Chapter 8

Duty is the most sublime word in our language. Do your duty in all things.

You cannot do more. You should never wish to do less.

—Robert E. Lee

 

Colonel Benton leaned one shoulder against a tree as he read a newspaper article about one of his recent raids. His merriment was interrupted by the sound of one of his scouts spurring his horse furiously up the hill toward him. The soldier reined his mount to a sliding stop in front of the tree and slid off.

“Sir, the pike’s blue with Yankees,” Lieutenant Matt Kelsey said breathlessly. “They’re thick as rattlesnakes in the May-day sun!”

“Is it Snipes?”

“Yessirah.”

Benton closed the paper and sighed loudly as if exasperated by the antics of a child. But the sigh was accompanied with a grim flash of the eye that boded no good for the enemy. “That man is trespassing on my territory and my patience.”

“According to some townspeople, he is looking for you,” the scout reported.

The men that had gathered around to hear the news started laughing, and even Benton could not resist allowing his mouth to turn up into another reckless grin. “Oh yes,” he said. “Snipes is looking for me about as hard as a sinner seeks God… hoping he does not find Him.”

Colonel Snipes was notorious for riding through the territory, informing the residents what harm he was going to inflict on the evil rebels that lived in their midst, generally making his appearance when Benton and his men were out chasing bigger game—and always availing himself of the pretext of not being able to find his sought-after enemy. Although Benton afforded him every opportunity for a trial of combat, the offer was invariably declined.

As far as the neighboring citizens were concerned, Snipes was considered more of a robber than a soldier. He treated them with insult and cruelty and wreaked havoc on their lives by seizing personal property, slaughtering livestock, and destroying crops. A clash with Snipes would have far more importance for its effect on the minds of the inhabitants in the region than for any intrinsic military value to Benton or the Confederacy—yet this was a fight Benton was eager to have. Although it had not been on his agenda for today, he resolved himself to teach Snipes a lesson.

“Where is he now?”

“Should be about at Mason’s place.”

“How many?”

“Looked like at least four hundred.”

The men looked eagerly at Benton—as they always did—for or an instant solution to the dilemma. Although they knew they had but one hundred, their waiting eyes were filled with confidence as they saw battle written clearly on their leader’s face. Benton feared no odds and no numbers. He held the advantage of surprise, and he fully comprehended the value of retaining it.

Benton paused once more and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if deciding on a chess move, while the willing faces of his men stared at him in anticipation of his next order. They were barely able to restrain themselves at the thought of having another opportunity to prove their valor, appearing as anxious as a group of boys about to be turned loose for a spring holiday after a long, hard winter.

“If Snipes wishes to teach us a lesson, men, we must make it a costly one. Connelly!” Benton turned to his second in command. “Take your men to the church. They should have passed there by now, and prepare to defend the road. I have a feeling Colonel Snipes may be passing back that way sooner than expected.”

Connelly smiled and nodded, galloping away with his devil squadron and disappearing into a cloud of dust. All of them appeared perfectly confident, knowing full well that when an able force is led by an accomplished and capable leader, the ultimate victor cannot always be predicted by mere numbers.

“The rest of you men, follow me.” Benton gave a light tug on his reins. “After today, I fear Snipes will as soon think of attacking the devil as riding into our territory.”

Benton dashed off, and like a pack of hungry hounds on a fresh trail, his men followed. Through cornfields and over stone fences, the invincible little band rushed, blindly following their idolized leader. Yet some of them began groaning under their breath as they watched Benton’s soldierly form veer and plunge into a tangled, impenetrable thicket off the side of the road, knowing without looking that there would be no perceivable evidence of a trail in front of him.

“There’ll be blood spilled sure,” one of them mumbled.

Others swore and cursed, nodding their heads in agreement, for their commander had the notorious and immensely unpopular habit of piloting his troops through the fields and streams of Virginia, insisting a rabbit path through a briar patch was a shortcut. The men knew from experience that they would suffer more irritating wounds and lose more blood by following him through the tangled maze of his imaginary path than they would in actual battle. How he always came away without a scratch was a mystery no one had yet solved—especially at the speeds at which he generally tore through the snarled, angry tangle of barbs.

“Why can’t he take the blasted road,” one of the men grumbled as a vine slashed his leg.

“That’d be wishful thinking, my friend,” another responded.

Indeed, not a hundred yards away, lay a road in the same direction. But that would have been too slow and too far out of the way for the usual rapidity of their gallant leader’s mind and motions. If he could find a shortcut through hell, his men knew with blessed certainty they’d find themselves breathing smoke and riding through fire.

When the last man came barreling out of the wilderness, Benton again split his force, placing them on opposite sides of the road in cover of an embankment on one side and cedars on the other. He spread them out as far as he could, intending to make a show of force that would deceive the enemy of his true numbers.

Another scout came spurring in from the opposite side of the road to report on the progress of the enemy. “They are advancing, sir.”

