Rebel Yell

by S. C. Gwynne

  Lee’s decision was embodied in a fateful, ten-paragraph directive dated September 9 and known as Special Orders 191. In it, he split his army into four pieces. Three of them, under Jackson—consisting of twenty-six of the army’s forty brigades—were to march to Harpers Ferry, where they would surround and attack the garrison simultaneously from three directions. Because of the Ferry’s peculiar terrain, the three would have to take entirely separate routes: General Lafayette McLaws’s division (five thousand men) would secure Maryland Heights on the Maryland side; Brigadier General John Walker with his two-brigade division (less than four thousand men) would secure Loudoun Heights across the Shenandoah River in Virginia; and Jackson’s three divisions (fourteen thousand men), with a long march around to the west, would seal off Harpers Ferry by seizing Bolivar Heights. Longstreet, with the rest of the army, would march west through the Blue Ridge (South Mountain) to the town of Boonsboro, using D. H. Hill as his rear guard against attack through the mountains. Special Orders 191’s flaw was immediately obvious: for as long as it took for Jackson to seize the Union garrison at Harpers Ferry, the rest of Lee’s army—merely sixteen thousand men—would be isolated and at the mercy of the entire Army of the Potomac. Thus Lee gave Jackson just three days to get the job done.

  Once in the vicinity of Harpers Ferry, Jackson’s forces deployed quickly. After a sharp fight, McLaws seized Maryland Heights from the 1,600 Federals whom Union commander Dixon Miles had stationed there on the morning of September 13. That afternoon, Walker took the undefended Loudoun Heights. Jackson, meanwhile, moved his forces in on the western flank of the town and began to set his artillery in position. Jackson, the old artillerist, with the immense advantages offered by the spectacular headlands around Harpers Ferry, was planning a big-gun assault from three directions on the roughly 13,000 Federals below. (The Martinsburg garrison had retreated before Jackson’s advance and joined the other Union troops.) Though Jackson was a day behind schedule, and McClellan was already at Frederick, Lee did not yet see any reason to panic. McClellan was McClellan, after all.

  Except, of course, when he was in possession of the greatest intelligence leak of the Civil War. That same day a corporal from Indiana named Barton Mitchell found an envelope containing a sheet of paper wrapped around three cigars. The cigars were of excellent quality, something enlisted men rarely got to sample. Before lighting up, Mitchell and another soldier decided to take a closer look at the document. It was addressed to D. H. Hill, contained the names of prominent Confederate generals, and closed with “By Command of R. E. Lee.” It was signed by Lee’s adjutant, R. H. Chilton. News of the find quickly climbed the chain of command. Soon Major General Alpheus Williams, commanding the Union 12th Corps, was peering at “Special Orders 191,” a document that appeared to provide, in elaborate detail, the movements, whereabouts, and precise strategy of the entire Army of Northern Virginia. The order was so detailed, precise, and comprehensive, in fact—rare in the war—that some of its original Confederate recipients had taken action to prevent just such a leak: Longstreet had put it in his mouth and chewed it up like a plug of tobacco; Walker had pinned it to the inside of his jacket; Jackson had meticulously burned it. It was a stroke of luck that General Williams’s aide Colonel Samuel Pittman, who had known Chilton well in prewar army days, could confirm that it was Lee’s chief of staff ’s handwriting.

  McClellan understood immediately what he had. After reading it, he threw his hands in the air and exclaimed, “Now I know what to do!” Later that same day he was in his tent chatting with his old army friend Brigadier General John Gibbon and another officer when he pulled the folded orders from his pocket. “Here is a paper with which if I cannot whip ‘Bobbie Lee,’ I will be willing to go home,” he told them. “It gives the movement of every division of Lee’s army.” He then vowed to “put Lee in a position he will find hard to get out of,” and noted that “Castiglione will be nothing to it.” His reference was to the Battle of Castiglione in Italy in 1796, in which Napoléon Bonaparte famously routed an Austrian army.26 The message of 191 was perfectly clear: Lee had divided his army, and his separated units could thus be attacked and beaten in detail. It was probably the greatest single military opportunity of the war. McClellan wired Lincoln, saying, “I think Lee has made a gross mistake and that he will be severely punished for it. . . . I have all the plans of the Rebels and will catch them in their own trap if my men are equal to the emergency.”

