Three Books in One: A Covenant of Love, Gate of His Enemies, and Where Honor Dwells

by Gilbert, Morris

  Clay watched as many men with tears on their faces, trembling in their limbs, stumbled toward the front of the clearing. Homer Willis had stood close to Clay during the sermon. Now he said, “I–I’d like to go … but I’m afraid.”

  Clay turned to the boy. “I know, Homer. We’re all afraid to come to Jesus. It scared me to death. I cried like a baby!”

  “Did you really?”

  “Sure.” Clay put his arm around the boy’s thin shoulders. “Would you like for me to go with you while the chaplain prays for you?”

  “Y–yes!”

  Clay made his way forward, and when he got to where the chaplain stood, he met the man’s eyes. “Chaplain, Homer is ready to give his life to Jesus. Will you pray for him now?”

  Jeremiah Irons had left a comfortable life to join the army, giving up all security. But as he came and joined Clay Rocklin and the trembling boy, he knew it was worth it all!

  CHAPTER 15

  BATTLE MADNESS

  Though Brigadier General Irvin McDowell, a graduate of West Point, had served with General Scott in Mexico, he had had only one battle in his military career. With a watermelon. McDowell, renowned for being a glutton of immense proportions, often became so absorbed in food that he had little time for conversation at the table. This, combined with the fact that he was short-tempered and socially inattentive, did not make him popular. Furthermore, he wore an absurd bowl-shaped straw hat, giving himself a ridiculous image that was far from what people desired for the general of the Union’s first army. As for his military campaign, he once launched an attack on a watermelon, which he soundly defeated, consuming it single-handedly and giving it the epitaph of being “monstrous fine.”

  But on the morning of July 21, the general did not find the situation at Bull Run Creek “monstrous fine.” Discovering that the Confederates were lined up across the small creek, he had determined to sweep to his left and cross with his forces at McLean’s Ford, striking Brigadier General Beauregard’s right flank. Then all he had to do was sweep forward, catching the Rebels from the rear.

  But he soon found that Beauregard had amassed troops at that spot, including the brigade of Colonel Thomas Jackson. McDowell then thought to try the left flank of the Confederate Army, but he vacillated so long that more troops in gray had time to gather along the creek. Eventually thirty-five thousand Confederates had massed, which meant that while the Federals still had thirty-seven thousand men, the balance of power had been lost.

  Finally at two o’clock in the morning, McDowell put his forces into motion. Brigadier General David Hunter, commander of the Second Division of McDowell’s army, would move to the right, crossing Bull Run at Sudley’s Ford. This night march proved to be dreadful, but finally the Federals came across, and at once sporadic rifle and artillery fire broke out from each side of the stream.

  The battle would have been lost then and there, a glorious victory for the Union—except for Shanks Evans! Colonel Nathan G. Evans of the Confederate Army—called “Shanks” because of his lean legs—was outflanked and outnumbered, but the crusty officer had all the instincts of a rough-and-tumble brawler. He was the most accomplished braggart on the Rebel side, as well as one of its most intemperate drinkers. He even kept a special orderly with him whose chief duty was to carry a small keg of whiskey and keep it at hand at all times. But for all his faults, Shanks Evans was not a man to be tangled with!

  He met Hunter’s division with the fierce anger of a tiger. For an hour, with fewer than four hundred men, he held Hunter’s force of ten thousand. He had saved Beauregard and Johnston from disaster, and when the Creole general and Joe Johnston became aware that the Federal attack was on their left flank, they began rushing reinforcements toward Evans—the forces of Brigadier General Barnard Bee, Colonel Francis Bartow, and Colonel Thomas Jackson.

  Even as these fresh Southern troops were on their way, General Hunter fell, severely wounded with a bullet in the neck, and General Ambrose Burnside took command of the Federal forces. He threw his command forward, but just as his troops were about to overrun the Confederate line, the men of Bee and Bartow arrived and halted their advance.

  Clay Rocklin and the rest of his squad had been dug in with the rest of Jackson’s brigade since dawn. The Confederate troops had suffered heavy losses, including Colonel Bartow, who was killed as he led an attack; and Brigadier General Bee would be severely wounded and would die the next day. Rocklin’s squad had been sure an attack was imminent, but it didn’t come—and when heavy firing came from their left, Clay commented to Waco, “The fight’s over there, Waco.”