The news brought a wry smile to Benton’s face. “I predict they will soon be ‘advancing’ backward,” he replied as he stood in his stirrups and stretched his long legs a moment as if just waking up from a nap. It had been Benton’s experience over the last year and a half that two fully loaded revolvers, carried in the belts of a few dozen men with the power, skill, and authority to use them had the magical effect of reversing a Yankees’ sense of direction.

“Steady men. Don’t fire too soon,” Benton said casually as he eased himself back into the saddle and picked up his reins. Although he appeared as relaxed as if he were merely giving the command for the start of a horserace, his men knew that within a few minutes he would be fighting with the fire and energy of Mars himself. He never appeared so happy, so completely in his element as when he had his officers and men engaged in a hot contest.

Directing two of the soldiers to follow him, Benton rode forward on the turnpike toward his foe, casually lighting a cigar after a distance of about a hundred yards, just as a sea of blue crested a hill within view. Had anyone looked upon his face, they would have seen his eyes watching the advance of the enemy with all the attention that a groom shows at the approach of his bride. Yet he pretended not to notice his foe’s appearance, riding placidly forward with apparent unconcern… inviting attack.

Perhaps Benton did not realize he was in range of their guns as he crested the hill—or perhaps he did not care. In any event, the resultant barrage of lead from the enemy kicked up dust in quite a lively manner on the road around him and his two comrades. Feigning surprise, Benton and his men wheeled their horses as if in panic, and galloped back toward whence they had come, firing a few shots over their shoulders as a derisive salute.

Thinking of nothing but an easy victory over their most reviled enemy, the Union vanguard pursued the fleeing horsemen and rode blindly into the trap without hesitation or suspicion, closely followed by the main body who apparently did not wish to miss out on the fun.

Meanwhile, silence and deep anxiety hung over Benton’s men as they waited breathlessly for the signal. There was no movement and no sound, save their pounding hearts and the occasional impatient stamp of a horse’s hoof. These were battle-tested veterans who knew what they were doing—and, more importantly, were experienced enough to know of the disaster that would ensue if they started doing it too soon. Possessing the confidence that comes from routine victories, the impending conflict held no fear for these men, despite the unevenness in numbers. Waiting in the close shadows of the thicket, with reins clasped, revolvers drawn, they anxiously awaited the sign that would signal the unclenching of their hungry jaws.

When it finally came, the demoniacal cry that rose from their throats instantly instilled in the Federals the belief that they had substantially miscalculated their enemy’s strength. Or perhaps it was that they did not wish to fight the demons who were speeding undismayed into their midst, yelling as they swept forward like a pack of ferocious wolves. Then again, it could have been merely the fear of Benton himself that lent a thousand terrors to the enemy’s mind, for they wavered, broke, and fled at the first sight of the fanatical rebel band. Fired to a divine energy and with the majestic madness so common to them, this band of heroic troopers continued to stir the air with their battle cry, making music enough for a battalion though there were now many less than one hundred on hand.

The combined result of fire and shock instantly drove the vanguard back into the main column, which, for the most part, had already turned and begun running back down the pike—directly into the open and waiting arms of Connelly and his men. Benton pulled his horse up on an eminence and watched his men vigorously carry out his order to “make a meal of them.”

“Wear them out!” he yelled smiling, knowing they needed no further coaching from him. They performed their duty with a precision and thoroughness that indicated bountiful amounts of previous practice. The outcome, therefore, was as Benton predicted. Snipes had reversed his direction, suddenly more eager for flight than a fight. Benton observed the action with an expression that looked more like impatience than concern and turned his thoughts to the prompt removal of the wounded, prisoners, and horses.

Rubbing his temple thoughtfully, Benton watched his men round up and separate the enemy from their mounts. With at least two hundred of each, it would take a few men to get the horses back to headquarters, and another half dozen to escort the prisoners south. Although it had been a successful afternoon so far, he was losing men and time. This little fray was going to put him hours behind schedule…and as he glanced at the sky, the weather appeared to be inclined to do the same.

“What say you we go stir up some Yankees,” Benton said, once his men were reassembled again. He was impatient to get started on the task he had been ordered to perform: harass and delay—if not prohibit—any advance on General Stuart’s cavalry.

The sky was turning dark and massing with angry clouds when the group finally headed south in the direction a force of the enemy had been reported. It was not long after that rain began falling in sheets… a situation that was wholly disregarded by Benton.

The sound of an approaching wagon, barely distinguishable in the storm, sent the men scurrying into the cover of trees. All except Benton that is, who stood in the middle of the road, signaling for the wagon to halt. While speaking leisurely with the wagon’s occupants on the possible whereabouts of the Federal army, two Union officers rode out from the darkness behind the wagon. Although their sudden appearance no doubt surprised Benton, he conversed casually with them without revealing his identity. After ascertaining they were alone, and finding out where they were heading, he officially introduced himself.

“Heading south?” When they answered in the affirmative, Benton drew his weapon from beneath his coat so quickly it was difficult to see any movement. “Allow my men to escort you.”

