The old "sycamore" from Tennessee looked to me at that precious moment as tall as a church steeple, and fully as large around. In all my whole life never was a man's presence so agreeable and his services so acceptable. It gave me a confidence in myself I never felt before nor since. His manly features and giant-like powers acted like inspiration upon me, and I felt for the time like a Goliath myself, and rose to my feet to join in the fray. But my good deliverer pushed me back and said:
"Stand aside, young man, I have tickets for both in here," and with that he began to wield his mighty blows first here and then there—first one and then another went staggering across the room, until the crowd gathered outside and put an end to the frolic. No explanations were given and none asked. Taking me by the arm, the big Captain led me away, saying, after we had gone some little distance:
"Young man, that was a narrow escape you made, and it was lucky I was on hand."
He spoke with so much candor and logic, that I did not have the heart nor disposition to doubt or contradict it.
I would be willing to qualify before a grand jury to my dying day that I had had a close call.
On the 15th of September we began our return to Lee, marching about six miles south of Middleton. The next day we took up the march again to within fifteen miles of Luray Court House, then to within eleven miles of Sperryville, on the turn-pike, between the two points. Virginia or that part of it is blessed for her good roads on the main thoroughfares. The road from Staunton to the Potomac is one of the finest in America, being laid with cobble stones the entire length, upwards of one hundred and twenty-five miles. Then the road engineers did one thing that should immortalize them, that is in going around hills instead of over them, as in our State. Those engineers of old [436] worked on the theory that the distance around a hill was no greater than over it, and much better for travel.
Over the Blue Ridge at Thornton Gap and to within five miles of Woodville, reaching Culpepper at three o'clock P.M., the 9th. Our ears were greeted with the distant roar of artillery, which proved to be our artillery firing at a scouting party of United States cavalry. On through Culpepper we marched, to within one mile of Rapidan Station, our starting point of near two months before. And what a fruitless march—over the mountains, dusty roads, through briars and thickets, and heat almost unbearable—fighting and skirmishing, with nightly picketing, over rivers and mountain sides, losing officers, and many, too, being field officers captured. While in camp here we heard of Early's disaster in the Valley, which cast a damper over all the troops. It seems that as soon as Sheridan heard of our detachment from Early's command he planned and perfected a surprise, defeating him in the action that followed, and was then driving him out of the Valley. Could we have been stopped at this point and returned to Early, which we had to do later, it would have saved the division many miles of marching, and perhaps further discomfiture of Early and his men. But reports had to be made to the war department.
Orders came for our return while we were continuing our march to Gordonsville, which place we reached on the 23rd of September, at 4 o'clock, having been on the continuous march for exactly fifty days. On the morning of the 24th we received the orders to return to the relief of Early, and at daylight, in a blinding rain, we commenced to retrace our steps, consoling ourselves with the motto, "Do your duty, therein all honor lies," passing through Barboursville and Standardville, a neat little village nestled among the hills, and crossed the mountain at Swift Run Gap. We camped about one mile of the delightful Shenandoah, which, by crossing and recrossing its clear, blue-tinged waters and camping on its banks so often, had become near and dear to all of us, and nothing was more delightful than to take a plunge beneath its waters. But most often we had to take the water with clothes and shoes on in the dead of winter, still the name of the Shenandoah had become classic to our ears.
The situation of Early had become so critical, the orders so imperative to join him as soon as possible, that we took up the march next morning at a forced speed, going twelve miles before a halt, a feat never before excelled by any body of troops during the war. When within two miles of Port Republic, a little beyond its two roads leading off from that place, one to Brown's Gap, we encountered the enemy's cavalry. Here they made an attack upon our brigade, but were repulsed at first fire from the infantry rifles. There was one thing demonstrated during this war, that whatever might have been accomplished in days of old, the cavalry on either side could not stand the fire of the infantry. And it seemed that they had a kind of intuition of the fact whenever the infantry was in their front. Nothing better as an excuse did a cavalry commander wish, when met with a repulse, than to report, "We were driving them along nicely until we came upon the enemy's infantry, then we had to give way."
This report had been made over and over again, until it became threadbare; but a cavalry officer thought it a feather in his cap to report his defeat or repulse by, "We met their infantry." We made a junction with Early near Brown's Gap, on the 26th, and camped at night with orders to be prepared to march at daylight. The troops of Early's were in a despondent mood, but soon their spirits revived at the sight of Kershaw's Division. We moved forward in the direction of Harrisonburg, our duty being to guard the two roads leading thereto. Early sent the other part of the army to the left and forward of us, and in this order we marched on to Waynesboro. Reaching there next day, the enemy's cavalry scattered when our troops came in sight. We began, on October 1st, moving in the direction of the turn-pike, leading from Winchester to Staunton, striking near Harrisonburg on the 6th.