  At about 5:00 p.m. that same day Jeb Stuart received a provocative piece of intelligence. A Confederate sympathizer happened to be standing near McClellan’s tent when he had received the copy of Special Orders 191, and had described McClellan’s reaction. Though the spy did not fully understand what had happened, it was clear that McClellan certainly knew something. Stuart immediately sent a courier to Lee with the news, then sent another dispatch at about midnight on the same subject. Since the message has been lost, it is impossible to say what Stuart told Lee, or what Lee suspected, though it is unlikely that Lee knew McClellan had a copy of the order itself.27 But he would soon be very aware that McClellan was not behaving in his usual way.

  That change was visible the very next day. Lee, who had told Brigadier General G. John Walker on September 6 that McClellan “would not be prepared for offensive operations for three weeks,” now watched in amazement on September 14 as McClellan’s army pushed its way forward through three passes in South Mountain, the elevated, elongated, north-to-south-running formation that marked the extension of the Blue Ridge Mountains into Maryland.28 There were pitched battles that day at Turner’s Gap and Fox’s Gap, where D. H. Hill fought a fierce rear-guard action; and Crampton’s Gap, where a vastly outnumbered Lafayette McLaws—who was also manning the guns on nearby Maryland Heights—tried to hold back William Franklin’s 6th Corps, whose mission was to relieve Harpers Ferry. In all, some 28,000 Union troops faced some 18,000 rebels. The Confederate purpose was not to win, but to delay the Federal advance long enough for Jackson to come up from Harpers Ferry. They very definitely did not win. By the end of the day, they were blown out of all three passes, suffering 2,685 casualties to the Union’s 2,385.

  They did, however, buy Lee precious time. Even though the Union commanders knew with certainty that Lee’s weakened and divided army lay before them, none pushed aggressively forward. Franklin, headed for the Ferry with 12,300 men, came to a complete standstill. McClellan, moving through the northern passes, and suspicious that Longstreet’s main force lay just ahead, slowed to a crawl. Though Special Orders 191 had specified troop movements, the document had said nothing about troop strength, which meant that McClellan could indulge his usual wild fantasies. “The Battle of South Mountain was one of extraordinary illusions and delusions,” wrote D. H. Hill. “The Federals were under the self-imposed illusion that there was a very large force opposed to them, whereas there was only one weak division until late afternoon [at Turner’s and Fox’s Gaps]. They might have brushed it aside almost without halting.”29 McClellan believed—and he had taught his more cautious generals to believe—that the greatest threat came from what they could not see, from those phantom army corps lying in wait in the next valley or wooded grove, warming themselves by ten thousand campfires and waiting to fall upon his outnumbered army.

  For the moment he was triumphant, and he wasted no time in trumpeting his achievement to his bosses in Washington. “It has been a glorious victory,” he telegraphed, and followed it the next morning with two more dispatches saying that the enemy was retreating “in a perfect panic, & that Genl. Lee last night stated publicly that he must admit they had been shockingly whipped. . . . It is stated that Lee gives his loss at 15,000.”30 He did not mention the rumors that were sweeping his army: that Lee and Longstreet were dead. McClellan had the rebels on the run. He knew for certain that Jackson was still in Harpers Ferry. His great opportunity to destroy Lee had come at last.

  Lee was not the only one who was surprised at the sudden—and suddenly aggres
sive—Union advance. That same day, on the west side of Harpers Ferry, Jackson still believed he had plenty of time to finish his mission. He had instructed both McLaws and Walker not to open fire “unless forced to.” His plan was to ask for surrender, then wait twenty-four hours to see what Union commander colonel Dixon Miles would do. But as the day progressed, and the sounds of battle rose from the passes at South Mountain, it became clear to General Walker on Loudoun Heights—who could hear all this and even see some of it—that this plan would not hold. He had wigwagged a message to tell Jackson about the battle taking place at Crampton’s Gap, which Jackson had dismissed as a minor cavalry fight. But Walker could hear the artillery that Jackson could not, “which left no doubt in my mind,” he wrote, “of the advance of the whole federal army.”31

