The Scouts of Stonewall: The Story of the Great Valley Campaign

“A staff officer with news,” said Dalton.

“Yes,” said Harry, “and I’m thinking it will seem bad news to you and me.”

The train stopped in a field, and the officer, panting and covered with dust and perspiration, rode alongside. Jackson walked out on the steps, followed by his eager officers.

“What is it?” asked Jackson.

“The Northern army has retaken Front Royal. The Georgia regiment you left in garrison there has been driven out and without support is marching northward. I have here, sir, a dispatch from Colonel Connor, the commander of the Georgians.”

He handed the folded paper to the general, who received it but did not open it for a moment. There was something halfway between a sigh and a groan from the officers, but Jackson said nothing. He smiled, but, as Harry saw it, it was a strange and threatening smile. Then he opened the dispatch, read it carefully, tore it into tiny bits and threw them away. Harry saw the fragments picked up by the wind and whirled across the field. Jackson nearly always destroyed his dispatches in this manner.

“Very good,” he said to the officer, “you can rejoin Colonel Connor.”

He went back to his seat. The train puffed, heaved and started again. Jackson leaned against the back of the seat and closed his eyes. He seemed to be asleep. But the desire for sleep was driven from Harry. The news of the retaking of Front Royal had stirred the whole train. Officers talked of it in low tones, but with excitement. The Northern generals were acting with more than their customary promptness. Already they had struck a blow and Ord with his ten thousand men had undoubtedly passed from the Luray Valley into the main Valley of Virginia to form a junction with Shields and his ten thousand.

What would Jackson do? Older men in the train than Harry and Dalton were asking that question, but he remained silent. He kept his eyes closed for some time, and Harry thought that he must be fast asleep, although it seemed incredible that a man with such responsibilities could sleep at such a time. But he opened his eyes presently and began to talk with a warm personal friend who occupied the other half of the seat.

Harry did not know the tenor of this conversation then, but he heard of it later from the general’s friend. Jackson had remarked to the man that he seemed to be surrounded, and the other asked what he would do if the Northern armies cut him off entirely. Jackson replied that he would go back toward the north, invade Maryland and march straight on Baltimore and Washington. Few more daring plans have ever been conceived, but, knowing Jackson as he learned to know him, Harry always believed that he would have tried it.

But the Southern leaders within that mighty and closing ring in the valley were not the only men who had anxious minds. At the Union capital they did not know what had become of Jackson. They knew that he was somewhere within the ring, but where? He might pounce upon a division, deal another terrible blow and then away! In a week he had drawn the eyes of the world upon him, and his enemies no longer considered anything impossible to him. Many a patriot who was ready to die rather than see the union of the states destroyed murmured: “If he were only on our side!” There was already talk of recalling McClellan’s great army to defend Washington.

The object of all this immense anxiety and care was riding peacefully in a train to Winchester, talking with a friend but conscious fully of his great danger. It seemed that the Northern generals with their separate armies were acting in unison at last, and must close down on their prey.

They came again into Winchester, the town torn so often by battle and its anxieties, and saw the Presbyterian minister, his face gray with care, greet Jackson. Then the two walked toward the manse, followed at a respectful distance by the officers of the staff.

Harry soon saw that the whole of Winchester was in gloom. They knew there of the masses in blue converging on Jackson, and few had hope. While Jackson remained at the manse he sat upon the portico within call. There was little sound in Winchester. The town seemed to have passed into an absolute silence. Most of the doors and shutters were closed.

And yet the valley had never seemed more beautiful to Harry. Far off were the dim blue mountains that enclosed it on either side, and the bright skies never bent in a more brilliant curve.

He felt again that overpowering desire to sleep, and he may have dozed a little when he sat there in the sun, but he was wide awake when Jackson called him.

“I want you to go at once to Harper’s Ferry with this note,” he said, “and give it to the officer in command. He will bring back the troops to Winchester, and you are to come with him. You can go most of the way on the train and then you must take to your horse. The troops will march back by the valley turnpike.”

Harry saluted and was off. He soon found that other officers were going to the various commands with orders similar to his, and he no longer had any doubt that the whole force would be consolidated and would withdraw up the valley. He was right. Jackson had abandoned the plan of entering Maryland and marching on Baltimore and Washington, and was now about to try another, fully as daring, but calling for the most sudden and complicated movements. He had arranged it all, as he rode in the train, most of it as he leaned against the back of the seat with his eyes shut.