We began the forward movement down the Valley on the 7th, the enemy slowly giving way as we advanced. We passed through those picturesque little cities of the Valley, Harrisonburg, New Market, and Woodstock, marching a day or two and then remaining in camp that length of time to give rest to the troops, after their long march. It must be remembered we had been two months cut off from the outside world—no railroad nearer than Staunton, the men being often short of rations and barefooted and badly clad; scarcely any mail was received during [438] these two months, and seldom a paper ever made its appearance in camp. We only knew that Lee was holding his own. We reached and passed through Strausburg on the 13th. In the afternoon of this day, while we were on the march, but at the time laying by the side of the turn-pike, the enemy tried to capture some of our artillery. We had heard firing all day in our front, but thought this the effects of the enemy's sullen withdrawal. While resting by the road side, the enemy made a spirited attack upon the troops in front. We were hurriedly rushed forward, put in line of battle, advanced through an uneven piece of ground, and met the enemy posted behind a hill in front. They opened upon us at close range, killing and wounding quite a number, but as soon as our brigade made the first fire, they fled to a brick wall, running at an angle from the turn-pike. General Connor fell at the first fire, badly wounded in the knee, from the effects of which he lost his leg, and never returned, only to bid his brigade farewell in the pine regions of North Carolina. Colonel Rutherford being next in command, advanced the troops to the top of the hill and halted. In going out in front to reconnoitre in the direction of the stone wall, a party of the enemy, who had concealed themselves behind it, rose and fired, mortally wounding the gallant and much beloved Colonel. A charge was made, and the enemy fled to a thicket of pine timber and made their escape. This was a bloody little battle for the brigade, and some of its loss was irreparable. We halted after driving the enemy away, and at night withdrew to Fisher's Hill and camped for the night. Fisher's Hill is a kind of bluff reaching out from the Massanutten Mountain on our right; at its base ran Cedar Creek. It is a place of great natural strength. In the presence of some of his friends Colonel Rutherford passed away that night, at one o'clock, and his remains were carried to his home by Captain Jno. K. Nance. General Connor had his leg amputated. The brigade was without a field officer of higher grade than Major, and such officer being too inexperienced in the handling of so large a number of men, Major James Goggans, of the division staff, was ordered to its command. While some staff officers may be as competent to handle troops in the field as the commanders themselves, still in our case it was a lamentable failure. [439] Major Goggans was a good staff officer, a graduate of West Point, but he was too old and inexperienced to command troops of such vigor and enthusiasm as the South Carolinians who composed Kershaw's Brigade.
We remained a short time on Fisher's Hill, throwing up some slight fortifications. Kershaw's Brigade was encamped in a piece of woods on the left of the turn-pike as you go north.
Colonel William Drayton Rutherford was the son of Dr. Thomas B. Rutherford and Mrs. Laura Adams Rutherford, his wife. He was born on the 21st of September, 1837, in Newberry District, South Carolina. By his father he was a descendant of Virginians, as well as of that sturdy and patriotic stock of Germans who settled what was known as the "Fork." By his mother he was a descendant of the New England Adams family—what a splendid boy and man he was! He was educated in the best schools in our State, and spent sometime abroad. At the sound of arms he volunteered and was made Adjutant of the Third South Carolina Infantry. At the reorganization of the regiment, in May, 1862, he was elected Major of his regiment. When Lieutenant Colonel B. Conway Garlington was killed at Savage Station, June 29th, 1862, Rutherford became Lieutenant Colonel of his regiment. When Colonel James D. Nance fell in the battle of the Wilderness, on the 6th day of May, 1864, he became Colonel of the Third South Carolina Regiment. He was a gallant officer and fell in the front of his regiment at Strausburg, Va., on the 13th of October, 1864.
He married the beautiful and accomplished Miss Sallie H. Fair, only daughter of Colonel Simeon Fair, in March, 1862, and the only child of this union was "the daughter of the regiment," Kate Stewart Rutherford, who is now Mrs. George Johnstone.
Colonel Rutherford was in the battles of First Manassas, Williamsburg, Savage Station, Malvern Hill, First Fredericksburg (12th December, 1862, where he was badly wounded), Knoxville, Wilderness, Brock's Road (and other battles about Spottsylvania), North Anna Bridge, Second Cold Harbor, Deep Bottom, Berryville, and Strausburg.
He was a delight to his friends, by reason of his fare intelligence, warm heart, and generous impulses; to his family, because he was always so considerate of them, so affectionate, and so brimful of courtesy; but to his enemies (and he never made any except among the vicious), he was uncompromisingly fierce.
I will state here that General James Connor had been in command of the brigade for about two or three months, Colonel Kennedy, the senior officer of the brigade, being absent on account of wounds received at the Wilderness. There is no question but what General Connor was one of the best officers that South Carolina furnished during the war. But he was not liked by the officers of the line or the men. He was too rigid in his discipline for volunteers. The soldiers had become accustomed to the ways and customs of Kershaw and the officers under him, so the stringent measures General Connor took to prevent straggling and foraging or any minor misdemeanor was not calculated to gain the love of the men. All, however, had the utmost confidence in his courage and ability, and were willing to follow where he led. Still he was not our own Joseph Kershaw. Below I give a short sketch of his life.