  “I hope it stays there!” Con Ellis grunted, but the firing grew louder, and the men saw a courier come dashing up on a wild-eyed horse. The rider reined the horse in, gave some sort of message to Colonel James Benton, then rode down the line again at full speed.

  “That’s business,” Waco murmured. “We’ll get pulled out of here pretty soon.” He was correct, for Major Brad Franklin came at once to speak to the captain.

  “The Yankees are rolling up our left flank,” he said, and there was a wild look in his eyes. “Get the company moving, Captain Dewitt, and don’t waste any time!” He moved hurriedly down the line, passing the message to H Company, who were dug in behind some logs, and soon the Richmond Grays were moving toward the sound of the firing.

  The double-time march took the steam out of the men, and by the time Captain Dewitt halted them on a rise of ground, all of them were gasping for air. Clay had kept close to Lowell, and when they got to the hill, he saw that Bob Yancy was not out of breath. He grinned at the boy. “Wish I were your age, Bob!”

  Then Lowell exclaimed in a shocked voice, “Look, they’re running away!”

  The sound was overwhelming, for Federal artillery was in action; the crackling sound of musket fire reminded Clay of corn popping over a fire or of dry wood snapping. Then they all saw the ragged line of figures in gray and butternut materializing from the smoke and coming toward them.

  “They’re falling back!” Clay said. “Looks like they’ve been cut to pieces!” The squad watched silently as the men of Bartow’s command came stumbling by with ghastly faces, stunned and powder-blackened. Some of them were still firing; others had no weapons at all and were simply running.

  Out of the rolling black smoke that concealed the enemy, an officer came dashing back. “That’s General Bee,” Dent said to Taylor Dewitt. Then he pointed, “Look, he’s going to speak to Jackson.” Jackson was on a slight hill next to a house called the Henry House. Dent and Taylor had moved close enough to hear Bee yell, “Jackson, they’re beating us back!”

  Jackson’s eyes peering from under his shabby forage cap were a fierce light blue, hence his nickname “Old Blue Light.”

  “Well, sir,” he said to Bee, “We’ll give them the bayonet.”

  Bee nodded, turned, and rode back toward his command, yelling, “Look! There is Jackson standing like a stone wall! Rally behind the Virginians!”

  C Company was in the second position of the regiment, and they crouched with their ears assaulted by the thunder of the Union guns. For two hours the battle raged as Beauregard extended his line of Confederate forces until it was fully eight miles long.

  Dent moved up and down the lines, speaking to the men. “Looks like we’ll get our chance pretty soon,” he said, the light of battle in his dark eyes. There was no fear in him, and as the minié balls made their slipping, whining slash, he paid them no more attention than if they were butterflies. Once he came near where Lowell stood with Clay. His eyes came to rest on his younger brother, and he seemed to search for words. Finally he said, “Lowell, keep your head down when we charge.”

  “Sure, Dent—I mean, Lieutenant,” Lowell agreed. His voice cracked, but he grinned, adding, “I’m scared spitless, to tell the truth—but I’m in good company.” He glanced at his father, adding, “Lots of Rocklins here today. The Yankees can’t handle us!”

  Dent shifted his eyes to his father. “W
atch out for him … and for yourself,” he said.

  Clay nodded. “You’ll be the one up front, Lieutenant.” He wanted to say something better, warmer, but knew that Dent would resent it.

  “Get ready to charge!” The three men looked toward the front of the line to see the captain holding up his saber. “Come on!” Taylor Dewitt yelled over the sound of the exploding bursts of spherical shells. “Move out! Move out!”

  Dent whirled and pulled his revolver from his holster, and the line moved forward. There was a house off to the left, scarred and pocked, flanked by a dense stand of timber. Nearby a Confederate artillery battery was engaged in a furious duel with the Federal gunners.

  As they pressed forward, Lowell stumbled on something soft, and looking down, he saw a bleeding corpse. He didn’t look down again but moved carefully to keep from stepping on any of the yielding forms that carpeted the field.