Harry was soon back in Harper’s Ferry, and the troops there immediately began their retreat. Most all of them knew of the great danger that menaced their army, but Harry, a staff officer, understood better than the regimental commanders what was occurring. The Invincibles were in their division and he rode with the two colonels, St. Clair and Happy Tom Langdon. They went at a swift pace and behind them came the steady beat of the marching troops on the turnpike.

“You have been with General Jackson in Winchester, Harry,” said Colonel Leonidas Talbot in his precise manner, “and I judge that you must have formed some idea of his intentions. This indicates a general retreat southward, does it not?”

“I think so, sir. General Jackson has said nothing, but I know that orders have been sent to all our detachments to draw in. He must have some plan of cutting his way through toward the south. What do you think, Colonel St. Hilaire?”

“It must be so,” replied Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire, “but how he will do it is beyond me. When I look around at all these blue mountains, Leonidas, it seems to me that we’re enclosed by living battlements.”

“Or that Jackson is like the tiger in the bush, surrounded by the beaters.”

“Yes, and sometimes it’s woe to the beaters when they come too near.”

Harry dropped back with his younger friends who were by no means of sad demeanor. St. Clair had restored his uniform to its usual immaculate neatness or in some manner he had obtained a new one. Tom Langdon was Happy Tom again.

“We’ve eaten well, and we’ve slept well,” said Langdon, “and Arthur and I are restored completely. He’s the finest dandy in the army again, and I’m ready for another week’s run with Jackson. I know I won’t get another chance to rest in a long time, but Old Stonewall needn’t think I can’t march as long as he can.”

“You’ll get your fill of it,” said Harry, “and of fighting, too. Take a look all around you. No, not a half circle, but a complete circle.”

“Well, I’ve twisted my neck until my head nearly falls off. What signifies the performance?”

“There was no time when you were turning around the circle that your eyes didn’t look toward Yankees. Nearly fifty thousand of ‘em are in the valley. We’re in a ring of steel, Happy.”

“Well, Old Jack will just take his sword and slash that steel ring apart. And if he should fail I’m here. Lead me to ‘em, Harry.”

Langdon’s spirits were infectious. Even the marching men who heard Happy Tom laugh, laughed with him and were more cheerful. They marched faster, too, and from other points men were coming quickly to Jackson at Winchester. They were even coming into contact with the ring of steel which was closing in on them. Fremont, advancing with his fifteen thousand from the mountains, met a heavy fire from a line of ambushed riflemen. Not knowing where Jackson was or what he was doing, and fearing that the great Confederate commander might be before him with his whole army, he stopped at Cedar Creek and made a camp of defense.

Shields, in the south, moving forward, found a swarm of skirmishers in his front, and presently the Acadians, sent in that direction by Jackson, opened up with a heavy fire on his vanguard. Shields drew back. He, too, feared that Jackson with his entire army was before him and rumor magnified the Southern force. Meanwhile the flying cavalry of Ashby harassed the Northern advance at many points.

All the time the main army of Jackson was retreating toward Winchester, carrying with it the prisoners and a vast convoy of wagons filled with captured ammunition and stores. Jackson had foreseen everything. He had directed the men who were leading these forces to pass around Winchester in case he was compelled to abandon it, circle through the mountains and join him wherever he might be.

But Harry when he returned to Winchester breathed a little more freely. He felt in some manner that the steel ring did not compress so tightly. Jackson, acting on the inside of the circle, had spread consternation. The Northern generals could not communicate with one another because either mountains or Southern troops came between. Prisoners whom the Southern cavalry brought in told strange stories. Rumor in their ranks had magnified Jackson’s numbers double or triple. Many believed that a great force was coming from Richmond to help him. Jackson was surrounded, but the beaters were very wary about pressing in on him.

Yet the Union masses in the valley had increased. McDowell himself had now come, and he sent forward cavalry details which, losing the way, were compelled to return. Fremont on the west at last finding the line of riflemen before him withdrawn, pushed forward, and saw the long columns of the Southern army with their wagons moving steadily toward the south. His cavalry attacking were driven off and the Southern division went on.