General James Connor, son of the late Henry Connor, was born in Charleston, S.C., 1st of September, 1829. Graduated at the South Carolina College, 1849, same class with D. Wyatt Aiken, Theo G. Barker, C.H. Simonton, and W.H. Wallace (Judge). Read law with J.L. Pettigrew. Admitted to the bar in 1852. Practiced in Charleston. Appointed United States District Attorney for South Carolina in 1856, Hon. A.G. Magrath then District Judge. As District Attorney, prosecuted Captain Carrie, of the "Wanderer," who had brought a cargo of Africans to the State; also prosecuted T.J. Mackey for participation in Walker's filibustering expedition. Always justified the expectations of his friends in their high opinion of his talents and marked ability in all contingencies. Resigned as District Attorney in December, 1860. Was on the committee with Judge Magrath and W.F. Colcock, charged to urge the Legislature to call a convention of the [441] people to consider the necessity of immediate Secession, and upon the passage of the Secession Ordinance, prepared for active service in the army. But upon the formation of the Confederate States Government he was appointed Confederate States of America District Attorney for South Carolina, but declined. Went into the service as Captain of the Montgomery Guards, and in May, 1861, was chosen Captain of the Washington Light Infantry, Hampton Legion. In July, 1861, he became Major, and in June, 1863, was appointed Colonel of the Twenty-second North Carolina Volunteers. Being disabled for field duty, temporarily, was detailed as one of the judges of the military court of the Second Army Corps. With rank of Colonel, June, 1864, was commissioned Brigadier General, and by assignment commanded McGowan's and Laws' Brigades. Subsequently, as Acting Major General, commanded McGowan's, Laws', and Bushrod Johnson's Brigades. On return of McGowan to duty, was assigned permanently to command of Kershaw's Brigade.
He engaged in the following battles: Fort Sumter, First Manassas, Yorktown, New Stone Point, West Point, Seven Pines, Mechanicsville, Chancellorsville, Riddle's Shop, Darby's Farm, Fossil's Mill, Petersburg, Jerusalem, Plank Road, Reams' Station, Winchester, Port Republic, and Cedar Run. Severely wounded in leg at Mechanicsville and again at Cedar Run, October 12th, 1864. Leg amputated.
Returning to Charleston after the war, he resumed law practice with W.D. Portier. Was counsel for the South Carolina Railway. In 1878 was Receiver of the Georgia and Carolina Railway. Was candidate for Lieutenant Governor in 1870. Elected Attorney General in 1876, resigned in 1877. Was at one time since the war M.W.G.M. of the Grand Lodge of Masons in this State.
One of the most distinguished looking and fearless officers of the Twentieth South Carolina Regiment was killed here, Captain John M. Kinard. Captain Kinard was one of the finest line officers in the command—a good disciplinarian and tactician, and a noblehearted, kind-hearted gentleman of the "Old School." He was rather of a taciturn bend, and a man of great modesty, but it took only a glimpse [442] at the man to tell of what mould and mettle he was made. I give a short sketch of his life.
Captain John Martin Kinard was born July 5, 1833, in the section of Newberry County known as the Dutch Fork, a settlement of German emigrants, lying a few miles west of Pomaria. In 1838 his father, General Henry H. Kinard, was elected Sheriff of Newberry County, and moved with his family to the court house town of Newberry. Here Captain Kinard attended school until he was about seventeen years old, when he went to Winnsboro, S.C., to attend the famous Mount Zion Academy. He entered South Carolina College in 1852, but left before finishing his college course to engage in farming, a calling for which he had had a passionate longing from his boyhood days. Having married Mary Alabama, the daughter of Dr. P.B. Ruff, he settled on his grandfather's plantation now known as Kinards. While living here his wife died, and a few years afterwards he married Lavinia Elizabeth, the daughter of Dr. William Rook.
When the State called her sons to her defense, he answered promptly, and enlisted as First Lieutenant in a company commanded by his uncle, John P. Kinard. His company was a part of the Twentieth Regiment, Colonel Lawrence Keitt, and was known as Company F. During the first years of the war he was engaged with his company in the defense of Charleston Harbor, rising to the rank of Captain on the resignation of his uncle.
While serving with his regiment in Virginia, to which place it had been moved in 1864, Captain Kinard came home on furlough. Very soon, however, he set out for the front again, and was detailed for duty in the trenches around Richmond. While engaged here he made repeated efforts to be restored to his old company, and joined them with a glad heart in October, 1864. On the 13th of October, a few days after his return, he warned his faithful negro body-guard, Ham Nance, to keep near, as he expected some hot fighting soon. And it came. The next day the enemy was met near Strausburg, and Captain Kinard fell, with a bullet in his heart. He died the death of the happy warrior, fighting as our Anglo-Saxon forefathers fought, in the midst of his kinsmen [443] and friends. Ham Nance bore his body from the field, and never left it until he returned it to his home in Newberry.
Captain Kinard left three children. By his first wife, a daughter, Alice, now the wife of Elbert H. Aull, Esq.; by his second wife, two sons, John M. Kinard, Commandant of the John M. Kinard Camp, Sons of Veterans, and James P. Kinard.
