Bull Run

by Paul Fleischman

  * * *

  A. B. TILBURY

  * * *

  By gravy, it was a glorious feeling! At last we were marching off to battle! All Washington crowded the streets something handsome. The regimental bands all blared. Standards fluttered. The summer sun glinted on bayonets by the thousands. We could no more keep from singing than from breathing. We filled the air with “Yankee Doodle” and “Rally ’Round the Flag, Boys” and “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” Between them the shout “On to Richmond!” boomed up and down the ranks like thunder. Richmond was only a hundred miles off. We expected to be there in a matter of days. The thought stirred me. I’d come from Maine, joined up as cannoneer, and hadn’t before been south of the Kennebec. I’d never known a Southerner either. But I’d read enough to know that they were cruel-hearted, warloving villains and that peaceable citizens like myself would have to take up the gun against them.

  We crossed the Potomac and followed the troops who were on the south bank toward Centreville, twenty-five miles away. The day was as hot as the hinges of Hades. Our fine, straight lines wavered, then broke. Men wandered off to refill their canteens or chase chickens or rest in the shade of a tree. Blackberries were ripe along the road, and whole companies left ranks to pick them, singing and joshing all the while. I admit that I was one of them. Officers bellowed to no effect. Half of them ended up picking berries. It was less a march than a picnic ramble, with plenty of halts on account of the heat. As the men weren’t accustomed to marching any distance, they soon felt the need to lighten their packs. The road became strewn with cast-off blankets and such. All day and on into the night we lurched ahead and lay down by turns. Finally we stopped and made camp. We’d completed our first day’s march and were filled with pride in ourselves. Then a sneering captain informed us, with great disgust, that we’d progressed just six miles.

  * * *

  CARLOTTA KING

  * * *

  I come up from Mississippi with the master. He was a lieutenant, or some such thing. I heard him braggin’ to another man that he had five thousand acres and loads of slaves, which was a bare-headed lie. And that his slaves would sooner die than run off and leave him, which was a bigger lie yet. Lots of the soldiers brought their slaves with ’em. We washed and cooked and mended, same as back home. Except we weren’t back home. There were different flowers on the ground—northern flowers. The Union men weren’t any more than a few hills away. I’d look at them hills. They did call to me powerful. I was a young woman and fast as a fox. I knew I’d surely never get another chance. I made up my mind and picked the night I’d go. My heart beat hard all that day. I didn’t tell nobody. Then at supper another slave told how those that crossed over were handed back to their owners by the Yankees! My bowl slipped right out of my hands. I’d thought the Yankees had come to save us. I must have looked sick. They wondered over me, but I didn’t tell ’em. I sat down by the crick.

  I told myself I’d keep where I was—till the big battle, anyway. And I told myself to stop lookin’ at the hills.

  * * *

  NATHANIEL EPP

  * * *

  With camera and wagon, I followed the army. It was three days before we reached Centreville. The village was small but the men’s spirits high. They ripped down every Rebel flag, broke into houses, took what they liked. I saw a pair of them traipse back out to the road dressed up in plumed hats and satin gowns. Another, got up in a minister’s garb, spoke Jefferson Davis’ funeral service. Colonel Sherman rebuked them as Goths and Vandals and ordered them punished.

  A few regiments went on to Bull Run, tested the Rebels, and were driven back. The men’s mood changed when they got word of it. An ambulance wagon passed nearby, its passengers groaning for all to hear. The line for portraits grew suddenly long. The men looked glum. They knew they might die, and seemed desperate to see that they would live on, framed and set upon a table. That evening I announced that I would show my photograph of the human soul. The crowds were greater than ever before. An Irish chaplain paid his ten cents, viewed it, and praised my good works. I was pleased to see how the picture cheered the men. It had a similar effect upon me, for it brought in forty-nine dollars that night.

  * * *

  VIRGIL PEAVEY

  * * *

  We drilled in Alabama, then took the railroad to Harpers Ferry, Virginia. I was getting so used to trains that I fancied myself an engineer after the war. We joined General Bee’s brigade, but all the talk was of General Jackson. “Old Lemon-Squeezer” the men called him. He was forever sucking on half a lemon. His peculiar ways went a long chalk past that. At night he was known to sleep under a cold, wet sheet to help his digestion. He was famous for his praying as well. Twice I saw him speaking a prayer while riding his horse, his eyes blank as a statue’s. He was upright and religious to a dreadful degree. The first thing he did in Harpers Ferry was search out every barrel of liquor and pour it all to waste in the street. It was said that some men shed tears at the sight.

  When we heard that Patterson’s Union troops were coming, we streaked it to Winchester. They could make us move, but they couldn’t catch us. It was a comfort to know they wouldn’t find any liquor. Then our colonel announced that off to the east the Union army was moving in force and that Beauregard would be larruped without us. We marched twenty miles in eighteen hours, forded the Shenandoah River, then boarded a train on the Manassas Gap line. Old Patterson’s probably looking for us still.

  As soon as we stepped off at Manassas Junction the cars returned to bring more soldiers. We were told that we’d likely see battle the next day. Some men whooped. Some looked as solemn as General Jackson praying. My friend Tuck and I made a pact then and there to stay side by side when the shooting commenced.

