“This is not what I thought war would be like, no,” Chantel said as she and Jacob made their way down the crowded streets of town. They were following all of the companies stationed in Richmond as they marched to Manassas. Townspeople crowded the streets, tossing flowers to them and cheering them.
Jacob glanced around and shook his head. “It won’t be like this after the battle.”
“What do you mean, Grandpere?”
“You see these men? These soldiers that are laughing now, and drinking and singing? Many of them will be dead. Others will have lost arms or legs or been wounded terribly. But they haven’t seen war yet. They don’t realize. God give them strength, for they will.”
Indeed, there was a carnival-like atmosphere throughout the South. The saying had become commonplace: one Confederate could beat three Union soldiers. Sometimes that was even amended to say that one Confederate could beat ten Union soldiers. No one knew exactly why or how this equation had been decided, but the men of the South believed it firmly.
Chantel heard her name called and turned to see Armand-Pierre Latane shouldering his way through the crowd, smiling as he approached. A captain in Major Roberdeau Wheat’s Louisiana Tigers, he had come to Jacob’s wagon one day to purchase some new handkerchiefs, for he was something of a dandy, from New Orleans. He had been delighted to find Chantel, a beautiful young Cajun girl, in the camp. He stopped by the wagon often, ostensibly to buy buttons or tinned oysters or bootblack, but mostly to talk to Chantel.
He came to walk beside them. He looked trim and neat in his dress uniform, a gray frock coat with gold trim, light blue breeches with the navy blue infantry stripe down the side, and a long, goldhandled sword in a silver sheath. “Good day, Mr. Steiner. Hello, cherie,” he said. “So you’ve come to join the fun.”
Chantel said, “I didn’t think it would be like this, Armand. You’re going to fight in a battle, not on your way to a party. Aren’t you afraid, you?”
“Afraid? No, not me. Somebody else may get shot but not Armand Latane.”
Jacob saw that the man was being deliberately obtuse and asked gently, “I trust your heart is right with God, Captain. You should know that there is a chance that you may be wounded or even die.”
Armand’s face grew more serious, but he shrugged carelessly. He was a handsome man with well-shaped features and jet-black hair. “Even if we were afraid, no man would show it. We each try to outdo the other in audacity, you may say.”
“Where are we going, exactly?” Chantel asked. “And when will the battle start?”
“It’s not far to Bull Run. We have word that troops have already left Washington and are headed this way. Our men are ready for them. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after, we will fight.”
The soldiers were not keeping very good parade line; they mingled with the crowds, stopped for drinks at the saloons, wandered here and there to say good-bye to friends. Now a company of cavalry, trotting in close order, shouldered the crowds aside. Chantel saw that Clay was leading the column. He looked toward the wagon, obviously seeing if it was Jacob’s, then pulled Lightning out of the formation with a muttered order to the corporal riding beside him.
He saluted Latane smartly, and Armand gave him a crisp salute back. “Lieutenant Tremayne, you and your men look like you’re ready for a fight.”
Clay smiled briefly. “General Stuart’s always ready for a fight. And I know that Major Wheat and you Tigers will give a good account of yourselves, too, Armand.”
“C’est ca,” Armand said, shrugging carelessly. “The Tigers will taste blood tonight, Clay.”
Clay said, “Good morning, Chantel, Mr. Steiner. So, you’re following us to Bull Run?”
“Oh yes,” Jacob said eagerly. “I’ve never been so sure of God’s will for me. And I am blessed to have Chantel with me. She is so courageous and strong, she follows this hard path with me.”
“Yes,” Clay agreed, smiling at Chantel, “we are all blessed to have you both. Chantel, soon you won’t just be my angel and your grandfather’s angel. I know you’ll be an angel of the battlefield.”
Chantel blushed a little then asked, “Can you ride with us, Clay?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. But you have a true gentlemanly escort here in Captain Latane. I have to go. I’m on an errand for Colonel Stuart. Look after them, Armand,” he finished.