  Walker then contrived to be “forced” to open fire. He promptly placed two of his regiments on the treeless crest of the mountain, in full view of the Federal batteries on Bolivar Heights. “As I expected, they opened at once a heavy, but harmless fire,” Walker wrote. “I directed my batteries to reply.” Soon McLaws’s batteries began banging away from across the river, and Jackson’s followed. The Confederate cannonade kept up all afternoon, while the Federals quickly learned that you could not win an artillery fight with an opponent whose guns were positioned at much higher elevations. As one Federal soldier described it, “The infernal screech owls came hissing and singing, then bursting, plowing great holes in the earth, filling our eyes with dust, and tearing many giant trees to atoms.”32 It was a convincing display, both to Jackson’s forces and to the men who were ducking the shellfire below. When Walker later admitted his ruse to Jackson, Jackson replied, “It was just as well. . . . But I could not believe that the fire you reported indicated the advance of McClellan in force. It seemed more likely to be merely a cavalry affair.” Jackson was silent for a few moments, then added, “I thought I knew McClellan, but this movement puzzles me.”33

  Back in Hagerstown, an equally puzzled Lee was growing more and more despondent. His troops had been defeated and driven back at South Mountain by an inexplicably energetic Union army, and still he had heard nothing from Jackson. By the evening of September 13 he had decided he could no longer stay where he was. He would have to retreat. At 8:00 p.m. he sent a courier to Lafayette McLaws—commanding by far the closest and most accessible of the three units assailing Harpers Ferry—saying, “The day has gone against us and this army [Longstreet’s corps] will go to Sharpsburg to cross the river.” He ordered McLaws to get back to Virginia as fast as he could. Then, just as all of Lee’s plans seemed to be falling apart, he received a dispatch from Jackson. “Through God’s blessing, the advance, which commenced this evening, has been successful thus far, and I look to Him for complete success to-morrow. The advance has been directed to be resumed at dawn.”34 Because Lee trusted Jackson’s judgment—he believed him implicitly—this changed everything. New orders went out. McLaws and the rest of the army were now to coalesce at the little town of Sharpsburg, a mile or so north of the Potomac.

  The next morning Jackson quickly made good on his promise. At dawn on September 15 he opened up with everything he had on the mist-shrouded town of Harpers Ferry. On Maryland and Loudoun Heights, fifty guns shattered the morning’s calm and rained shell and shot while Jackson’s own carefully placed guns blasted the Federal troops and batteries on Bolivar Heights from three sides. The Federal return fire sputtered on erratically for a while, then stopped altogether. At about 8:00 a.m., as Jackson was readying his 14,000 for an advance against Miles’s roughly comparable force, a rider emerged from the Federal lines holding a white flag of surrender. Though 1,300 cavalry had managed to escape under cover of darkness before, Jackson soon had as his prisoners 12,415 Union soldiers, 13,000 small arms, 73 cannons, 200 wagons, 1,200 mules, and a trove of supplies. He had done it all at a cost of 39 Confederates killed and 247 wounded, mostly at the battle for Maryland Heights. Though little blood was spilled, Harpers Ferry was on paper the most comprehensive Confederate victory of the war.35 It was the largest surrender of Federal troops, larger in numbers than the surrender of British Generals Cornwallis or Burgoyne in the Revolutionary War.36 The defeat was so humiliating that when news of it was released in Washington, War Department censors cut the numbers of Union soldiers captured in half.37 Jackson immediately sent a courier to Lee with the good news. “Through God’s blessing,” he wrote with the sort of understatement that was missing from his West Point classmate’s self-congratulatory bombast, “Harper’s Ferry and its garrison are to be surrendered.” Lee was ecstatic. He ordered Jackson’s note to be read to his army. Then he wired Davis in Richmond, saying, “This victory of the indomitable Jackson and his troops gives us renewed occasion for gratitude to Almighty God for His guidance and protection.”