Harry with the retreating division wondered at these movements and admired their skill. Jackson’s army, encumbered as it was with prisoners and stores, was passing directly between the armies of Fremont and Shields, covering its flanks with clouds of skirmishers and cavalry that beat off every attack of the hostile vanguards, and that kept the two Northern armies from getting into touch.

Jackson had not stopped at Winchester. He had left that town once more to the enemy and was still drawing back toward the wider division of the valley west of the Massanuttons. The great mind was working very fast now. The men themselves saw that warlike genius incarnate rode on the back of Little Sorrel. Jackson was slipping through the ring, carrying with him every prisoner and captured wagon.

His lightning strokes to right and to left kept Shields and Fremont dazed and bewildered, and McDowell neither knew what was passing nor could he get his forces together. Harry saw once more and with amazement the dark bulk of the Massanuttons rising on his left and he knew that these great isolated mountains would again divide the Union force, while Jackson passed on in the larger valley.

He felt a thrill, powerful and indescribable. Jackson in very truth had slashed across with his sword that great ring of steel and was passing through the break, leaving behind not a single prisoner, nor a single wagon. Sixty-two thousand men had not only failed to hold sixteen thousand, but their scattered forces had suffered numerous severe defeats from the far smaller army. It was not that the Northern men were inferior to the Southern in courage and tenacity, but the Southern army was led by a genius of the first rank, unmatched as a military leader in modern times, save by Napoleon and Lee.

It was the last day of May and the twilight was at hand. The dark masses of Little North Mountain to the west and of the Massanuttons to the east were growing dim. Harry rode by the side of Dalton a few paces in the rear of Jackson, and he watched the somber, silent man, riding silently on Little Sorrel. There was nothing bright or spectacular about him. The battered gray uniform was more battered than ever. In place of the worn cap an old slouched hat now shaded his forehead and eyes. But Harry knew that their extraordinary achievements had not been due to luck or chance, but were the result of the mighty calculations that had been made in the head under the old slouched hat.

Harry heard behind him the long roll and murmur of the marching army, the wheels of cannon and wagons grating on the turnpike, the occasional neigh of a horse, the rattle of arms and the voices of men talking low. Most of these men had been a year and a half ago citizens untrained for war. They were not mere creatures of drill, but they were intelligent, and they thought for themselves. They knew as well as the officers what Jackson had done and henceforth they looked upon him as something almost superhuman. Confident in his genius they were ready to follow wherever Jackson led, no matter what the odds.

These were exactly the feelings of both Harry and Dalton. They would never question or doubt again. Both of them, with the hero worship of youth felt a mighty swell of pride, that they should ride with so great a leader, and be so near to him.

The army marched on in the darkening hours, leaving behind it sixty thousand men who closed up the ring only to find their game gone.

Harry heard from the older staff officers that they would go on up the valley until they came to the Gaps of the Blue Ridge. There in an impregnable position they could turn and fight pursuit or take the railway to Richmond and join in the defense against McClellan. It all depended on what Jackson thought, and his thoughts were uniformly disclosed by action.

Meanwhile the news was spreading through the North that Jackson had escaped, carrying with him his prisoners and captured stores. Odds had counted for nothing. All the great efforts directed from Washington had been unavailing. All the courage and energy of brave men had been in vain. But the North did not cease her exertions for an instant. Lincoln, a man of much the same character as Jackson, but continually thwarted by mediocre generals, urged the attack anew. Dispatches were sent to all the commanders ordering them to push the pursuit of Jackson and to bring him to battle.

Cut to the quick by their great failure, Fremont, Shields, Ord, Banks, McDowell and all the rest, pushed forward on either side of the Massanuttons, those on the west intending to cross at the gap, join their brethren, and make another concerted attempt at Jackson’s destruction.

But Harry ceased to think of armies and battles as he rode on in the dark. He was growing sleepy again and he dozed in his saddle. Half consciously he thought of his father and wondered where he was. He had received only one letter from him after Shiloh, but he believed that he was still with the Confederate army in the west, taking an active part. Much as he loved his father it was the first time that he had been in his thoughts in the last two weeks. How could any one think of anything but the affair of the moment at such a time, when the seconds were ticked off by cannon-shots!