“It will be my honor,” Armand said formally.
Clay spurred Lightning, and he trotted ahead, but after a few steps, he turned and looked at Jacob, his eyes dark and brooding. “Pray for me,” he said, then turned and galloped away.
General Irvin McDowell was unhappy. His blunt features twisted into a scowl as he said to Colonel James South, “Look at them, South. They act like they’re going to a picnic.”
South turned his gaze upon the marching columns of soldiers, and indeed they were in a strange mood. Many of them had plucked flowers and had shoved them down in their muskets. Even as he watched, a group left the line of march and went over to pick berries beside the road.
“Look at them picking berries! How are we supposed to win a battle with berry pickers, South?”
“They’ll be all right once the firing starts.”
“I’m not sure at all about that. In any case, do the best you can to sober them up. They won’t be thinking about picking berries tomorrow. Many of them won’t be thinking anything, for they’ll be dead.”
South said steadily, “I think we have a sound battle plan for whipping the Rebels, sir.”
“I think we’d better have. We’ll be fighting on their grounds. So we’ll hit them in the middle, South, as we decided. Then you will take your troops around to our right and close in on their left flank. They won’t be expecting that.”
“No, and we’ll succeed, General. You’ll see.”
Senator Monroe Collins and his wife left Washington in a buggy. The senator told his wife, “We’ll enjoy watching the Rebels take a pounding.”
“But won’t it be dangerous?” Minnie Collins asked. She was a rather shy woman, and the very thought of getting close to a battle frightened her.
“It’ll be all right, Minnie. Our boys will run over them. They’ll be running like rabbits!”
“How can you be sure, Monroe?”
“Why, our army is the best. The Rebels are just a bunch of ragtag farmers and lazy slave owners. Our men are real soldiers. We’ll get to see the Rebels turn and run. It’ll be something to tell our grandchildren about.”
Judith Henry lay dying in her bed. She was an eighty-year-old woman who had been sick for a considerable time. Her daughter hovered over her asking, “How do you feel, Mother?”
“Not well, daughter.”
“You’ll be better soon. We’ve sent for the doctor.”
Judith Henry listened then asked weakly, “What is the noise?”
“Oh, there are some soldiers, but they won’t come near us.”
The Henry house was not important in itself. It was a small whitewashed house not far from Young’s Branch, a small creek only a few miles away from the Centerville Turnpike. It had been a peaceful valley, but on this day an air of doom hung over it.
The dying woman lay as still as if she had already passed, but she still breathed. Suddenly a terrific explosion struck the house, and a shell killed Judith Henry. A moment later her body was riddled with bullets as the house burst into flames.
Henry Settle was proud of his new uniform. He was a young farmer from Pennsylvania who had enlisted for three months against the advice and begging of his mother. Now he was a part of the Union Army that advanced toward Bull Run Creek.
Suddenly ahead there was a tremendous explosion as a cannon went off and muskets began to crackle like firecrackers. Settle looked around and saw that he was not the only one in shock. Many of his friends in the company had slowed down; some had stopped, staring ahead blankly. They had sung songs all the way, marching to Manassas, and had laughed about how they would throw the Rebels back a
nd take over Richmond. Then the war would be over.
On both sides of Settle, men began to drop, and there were cries of agony and screams of fear as the officers pressed the men forward. For the first time, Henry Settle knew that he was in a deadly position. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. Just ahead of him he saw his best friend, Arnie Hunter, shot to bits by musket fire and fall facedown into the new spring grass.
“I can’t get killed,” Settle whispered. “I’ve got to go back and take care of Ma.” But even as he uttered this, a cannonball hit him and killed him instantly. He fell, and no one even stopped.
Across Bull Run Creek, the Confederates were holding fast, but there were many casualties. Major Roberdeau Wheat, the tough commander of the Louisiana Tigers, had been shot down. He was carried to a field hospital, and the doctor had said, “I’m sorry, Major Wheat. You have been shot through both lungs. There’s no way you can live.”
