A ride for Stonewall.
[from the Philadelphia times, February 11, 1893.]
A Confederate officer's wonderful record in bank's year.
Over the
Blue Ridge by night—How the order by which
Jackson and
Ewell concentrated in the campaign of 1862 was carried through night and rain by a Boy
Lieutenant.
The
battle of Kernstown was fought on March 23, 1862, and for the only time in his military career
General Jackson was beaten.
True, he contended against heavy odds, accomplished his purpose of retaining
Banks and his army in the
Valley, and was thanked by a resolution of the Confederate Congress, but the fact remains, his marvelous record contains this one defeat.
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The army returned to its former camp, south of
Mount Jackson, and near
Rude's Hill.
I was a young and still younger looking second lieutenant in the Second Virginia Regiment, Stonewall Brigade. One raw, cold day near the middle of April, I was ordered to report at once at headquarters for special duty.
At army headquarters I was introduced to
General Jackson, who received me with his characteristic politeness, and few words.
After dinner he withdrew to his room, and I saw no more of him that day.
For several days I was engaged with
Colonel Baylor, arranging the conscripted militia and assigning them to old regiments.
On April 17th,
General Banks advanced, and
General Jackson broke camp, and moved further up the
Valley.
I was left behind with the cavalry.
The next day we reached
Harrisonburg, and about the time of setting sun,
General Jackson called for me. The heavens were covered with black clouds, and the rain was descending in torrents.
The General handed me a paper from under his rubber cape, and requested me to take it to
General Ewell.
Surprised to hear that
Ewell was in the vicinity, I innocently asked where I would find him?
He quietly replied that he was on the other side of the
Blue Ridge Mountains, somewhere near Culpeper Courthouse, and while my heart stood still with amazement, he told me the contents of the paper, and added that as it was very important, he did not care to send it by a courier, and wanted it delivered by daylight in the morning.
For a moment I was stampeded, paralyzed.
I had never been over a foot of the intervening country, had only a vague idea that
Culpeper was somewhere beyond the mountains, but how to get there I could not imagine.
And then night was upon us, it was raining like the deluge, and I had already ridden to and fro that day about twenty-five miles. But a young man soon rallies, and I quickly pulled myself together.
I was being weighed in the balance, right there, and I determined to throw all my weight in the scales.
‘General, I will start at once if I can get a horse.’
‘Take my mare,’ said generous
Kidder Meade, of the staff, ‘and strike for
Stanardsville first.’
Ride over the Mountains.
As I rode away on
Meade's beautiful dun mare the voice of the
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General followed me—‘A successful and pleasant ride.’
It was kindly meant, but it sounded strangely, like sarcasm.
Forward I went into the mud and into the night, every minute growing darker and wetter.
All weariness was gone, and I felt as fresh as my mettled horse.
In a little while I was rounding the base of the
Massanutten mountain, where it breaks as abruptly down into the valley as it rises from it at
Strasburg.
The towering mass only horrified the night.
Then on through
McGaheysville and across the south fork of the
Shenandoah to
Conrad's store.
Here, as I approached the
Blue Ridge, I felt almost helpless in the impenetrable stormy night.
I stopped to make some inquiries, and procured a small bottle of whiskey for an emergency.
Then into and up the black mountain.
Vision was hopeless, but fortunately the road was solid and fairly good, and my horse could keep to it. I could reach out and feel her neck and ears, but could not see them.
My speed was necessarily slackened, not only because a horse cannot climb a mountain like a goat, but safety required some caution.
At times I heard the water rush under us and across the road and tumble in torrents so far down below that I knew we were traveling along perilous edges.
The ascent seemed very steep and very long.
At last we reached the summit of Swift Run Gap.
It was from this summit and through this gap that
Governor Spotswood and his Knights of the
Golden Horseshoe, in 1716, obtained the white man's first view of the
Valley of the Shenandoah.
From the same point of view I did not partake of their enchantment.
But just here I met a knight of a less romantic order.
He was a belated, drowsy, bedraggled courier, plodding his way from
Ewell to
Jackson.
From him I extracted some useful information as to my route, and in return gave him a pull at my flask.
It was vile stuff, but as he seemed to like it I gave him the bottle and left him on the summit.
On the wrong road.
The descent was quicker, and I soon went plunging into
Stanardsville, having done thirty-seven miles on that blooded mare.
Here I tried to get another horse, but failed.
My efforts cost me half an hour, and then I moved on. Anxiety for my noble beast added another horror to the night.
Just out of
Stanardsville the road forked in the middle of a broad and shallow stream, and, of course, I took the wrong one. A half mile beyond I aroused the inmates of a cabin
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and learned my mistake.
Retracing my steps, I found the right road, and was soon in front of a white farm-house.
A few well-directed shouts brought an astonished masculine head out of an upper window.
I appealed to him for a horse.
I fancied I saw him smile satirically as he declined, but he politely urged me to dismount and ‘ “come in out of the wet.”
’ I then knew I must play trumps and said plaintively, ‘My dear friend, I am an officer of
Stonewall Jackson's staff, carrying an important message, and I must have a fresh horse.’
‘The devil!’
was all the response I had, and down went the window.
But immediately I heard again at the back of the house, with rising inflection, ‘
Saul,
Saul, I say
Saul—drat that sleepy nigger—there you are—run, you wooly head, bring out the big black mare, and be quick about it.’
He soon appeared with
Saul and the horse and a lantern, and helped to exchange the saddle and bridle.
As I climbed from the fence on the mare and rode away he threw the light of the lantern on my face, and said, in a tender voice: ‘Good luck, for I have a boy, may be about your age, with
Stonewall Jackson.’
