “and whose patriotism rivaled that of Washington.” This green second lieutenant was doubtlessly taken aback to imagine that he would be deemed worthy of being introduced to the country’s most celebrated soldier, but “joyfully assented” to the adjutant general’s invitation.5

Custer was ushered into Scott’s office, which was occupied by a number of other officers as well as several congressmen, all of whom were studying maps of the vicinity of Manassas Junction. Scott was an imposing figure, standing six feet, four inches in height, although one shoulder drooped from the war wound. “General,” the adjutant general introduced, “this is Lieutenant Custer of the 2nd Cavalry. He has just reported from West Point, and I did not know but that you might have some special orders to give him.”

A cordial General Scott shook hands with Custer and asked if he would prefer drilling volunteers, which had been one of the duties assigned to recent West Point graduates, or did he desire something more active? The drill assignment would keep him out of harm’s way and utilize the training he had received at the Academy. But Custer had also been trained for war, and could not imagine being left behind in the rear when the bugles sounded and the battle had begun.

“Although overwhelmed by such condescension upon the part of one so far superior in rank to any officer with whom I had been brought in immediate contact,” Custer wrote, “I ventured to stammer out that I earnestly desired to be ordered to at once join my company as I was anxious to see active service.” Scott was pleased with that answer, saying, “A very commendable resolution, young man.” He ordered Custer to secure a horse and return that evening to carry dispatches from Scott to General McDowell in the field on his way to duty with the Second Cavalry.6

Custer spent several hours searching for an available mount without success until finally happening upon an enlisted man whom he recognized from the Academy. The soldier was a member of Captain Charles Griffin’s artillery battery and had been retrieving an extra horse that had been left behind when the battery had moved out. Custer was offered the mount, which, ironically, had been a favorite of his from West Point named Wellington.

With the important dispatches from Scott to McDowell secured in his tunic, Custer and the soldier crossed the Potomac on the Long Bridge as darkness descended, rode through the night, and arrived in Centreville at about 3:00 A.M.7

Custer delivered the dispatches to McDowell’s headquarters, and learned over a breakfast of steak, coffee, and Virginia corn bread that the general intended to attack the Confederates in the morning. It would not have dawned on him that there was the distinct possibility that he had been carrying the orders that would initiate the first major battle of the war.

Custer remounted and made his way alone through the darkness in search of his unit, eventually coming upon a line of mounted cavalry. He located Major Palmer, and after introductions with his fellow officers—who were quite hospitable—was directed to his platoon to await orders for the march.

George Armstrong Custer, three days removed from West Point and forty-eight hours without sleep, was about to participate in the first grand struggle of the Civil War.8

The Southern forces, some twenty-two thousand strong, commanded by General P. G. T. Beauregard, were deployed along the right bank of Bull Run, the stream that would give its name to the battle. These Rebel troops were protecting the strategically vital railroad intersection at Manassas Junction, Virginia, located twenty-nine miles southwest of Washington D.C., and held every bridge across Bull Run for some twelve miles.

There were gaps between this line of men and artillery, however, and Brigadier General Irvin McDowell and his thirty-five-thousand-man army hoped to exploit that fact. McDowell planned to strike with one division to draw the enemy’s attention, while sending two other divisions farther up Bull Run to cross at a predetermined place, circle around, and attack the flank.

On Sunday, July 21, 1861, a clear, hot day, the two armies engaged in a long-awaited showdown. Armstrong Custer and the Second Cavalry had been relegated to supporting artillery batteries throughout the early action. He heard the thunder as the eleven guns were fired, watched the cottony clouds of smoke fill the sky, and felt the rumble of the cannons as they shook the ground. Those Union guns were answered by the roar of enemy artillery. His first thought was that the sound was much different than a West Point drill. The experience made a lasting impression on the young cavalry officer.

“I remember well the strange hissing and exceedingly vicious sound of the first cannon shot I heard,” Custer wrote about protecting Captain Griffin’s battery, which was under fire from enemy artillery. “Of course I had often heard the sound made by cannon balls while passing through the air during my artillery practice at West Point, but a man listens with changed interest when the direction of the balls is toward instead of away from him. They seem to utter a different language when fired in angry battle from that put forth in the tamer practice of drill.”9

That artillery barrage to which Custer paid such attention may have been launched by the battery commanded by Tom Rosser, his West Point friend. Rosser had departed the Academy on April 22, 1861, and traveled to Montgomery, Alabama, where he enlisted in the Confederate army. He had been commissioned a first lieutenant, and was assigned to New Orleans to become an instructor for the famous “Washington Artillery,” which had been organized in 1838 and was manned by the best of Creole society.

