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ill conscientiously collect the real facts, and make some new Waverley or Legend of Montrose. For these, and not for the former class, I propose to set down here an incident in the life of the great commander of the Southern cavalry, of which he told me all the particulars, for I was not present. It was about the middle of August, 1862, and Jackson, after deciding the fate of the day at Cold Harbour, and defeating General Pope at Cedar Mountain, was about to make his great advance upon Manassas with the remainder of the army. In all such movements Stuart's cavalry took its place upon the flanks, and no sooner had the movement begun, than, leaving his headquarters in the grassy yard of the old Hanover Court-House where Patrick Henry made his famous speech against the parsons, Stuart hastened to put his column in motion for the lower waters of the Rapidan. Such was the situation of affairs when the little incident I propose to relate took place. Fitz Lee's brigade was ordered
John Esten Cooke, Wearing of the Gray: Being Personal Portraits, Scenes, and Adventures of War., A glimpse of Colonel Jeb Stuart (search)
To-day it is the bright side of the tapestry I look at-my aim is to sketch some little trifling scenes upon the outpost. To do so, it will be necessary to go back to the early years of the late war, and to its first arena, the country between Manassas and the Potomac. Let us, therefore, leave the present year, 1866, of which many persons are weary, and return to 1861, of which many never grow tired talking-1861, with its joy, its laughter, its inexperience, and its confiding simplicity, whenhought that the big battle on the shores of Bull's Run had terminated the war at one blow. At that time the present writer was attached to Beauregard's or Johnson's Army of the Potomac, and had gone with the advance force of the army, after Manassas, to the little village of Vienna-General Bonham commanding the detachment of a brigade or so. Here we duly waited for an enemy who did not come; watched his mysterious balloons hovering above the trees, and regularly turned out whenever one pick
ted in a vision of sudden death which I myself once saw in a human eye. On the occasion in question, a young, weak-minded, and timid person was instantaneously confronted, without premonition or suspicion of his danger, with the abrupt prospect of an ignominious death; and I think the great English writer would have considered my incident more stirring than his own. It was on the morning of August 3 I, 1862, on the Warrenton road, in a little skirt of pines, near Cub Run bridge, between Manassas and Centreville. General Pope, who previously had only seen the backs of his enemies, had been cut to pieces. The battle-ground which had witnessed the defeat of Scott and McDowell on the 21St of July, 1861, had now again been swept by the bloody besom of war; and the Federal forces were once more in full retreat upon Washington. The infantry of the Southern army were starved, broken down, utterly exhausted, when they went into that battle, but they carried everything before them; and th
ad practised a little ruse to blind the eyes of the Cross-Roads villagers — was doubling on the track; he was going after General Hooker, then in the vicinity of Manassas, and thencewhither? We bivouacked by the roadside under some pines that night, advanced before dawn, drove a detachment of the enemy from Glasscock's Gap, inhe process is exciting, but not uniformly remunerative. It was the rear of Hancock's corps which we struck not far from Haymarket; there, passing rapidly toward Manassas, about eight hundred yards off, were the long lines of wagons and artillery; and behind these came on the dense blue masses of infantry, the sunshine lighting upasional comedy which lights up the tragedy of war. The bugle sounded; we got into the saddle again; the columns moved; and that evening we had passed around Manassas, where Hooker's rear force still lingered, and were approaching Fairfax Station through the great deserted camps near Wolf Run Shoals. The advance pushed on thr
John Esten Cooke, Wearing of the Gray: Being Personal Portraits, Scenes, and Adventures of War., From the Rapidan to Frying-Pan in October, 1863. (search)
e Ridge, to flank General Meade's right, cut him off from Manassas, and bring on a general engagement between the two armieshoroughfare Mountain (not to be confounded with that near Manassas), we ran into a regiment of infantry which had hastily fo. Later in the fall, the general was running Lively near Manassas, when she flew the track, and two men were sent after herenton Springs, still aiming to cut General Meade off from Manassas. On the next day commenced the trial of skill between th his front and rear, were converging toward Bristoe, near Manassas. The only hope of safety lay in complete concealment of d on and crossed Broad Run, making with his main body for Manassas. When the Southern advance force reached Bristoe they foble for active movement, and Stuart pushed straight on to Manassas, harassing the Federal forces as they crossed Bull Run. s beyond Bucklandsthen Fitz Lee, who had fallen back from Manassas on the line of the Orange Railroad, would have an opport