After the retreat of the enemy across Cedar Creek, on the 13th, the brigade returned to Fisher's Hill, and encamped in a beautiful grove. It was now expected that we would have a long, sweet rest—a rest so much needed and devoutly wished for, after two months of incessant marching and fighting. The foragers now struck out right and left over the mountains on either side to hunt up all the little delicacies these mountain homes so abounded in—good fresh butter-milk, golden butter—the like can be found nowhere else in the South save in the valleys of Virginia—apple butter, fruits of all kinds, and occasionally these foragers would run upon a keg of good old mountain corn, apple jack, or peach brandy—a "nectar fitting for the gods," when steeped in bright, yellow honey. These men were called "foragers" from their habit of going through the country, while the army was on the march or in camp, buying up little necessaries and "wet goods," and bringing them into camp to sell or share with their messmates. It mattered not how long the march, how tired they were, when we halted for the night's camp, while others would drop, exhausted, too tired to even put up their tents or cook a supper, these foragers would overcome every obstacle, climb mountains, and wade rivers in search of something to eat or drink, and be back in camp before day. In every regiment and in almost every company you could find these foragers, who were great stragglers, dropping in the rear or flanking to the right or left among the farm houses in search of honey, butter, bread, [444] or liquors of some kind. Some of these foragers in the brigade were never known to be without whiskey during the whole war. Where, how, or when they got it was as a sealed book to the others. These foragers, too, when out on one of their raids, were never very particular whether the owner of the meat or spring house, or even the cellar, was present or not, should they suspicion or learn from outside parties that these places contained that for which they were looking. If at night, they would not disturb the old man, but while some would watch, others would be depredating upon his pig pen, chicken roost, or milk house. It was astonishing what a change in the morals of men army life occasioned. Someone has said, "A rogue in the army, a rogue at home;" but this I deny. Sometimes that same devilish, schoolboy spirit that actuates the truant to filch fruit or melons from orchards of others, while he had abundance at home, caused the soldier oftentimes to make "raids," as they called these nocturnal visits to the farm houses outlying the army's track. I have known men who at home was as honorable, honest, upright, and who would scorn a dishonest act, turn out to be veteran foragers, and rob and steal anything they could get their hands on from the citizens, friend or foe alike. They become to look upon all as "fish for a soldier's net." I remember the first night on Fisher's Hill, after fighting and marching all day, two of my men crossed over the Massanutton Mountain and down in the Luray Valley, a distance of ten miles or more, and came back before day with as unique a load of plunder as I ever saw. While in some of the mountain gorges they came upon a "spring house" a few hundred feet from the little cabin, nestled and hid in one of those impenetrable caves, where the owner, no doubt, thought himself safe from all the outside world. They had little difficulty in gaining an entrance, but all was dark, so kneeling down and examining the trough they found jars of pure sweet milk, with the rich, yellow cream swimming on top. This, of course, they could not carry, so they drank their fill. While searching around for anything else that was portable, they found a lot of butter in a churn, and to their astonishment, a ten-gallon keg of peach brandy. Now they were in the plight of the man who "when it rained mush had no spoon." They had only their canteens, but there was [445] no funnel to pour through. But the mother of invention, as usual, came to their assistance. They poured out the milk in the jars, filled two for each, and returned over the mountain with a jar of brandy under each arm. The next morning I found, to my surprise, hanging to the pole of my tent, my canteen filled with the choicest brandy. Whiskey sold for $1.00 per drink, so their four jars of brandy added something to their month's pay. As a Captain of a company, I could not give leave of absence, nor could I excuse any who left camp against orders or without permission. So I had it understood that should any of my men wish to undertake a foraging expedition, not to ask my permission, but go; and if they did not get caught by outside guards, I would not report nor punish them, but if they got caught, not to expect any favors or mercy at my hands. While I never countenanced nor upheld foraging, unless it was done legitimately and the articles paid for, still when a choice piece of mutton or pork, a mess tin of honey, or canteen of brandy was hanging on my rifle pole in the morning, I only did what I enjoined on the men, "say nothing and ask no question." And so it was with nearly all the Captains in the army. And be it said to the credit of the Southern troops, pilfering or thieving was almost an unknown act while camping in our own country. It was only done in the mountains of Virginia or East Tennessee, where the citizens were generally our enemies, and who were willing to give aid and comfort to the Federals, while to the Southern troops they often denied the smallest favors, and refused to take our money.
