Drummer Boy at Bull Run

by Gilbert L. Morris

  The next day he kept a watchful eye on Curly, and, sure enough, the big man sauntered over after breakfast and tipped his coffee cup so that it spilled down the front of Jeff’s uniform. “Hey, look how clumsy this kid is. Can’t even drink his coffee without spilling it.”

  Jeff had been sitting down. He rose quickly and noticed that all the other soldiers were keeping an eye on him. They had been well aware of Curly’s persecution. With his heart beating fast, Jeff reached over and picked up two muskets with bayonets attached. He tossed one of them toward Henson, who caught it, blinking in surprise and calling out, “Hey, Jeff, stop.”

  Jeff raised his musket, its bright bayonet pointed right at Henson. “I can’t beat you with fists, so let’s try it this way, Henson.”

  A mutter went up from the men, and one of them said, “Don’t do it, Jeff.”

  Henson looked at the bright tip of the bayonet, and Jeff saw fear in his eyes.

  Jeff took a step forward. “We’ve got an even chance this way. You stick me, or I’ll stick you—so let’s go at it.” He took one more step and lifted the bayonet as if to thrust it forward.

  Henson yelled, “Hey, some of you stop this kid! I don’t want to hurt him!”

  Suddenly Tom was there. He said, “Go on, Henson. You’ve been pushing the boy around. Let’s see if you can take it.”

  Henson blinked as he saw the face of Tom Majors, and he muttered, “Aw, Sarge, I was just having a bit of fun.” He tried to grin weakly and said, “I don’t want to.”

  “You’ve had your fun, Curly,” Tom said. He was as tall as Henson and almost as heavy. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to show favoritism. But the next time you get out of line, we’ll just see how well you stand up to a bayonet.”

  Henson swallowed, turned, and walked away quickly.

  Tom turned to Jeff and said, “Well, Private, I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble from him.”

  Jeff looked around and saw the admiring looks from the other drummer boys and some of the older men as well. He said, “I hope not, Sarge.”

  Later, when he was alone with his father, Jeff said, “I didn’t know what else to do, Pa. He was making life miserable for me.”

  “I hate that it came to such a thing. There’s some men,” his father said harshly, “that are born bullies. Henson’s one of them, I suppose, but from what Tom said, I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble.”

  That incident was the one sour note in Jeff’s training.

  He spent hours practicing the drum calls along with the other boys and discovered that he had enough musical ability to learn the signals quite easily. It became a pleasure to him to rattle the drums loudly.

  Once, the teacher, a grizzled sergeant, came by and said, “Majors, you’re doing fine. Got a natural flair for beating on that drum.”

  “Why, thank you, Sergeant.” Jeff felt the warmth of the compliment. “I aim to do the best that I can.”

  As time wore on, he became adept at long marches and at executing the commands of the officers. He won the approval of his father and even of one far more important individual.

  President Jefferson Davis came to review the troops, and Jeff proudly marched by, rolling the drums along with Company A. He got a good look at the president, a tall man with a lean, drawn face. He remembered hearing that the president was not in good health and thought, He looks kind of weak. We sure don’t need a sick man for president of the Confederacy.

  Later in the day, the commanders of the various units came to review their troops, and newly promoted General Thomas Jackson walked along, greeting each lieutenant and commenting on his company.

  When he came to Company A, he said, “Lieutenant Majors, it’s a pleasure to see you.”

  Nelson Majors returned the salute sharply. “I’m glad to see you again, General. This is a good company we have here. I hope you’ll come to be proud of it.”

  Jackson was a tall man with a stoop, and again he wore a forage cap pulled down nearly over his eyes. His uniform was not new—it looked almost shabby. He glanced over the company that was drawn up to attention, and he nodded. They looked very fit. “I’m sure you’ve done a good job, Lieutenant Majors.”

  At that moment, Jefferson Davis arrived with a group of the Cabinet, who had been speaking with soldiers down the line.

  General Jackson said, “Mr. President, this is Lieutenant Majors, one of our fine engineers who came from Kentucky to join the regiment. And I believe this is his son. Isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. This is my son, Tom, a sergeant in the company, and my youngest son, Jeff, who’s become a fine drummer boy.”

  Jefferson Davis had a lean, cadaverous look, but his eyes lit up. “Fine! I congratulate you, sir, on your contribution to your country.” He shook hands with Nelson Majors, then with Tom, and finally turned to Jeff. “And you, young man—you’ve enlisted for a soldier. How old are you, my boy?”

  “Almost fifteen,” Jeff said quickly.

  Jefferson Davis’s hand was almost skeleton lean, but it was very strong as he shook Jeff’s hand. “Bless you, my boy. May the Lord watch over you and keep you safe. And both of you as well,” he said to Lieutenant Majors and Tom.