which the watch and chain of Captain Gove were returned. In the year 1863, the cavalry headquarters were at Camp Pelham, near Culpeper Court-house. The selection of that title for his camp by Stuart, will indicate little to the world at large. To those familiar with his peculiarities it will be different. Stuart named his various headquarters after some friend recently dead. Camp Pelham indicated that this young immortal had finished his career. Pelham, in fact, was dead. At Manassas, Williamsburg, Cold Harbour, Groveton, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg, and a hundred other battles, he had opposed his breast to the storm, but no bullet had ever struck him. In the hard and bitter struggle of Kelly's Ford, with Averill, in March, 1863, he had fallen. The whole South mourned him-dead thus at twenty-four. Stuart wept for him, and named his new quarters Camp Pelham. To-day, in this autumn of 1866, the landscape must be dreary there; the red flag floats no more, and Pelham li
hrough the foliage overhead, revealed his pale face, closed eyes, and bleeding breast. Those around him thought that he was dying. What a death for such a man! All around him was the tangled wood, only half illumined by the struggling moonbeams; above him burst the shells of the enemy, exploding, says an officer, like showers of falling stars, and in the pauses came the melancholy notes of the whippoorwills, borne on the night air. In this strange wilderness, the man of Port Republic and Manassas, who had led so many desperate charges, seemed about to close his eyes and die in the night. But such was not to be the result then. When asked by one of the officers whether he was much hurt, he opened his eyes and said quietly without further exhibition of pain, No, my friend, don't trouble yourself about me. The litter was then raised upon the shoulders of the men, the party continued their way, and reaching an ambulance near Melzi Chancellor's placed the wounded General in it. He
he Macbeth-witch disappeared with floating robes toward her den. From the Valley, Private Bumpo proceeded rapidly to Manassas, where he took part in the thickest of the fight, and was bruised by a fragment of shell. Here he killed his first man. ball through his breast. He went down, and Bumpo says with laughter, I killed him! He was starved like all of us at Manassas, and returning to the Valley continued to have short rations. He fought through all the great campaigns there, and woreey broke and fled. The Corporal followed, and marched after them through Culpeper; through the Rappahannock too; and to Manassas. A hard fight there; two hard fights; and then with swollen and bleeding feet, Bumpo succumbed to fate, and sought thatnd with this in his pocket, the Corporal went home to rest a while. I think this tremendous tramp from Winchester to Manassas, by way of Richmond, caused Corporal Bumpo to reflect. His feet were swollen, and his mind absorbed. He determined to
, blown upon the wind, which rumour taking to itself a voice, said- The Prince is coming! All at once there appeared upon the summit of the hill, west of Centreville, a common hack, which stopped not far from where I was standing, and around this vehicle there gathered in a few moments quite a crowd of idlers and sightseers. Then the door was opened; from the carriage descended three or four persons, and these gentlemen walked out on the hill from which a view of the battle-field of Manassas in the distance was obtained. One of these gentlemen was Prince Jerome Bonaparte, all knew; but which was the Prince? Half-a-dozen officers in foreign uniform had ridden with the carriage, and one of these officers was so splendidly clad that he seemed to be the personage in question. I suppose that is the Prince, I said to a friend beside me. No, you are mistaken. Which is, then? Look around in the crowd, and see if you cannot tell him from the family likeness. Follo
hting for a common end, and looking with supreme confidence to the man in the dingy gray uniform, with the keen eyes glittering under the yellow gray cap, who at Manassas was to win for himself and them that immortal name of Stonewall, cut now with a pen of iron on the imperishable shaft of history. It was the Shenandoah Valled the Old Brigade, I am never weary thinking, writing, or telling: of the campaigns of the Valley; the great flank movement on the Chickahominy; the advance upon Manassas in the rear of Pope; the stern, hard combat on the left wing of the army at the battle of Sharpsburg; all their toils, their sufferings, their glories. Their paof the Shenandoah. That bullet-torn ensign might have been written all over, on both sides, with the names of battles, and the list have then been incomplete. Manassas, Winchester, Kernstown, Front Royal, Port Republic, Cold Harbour, Malvern Hill, Slaughter Mountain, Bristow Station, Groveton-Ox Hill, Sharpsburg, Fredericksburg
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