On the night of the 18th of October we received orders to prepare for marching at midnight. No drums were to be beaten, nor noise of any kind made. From this we knew an advance was to be made, as Gordon's Division had orders to march soon after nightfall. The most profound secrecy, the absence of all noise, from rattling of canteens or tin cups, were enjoined upon the men. They were to noiselessly make their way over the spur of the Massanutton Mountain, which here butted out in a bold promontory, dividing the Shennandoah and the Luray Valleys, and strike the enemy in the flank away to our right. The other divisions were to be in readiness to attack as the roll of battle reached their front or right. The enemy was posted on an almost [446] impregnable position on the bluff overlooking Cedar Creek, while in their rear was a vast plateau of several miles in extent. The enemy's breastworks were built of strong timbers, with earth thrown against them, with a deep trench on the inside, being deeper from the bottom of the trench to the top of the works than the heights of the soldiers when standing. Thus a step of three or four feet was built for the troops to stand on and fire. The breastworks wound in and out with the creek, some places jutting out almost to the very brink; at others, several hundred yards in the rear; a level piece of bottom land intervening. This ridge and plateau were some fifty feet or more above the level of the creek, and gave elegant position for batteries. In front of this breastwork, and from forty to fifty feet in breadth, was an abattis constructed of pine trees, the needles stripped, the limbs cut and pointed five to ten feet from the trunks. These were packed and stacked side by side and on top of each other, being almost impossible for a single man even to pick his way through, and next to impossible for a line of battle to cross over. All along the entire length of the fortifications were built great redoubts of earthwork in the form of squares, the earth being of sufficient thickness to turn any of our cannon balls, while all around was a ditch from twelve to fifteen feet deep—only one opening in the rear large enough to admit the teams drawing the batteries. Field pieces were posted at each angle, the infantry, when needed, filled the space between. These forts were built about two hundred yards apart, others being built in front of the main line. This I believe was the most completely fortified position by nature, as well as by hand, of any line occupied during the war, and had the troops not been taken by surprise and stood their ground, a regiment strung out could have kept an army at bay.
General Gordon's troops left camp earlier than did Kershaw's, beginning their winding march at single file around the mountain side, over the great promontory, down in the plain below, through brush and undergrowth, along dull trails, catching and pulling themselves along by the bushes and vines that covered the rough borders and ledges of the mountain. Sometime after midnight Kershaw moved out across the turn-pike in the direction of the river, the Second South Carolina in front, under Captain McCulcheon; then the Third, under Major Todd; [447] then the Eighth, Twentieth, Fifteenth, and the Seventh. The James' or Third Battalion having some months before been organized into brigade sharpshooters, adding two companies to it, preceded the brigade, and was to charge the fords and capture the pickets. When near the river the brigade was halted, and scouting parties sent ahead to see how the land lay. A picked body moved cautiously along in front, and when all was in readiness, a charge was made—a flash, a report or two, and the enemy's out post at this point was ours. As we were feeling our way along the dull road that led to this ford, one poor fellow, who had been foremost in the assault on the pickets, was carried by us on a litter. Nothing but a low, deep groan was heard, which told too plainly that his last battle had been fought. The river crossed, the brigade continued in columns of fours, moving rapidly forward that all would be in readiness by the time Gordon's guns opened to announce that he was in position and ready.
Now our line of battle was formed, and never before or since was the brigade called in action with so few officers. Not a Colonel, nothing higher than a Major, in the entire brigade, the brigade itself being commanded by a staff officer, who had never so much as commanded a company before. At the close of the day there were but few officers in the command of the rank of Captain even.
Just at the beginning of dawn we heard the guns of Gordon belching forth far to our right. The cannon corps of the enemy roused up from their slumbers and met the attack with grape and cannister, but Gordon was too close upon them, the assault so sudden, that the troops gave way. Nearer and nearer came the roll of battle as each succeeding brigade was put in action. We were moving forward in double-quick to reach the line of the enemy's breastworks by the time the brigade on our right became engaged. Now the thunder of their guns is upon us; the brigade on our right plunges through the thicket and throw themselves upon the abattis in front of the works and pick their way over them. All of our brigade was not in line, as a part was cut off by an angle in Cedar Creek, but the Second and Third charged through an open field in front of the enemy's line. As we emerged from a thicket into the open we could see the enemy in great commotion, but [448] soon the works were filled with half-dressed troops and they opened a galling fire upon us. The distance was too great in this open space to take the works by a regular advance in line of battle, so the men began to call for orders to "charge." Whether the order was given or not, the troops with one impulse sprang forward. When in a small swale or depression in the ground, near the center of the field, the abattis was discovered in front of the works. Seeing the impossibility to make their way through it under such a fire, the troops halted and returned the fire. Those