Drummer Boy at Bull Run

by Gilbert L. Morris

  Royal appeared to have lost his appetite. He looked into the fire for a long time, then up at the others. “I’m not expecting anything to happen, you know. But just in case something does, Pa, I want to tell you what a good father you’ve been to me. You and Ma—why no boy had better parents!”

  Something about the way he spoke frightened Leah, but she could say nothing. A huge lump was in her throat at the very idea that Royal might be killed, and she had to blink back tears.

  Royal, seeing his father and sister staring at him, said quickly, “Well, I might as well say it. I might not make it tomorrow. Some of us sure won’t, if we tangle with the Rebs.” He straightened and nodded firmly, “But if I don’t make it, I want you to know I’ll be with Jesus. I’m not afraid to die, but—like every man, I guess—I’d miss you, my family, and the things I always planned on doing. If I have to die for our country, I’ll do it. But we won’t lose. God’s on our side.”

  Leah was moved by his words. Later, after Royal had left, she said, “Pa, is that right—that God’s on our side?”

  “Well, we would like to think that,” her father said slowly. “Why,” he asked, “don’t you think He is?”

  Leah looked off into the darkness where her brother had disappeared, then farther off to where she knew the enemy troops lay. “I don’t know, Pa. I’m pretty sure there are people over there thinking God’s on their side. So I just don’t know.”

  Leah was depressed by the thought of the impending conflict. She went to bed but did not sleep well—wondering about and dreading the battle that would take place the next day.

  12

  There Stands Jackson

  Like a Stone Wall!

  The two armies that lay on opposite sides of Bull Run Creek were amateurs at the art of war. The Northern commander, General Irving McDowell, reported in disgust, “[The troops] stopped every moment to pick blackberries or get water; they would not keep in ranks, or do as much as you please. When they came where water was fresh, they would pour the old water out of their canteens and fill them with fresh water. They were not used to denying themselves much; they were not used to journeys on foot.”

  Thus it was that when the main column of Union troops passed through a small town called Fairfax, the heat and fatigue of the day’s march had not dimmed their high spirits. They ransacked the neighborhood for milk, butter, eggs, and poultry. Here and there a stray shot echoed where a soldier had killed not a deer but one of the cattle that were quietly grazing. There was even some sportive barn burning—and vandalizing and torching of homes from which the occupants had fled.

  But soon enough that aspect of the affair ceased, and the Union troops were thrown against the ground occupied by Confederate General Beauregard’s center.

  Suddenly a volley of gunfire came from the green foliage, startling Royal, and the air was thick, he thought, with leaden rain. A white cloud rose above the trees, and a wild yell like the whoop of war-painted Indians was heard above the din of battle as General Longstreet’s brigade delivered the first round and sent up its first battle cry.

  Colonel William Tecumseh Sherman, soon to be promoted to general and later to be the right-hand man of General Grant, said afterward, “For the first time in my life I saw cannonball strike men and crash through the trees and saplings above us and around us.”

  Royal turned to look his squad over and saw that they were very apprehensive.

  The lieutenant came by. “Royal, watch the men. They’re not used to this. They may try to run.”

  Royal forced a smile. “Well, who’s going to watch me, Lieutenant? I guess you better do that.”

  The lieutenant shook his head. “No, I’m not worried about you. What I’m worried about is Joe Johnston.”

  “Who’s he? Oh, you mean the Confederate general?”

  The lieutenant shaded his eyes with his hands and said, “He’s supposed to be camped over in the Shenandoah Valley by our General Patterson. But if he gets away and joins this fight, we’re going to have a hard time.”

  What the lieutenant did not know was that General Joseph Johnston had already managed to elude the Federals under General Patterson and had moved two-thirds of his troops by train partway to the Bull Run lines. It was the first time in history that soldiers had been transported to a battlefield by rail.

  Back of the lines, Leah and her father had watched the troops nervously preparing for battle. Soon after the firing started, Dan Carter looked up in surprise. “Why, look—there’s some of our boys coming back. Wonder why they’re not going forward?”