  * * *

  GENERAL IRVIN McDOWELL

  * * *

  I spent a full day studying the terrain, revised my plan, and was ready to attack. Then I found that the army was out of food. The commissary wagons hadn’t arrived. I squandered another day waiting for them, praying that Patterson had the Rebels in the west penned up beyond the Shenandoah. I made out the sound of train whistles far off, but thought little of it at the time.

  All was finally in order. We would strike Beauregard on Sunday morning. On Saturday afternoon I was told that the Eighth New York Militia’s term of service would end at midnight and that they planned to march north and not south. I addressed them, as did the Secretary of War. On the morrow, we told them, they’d at last have the chance to fire their rifles at secession and give the bayonet to treason. Without them, the Union might well be lost. The spirit of George Washington hovered above them, awaiting their decision. We spoke the same words to the Fourth Pennsylvania, and begged them to serve a single week more. In both cases, the men listened patiently, then continued making ready to leave.

  The light faded. The moon came up. I rode back toward my lodgings through the encampments. Some were bedlams of noise and gaming and drunkenness. Others were quiet. One company of Scotsmen were singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” most beautifully. I moved on. In the distance a band was playing the soothing serenade from Don Pasquale. I couldn’t help but notice the number of men clustered about the chaplains’ tents. Some were shedding their sins, some dictating letters to the scribbling chaplains. I passed quite close to one and smiled to catch the words “no qualm, dearest Gwen, at dying for our precious Union.”

  * * *

  SHEM SUGGS

  * * *

  It was a warm night. We knew there’d soon be a battle. The horses knew it too. Greta was restless as a flea-bit dog, stamping her hooves and flicking her tail. Most of the company played at cards. No one seemed to want to turn in. One read a letter from his father saying wars were uncivilized, low, immoral, and that civil wars were the worst of the brood. The letter was burned with great jollity. After a time, though, the men took to studying Bibles instead of poker hands. It struck me as strange that nearly all the legions of soldiers camped around me considered
themselves to be whole-souled Christians, had heard preaching every Sunday of their lives, had memorized piles of Scripture verses, and yet were ready to break the commandment against killing the moment the order was given. I went walking. I came to a man who was reading Gulliver’s Travels to a circle of listeners. I stopped and gave ear. Gulliver had come to a curious country where horses ruled and men were thought to be the foulest of beasts. The horses, wise as they were, had no wars. They could scarcely believe it when Gulliver told them that soldiers were men paid to kill each other. Then he described sabers, muskets, bullets, cannons that left the field of battle strewn with bloody limbs, and other clever inventions that had led humans to think themselves far advanced beyond horses. It was almost too frightful to laugh at. I dearly wished I might go to that land. When the man stopped reading, I promised myself that if I lived through the war I’d learn my letters and read the rest of that book. Then I visited with the horses a long spell, and tried not to think upon what was coming.

  * * *

  GIDEON ADAMS

  * * *

  The drummers began drumming. I awoke and found it was two o’clock. The whole regiment was stirring. I fried some bacon. At three we marched, if it could be called that. We groped slowly down the road through the darkness, men stumbling over each other like drunkards. It was a still summer night, the stars wondrously clear. There were no bands playing, no singing, and little talk. The waiting was over, or nearly so. For half an hour we sprawled on the ground while a cannon was eased over a rickety bridge. We pushed on. The sky began to lighten. The man beside me mumbled the twenty-third psalm without end, as if it were a charm. Finally we approached a stone bridge that crossed Bull Run. The stream murmured softly. We halted. Not a shot had been heard. General Schenck called out a command. The artillery crew put a cannon in place and loaded it with a thirty-pound ball. At six o’clock they fired.

  * * *

  FLORA WHEELWORTH

  * * *

  It was a Sunday, the twenty-first of July. I rose in the dark, studied two chapters of Exodus, then closed my eyes and started my prayers as usual. Not five minutes later a low, sullen boom sounded in the distance. I kept my eyes shut. I knew what it was without opening them. Another followed, and then a third. Then came the sharper rattling of rifles, painfully distinct. I saw my daughters’ men in my mind. I left my chair, knelt on the floor, clasped my hands more tightly than before, and continued praying for a full two hours.

  * * *

  EDMUND UPWING

  * * *

  Don’t speak to me of the soldiers’ hard lot. I was up on my pegs before they were that morning. ’Tis a fact, solid as stone. I’d two congressmen and their wives in the coach, bound all the way to Centreville to watch the thrashing of the Rebs. All dressed in their best and fitted out with parasols and opera glasses, not forgetting two hampers of food, and champagne for toasting the victory. ’Twas dark as Hell’s cellar when we left Washington. I’d thought they would sleep, but they chattered like sparrows. I caught a good deal of it, as usual. Cabmen dull witted as their nags? Don’t be daft! They know more of Washington than the President. Though whenever a question is put to me, I ignore it until it’s asked a fourth time, that my passengers mightn’t suspect I have ears.