behind the works would raise their bare heads above the trenches, fire away, regardless of aim or direction, then fall to the bottom to reload. This did not continue long, for all down the line from our extreme right the line gave way, and was pushed back to the rear and towards our left, our troops mounting their works and following them as they fled in wild disorder. "Over the works, cross over," was the command now given, and we closed in with a dash to the abattis—over it and down in the trenches—before the enemy realized their position. Such a sight as met our eyes as we mounted their works was not often seen. For a mile or more in every direction towards the rear was a vast plain or broken plateau, with not a tree or shrub in sight. Tents whitened the field from one end to the other for a hundred paces in rear of the line, while the country behind was one living sea of men and horses—all fleeing for life and safety. Men, shoeless and hatless, went flying like mad to the rear, some with and some without their guns. Here was a deserted battery, the horses unhitched from the guns; the caissons were going like the wind, the drivers laying the lash all the while. Cannoneers mounted the unhitched horses barebacked, and were straining every nerve to keep apace with caissons in front. Here and there loose horses galloped at will, some bridleless, others with traces whipping their flanks to a foam. Such confusion, such a panic, was never witnessed before by the troops. Our cannoneers got their guns in position, and enlivened the scene by throwing shell, grape, and cannister into the flying fugitives. Some of the captured guns were turned and opened upon the former owners. Down to our left we could see men leaving the trenches, while others huddled close up to the side of the wall, displaying a white flag. Our ranks soon became almost as much disorganized as those [449] of the enemy. The smoking breakfast, just ready for the table, stood temptingly inviting, while the opened tents displayed a scene almost enchanting to the eyes of the Southern soldier, in the way of costly blankets, overcoats, dress uniforms, hats, caps, boots, and shoes all thrown in wild confusion over the face of the earth. Now and then a suttler's tent displayed all the luxuries and dainties a soldier's heart could wish for. All this fabulous wealth of provisions and clothing looked to the half-fed, half-clothed Confederates like the wealth of the Indies. The soldiers broke over all order and discipline for a moment or two and helped themselves. But their wants were few, or at least that of which they could carry, so they grab a slice of bacon, a piece of bread, a blanket, or an overcoat, and were soon in line again following up the enemy. There was no attempt of alignment until we had left the breastworks, then a partial line of battle was formed and the pursuit taken up. Major Todd, of the Third, having received a wound just as we crossed the works, the command of the regiment devolved on the writer. The angle of the creek cutting off that portion of the brigade that was in rear, left the Second and Third detached, nor could we see or hear of a brigade commander. The troops on our right had advanced several hundred yards, moving at right angle to us, and were engaging the enemy, a portion that had made a stand on the crest of a hill, around an old farm house. Not knowing what to do or where to go, and no orders, I accepted Napoleon's advice to the lost soldier, "When a soldier is lost and does not know where to go, always go to where you hear the heaviest firing." So I advanced the regiment and joined it on the left of a Georgia brigade. Before long the enemy was on the run again, our troops pouring volley after volley into them as they fled over stone fences, hedges, around farm houses, trying in every conceivable way to shun the bullets of the "dreaded gray-backs." I looked in the rear. What a sight! Here came stragglers, who looked like half the army, laden with every imaginable kind of plunder—some with an eye to comfort, had loaded themselves with new tent cloths, nice blankets, overcoats, or pants, while others, who looked more to actual gain in dollars and cents, had invaded the suttler's tents and were fairly laden down with such articles as they could find readiest sale for. I [450] saw one man with a stack of wool hats on his head, one pressed in the other, until it reached more than an arm's length above his head. Frying-pans were enviable utensils in the army, and tin cups—these articles would be picked up by the first who came along, to be thrown aside when other goods more tempting would meet their sight.
After getting the various brigades in as much order as possible, a general forward movement was made, the enemy making only feeble attempts at a stand, until we came upon a stone fence, or rather a road hedged on either side by a stone fence, running parallel to our line of battle. Here we were halted to better form our columns. But the halt was fatal—fatal to our great victory, fatal to our army, and who can say not fatal to our cause. Such a planned battle, such complete success, such a total rout of the enemy was never before experienced—all to be lost either by a fatal blunder or the greed of the soldier for spoils. Only a small per cent comparatively was engaged in the plundering, but enough to weaken our ranks. It was late in the day. The sharpshooters (Third Battalion) had been thrown out in a cornfield several hundred yards in our front. The men lay in the road behind the stone fence without a dream of the enemy ever being able to rally and make an advance. Some were inspecting their captured plunder; others sound asleep, after our five miles' chase. The sun was slowly sinking in the west. Oh, what a glorious victory! Men in their imagination were writing letters home, telling of our brilliant achievements—thirty pieces of artillery captured, whole wagon trains of ordnance, from ten to twenty thousand stands of small arms, horses and wagons, with all of Sheridan's tents and camp equippage—all was ours, and the enemy in full retreat!