  A high-pitched wailing rose above the other noises of battle, and Clay realized that he, too, was yelling with all the rest. Their cries made a weird incantation, shriller than the whining shells overhead. He lunged forward, aware that Waco Smith, a lupine expression on his long face, was moving to strike at some of the men in their platoon with the flat of his sword. Mattson was next to him, doing the same. One of the men who received a swat, Clay saw, was Leo Deforest. Leo yelped, then began to run with the rest of them.

  Then Clay saw the blue forms through the smoke, undulating and weaving like dusky phantoms. The fire from the Federals rose to a crescendo, and he saw a man drop on his face down the line. Others were falling, too. Clay kept his eyes on Lowell, but there was nothing he could do—nothing any one man could do for another in that wild charge.

  He felt the shock of his rifle butt against his shoulder and saw one of the blue figures driven backward. As he stopped to reload, Corporal Ralph Purtle came huffing up. The fat soldier had a scarlet face, for the charge had taken all his wind. Purtle stopped to look at Clay, his eyes white and rolling. “Clay!” he gasped. “I got to rest! I can’t—”

  A bullet struck Purtle in the temple, making a plunking sound, driving his head to one side. For one instant he stood there, dead on his feet; then his eyes rolled upward and he fell loosely.

  “Ralph!” Homer Willis had been right behind Purtle. He fell on his face with fear, but Waco Smith yanked him up, put his revolver to the boy’s ear, and said, “Willis, move out! The Bluebellies might shoot you—but I will shoot you here an’ now if you don’t get moving!”

  Willis stood there, his face dissolving and his blue eyes filled with torment as he stared down at the body of Purtle. Clay had finished loading and said, “Come on, Homer. It’s worse to stand here than it is to charge. Get moving.” He pushed the boy forward and moved after him.

  Waco panted, “Clay, these boys ain’t goin’ to stand much of this. You git on the other side of the line and hold ‘em in place. I’ll anchor this end.”

  “Sure, Waco!” He lifted his musket and waved his hand forward, saying,” Come on, you Richmond Grays! You volunteered to die for your country, so here’s your chance!” The squad, which had been halted in the advance, looked at him … and something happened. The sight of Clay Rocklin’s face, calm and without fear, gave them courage. Ira Sampson laughed wildly, crying out shrilly, “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori!”

  Holt Mattson, his lean face blackened by powder, stared at Sampson, then demanded, “What the blazes does that mean, Professor?”

  Sampson grinned, his teeth white against the powder stains on his lips. “It means ‘It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.’”

  Jock Longley had been listening to the exchange. Now his lips curled as he laughed harshly. “If that’s whut education does for a man, I’m glad I never got any!”

  Clay looked back and saw that the men would follow him. “Let’s go!” he cried, and Waco’s platoon swept up the hill into the blistering fire of the muskets that blinked like malevolent yellow eyes in the smoke.

  Major Gideon Rocklin had seen men die in action in many ways, none of them pretty. But as he watched Laurence Bradford lose his courage as the Confederates pressed their attack, it was somehow worse than any death by bullet or cannon.

  The Blues had been part of Hunter’s division and so were one of the first groups to cross Bull Run. Ever since Shanks Evans’s men had shattered the first line of the brigade, Colonel Bradford had been out of control. His face was drained of all color, and he was incapable of thinking. He was not the first man to discover that the skills that bring a man to prominence in the world of business or politics often are of little help when death flies thick in the air.

  All along the march to Sudley’s Ford, Bradford had been in an exalted mood, stopping his horse to make short speeches to the men. He had been, so it appeared, happy and excited, but Gideon had watched him carefully, for he had seen such behavior before.

  Even when the first shots were fired, Bradford seemed all right. “Don’t mind those bullets, boys,” he’d called out gaily, riding along the front of the regiment. “We’ve got the Rebels where we want ‘em!”

  But five minutes later, a Confederate shell had exploded just in front of the line of battle. It had turned men into chunks of red meat, and a part of an arm was thrown against Colonel Bradford’s chest. He had looked down at the bloody stain on his chest, then at the arm lying at his feet, and had begun to make queer sounds in his throat.