Incidentally, Thomas Lafayette Rosser was known as a Texan but had actually been born in Campbell County, Virginia, on a farm known as “Catalpa Hill.” In 1849, the family moved to a 640-acre farm in Panola, Texas, about forty miles west of Shreveport, Louisiana. At the time, Rosser’s father had business dealings that detained him in Virginia, and thirteen-year-old Tom was in charge of the wagon train that carried his mother and younger siblings to their new home. Rosser was appointed to West Point by Congressman Lemuel D. Evans and became a proponent of Texas secession, leaving a scant three weeks before graduation. Rosser and Custer had shared many experiences together—such as escapades to Benny Havens’—during their years at the Academy, and their parting must have been quite emotional.

Now, three months later, Tom Rosser was in command of a company of the Washington Artillery at Bull Run and lobbing deadly artillery shells at his former roommate and best friend, George Armstrong Custer.10

At one point during this vicious battle, Custer’s regiment formed in a column of companies and prepared to move to the crest of a hill, where it was presumed the order would be given to charge to protect the guns from an enemy assault. There can be no doubt that Custer’s heart was pounding against his newly purchased uniform tunic. This was the real thing, not a West Point exercise designed by instructors. Blood could be spilled on this ground before the day, not to mention the hour, was over.

Custer wrote, “When it is remembered that but three days before I had quitted West Point as a schoolboy, and as yet had never ridden at anything more dangerous or terrible than a three-foot hurdle, or tried my saber upon anything more animated or combative than a leatherhead stuffed with tan bark, it may be imagined that my mind was more or less given to anxious thoughts as we ascended the slope of the hill in front of us.”11

Second Lieutenant Leicester Walker, who had been appointed from civilian life and outranked Custer by a few days, waited at the head of the next platoon. Custer and Walker had chatted earlier and now engaged in small talk as both made an effort to mask their apprehension about engaging in actual combat. Walker called out from his position, “Custer, what weapon are you going to use in the charge?”

Custer, the West Pointer, who was expected to know such things, promptly answered, “The saber,” and drew his blade. Walker instantly imitated Custer and drew his own saber.

As the formation moved at a walk up the hill, Custer began debating in his mind about the comparative merits of the saber as opposed to the six-shot revolver, and came to the conclusion that the firearm would be best at close quarters. Without a word, he replaced his saber in its scabbard and drew his revolver. Walker noticed, and copied Custer’s actions.

Custer’s mind resumed its debate—a revolver quickly emptied in the midst of the enemy would be less effective than a saber, he judged. With that realization, he holstered the revolver and drew his saber. Walker had observed the exchange, and again followed Custer’s example.

In truth, Custer had no idea which weapon to use and became amused by his own indecision and his comrade’s imitating actions. It was as if the former class clown had planned this saber charade for fun, which assuredly was not the case. The episode, however, had served as a distraction to bolster his nerve for the impending charge.

The company arrived at the crest of the hill and prepared to charge. But, lo and behold, there was no enemy within sight. Consequently, the charge was canceled. The need for either saber or revolver had been, for the time being, postponed. The cavalrymen returned to a sheltered place to await further orders. In time, the company was dispatched to guard the artillery when it moved, and endured hour after hour of inactivity.12

Both armies fought gamely throughout the day. The Union had initially gained the upper hand when the undermanned Confederates wavered under a series of determined assaults. The Confederate soldiers, however, had been inspired by the courage of Thomas Jackson, who had held his position on Henry House Hill “like a stone wall,” thus earning him the nickname “Stonewall.”

Custer wrote, “With the exception of a little tardiness in execution, something to be expected perhaps in raw troops, the battle plan marked out by General McDowell was carried out with remarkable precision up ’til about half-past three p.m. The Confederate left wing had been gradually forced back from Bull Run. But at this crucial moment, with their enemies in front giving way in disorder and flight, a new and to the Federals an unexpected force appeared suddenly on the scene. The next moment the entire line leveled their muskets and poured a volley into the backs of our advancing regiments. The Union lines, but a moment before so successful and triumphant, threw down their arms, were seized by panic, and began a most disordered flight.”13

The battle was being contested by untrained, undisciplined, green recruits, which resembled two armed mobs rather than professional soldiers. Although both sides fought with zeal and patriotism for their cause, the complexity of McDowell’s plan became too much for the Yankee troops to follow. And when Confederate reinforcements arrived on the field—perhaps as many as ten thousand men—the day became bleak for the Union, which had envisioned a quick, romantic victory.