But the scenes are soon to be shifted. Sheridan had been to Winchester, twenty miles away. He hears the firing of guns in the direction of Fisher's Hill, mounts his black charger, and with none to accompany him but an orderly, he begins his famous ride from Winchester. Louder and louder the cannon roar, faster and faster his faithful steed leaps over the stoney pike, his rider plunging the steel rowels into the foaming sides. Now he is near enough to hear the deep, rolling sound of the infantry, accompanied by the dreaded Rebel yell. He knew his troops were retreating from the sound he hears. [451] A few more leaps, and he comes face to face with his panic stricken troops. The road was crowded, the woods and fields on either side one vast swarm of fleeing fugatives. A few of the faithful were still holding the Confederates at bay, while the mass were seeking safety in flight. His sword springs from its scabbard, and waving it over his head, he calls in a loud voice, "Turn, boys, turn; we are going back." The sound of his voice was electrical. Men halt, some fall, others turn to go back, while a few continue their mad flight. A partial line is formed, Sheridan knowing the effect of a show of forward movement, pushes his handful of men back to meet the others still on the run. They fall in. Others who have passed the line in their rush, return, and in a few moments this wild, seething, surging, panic stricken mass had turned, and in well formed lines, were now approaching the cornfield and woods in which our pickets and skirmishers lay, all unconscious of the mighty change—a change the presence of one man effected in the morale of the routed troops. They rush upon our sharpshooters, capturing nearly the whole line, killing Captain Whitner, the commander, and either capturing or wounding nearly all the commissioned officers. Before we knew it, or even expected it, the enemy was in our front, advancing in line of battle. The men hadn't time to raise a gun before the bullets came whizzing over our heads, or battering against the stone wall. We noticed away to our right the lines give way. Still Kershaw's Brigade held their position, and beat back the enemy in our front. But in the woods on our left some troops who were stationed there, on seeing the break in the line beyond us, gave way also. Someone raised the cry and it was caught up and hurried along like all omens of ill luck, that "the cavalry is surrounding us." In a moment our whole line was in one wild confusion, like "pandemonium broke loose." If it was a rout in the morning, it was a stampede now. None halted to listen to orders or commands. Like a monster wave struck by the head land, it rolls back, carrying everything before it by its own force and power, or drawing all within its wake. Our battle line is forced from the stone fence. We passed over one small elevation, down through a vale, and when half way up the next incline, Adjutant Pope, who was upon the staff of our brigade commander, met the fleeing troops and made a masterly effort to stem [452] the tide by getting some of the troops in line. Around him was formed a nucleus, and the line began to lengthen on either side, until we had a very fair battle line when the enemy reached the brow of the hill we had just passed. We met them with a stunning volley, that caused the line to reel and stagger back over the crest. Our lines were growing stronger each moment. Pope was bending all his energies to make Kershaw's Brigade solid, and was in a fair way to succeed. The troops that had passed, seeing a stand being made, returned, and kept up the fire. It was now hoped that the other portion of the line would act likewise and come to our assistance, and we further knew that each moment we delayed the enemy would allow that much time for our wagon train and artillery to escape. But just as all felt that we were holding our own, Adjutant Pope fell, badly wounded by a minnie ball through the eye, which caused him to leave the field. Then seeing no prospects of succor on our right or left, the enemy gradually passing and getting in our rear, the last great wave rolls away, the men break and fly, every man for himself, without officers or orders—they scatter to the rear. The enemy kept close to our heels, just as we were rising one hill their batteries would be placed on the one behind, then grape and cannister would sweep the field. There were no thickets, no ravines, no fences to shield or protect us. Everything seemed to have been swept from off the face of the earth, with the exception of a lone farm house here and there. Every man appeared to be making for the stone bridge that spanned the creek at Strausburg. But for the bold, manly stand made by Y.J. Pope, with a portion of Kershaw's Brigade (the brigade commander was seldom seen during the day), the entire wagon train and hundreds more of our troops would have been lost, for at that distance we could hear wagons, cannons, and caissons crossing the stone bridge at a mad gallop. But in the rush some wagons interlocked and were overturned midway the bridge, and completely blocked the only crossing for miles above and below. Teamsters and wagoners leave their charge and rush to the rear. In the small space of one or two hundred yards stood deserted ambulances, wagons, and packs of artillery mules and horses, tangled and still hitched, rearing and kicking like mad, using all their strength to unloosen themselves from the matted mass of vehicles, animals, and [453] men, for the stock had caught up the spirit of the panic, and were eager to keep up the race. As by intuition, the flying soldiers felt that the roadway would be blocked at the bridge over Cedar Creek, so they crossed the turn-pike and bore to the left in order to reach the fords above. As I reached the pike, and just before entering a thicket beyond, I glanced over my shoulder toward the rear. One glance was enough! On the hill beyond the enemy was placing batteries, the infantry in squads and singly blazing away as rapidly as they could load and fire, the grape and cannister falling and rattling upon the ground like walnuts thrown from a basket. The whole vast plain in front and rear was dotted with men running for life's sake, while over and among this struggling mass the bullets fell like hail. How any escaped was a wonder to the men themselves. The solid shot and shell came bouncing along, as the boys would laughingly say afterwards, "like a bob-tailed dog in high oats"—striking the earth, perhaps, just behind you, rebound, go over your head, strike again, then onward, much like the bounding of rubber balls. One ball, I remember, came whizzing in the rear, and I heard it strike, then rebound, to strike again just under or so near my uplifted foot that I felt the peculiar sensation of the concussion, rise again, and strike a man twenty paces in my front, tearing away his thigh, and on to another, hitting him square in the back and tearing him into pieces. I could only shrug my shoulders, close my eyes, and pull to the rear stronger and faster.
