“IT CANNOT BE,” UNION BRIGADIER GENERAL JAMES SHIELDS exclaimed. “No sane commander would risk battle so far from his supports.”

“Ah,” Shields' adjutant said with a smile, “but this ‘Stonewall’ Jackson as they are calling him appears not to have great concern for either risk or sanity.”

Still, Shields thought to himself, shaking his large handsome head, the man cannot have more than three thousand troops under his command, less than half what I have. We have chased him halfway up the Shenandoah Valley from Winchester. Why in blazes would he decide to turn on us now?

Born a half century before in County Tyrone, Ireland, Shields had fought in the Black Hawk War, served in the Illinois Supreme Court, been wounded in the Mexican War, and served as governor and senator from the Oregon Territory. And he had once challenged an Illinois political opponent named Abraham Lincoln to a duel over a series of venomous newspaper articles he suspected Lincoln of aiding a young woman named Mary Todd in writing.

But never had James Shields seen such audacity. No, it was unthinkable. Still, Shields, who would become the only man ever to represent three different states as a United States senator, had heard about Stonewall's stand at Bull Run—and of his bold winter march on Romney. I shall go see for myself he decided.

When the Irish-American arrived in the low hills south of the village of Kernstown, itself half a dozen miles south of Winchester, a Michigan colonel pointed toward the reported Rebel troop presence. Still shaking his head in disbelief, Shields cantered ahead.

Nearly a mile away, Turner Ashby, atop his magnificent white charger, gave the signal to his “horse artillery,” which let loose a round.

Shields heard the shell coming in, but not in time to escape being blown off his horse, his chest and shoulder peppered with shrapnel.

The next day, the wounded Shields' commander, Banks, satisfied that Stonewall's main force lay many miles to the south, departed for Washington to proceed with Secretary Stanton and President Lincoln on plans to shift much of Banks's command east, some to support McClellan's assault on Richmond and some to protect the Federal capitol.

But Stonewall had other ideas. Just before he sent his small force crashing into Shields', he pulled a chewed-up lemon from his mouth and smiled his silent laugh at Sandie's biographical report of Stonewall, taken from the New York Mercury newspaper. He hailed from the family tree of Jack, the Giant-killer, the Mercury reported, as it lauded Stonewall's boyhood accomplishments, the force of his will, and the wonderful abstemiousness that enabled him to live for a fortnight at a time on two crackers and a barrel of whiskey.

The story humored Stonewall, who realized how rarely he found whimsy in, or even respected, the contents of newspapers. He flicked the lemon away and his right arm shot up into the air, the motion unrelated to his command to attack.

Racing forward with the Stonewall Brigade, under the command of Brigadier General Richard Garnett, Willy soon realized the late afternoon fight would be tough. Thankful he now was for the ten-minute rest each hour that Stonewall gave his “Foot Cavalry,” as they were coming to be known, during their marches, no matter how pressing the objective. Yet somehow Stonewall still got his men where they headed faster than anyone else. And the word from the officers was that the old ex-professor had insights into physical conditioning and endurance and their importance that was possessed by few if any other general officers North or South.

Willy had chuckled at the disappearance of some of the brigade's most infamous packs of cards and the sudden appearance in their place of pocket Testaments. Also, at Tucker Randolph's newfound concern over his own frequent profanity and lustful considerings. But now all energies turned to survival. The fight blazed in tight quarters, with little room for maneuver. Willy's mind detached him from the observance of splattered body parts and the deafening roar of battle. He loaded, fired, then reloaded, occasionally shifting to a position with better cover, though never moving far.

Once when stepping over a dead friend to take the boy's place of cover behind a splintered oak, he caught view of a Union shell tearing through the two rear horses of a Confederate team, ripping the legs off the driver, and continuing on to shred the trunks of two other men.

The fight raged for two hours. Twice Willy and his comrades threw back charging blue waves. Later Willy would reflect how the Union forces advanced so thickly that it seemed he could hardly have missed hitting somebody unless he had fired straight up into the air. Twenty-eight Confederate rounds ripped through the banner of the Seventh Ohio Regiment.

But the realization closed in on Willy that ammunition grew more difficult to find. First he had loaned it to others. Then he had borrowed it. Then he had pilfered it from the dead. Now, all of a sudden, he had two cartridges remaining, with the Yankees massing for another charge.

He bit off the wrapping paper and poured his powder into the breech. Then he turned and saw Randolph shaking his shoulder.

“We're retreating,” Randolph said, his eyes wild and his face covered with brown dirt, black powder, and the red mist of comrades' blood.

Willy shook his head in denial. No, Tom Jackson never retreats—from anything.

Randolph read his thoughts. “I know, I can't believe it either, but sure enough it's the truth. General Garnett himself give the order. Now come on, else we'll be fending off this charge by our lonesome.”

Then a bullet splintered a branch above Willy's head and he began to back off, firing his next-to-last ball, then reloading the final one as he continued.

No one panicked; they retreated in order, peppering the Yankees whenever they attempted to start a run.

Down the line, Stonewall, unaware of the retreat, brought the large, veteran Fifth Virginia Regiment forward, only to come upon other men heading to the rear. Sandie had informed him just before the commencement of the battle that the usually reliable Ashby's report had grossly underestimated the strength of the Union force. It doubled Stonewall's in size. But this—his own men moving away from the sound of the guns, without his knowledge, much less his orders? He whipped Sorrel with the reins, which he rarely did, and galloped toward the break.

He stopped one retreating youngster, shouting to know why he had quit the field.

Raising his rifle, the tawny-headed youth said, “No more ammunition, sir. We used up even the dead's. We was fixing to have to throw rocks.”

Stonewall's face boiled like a volcano about to erupt and he rose in his stirrups, great pulsing veins advancing outward from his scarlet neck. “Well then you bloody well should have thrown rocks, son. Now get back there and fight with the bayonet!” Then he saw a drummer boy retreating. Stonewall hoofed Sorrel over to intercept that youth. “Beat the rally,” he ordered, his sparking white-hot eyes stunning the boy. “I said beat the rally!” The drummer, more frightened by Stonewall now than by the Yankees, nodded and drummed the call. But Stonewall could not stem the backward flow.

He rode until he found Garnett.

“Why have you not rallied your men?” Stonewall shouted at his brave subordinate. “Halt and rally!”

Garnett was speechless. In his eyes, he had just saved Stonewall's old brigade.

“Why this—this loss of will?” Stonewall said, gesturing to the troops that cascaded around them toward the rear. “Even as I was myself bringing up reserves to support you. Five minutes, General, five minutes longer and this hill would have been ours for the night!”

Garnett had never seen such rage in man or beast. He turned and shouted himself hoarse attempting to stem the retreat he himself had ordered, and which had led to the falling back of the other, now-exposed, Confederate units.

Stonewall managed to erect a line of riflemen that, coupled with the creeping darkness, fended off Union pursuit and enabled an organized Confederate retreat.

Ashby wept when he realized the battle was lost. Only the physical intervention of a half-dozen of his own Rangers prevented him from single-handedly attacking a line of Union horse soldiers.

Willy shook his ringing head and collapsed in an exhausted heap in a fence corner.

And Stonewall ground his teeth together, already pondering what disciplinary action to take against Garnett. For the hero of Mexico and Manassas fought for his God, his country, and the good name of Jackson. The latter he no longer realized was so, though it was.

But on this day, he had lost his first battle.