In this vague and pleasant dream he also remembered Dick Mason, his cousin, who was now somewhere there in the west fighting on the other side. He thought of Dick with affection and he liked him none the less because he wore the blue. Then, curiously enough, the last thing that he remembered was his Tacitus, lying in his locked desk in the Pendleton Academy. He would get out that old fellow again some day and finish him. Then he fell sound asleep in his saddle, and the horse went steadily on, safely carrying his sleeping master.

He did not awake until midnight, when Dalton’s hand on his shoulder caused him to open his eyes.

“I’ve been asleep, too, Harry,” said Dalton, “but I woke up first. We’re going into camp here for the rest of the night.”

“I’m glad to stop,” said Harry, “but I wonder what the dawn will bring.”

“I wonder,” said Dalton.

CHAPTER XIII. THE SULLEN RETREAT

Harry, like the rest of the army, slept soundly through the rest of the night and they rose to a brilliant first day of June. The scouts said that the whole force of Fremont was not far behind, while the army of Shields was marching on a parallel line east of the Massanuttons, and ready at the first chance to form a junction with Fremont.

Youth seeks youth and Harry and Dalton found a little time to talk with St. Clair and Langdon.

“We’ve broken their ring and passed through,” said Langdon, “but as sure as we live we’ll all be fighting again in a day. If the Yankees follow too hard Old Jack will turn and fight ‘em. Now, why haven’t the Yankees got sense enough to let us alone and go home?”

“They’ll never do it,” said Dalton gravely. “We’ve got to recognize that fact. I’m never going to say another word about the Yankees not being willing to fight.”

“They’re too darned willing,” said Happy Tom. “That’s the trouble.”

“I woke up just about the dawn,” said Dalton. “Everybody was asleep, but the general, and I saw him praying.”

“Then it means fighting and lots of it,” said St. Clair. “I’m going to make the best use I can of this little bit of rest, as I don’t expect another chance for at least a month. Stonewall Jackson thinks that one hour a day for play keeps Jack from being a dull boy.”

“Just look at our colonels, will you?” said Happy Tom. “They’re believers in what Arthur says.”

Colonel Leonidas Talbot and Lieutenant-Colonel Hector St. Hilaire were sitting in a corner of a rail fence opposite each other, and their bent gray heads nearly touched. But their eyes were on a small board between them and now and then they moved carved figures back and forth.

“They’re playing chess,” whispered Happy Tom. “They found the board and set of men in the captured baggage, and this is their first chance to use them.”

“They can’t possibly finish a game,” said Harry.

“No,” said Tom, “they can’t, and it’s just as well. Why anybody wants to play chess is more than I can understand. I’d rather watch a four-mile race between two turtles. It’s a lot swifter and more thrilling.”

“It takes intelligence to play chess, Happy,” said St. Clair.

“And time, too,” rejoined Happy. “If a thing consumes a lifetime anyway, what’s the use of intelligence?”

A bugle sounded. The two colonels raised their gray heads and gave the chess men and the board to an orderly. The four boys returned to their horses, and in a few minutes Jackson’s army was once more on the march, the Acadian band near the head of the column playing as joyously as if it had never lost a member in battle. The mountains and the valley between were bathed in light once more. The heavy dark green foliage on the slopes of the Massanuttons rested the eye and the green fields of the valley were cheering.

“I don’t believe I’d ever forget this valley if I lived to be a thousand,” said Harry. “I’ve marched up and down it so much and every second of the time was so full of excitement.”

“Here’s one day of peace, or at least it looks so,” said Dalton.

But Jackson beckoned to Harry, bade him ride to the rear and report if there was any sign of the enemy. They had learned to obey quickly and Harry galloped back by the side of the marching army. Even now the men were irrepressible and he was saluted with the old familiar cries:

“Hey, Johnny Reb, come back! You’re going toward the Yankees, not away from ‘em.”

“Let him go ahead, Bill. He’s goin’ to tell the Yankees to stop or he’ll hurt ‘em.”

“That ain’t the way to ride a hoss, bub. Don’t set up so straight in the saddle.”

Harry paid no attention to this disregard of his dignity as an officer. He had long since become used to it, and, if they enjoyed it, he was glad to furnish the excuse. He reached the rear guard of scouts and skirmishers, and, turning his horse, kept with them for a while, but they saw nothing. Sherburne, with a detachment of the cavalry was there, and Ashby, who commanded all the horse, often appeared.