  The troops marched by, and one soldier stopped to buy some food. As Mr. Carter provided it, he asked, “Where are you going? The battle’s that way.”

  The soldier, a short, overweight man with a sunburned face, said, “We’re three months’ volunteers, and our enlistment just ran out. We’re headed back to town.”

  “Well, I think that’s awful,” Leah burst out. “Leaving your comrades to fight the battle alone.”

  The fat soldier looked at her in embarrassment. “Well,” he said, “we done our fighting at Blackburn’s Ford. Now let the rest of them take over.” He turned and walked away.

  Not long after that, they saw more carriages bringing the civilians who had driven out from Washington to witness the operations. One of the nearby sutlers said, “There’s our senator.” And some recognized other members of Congress.

  “I still don’t think that’s right,” Dan Carter said stubbornly, “for those men to come out and see a battle like it was a picnic.”

  * * *

  Across the river, General Jackson’s corps occupied a position far right of the Union line. Lieutenant Nelson Majors had been assigned as one of Jackson’s couriers, and he stayed slightly back as messages came to and fro from the battle.

  Finally General Jackson turned and said, “Lieutenant, go see if you can find General Beauregard. Tell him we’re not getting any action at all over here on the right. Ask him for orders. See if you can find out what’s going on.”

  “Yes, sir.” The lieutenant spurred his horse down the line of Confederates who had taken position behind trees and the logs that they had thrown up overnight. To his left he could hear the sound of musket fire and cannons. Finally, after some difficulty, he found General Beauregard’s headquarters.

  A major stopped him and inquired about his business.

  “General Jackson asked if there were any new orders. He says there’s no activity over to the right.”

  At that moment a group of officers rode up, and the major said, “Wait a minute. Here’s General Johnston, just come from the Shenandoah Valley. Maybe he’ll know what’s going on.”

  General Johnston took General Beauregard’s salute.

  “I’m glad to see you, General,” Beauregard said. “Are your men close behind?”

  “Most of them are. The rest will be here shortly.” General Johnston was a small man, neatly dressed. His uniform was impeccable. “I was expecting to find you engaged in the battle, General Beauregard.”

  “I had planned,” General Beauregard said, “to attack this morning. But then I decided to let the enemy move first. Then we can move our troops to where he hits us.”

  Johnston looked up and down the lines. “I don’t see any signs of an attack.” He turned his head slightly and said, “But I hear cannon fire over to the left—and musketry too.”

  “Yes,” Beauregard said, “I’ve heard the same.” He hesitated, apparently not certain what to do. He thought hard for a moment. General Johnston was the ranking officer on the field, so Beauregard suggested, “The battle is there, General. We need to throw our men into it.”

  Just then Jeff’s father spurred his horse forward. Saluting, he said, “General, General Jackson would like orders, sir.”

  Johnston at once said, “Tell General Jackson I said to move his troops to our left. That’s where the enemy seems to be attacking.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nelson Majors whirled
his horse around and drove the animal at a dead run back to his brigade.

  As soon as he drew up, he said, “General Jackson. General Johnston has arrived from the Shenandoah. The Yankees are attacking over on the left. He commands you to take your brigade at once to engage them there.”

  General Jackson’s eyes seemed to glow with a pale blue light. He nodded. “Yes, Lieutenant.” Then he raised his voice and called out to his staff officers, “Move at once to the left. The enemy is attacking there.”

  Tom was waiting impatiently, and Jeff came to stand beside him. Jeff was apprehensive and nervous.

  Suddenly Tom said, “Look, there’s Pa—I mean, there’s the lieutenant.”

  They hurried forward to hear their father cry, “Company A, prepare to march. We’re moving to our left. No stragglers now.” He glanced over, saw his sons, and said, “Let’s hear those drums, drummer boy, and get the men at once to moving.”

  Jeff called out, “Yes, sir,” and began to sound the appropriate drum rolls. Bugles blew, men shouted, and soon it seemed the whole brigade was running toward the left. Ahead he could see General Jackson and his staff as they moved in that direction.

