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What a Federal soldier wrote of the V. M. I. Cadets at New Market.
From the times-dispatch, January 17, 1909.
The charge of the cadets of the V. M. I. at the
battle of New Market was unquestionably one of the most brilliant feats of arms of our great war. It has been often described, but the story will be read again and again, and always with thrilling interest.
Comrade C. A. Richardson finds in his scrap-book the following account of the part borne by the cadets in this famous battle written by
Mr. Howard Morton, a Federal soldier, which appeared in the
Pittsburg Dispatch, and which, we agree with him in thinking, is worthy of republication.
In his enthusiasm
Comrade Richardson says:
In all the heroic annals of time this memorable battle-epic, like a rich and rare gem, will ever continue to sparkle and glow in all the effulgent splendor of an undimmed lustre.
Here is
Mr. Morton's account:
Opposite is the enemy's line of gray belching forth fire and smoke.
Those immediately in front of us are comparatively inactive.
They have not yet mended their broken fences.
We look to the further end of the rebel line.
Out from an orchard steps a small body of gray-clad troops.
Something about them attracts our attention; their marching and alignment are perfect, their step is unlike that of the veterans who marched against our front.
Their movements are those of a crack battalion on dress parade.
They look like boys; the strong glass show they are boys.
It is the battalion of pupils from the Virginia Military Institute, 225 in number.
These little fellows, whose ages range from fourteen to sixteen years, drawn from the best families of the Old Dominion, have closed their books for the summer vacation, but instead of returning to their homes and making glad the hearts of fond parents and brothers and sisters, were told to take their cadet muskets and join the army in the
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Valley.
They have just arrived and are eagerly marching to their baptism of blood.
War is cruel at best, but who can excuse the cruelty that risks such bright young lives even in a righteous cause?
Opposite them, holding the right of our line, is a battery of six twelve-pounders.
The commander has observed the cadet battalion and opened fire on it. The shells burst among the boys, but they don't seem to be disturbed in the least.
Forward towards the black monsters the line moves as though parading on the smooth lawn of the military institute whence they came.
Palings are being knocked from their fence, but they close up and present an unbroken line.
We ask ourselves.
Can they be so rash as to charge the battery?
It is commencing to look that way. On, on they march, their line as straight as a rule; more palings are knocked from their living fence, and repairs are made as before, but the fence is shorter.
They are almost in canister range.
Surely they will face about and retrace their steps; but no, the little heads bend lower as they face the iron storm.
The little muskets are grasped tighter as on, on they rush, God have mercy on them.
The deadly canister sweeps through their ranks; shorter and shorter grows their line.
Heaven pity their poor mothers, whose prayers are even now rising to heaven for their darling's safety.
Oh! that some pitying hand would stretch out to stay them; but on, on, on they march right into the jaws of the black monsters.
Now they enter the smoke; they disappear.
The thunder of six great guns is silenced.
A juvenile shout is heard, and the survivors of that little band of heroes have captured the battery.
Scarcely have we realized that they are victors until we find that they man the captured guns and turned them down our lines.