  The Union surrender that followed provided one of the war’s most theatrical spectacles. “The entire garrison of 13,000 [sic] men was drawn up in imposing lines,” wrote Heros Von Borcke, “presenting, with their well-kept equipments, their new uniforms and beautiful banners, a striking contrast to Jackson’s gaunt and ragged soldiers, who formed opposite to them, and whose tattered garments and weather-beaten features showed only too plainly the hardships they had undergone.”38 When the mythical Jackson himself rode into Harpers Ferry with his staff at about 11:00 a.m., Union soldiers and other observers were stunned by his shoddy appearance. “He was dressed in the coarsest kind of homespun, seedy and dirty at that,” wrote a correspondent for the New York Times, with no attempt to conceal his withering contempt. “[He] wore an old hat which any Northern beggar would consider an insult to have offered him, and in general appearance was in no respect to be distinguished from the mongrel, barefooted crew who follow his fortunes . . . and yet they glory in their shame.”39 The contrast became even more marked when the ranking Union officer, Brigadier General Julius White, rode up with A. P. Hill and drew rein in front of Jackson. (Garrison commander Dixon Miles had been wounded in the leg by one of Jackson’s shells and would die the next day.) In contrast to his rebel counterpart, White was handsomely uniformed and mounted on a splendid black horse. Jackson offered him no terms but unconditional surrender. But he also made generous concessions, partly dictated by necessity. Captured soldiers would be paroled, not imprisoned, which meant they could walk away, without their weapons. Enlisted men were allowed to keep their overcoats and blankets and were given two days’ provisions. Officers would retain their sidearms and baggage.

  While Jackson was gathering his spoils—and once again allowing the men free rein with the nonalcoholic supplies—a drama was unfolding five miles away in the valley below Crampton’s Gap. Early that morning, Major General William Franklin and his twenty thousand bluecoats had streamed down out of the pass on South Mountain in pursuit of their objective, the relief of Harpers Ferry. Special Orders 191 had told McClellan exactly where Jackson was and what he would be doing, and Franklin was going to save Harpers Ferry. Together the garrison plus Franklin’s corps would field some thirty-three thousand men, almost as many as in Lee’s entire army. Facing Franklin were Lafayette McLaws’s paltry five thousand. As McLaws’s men prepared to be crushed by the obviously superior force, they could hear the roll of Jackson’s artillery in the distance.

  “Up in the valley we could see heavy masses of infantry bearing down on us,” wrote Confederate cavalry officer W. W. Blackford, “their lines of skirmishers extending clear across from mountain to mountain as they came hastening down to the relief of their beleaguered garrison.”40 On they came, until those skirmishers arrived within musket range of the Confederate lines. But just as the inevitable clash was about to occur, the reverberating roar of Jackson’s guns stopped. The Union soldiers stopped, too, seemingly intrigued by the sudden silence. Then, as everyone stood frozen, came a sound, distant at first, then louder and louder as it rolled up the valley and through the Confederate ranks. It was the sound of wild cheering. The rebels had finally understood the meaning of the s
ilence: Harpers Ferry had surrendered. A short time later, a courier arrived on a foaming horse to confirm the news. As the rebel yell rang through the Confederate column, a Yankee skirmisher stood up on a stone wall and yelled, “What the hell are you fellows cheering for?” A rebel soldier shouted back, “Because Harper’s Ferry is gone up, God damn you!” To which the Union soldier replied, “I thought that was it.”41

  Maybe it was those rolling rebel cheers. Maybe it was Jackson himself, or, once again, the idea of Jackson, unbeaten, mysteriously powerful, and fresh from another bloody meal of Union soldiery. But for some reason Franklin, in the middle of his McClellan-ordered advance on Harpers Ferry, simply gave up. At 11:00 a.m. he told McClellan, “They outnumber me two to one. It will of course not answer to pursue the enemy under these circumstances.” Four hours later he made essentially the same report. Thus, for the rebel general McLaws, whose brigades had fought hard twice, once at Maryland Heights and once at Crampton’s Gap, a moment of serendipity. In the afternoon he and his command marched down to the Potomac and across the pontoon bridge and into Harpers Ferry while his enemies looked on, helplessly now, from a distance.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  THE BLOOD-WASHED GROUND

  For Robert E. Lee, the news that Jackson had seized Harpers Ferry changed almost everything. He could reunite his army. He could stand and fight. His lines of communication and path of retreat were secure. What it did not change was that, on the morning of September 15, the day of Jackson’s victory, Lee was still isolated, alone, and more vulnerable than he had ever been. He therefore did the only thing he could possibly do, facing the bulk of McClellan’s victorious army with a mere fifteen thousand men: he bluffed, and waited for Jackson.