“Fremont’s army is not many miles behind,” said Sherburne. “If we were to ride a mile or two toward it we could see its dust. But the Yanks are tired and they can’t march fast. I wish I knew how far up the Luray Shields and his army are. We’ve got to look out for that junction of Shields and Fremont.”

“We’ll pass the Gap before they can make the junction,” said Harry confidently.

“How’s Old Jack looking?”

“Same as ever.”

“That is, like a human sphinx. Well, you can never tell from his face what he’s thinking, but you can be sure that he’s thinking something worth while.”

“You think then I can report to him that the pursuit will not catch up to-day?”

“I’m sure of it. I’ve talked with Ashby also about it and he says they’re yet too far back. Harry, what day is this?”

Harry smiled at the sudden question, but he understood how Sherburne, amid almost continuous battle, had lost sight of time.

“I heard someone say it was the first of June,” he replied.

“No later than that? Why, it seemed to me that it must be nearly autumn. Do you know, Harry, that on this very day, two years ago, I was up there in those mountains to the west with a jolly camping party. I was just a boy then, and now here I am an old man.”

“About twenty-three, I should say.”

“A good guess, but anyway I’ve been through enough to make me feel sixty. I promise you, Harry, that if ever I get through this war alive I’ll shoot the man who tries to start another. Look at the fields! How fine and green they are! Think of all that good land being torn up by the hoofs of cavalry and the wheels of cannon!”

“If you are going to be sentimental I’ll leave you,” said Harry, and the action followed the word. He rode away, because he was afraid he would grow sentimental himself.

The army continued its peaceful march up the valley and most of the night that followed. Harry was allowed to obtain a few hours sleep in the latter part of the night in one of the captured wagons. It was a covered wagon and he selected it because he noticed that the night, even if it was the first of June, was growing chill. But he had no time to be particular about the rest. He did not undress—he had not undressed in days—but lying between two sacks of meal with his head on a third sack he sank into a profound slumber.

When Harry awoke he felt that the wagon was moving. He also heard the patter of rain on his canvas roof. It was dusky in there, but he saw in front of him the broad back of the teamster who sat on the cross seat and drove.

“Hello!” exclaimed Harry, sitting up. “What’s happened?”

A broad red face was turned to him, and a voice issuing from a slit almost all the way across its breadth replied:

“Well, if little old Rip Van Winkle hasn’t waked up at last! Why, you’ve slept nigh on to four hours, and nobody in Stonewall Jackson’s army is ever expected to sleep more’n three and that’s gospel truth, as shore’s my name is Sam Martin.”

“But, Sam, you don’t tell me what’s happened!”

“It’s as simple as A, B, C. We’re movin’ ag’in, and that fine June day yestiddy that we liked so much is gone forever. The second o’ June ain’t one little bit like the first o’ June. It’s cold and it’s wet. Can’t you hear the rain peltin’ on the canvas? Besides, the Yanks are comin’ up, too. I done heard the boomin’ o’ cannon off there toward the rear.”

“Oh, why wasn’t I called! Here I am sleeping away, and the enemy is already in touch with us!”

“Don’t you worry any ‘bout that, sonny. Don’t you be so anxious to git into a fight, ‘cause you’ll have plenty of chances when you can’t keep out o’ it. ‘Sides, Gin’ral Jackson ain’t been expectin’ you. We’re up near the head o’ the line an’ ‘bout an hour ago when we was startin’ a whiskered man on a little sorrel hoss rid up an’ said: ‘Which o’ my staff have you got in there? I remember ‘signin’ one to you last night.’ I bows very low an’ I says: ‘Gin’ral Jackson, I don’t know his name. He was too sleepy to give it, but he’s a real young fellow, nice an’ quiet. He ain’t give no trouble at all. He’s been sleepin’ so hard I think he has pounded his ear clean through one o’ them bags o’ meal.’ Gin’ral Jackson laughs low an’ just a little, and then he takes a peek into the wagon. ‘Why, it’s young Harry Kenton!’ he says. ‘Let him sleep on till he wakes. He deserves it!’ Then he lets fall the canvas an’ he ups an’ rides away. An’ if I was in your place, young Mr. Kenton, I’d feel mighty proud to have Stonewall Jackson say that I deserved more rest.”