  “You all right, Colonel?” Gideon had gone to him at once and had been shocked at the vacant expression in Bradford’s eyes.

  “Are you hit, sir?” asked one of Bradford’s aides who came running up.

  Gideon added urgently, “Sir, they’re going to enfilade us if we don’t get over to that bluff.” When Bradford only stared at him, Gideon made an instant decision. “Lieutenant, take the colonel to the rear. I’ll take command until he’s able to return.”

  He didn’t wait to hear the aide’s answer but began shouting orders at once. “Captain Frost! Get your men in position on the top of that bluff. The Rebs will be on top of us, and they’ve got to come up that hill. Hold ‘em back as long as you can!”

  “Yes, sir!” Captain Frost ran to where Lieutenant Boone Monroe was standing. “Major Rocklin’s in command, Boone—he says we’ve got to hold that bluff or the Rebels will break through.”

  “The colonel get hit?”

  “No. Lost his nerve, I think. Wouldn’t be good for the men to see him. Now get your platoon up!”

  Frost moved quickly to the other platoons, and Boone yelled, “We’ll form a line along the crest of that bluff!” Then he wheeled and shouted, “First Platoon! Let’s move!”

  Noel moved at once, running through the brambles that tore at his legs. Then when he got to the top of the ridge, he stopped dead still, staring through the amorphous forms of the Confederates as they appeared dimly through the smoke. As Pat came panting up to join him, Noel said, “There they come, Pat.” He heard Monroe’s shrill yelping command, “Shoot them down! Shoot them down!” and put his musket to his shoulder. The charging Confederates were dim figures, half hidden by the clouds of smoke. The air was filled with the shrill cries they made as they came on, and their bullets were whistling in the air around the platoon. Something clipped a branch from a sapling just to Noel’s right.

  Lifting his musket, Noel drew a bead on one of the gray-clad men, and for one brief moment, his finger seemed to freeze.

  I’m about to kill a man! The thought flashed through his mind, and he couldn’t pull the trigger. He, along with others in the company, had wondered how he would take a man’s life—and fear had been in him that he would be unable to do it. But he had prayed long and, without coming to any firm theological answers, had resolved to do his duty as a soldier. He had spoken of this once to Pat, whose answer had been, “Noel, if you can’t do it, get out of here. The man next to you is counting on you, just like you’re counting on him. I hate it, too, but we’re here, and we’ve got to do what we
came for.”

  A faint cry came from Noel’s left, and he shifted his glance to see Emmett Grant drop his musket and fall to the ground, clutching his stomach. His eyes were filled with terror as he looked at Noel, and he was making a mewing sound that rose above the crack of muskets.

  Noel tore his glance from Emmett, took aim, and fired. His target threw up his hands in a wild helpless gesture, then fell motionless to the earth. Noel wanted to drop his musket and flee, but he clamped his lips tight, loaded his musket expertly, then fired again.

  The Confederates came on, yelping like hunting dogs with their shrill, fierce cries, and Noel loaded and fired like an automaton. He was like a man building something, going through the motions of loading, then firing, then loading again.

  But when the attack ran down and the Confederates melted back into the smoke, he looked around to see that men were down all along the line. He stared at Pat, who was looking across the ravine for a target, saying, “We’ve got some of our men down, Pat.”

  Pat’s mouth was black from the powder of the paper cartridges, and his eyes were wide. Looking down the line, he seemed to be drugged. He drew a hand across his face, gave a ragged sigh, then said, “We made it, Noel.” Then his glance shifted and he said, “Let’s see about the boys.”

  They put their muskets down and joined Lieutenant Monroe, who was bending over Emmett Grant. Monroe’s eyes were angry as he looked up. “Emmett’s gone.” He closed the dead soldier’s eyes, and the three of them moved down the line, finding that one more of the squad had been killed—Corporal Silas Tarkington, a silent man of thirty-five from Ohio. He had taken a bullet in the throat, and the front of his uniform was drenched with scarlet.

  “He was a fine fellow,” Pat whispered, his throat dry from the scorching heat. “Got a wife and baby boy back home. He was proud of that boy.”

  “I’ll have to write her a letter,” Monroe said. Looking down the line, he called out, “Anybody else hurt?”