The sun had now set. A squadron of the enemy's cavalry came at headlong speed down the pike; the clatter of the horses hoofs upon the hard-bedded stones added to the panic, and caused many who had not reached the roadway to fall and surrender. About one hundred and fifty of the Third Regiment had kept close at my heels (or I had kept near their front, I can't say which is the correct explanation), with a goodly number of Georgians and Mississippians, who had taken refuge in a thicket for a moment's breathing spell, joining our ranks, and away we continued our race. We commenced to bend our way gradually back towards the stone bridge. But before we neared it sufficiently to distinguish friend from foe, we heard the cavalry sabering our men, cursing, commanding, and yelling, that we halted for a moment to [454] listen and consult. In the dim twilight we could distinguish some men about one hundred yards in front moving to and fro. Whether they were friends, and like ourselves, trying to escape the cavalry in turn and creep by and over the bridge, or whether they were a skirmish line of the enemy, we could not determine. The Captain of a Georgia regiment (I think his name was Brooks), with four or five men, volunteered to go forward and investigate. I heard the command "halt," and then a parley, so I ordered the men to turn towards the river. The command came after us to "halt, halt," but we only redoubled our speed, while "bang, bang," roared their guns, the bullets raining thick and fast over our head. I never saw or heard of my new found friends again, and expect they, like many captured that day, next enjoyed freedom after Lee and Johnston had surrendered. When we reached the river it was undecided whether we could cross or not. So one of my men, a good swimmer, laid off his accoutrement and undertook to test the depth. In he plunged, and was soon out of sight in the blue waters. As he arose he called out, "Great God! don't come in here if you don't want to be drowned. This river has got no bottom." Our only alternative was to go still higher and cross above the intersection of the north and south prongs of the Shenandoah, where it was fordable. This we did, and our ranks augmented considerable as we proceeded up the banks of the stream, especially when we had placed the last barrier between us and the enemy. We had representatives of every regiment in Early's Army, I think, in our crowd, for we had no regiment, as it naturally follows that a man lost at night, with a relentless foe at his heels, will seek company.
We returned each man to his old quarters, and as the night wore on more continued to come in singly, by twos, and by the half dozens, until by midnight the greater portion of the army, who had not been captured or lost in battle, had found rest at their old quarters. But such a confusion! The officers were lost from their companies—the Colonels from their regiments, while the Generals wandered about without staff and without commands. The officers were as much dazed and lost in confusion as the privates in the ranks. For days the men recounted their experiences, their dangers, their hair-breadth escapes, the exciting chase during that memorable rout in the morning [455] and the stampede in the evening, and all had to laugh. Some few took to the mountains and roamed for days before finding an opportunity to return; others lay in thickets or along the river banks, waiting until all was still and quiet, then seek some crossing. Hundreds crowded near the stone bridge (the Federal pickets were posted some yards distance), and took advantage of the darkness to cross over under the very nose of the enemy. One man of the Fifteenth came face to face with one of the videttes, when a hand to hand encounter took place—a fight in the dark to the very death—but others coming to the relief of their comrade beat the Confederate to insensibility and left him for dead. Yet he crawled to cover and lay concealed for a day and night, then rejoined his regiment in a sickening plight.
A man in my company, Frank Boozer, was struck by a glancing bullet on the scalp and fell, as was thought, dead. There he lay, while hundreds and hundreds trampled over him, and it was near day when he gained consciousness and made his way for the mountain to the right. There he wandered along its sides, through its glens and gorges, now dodging a farm house or concealing himself in some little cave, until the enemy passed, for it was known that the mountains and hills on either side were scoured for the fugitives.
Captain Vance, of the Second, with a friend, Myer Moses, had captured a horse, and they were making their way through the thickets, Moses in front, with Vance in rear, the darkness almost of midnight on them. They came upon a squad of Federal pickets. They saw their plight in a moment, but Moses was keen-witted and sharp-tongued, and pretended that he was a Yankee, and demanded their surrender. When told that they were Federals, he seemed overjoyed, and urged them to "come on and let's catch all those d——n Rebels." But when they asked him a few questions he gave himself away. He was asked:
"What command do you belong to?"
"Eighty-seventh New York," Moses answered, without hesitation.
"What brigade?" "What division?" etc. "We have no such commands in this army. Dismount, you are our prisoners."
But Captain Vance was gone, for at the very outset of the parley he [456] slid off behind and quietly made his escape. In such emergencies it was no part of valor to "stand by your friend," for in that case both were lost, while otherwise one was saved.
What was the cause of our panic, or who was to blame, none ever knew. The blame was always laid at "somebody else's" door. However disastrous to our army and our cause was this stampede—the many good men lost (killed and captured) in this senseless rout—yet I must say in all candor, that no occasion throughout the war gave the men so much food for fun, ridicule, and badgering as this panic. Not one man but what could not tell something amusing or ridiculous on his neighbor, and even on himself. The scenes of that day were the "stock in trade" during the remainder of the war for laughter. It looked so ridiculous, so foolish, so uncalled for to see twenty thousand men running wildly over each other, as it were, from their shadows, for there was nothing in our rear but a straggling line of Federals, which one good brigade could have put to rout.
Both Colonel Boykin and Lieutenant Colonel McMichael, of the Twentieth, were captured and never returned to the service, not being parolled until after the surrender. The Twentieth was commanded by Major Leaphart until the close.
As Adjutant Pope never returned in consequence of his wounds. I will give a few facts as to his life. No officer in the army was parted with greater reluctance than Adjutant Pope.