  “Shoot!” he gasped as he stumbled along over the rough ground. “I guess we’re into it this time!”

  Curly Henson’s face was rather pale under his sunburn. He had been boastful all night about what he would do to the Yankees, but now he muttered, “I’d just as soon them Yankees turned around and went back to Washington!”

  As they approached the left of the Confederate line, the sound of combat swelled. Officers called out orders, and the men were thrown into a battle formation.

  Jeff stood close to his father, who continually barked out commands. “Move to the right!” “Get the strikers together!” “Watch them, sergeant! Don’t let them shoot until we’ve got something to shoot at.”

  Jeff would never forget his first exposure to enemy fire. It sounded as though a giant were breaking huge sticks—crack! crack! crack! crack!

  The Confederate cannons stationed nearby almost deafened him with their roar as they threw their missiles across Bull Run Creek. All was noise and fire and smoke—and then suddenly, just down the line from him, a soldier coughed loudly, then fell. Two or three of his comrades moved to him, and one looked up with a white face and whispered, “He’s dead! Got him right in the heart!”

  Jeff’s breath seemed to stop. It was as if an iron band were tightened around his chest. He had known the soldier, a young man named Tim Eberly, who came from Mississippi. He had shared a plate of beans once with him and listened to the young man tell about a fox hunt he’d been on.

  Fearfully, Jeff looked over at him. There was an awful stillness about him, and his white face frightened Jeff. Tim’s never going to get to go back to Mississippi, he thought numbly and swallowed hard.

  Then amid the booming of cannons and the rattle of musket fire, he heard his father call, “Look out—here they come! Every man load, but don’t fire until I give the signal!”

  Jeff crouched down at his sergeant’s command as blue-clad figures emerged from the battle smoke. They were running as fast as they could, it seemed, and Jeff had the impulse to turn and run away. When they were no more than fifty feet away, Jeff’s father shouted, “Fire!”

  A crash of rifle fire echoed his words, and Jeff saw a huge gap suddenly appear in the blue line. Some men fell. Others were driven back, dropping their muskets. The whole line of unharmed men wavered. Looking around and seeing their predicament, suddenly they whirled and ran back into the smoke.

  “We stopped them that time!” Curly Henson gasped. “We sure stopped them Yankees, didn’t we?”

  But that was merely the first charge. Time and again the blue waves came rushing into the battle, and slowly the Confederates were driven back.

  “We can’t stand this long,” Jeff muttered to the sergeant. “Lots of our men have gone down.”

  The sergeant nodded. “I know it.” He paused, then said, “Look! Who’s that officer?”

  Lieutenant Majors stood up to see more clearly. “I know him. That’s General Bee. Looks like they’ve been taking a beating.” Jeff watched as General Bee rode up.

  “General Jackson—they’re driving us back!”

  Jackson, mounted on his horse, looked over at the fury of the battle and shook his head firmly. His eyes blazed. “Then we will give them the bayonet. Stand your ground, sir!”

  General Bee seemed to take courage from this. He whirled his horse around, rode back a few yards, and Jeff could hear him call, “Men, don’t run!—rally behind the Virginians! There stands Jackson like a stone wall!”

  And that was the way General Jackson got his nickname. “I guess now he’ll always be Stonewall Jackson,” Jeff heard his father say as the Virginians moved forward. He added to Jeff, “I’m glad you’re all right. I’ve got to go forward now. You stay up as much as you can.”

  “All right, Pa,” Jeff said with a swallow. “I’ll do like you say. But you be careful, will you?”

  But Jeff’s father could not be careful. There was no way to be careful in the battle that followed. All afternoon long the cannons roared, and the muskets crackled. Charges and countercharges took place on ground close to a house owned by a family named Henry. Guns were brought into place and began a withering fire. Some were captured and turned upon the enemy.

  During one charge, Jeff found himself suddenly left behind as the Confederates were beaten back. He looked up to see a blue-clad Yankee rushing right at him with a bayonet. The man’s eyes were insane with battle madness, and Jeff knew that he could never get away. Nevertheless, he whirled and tried to run. His drum thumped against him.