As usual, the demand for surrender was so strongly stipulated and forcefully requested that compliance was immediate. Benton’s words brought instantaneous action from those waiting in the tree line, and the Federal officers were soon on their way to Richmond. The intelligence gained was then hastily copied to a dispatch and forwarded through a courier to Stuart.

“Forward, men,” Benton said when that business was completed to his satisfaction. “I believe we shall find some more this way.” These words were said in such a lackadaisical way as if to imply he believed nothing more was needed to establish a victory for the Confederacy than to show his men where to find the enemy.

After another three hours of steady, uneventful riding, Benton directed his men into the shelter of a grove of cedars where only an occasional drop of rain could be felt. As was common, the men instantly took advantage of the pause, many of them sliding off their horses and falling asleep before they hit the ground. Major Connelly lay down with his horse’s reins wrapped around his hand and, within minutes, heard Benton mount and ride away, no doubt seeking some stimulating enterprise to win his men a return for their endurance of the inclement weather. In another few minutes, Connelly was asleep, despite his soggy bed, only to be awakened about an hour later by the sound of Benton’s voice.

“Connelly,” he whispered, standing directly over him.

Connelly was awake in an instant.

“Wake up Jake and question these gentlemen for the countersign.”

Connelly looked up at the two Yankee privates Benton had on each side of him. Taking charge of the two prisoners, he watched his leader remove his noisy spurs, lay them by a tree and disappear again…this time on foot. If Benton ever slept, Connelly thought, no one witnessed it.

After waking up Jake, Connelly separated the men for their questioning. From his prisoner’s story, it did not take long for him to figure the chain of events. Benton had gotten into the enemy’s camp, but had apparently found himself in a larger and more heavily guarded outpost than anticipated. To help him get out he had recruited these two unsuspecting privates, who were innocently having a late-night conversation around a campfire. With a soldier in blue on each side, both of whom had been suitably threatened with death, Benton had merely nodded as he rode by the pickets, asking, “Is all quiet? Good! Keep a sharp lookout!”

It was typical Benton, Connelly thought to himself, as he began questioning his prisoner about the countersign. It soon became evident, however, that the private was no longer in the mood to cooperate. Whether he had gained his senses and had taken in the gravity of the situation or he was no longer in the presence of Benton, Connelly could not ascertain. But only with the persuasive use of a pistol to the Yankee’s head did he manage to convince the private to divulge the important code.

Putting the prisoner under charge of another man, Connelly went back to Jake to compare notes. They had just discovered that the two prisoners did not seem to agree on the countersign, when Benton came striding unhurriedly back into the camp as if he had been out for a moonlit stroll. Benton’s eyes smoldered when Connelly explained the situation, but he did not appear overly alarmed. He had a way of wringing desired facts from even the most reluctant prisoner, and Connelly ascertained no doubt that the two men would cooperate with a little encouragement.

And so it was that the two prisoners were again questioned separately, and again with a gun to their heads—but this time the weapon was in the hand of Benton, and this time the gun was cocked. Apparently this method was a little more convincing and authoritative, for he found the word he was seeking from each and they matched.

“Let’s say we go recruit some Yankee horses to the Confederate service, men,” Benton said, before turning on his heel and mounting his horse.

And so armed with the countersign and plenty of nerve, the band of Rebels hastily mounted and followed their leader, riding straight into the outpost unmolested. The negligent, slumped position in which they sat their horses and the casual way in which they nodded at the sentries as they passed led the Yankee soldiers to believe they were a returning scouting party of their own men whose presence was duly noted and instantly forgotten.

The men worked quietly in the enemy camp, each knowing his business and doing it without hesitation or fear. Within minutes, the Rebel band had secured another eighty-five horses for the Confederacy without a shot being fired. Before he left, however, Benton made sure the Federal troops knew he had been there by carving his name into a nearby tree. He understood that penetrating the enemy’s mind with fear was as important as penetrating a body with lead. Because of this tactic, Benton had become a legend, his reputation so menacing and his character so terrorizing that the mere mention of his name struck fear in the hearts of the enemy.

There was no limit to Benton’s audacity in the minds of the enemy—and therefore no end to his success. Consequently, when calamity, misfortune, or disaster struck a Federal camp, no matter what the circumstances or who was responsible for the blow, the cry that echoed up and down the line was universal: Benton.

Union officers were at a loss to explain what made the Confederate leader so often victorious, but Benton’s men were not. They knew that his triumphs were partly due to his calm and indomitable courage and partly to his cool and collected bearing when he stood in the midst of crises and chaos. But mostly he won, even against overwhelming forces, due to his pure, stubborn, and fierce refusal to be whipped.

Tireless, relentless and seemingly always in the saddle, Benton functioned as if impervious to danger and fatigue. No matter how many days he had been in the saddle, or how many hours since his last meal, he was capable of handling any challenge and overcoming any obstacle. Never, no matter the odds, did he hesitate or waver when commanding the field. As one of his men once said, “The Colonel’s actions follow thought as a bullet follows the bang…so quickly that they seem simultaneous.”