Wheat grunted, “I don’t feel like dying yet.”
“No one’s ever lived shot like this.”
“Then I will be the first,” Wheat said. And so it was. Roberdeau Wheat lived. Even as he argued with the doctor, he saw Jeb Stuart’s cavalry riding through the field hospital. Finally, General Beauregard had called them in to hit wherever the firing was hottest.
Clay had gotten into the habit of bringing his company up as close behind Colonel Stuart as he could. He had ridden until he was beside Stuart and his aides as they advanced toward the battle.
Jeb was riding an enormous black gelding, thick in girth but fast. At full gallop they topped a little rise and faced an infantry regiment, scarlet-uniformed Zouaves.
“They may be some of the Louisiana Tigers, sir,” Clay said. “Many of them wear those baggy breeches.”
Jeb spurred forward almost into the midst of them, followed closely by Clay. Stuart shouted, “Don’t run, boys. We’re here.”
At that moment a flag in the midst of the regiment unfurled and snapped in the hot breeze. It was the Stars and Stripes.
Jeb’s eyes widened, but in a flash he drew his sword and yelled, “Charge!”
Clay drew his saber and slashed at the white turbans of the men in blue and scarlet.
The Yankees, a New York Zouave regiment, panicked and scattered in confusion, yelling as they ran, “The Black Horse!” Their cries echoed over the field. They left eleven guns unsupported, and a Virginia infantry regiment hurried forward to turn them back toward the Union lines.
Jeb and his men rode on, shouting madly, into the thick of battle.
The Federals watched as, time after time, the Rebel line had formed, hardened, and had run through the Union lines, capturing artillery and overrunning and capturing their supply wagons. Thomas Jackson had stood like a “stone wall,” and they had smashed themselves against his infantry time and time again. The Black Horse, with the larger-than-life Jeb Stuart at the head of the column, slashed through the blue lines, here and there, wherever it seemed the Yankees stood firm.
“Where are our reserves?” the men demanded. They were wearied by thirteen hours of marching on the road, they were angry and disheartened, and finally men began to cry, “We’ve been sold out!” The rumor spread, and the Union troops faltered and then panicked. They turned and fled past officers on horseback, who were flailing with their sabers, urging them to stand. But the men were now afraid, and fear spread like a plague among them. They ran.
Senator Monroe Collins and his wife suddenly were surrounded by crowds of frightened men who had thrown their weapons down. “The Rebels are coming!” was the cry. “The Black Horse, they’ll run us over! Save yourselves!”
Collins managed to get his buggy turned around, but on the bridge across Bull Run, it suddenly broke down and blocked the fleeing pack of soldiers. Men splashed through the creek. Behind them Rebel officers shouted orders: “Chase ’em, boys! Run ’em down!”
Jefferson Davis came to the battlefield and met General Thomas Jackson, who after this day was called “Stonewall.” Jackson was covered with dust, but his blue eyes flashed like summer lightning. “Sir, give me ten thousand men, and I can be in Washington tomorrow.”
Davis was ready, but his commanding officers disagreed. One said, “Sir, our men are weary. The Yankees will have a guard around Washington. We can’t march that far and then fight our way through.”
And so the battle ended as Jefferson Davis said, “We’ve come as far as we can. We’ve won the battle. The Yankees are whipped.”
But even as he spoke, he doubted. And again he prayed.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Winter had come, and the armies went into winter quarters. Both North and South planned campaigns for the spring, but during the bitter cold months, they mostly just brooded at each other across the Potomac River.
The 1st Virginia Cavalry was quartered just south of Manassas. Sitting at a desk inside the farmhouse that he had rented for himself and his family, Jeb Stuart looked out the window. The sun falling on the white blanket caused the snow to glitter like tiny diamonds, and for a while he sat, enjoying the sight, but then he sighed and turned back to the figures on a paper he had before him. He continually pestered the commissary in Richmond for more supplies and equipment for his men.