The exhausted Federal troops could not withstand the assailment and the day ended in a rout. Although some Union outfits were able to maintain some semblance of military discipline, most virtually dissolved like dust tossed into the wind and scattered about. These terrified men discarded their weapons and equipment so they would not impede their flight, and headed northward.14

The Confederate cavalry chased the retreating enemy for miles, and soon had captured so many prisoners who required escorts to the rear that the force was reduced to one squad and was compelled to abandon its efforts. Throughout the evening and into the night the panicked Yankee troops filled the roads to Washington. In fact, it was reported that some Union soldiers did not stop running until they reached the streets of New York City, where they could lose their military identity and blend in with the civilian populace.15

Custer’s company acted as rear guard during this disorganized retreat, and was one of the last to leave the field. His unit arrived at the Cub Run Bridge, the main route of retreat to Centreville, to find that artillery shells had struck a number of wagons and carriages to block passage with debris. To add to the confusion, a panicked mob of troops had jammed the bridge in their haste to cross. If the enemy appeared, or if the Confederate artillery opened up again, these bunched-up soldiers would be easy targets and a great amount of casualties would be sustained.

Custer immediately took charge and soon cleared the way for an orderly withdrawal. He then led the cavalry company up Cub Run until he found a place where the waterway could be forded. The troopers finally halted at Centreville, and waited for hours in pitch-black darkness until orders arrived. Too many men had fled from their outfits, they were told, and there would be no way the Union could re-form and make a stand. They were ordered to retreat the twenty-five miles back to the Potomac.

Custer rode at the rear of his company in the driving rain throughout the night, acting as a personal guardian as they retreated down the pike. Company G bugler Joseph Fought noted, “The roads were jammed with people clamoring for news of the fight. But, though famished, exhausted, spent, Custer never gave up, never slackened control.”16

To the shock and dismay of authorities in Washington, the day was irrevocably lost for the Union. The Bluecoats had lost 460 killed, 1,124 wounded, and 1,312 missing, compared to Confederate losses of 387 killed, 1,584 wounded, and 13 missing—numbers that fail to provide a clear view of the engagement. The Federals had not just been defeated, they had been severely demoralized.17

The battle of Bull Run, or First Manassas—as the North and South respectively called the engagement—had concluded with a tactical and moral victory for the Confederacy. The people of the South could not have been more jubilant at the outcome of this conflict. They had always believed that Southerners could outfight Northerners, and this was testament to that fact. In their minds, this victory signified the birth of a nation. Any indecision about whether to continue this fight until the Union cried uncle had been thoroughly dismissed, and any doubters had been won over to the cause of war.18

The coolness under fire and ability to maintain orderliness among the troops by Second Lieutenant George Armstrong Custer—who experienced no actual combat—during this every-man-for-himself retreat was also viewed with great regard by his superiors and earned him a citation for bravery.

His actions even came to the attention of Congressman John A. Bingham, the man who had nominated Custer to West Point. “I heard of him after the First Battle of Bull Run,” Bingham wrote. “In the report of that miserable fiasco he was mentioned for bravery. A leader was needed to re-form the troops, and take them over a bridge. Like Napoleon at Lodi young Custer sprang to the front—and was a hero.” This statement was quite an exaggeration, of course, but typical of praise from a politician with a vested interest who wanted to pat himself on the back for the actions of others.19

The outcome of the battle, however, was a bitter disappointment to Custer. “I little imagined,” he wrote, “when making my night ride from Washington on July 20th, that the night following would find me returning with a defeated and demoralized army.”20

By midmorning on July 22, Custer’s G Company had returned to its camp at Arlington Heights. The green second lieutenant who had experienced his first taste of war dropped from his horse, curled up under a tree in the pouring rain, and for the first time in thirty hours slept.

Although thoroughly disappointed, Custer had to be proud that he had made it through his first day of battle without making any mistakes and had accomplished what he could for the cause. The war had only just begun. And, if that day’s battle was any indication, it was not going to be the quick or romantic victory that Northern politicians had predicted. Consequently, there would be many more opportunities for an ambitious young officer to distinguish himself in battle and gain glory and promotion. He had likely fallen asleep dreaming about someday wearing those general’s stars that were the goal of every West Pointer, but would awake in the morning to the reality that to attain this lofty goal he must endure the hardships and apprehension that were unique to combat.