  There were plenty of other spectators heading south. The shooting commenced as we neared Centreville. We passed through the village and found a fine grassy spot on a hill overlooking Bull Run. Every last horse and buggy for hire in Washington seemed to be there. Linen tablecloths were spread out and people of quality spread out upon ’em. My passengers were in a merry mood—all but one of the men, who let out that McDowell had been given command for no better reason than that he’d come from Ohio, whose governor had Lincoln’s ear and had whispered “McDowell” in it constantly. ’Tis a fact. I feigned deafness, but took the precaution of noting our fastest route of retreat.

  * * *

  JUDAH JENKINS

  * * *

  Since before first light I’d been standing about at General Beauregard’s headquarters. Of a sudden, I was ordered to ride over to Colonel Evans, near the stone bridge, and bring back word on the Yanks’ position. I’d been waiting to show my worth as a courier. I galloped toward the west. It dawned upon me that I was headed straight for the fighting. It dawned on my horse as well. The musket balls began to whiz past us. He slowed, two legs moving ahead while the other two tried to retreat. I wrestled him forward, past soldiers waiting to advance. Others were firing in the woods. I spied Colonel Evans, hopped to the ground, and tied the reins tight to a tree. Just then I heard someone shout “Pull her off!” The next moment there came a tremendous roar. It was one of our cannons. A man who’d been standing too close to the muzzle was thrown twenty feet. Blood gushed out of one of his ears. I wondered if I wasn’t deaf myself. Then I turned, saw the broken reins, and realized I was a courier whose horse had sprinted away.

  * * *

  DIETRICH HERZ

  * * *

  Our entire division was to march to the west, cross the stream where it was unguarded, and surprise the Rebels with an attack at dawn. This called for speed. Yet we idled an hour that morning while other troops used the narrow road. Our officers swore in German and English. General Hunter at last led us out, but took a wrong turning that doubled our march. It was nearly nine and already stifling when we finally reached Bull Run. Its waters were slow-moving and muddy. We filled our canteens, picked blueberries, then waded across, four hours late. A farmer saw us and galloped off. The Confederates must have been well warned without him. They met us with a volley of rifle fire, then artillery shells. The order was given to charge up a slope. I felt I was advancing into a dream. There were cries and explosions. The air stank of sulfur. I passed a man sitting with his intestines spread out in his lap and wondered if the sight was real. The men about me crouched and shot. Those behind us singed our hair with their bullets. I aimed at the smoke in the distance, fired, and saw my ramrod sail through the air. I’d forgotten to take it out of the barrel. My thoughts flew suddenly to Germany, to a toy gun I’d had as a child. I saw my mother in memory, and my aunts. Then my mind went black quick as a candle blown out.

  * * *

  TOBY BOYCE

  * * *

  Of a sudden our men got the call. They were to march west and join the fight. “Aim low and trust in God,” spoke an officer. “Let ’em know Georgia’s here!” cried another. They formed up into ranks double quick. One soldier called Lincoln “the Illinois ape” and promised to bring back a lock of his hair. They set off smartly. All the band watched. We’d been ordered to keep far behind the fighting. Seeing them leave for battle, proud as stallions, filled me full of envy. I didn’t care a cow tick for playing the fife and longed for a rifle in my hands instead. It was hard to endure. For me, leastways. Two of the horn players were drinking from flasks and toasting their wisdom at serving in the rear.

  * * *

  JAMES DACY

  * * *

  My eyes and pencil were in constant motion. Here, four cannons rumbled up the road. There, a pair of soldiers carried a wounded comrade upon their crossed rifles. Below me, a company shouted three cheers for the Union before plunging into the fray. I could scarcely contain my own excitement. After tramping across the countryside, I’d found myself a fine vantage point for observing McDowell’s attack. How gallantly our men advanced into a perfect storm of bullets! The Confederates slowly began to give ground. The scene I was sketching continually changed before my eyes, like a cloud in the sky. Regiment upon regiment of Northerners rushed into the fight. I made out McDowell riding among them, in full dress and white gloves, urging them forward. I could no longer bear merely to record. I threw down my pencil, bolted to my feet, and cheered them on loudly myself.

  * * *

  COLONEL OLIVER BRATTLE

  * * *

  General Beauregard seemed to be in a state of utter confusion. Five of our brigades should have crossed Bull Run on our right and atta
cked, yet we heard hardly a shot from that quarter. Before us, at Mitchell’s Ford, where he’d expected the brunt of the Union assault, there was little shooting as well. He stared out the windows of the house we occupied. His orders had been maddeningly vague. Many seemed never to have been received. We lacked for couriers and were starved for reports. We who were directing the battle knew nothing! This fog was pierced by the undeniable fact of firing far to our left. This didn’t accord with the general’s plan. He’d weighted our line heavily to the right. Grudgingly, he sent some men west, still hoping to save his cherished offensive. The firing grew louder. I suggested he ride out and investigate, but he ignored me. He appeared paralyzed by the dilemma. General Johnston paced in a fury. He outranked General Beauregard, but had just come by train with his troops from the west and had left the campaign’s command with him. Finally, he could stand it no more. He shook his hat at the smoke in the west. “The battle is there!” he announced. “I am going!”