But the Confederacy was poor. Stuart also felt the pinch of inflation, for the Northern blockade of the Southern states in the East was working all too well. The salary of a brigadier was very modest, and Jeb worried, because even the necessaries of life—food, clothing, and medicine—were getting harder and harder to come by. He was pleased that his brother, William Alexander Stuart, owner of the White Sulphur and the Salt Works, among other enterprises, had voluntarily ensured Stuart’s life, making Flora the beneficiary.
He heard Flora singing softly, and he left his office and went to the bedroom. He found Flora bending over Little Flora, who was lying in their bed, pale and thin. “Is she any better, my dearest?”
Flora turned to him, fear in her eyes. “No, she isn’t. As a matter of fact, Jeb, I think she may be worse.”
“I’ll have the doctor come by and look at her again.”
“I wish you would. Still, it seems that the doctors can’t help her.”
Moving over to Flora, Jeb put his arm around her then reached down with his free hand and touched the child’s brow. “She’s burning up with fever,” he murmured. Although Jeb Stuart feared nothing on the field of battle, this was a fear that gnawed at him constantly.
They stood together looking down at the child who meant so much to them, and then Flora said, “I hope Jimmy won’t catch anything like this.”
When their son had been born, Jeb and Flora had been glad to name him after her father, Phillip St. George Cooke Stuart. But after the Confederacy had formed and Colonel Cooke had stayed with the Union, Jeb had staunchly refused to have his son bear Cooke’s name. They had changed it to James Ewell Brown Stuart Jr., and they called him Jimmy.
“We’ll pray, Flora. God’s will be done,” Jeb said, but his usually booming, jovial voice was quiet and sad.
The entire South had been jubilant over the victory at Bull Run, and the people were still living on that excitement. They had won the battle, but the cost had been high. The hospitals in Richmond were filled, and many wounded soldiers had been taken into private homes.
Jacob told Chantel, “I’ve been thinking, daughter, that it’s time for us to do something for God.”
“What is that, Grandpere? I thought we were doing something for God,” Chantel replied.
“We are, and I’m very proud of you. But I think we should start making regular visits at the hospital. I can get together some things to give the poor wounded men, perhaps, and you could help me give them out and talk to them.”
“They love candy, they do,” Chantel said. Sweets were hard to come by these lean days.
“We’ll take all we have, and this afternoon you and I will make our visits. Perhaps we could lead one of the wounded men to the Lord. Wouldn’t that be wo
nderful?”
“Yes, it would, Grandpere.”
The field hospitals, during the summer, had been mostly a series of large tents pitched just outside of Richmond. But when the winter had come, and the hospitals were full, one of the large warehouses had been taken and converted into a field hospital. Cots were lined against the walls, and every bed was filled. A large woodstove was burning, throwing off a great heat, but it reached only within a few feet of the great barn-like structure with the soaring roof. It was not enough to heat the whole building, and most of the wounded were under all the blankets that could be found for them.
“Why don’t you start over there with that row of men. I’ll take this one,” Jacob said. He smiled. “I know they’d rather see a pretty young woman than me, but tomorrow I will see them, and you can take this side. Try to encourage them all you can, child.”
Chantel, wearing her vivandiere uniform, was a little apprehensive, but her heart went out to the lines of men, many of them terribly wounded. She stopped at the first bed.
A young man looked up and asked, “Are you a soldier, miss?”
“Oh no, I’m a female sutler, a vivandiere. This is my uniform, though, for ma grandpere and I serve the army. Do you like candy?”
“Yes ma’am, I purely do.”
“Good. I like candy, too, me.” She reached into the paper sack, brought out a peppermint candy, and handed it to him.
Hungrily he popped it into his mouth. He was pale and obviously had taken a severe wound in the shoulder. He sucked on the sweet and said, “I always loved sweets. Reminds me of home. My mama used to make taffy for me. Sure wish I had some taffy,” he said wistfully.
“Where is your home, soldier?”
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