My new beast was as tall as a dromedary, and as I steered her through the deep mud she seemed to plough it like a gunboat and knew just as little about a riding bridle.
Madison Courthouse was fifteen miles from
Stanardsville, and by the time we reached it she was worn out. There, fortunately, was a courier station, and I exchanged her for a little gray horse.
Clattering through the streets of that slumbering town I was soon in the open country and on another deep mud road.
Suddenly my horse slipped, gave a groan and was down, and I rolled off into the mire.
I jumped up and asked him to do the same, but he never moved and was apparently dead.
Taking off the saddle, I stood by the roadside in hopeless bewilderment.
I looked about me and could see no habitation, no light—nothing.
Just then a little imp jumped into the road on the opposite side with a ‘Good
Lordy, what's dat?’
Explanations followed.
He was on his way to town for the doctor ‘for ole missus.’
He said it was ‘a mile or mo “ from town around de road, but cutabias ” cross de fiel's not more'n half a mile—not dat.’
I bribed him with a dollar to hurry to the tavern and tell them to send me another horse, and he disappeared like a rabbit in the dark.
I sat upon the fence and waited.
The rain was pouring down, I was covered with mud and water, my little horse gave no sign of life, the night was waning, and my spirits were sinking rapidly.
But the
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little darkey came, the forerunner of another white horse, which soon made its appearance.
I was soon mounted, and as my little black angel received the dollar and let go my bridle he cried: ‘Golly, I mos' forgot, I mus' run back after de doctor!’
Arrival at Culpeper Courthouse.
After nine miles more of spurring and splashing I ran into
James City, where I changed to a tall, gaunt roan that carried me valiantly the eleven miles to Culpeper Courthouse.
As I approached the town there was a suspicion of light in the direction of dawn, and the rain had partially worn itself out. In all directions I heard the drums of an early reveille and encountered a group of horsemen sitting on their horses in the gloaming.
I found it was
General Dick Taylor and his staff of
Ewell's command.
Learning that he was ordered to march, and evidently in the wrong direction, I suggested to him that he should not move until he heard from
General Ewell, who, he said, was encamped beyond
Brandy Station. One of the staff kindly offered me a fresh horse, and
General Taylor ordered a courier to lead the way and ‘ride like the devil.’
This the courier did, and so did I, but as I had been doing that thing all night it was no novelty to me. We rushed along like a pair of
John Gilpins, and as it never seemed to occur to my guide that I might be nearly worn out I didn't mention it.
But we soon made the six miles to
Brandy Station.
After several miles more we drew rein at the
General's quarters, just as I was beginning to be exhausted beyond endurance.
The General was just up, and I dismounted and handed him the crumpled and saturated dispatch.
He read it, and quickly turning to me he said: ‘You don't say—’ But the sentence was not finished.
Seeing me totter and about to fall, he caught me, led me to a cot and laid me there; and then the dear, rough old soldier made the air blue with orders for brandy and coffee and breakfast—not for himself, but for me.
Jackson's cool reception.
My ride was done, and nature asserted itself by reaction and exhaustion.
In less than twenty hours I had ridden about 105 miles, and since I left
General Jackson I had passed around the Massanutten, over the
Blue Ridge, and through rain and mud and impenetrable
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night, had been on the strain of a cavalry charge for more than eighty miles.
When I revived and had something to eat and drink, the
General sent me in his ambulance to Culpeper Courthouse, where I went to bed in a hotel.
There I remained for twenty-four hours, and began to retrace my steps to the
Valley of Virginia.
It was a weary ride, taking up my horses as I went, and at 10 o'clock the second night I rode up to
General Jackson's headquarters, near Conrad's Store.
It had not ceased to rain for an hour since I left, and except when in bed I had been clad in soaking garments from start to finish.
I went into
General Jackson's room to report.
It was empty of furniture, and on the hearth were some dying coals of a wood fire.
He was lying on the floor, upon a thin mattress, wrapped in a blanket and asleep.
I awoke him and made my report.
He listened politely, and then with ‘Very good; you did get there in time; good night!’
he turned over to sleep and I left the room.
I will not attempt to describe my chagrin and indignation at this cool reception.
I felt that my ride had been a blank failure.
Refusing to be comforted by the staff, who knew the
General better, I threw off my heavy, soggy clothes and retired in grievous disappointment to an uncomfortable bed. But after awhile tired nature and youth took possession of me and I slept soundly.
Appointed on Jackson's staff.
The next morning the
General sent for me. He was alone, sitting on a camp-stool gazing into the fire.
He arose, holding in his hand a dispatch, which he said he had just received from
General Ewell, and then remarked: ‘
Mr. Douglas,
Colonel Baylor leaves me today to take command of the Stonewall Brigade, and I want to assign you to duty as assistant inspector-general on my staff.’
What I said of thanks I cannot remember, but pride and gratification healed all my wounds, and thus I entered the military family of
Stonewall Jackson.
The dispatch I had carried from
General Jackson that night was the order to
General Ewell to put his division in motion toward Swift Run Gap, and be ready to unite with the Army of the
Valley west of the
Blue Ridge.
Under that order was made the initial move in that great game of war in which
Jackson, sweeping down the valleys of
Virginia from behind the Massanutten, drove everything
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before him to the banks of the
Potomac, and thundered at
Harper's Ferry until the threats seemed to jar the
Capitol at
Washington, and then by fighting, confusing, defeating, or eluding the armies of
Banks,
McDowell,
Fremont, and
Shields, he marched back again, laden with spoils, and at
Cross Keys and
Port Republic closed the campaign ‘with a clap of thunder.’