  Then, almost in his ear, a rifle exploded. He turned to see the Union soldier fall—and Curly Henson lower his musket. Curly’s face was black with gunpowder.

  “You OK, boy?” he asked huskily.

  “Sure. I am now.” Jeff looked at the Union soldier, then back to Curly. “I guess you saved my bacon that time, Curly. I owe you one.”

  Curly Henson had given the boy nothing but problems, but somehow that had all changed now. He laid a large, rough hand on Jeff’s shoulder and grinned. “Aw, we Rebels got to stick together, don’t we? Come on, Jeff, let’s get out of this.”

  13

  The Fires of Battle

  The Battle of Bull Run developed into a contest for possession of the plateau surrounding the Henry house.

  When Lieutenant Nelson Majors climbed to the top of the slight ridge, he had a clear view of the whole line. “Look, there,” he said to Sergeant Mapes, “you can see the enemy like bees in a hive.”

  They watched as the officers rode about and their columns moved about everywhere. Some batteries on the left and right were masked by trees, but the lieutenant could see puffs of smoke and knew that the shells were falling on the North’s own lines.

  “Not much order over there, is there, Sergeant? Look, those regiments are scattered, and the lines aren’t even.”

  “No, sir, but I guess we’ve got about as many stragglers as they have.” Mapes looked around. “I ain’t never seen anything quite this bad. Lots of men have fallen, and that makes some others run away.”

  “And a lot of men are hurt too.” Nelson Majors watched the continuous stream of injured being carried past. Sometimes soldiers would cross their muskets, place their wounded companions across them, and carry them. A wounded soldier walked past with his arm around another soldier’s neck, the two of them making their way slowly to the rear.

  “This is hard going, Mapes,” Lieutenant Majors said. “We’re going to have to do better than this if we’re going to whip those Yankees.”

  “I guess you’re right, sir look, the General’s motioning for you.”

  Nelson Majors saw Jackson signaling him to come forward. He moved his horse up beside the General’s, and Jackson said, “Lieutenant, I want you to ride from battery to battery and see that the guns are properly aimed and the fu
ses are the right length.”

  “Yes, sir.” He immediately galloped away to do as the General had ordered.

  “We ain’t got much ammunition left,” one artillery officer told him. “Tell the general if we’re going to do anything, we had better do it quick.”

  Nelson Majors made his way back to General Jackson and gave his report, adding, “The guns are running low on ammunition, General.”

  Jackson’s eyes fairly blazed. He had a way, the lieutenant had noticed, of throwing up his left hand with the open palm toward the person he was addressing. He threw it up now and said, “All right, Lieutenant, we’ll—”

  Then he jerked his hand down, and the lieutenant saw blood streaming from it.

  “General, you’re wounded!”

  Jackson drew a handkerchief from his breast pocket and began to bind up his hand. “Only a scratch a mere scratch,” he said and galloped away.

  The battle raged for another hour, and then General Jackson returned, his staff officers behind him. “We’ll be leading a charge, Lieutenant Majors. I want Company A in the front. Are your men ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then have your drummer boy signal the charge.”

  Nelson Majors whirled away and found his top sergeant. “We’re going to charge, Mapes.” He looked about and saw Jeff. “Jeff, sound the charge.”

  Jeff’s face was pale, but he at once began beating the long drum roll that announced the charge.

  At once the men looked up, though weary already with fighting.

  Lieutenant Majors drew his saber. “Follow me, men! We’ve got them this time!”

  The entire company moved forward. To their right and to their left, other companies began to form.

  Jeff marched along, but the lines became so uneven that it seemed there was little order. He saw his father getting far ahead and wanted to call out to him to slow down.

  Curly Henson stayed beside him. “That pa of yours he don’t know what fear is, does he?”

  “I wish he did, Curly,” Jeff muttered. “He’s getting too far ahead.”

  Even as he spoke, he heard the thunder of Federal artillery. Shells began to drop all around them. One came so close that it almost deafened him, and when the dirt had stopped falling he saw that several men were down.