  The visitors moved along, and when the company was dismissed, Jeff said, “I got a letter from Leah. She told about meeting President Lincoln.” He grinned at his father. “Now I can tell her she’s not the only one who’s ever met a president.”

  * * *

  The days stretched on, filled with boredom and monotony for most—marching and drilling and practicing—but to Jeff these things were exciting. He did not have time to write a letter to Leah for a while. But a week after meeting the president, he sat down and wrote,

  Dear Leah,

  I got your letter It was exciting your getting to meet President Lincoln, but I have news too. A few days ago, President Jefferson Davis reviewed our company, and I shook hands with him, Leah. Isn’t that something, you and I meeting the presidents of our country?

  He bit the end of his pen and tried to think of something personal to say. Finally, he wrote,

  This is all the exciting news, but I have to tell you I’m a little bit scared, Leah. I think everybody is. Nobody wants to admit it, but I’m wondering what I’ll do when the bullets start flying. Pa said every soldier is a little worried about that. I worry about you some too. You be sure you and your pa stay well back. I don’t think I could stand it if anything happened to you, Leah. After all, we’re best friends and always will be.

  He put down the pen, folded the letter, put it in an envelope, and went to give it to his father. “Pa, could you see that this gets sent?”

  His father saw the name and address, and he nodded. “I’ll be glad to, son. I’m writing to Leah’s mother to find out about Esther.”

  The sound of drilling came to them, sergeants shouting commands, and from far away hoofbeats and the shouts of artillery men as they pulled cannons across the open field.

  “Pa, do you think we’ll be going to fight soon?”

  “I’m afraid so.” His father reached over and put his hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “When the fighting starts, you keep your head down. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, Jeff.”

  Jeff nodded and answered, “You too, Pa.”

  They both knew that in a battle a bullet had no eyes—either one of them and Tom also could be killed or wounded. But they did not speak of that, and as Jeff left he was once again filled with apprehension as to how he would behave when the bullets started flying.

  10

  The Army Moves Out

  A whirlwind of activity moved in the Army of Northern Virginia. On July 15 it seemed to Jeff that every soldier, and every regiment, was moving at a furious speed. Jeff himself had little equipment to pull together. He put his clothes in a knapsack along with several sacks of candy and other food he had been warned by the veterans to take. He put in an extra uniform, and then he was ready to go. />
  “You’re lucky you don’t have to be carrying all this gear,” Curly Henson said, looking at the small load that Jeff carried. The big soldier had not tried to bully Jeff any more but seemed determined to make fun of him whenever he could. He looked down now with disgust at the drum and the drumsticks that composed most of Jeff’s load. “You can’t kill the enemy with a drumstick,” he snorted. Picking up his musket he held it in his big hands and grinned. “This is what a real soldier carries!”

  Charlie Bowers was the smallest drummer in the service. He was a friendly boy of thirteen from Arkansas. Charlie was so tiny there had been some difficulty in fitting him out in a uniform. He looked over at Curly Henson and piped up. “If it wasn’t for us drummer boys, you soldiers wouldn’t know which way to go!” He had his drum strung around his neck and gave an expert roll with a flourish. “You can’t do that with a musket, can you, Curly?”

  Henson mumbled and turned away, saying, “This is some army with a bunch of babies in it like you two!”

  After he had stalked off, the two boys left their drums with their other equipment and walked around the camp, watching the soldiers frantically packing. Officers were shouting, and the cavalry were getting their horses saddled. Everywhere there was noise, and a huge cloud of dust rose over the camp.

  Finally, the two made their way to the edge of camp where a creek supplied some of the water that they drank. They sat down, pulled off their shoes, and let their feet dangle in the water.

  “Wish we could take this creek along with us, Charlie.” Jeff grinned. The cool water soothed his tired feet. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to have sore feet before this day is over. Pa said that General Jackson marches his men so hard and fast that the rest of the army calls them Foot Cavalry.”

  “Aw, we can do it, Jeff.” Charlie grinned back at his friend. He was a cheerful boy, always looking at the bright side of things and, despite his poor upbringing, never seemed to grow discouraged. Suddenly he whispered, “Look, Jeff, look at that big old fish! What is it, do you reckon?”

  Jeff looked in the direction of Charlie’s gesture and said quietly, “Why, that’s a bass, Charlie.”

  “Boy, I’d like to have him in a frying pan! He must be the biggest bass in the whole world!”

  Jeff smiled tolerantly. “Why, no, he don’t weigh over a pound or maybe a pound and a half. He looks like a minnow beside old Napoleon.”

  “Napoleon? Why, he was a general or something, wasn’t he?”

  “Not that Napoleon.” Jeff laughed. “Napoleon is the name I gave to a big fish back where I came from.”

  “You named a fish? You mean you kept him in a bowl?”

  “No, he was in a river,” Jeff explained. “Me and Leah used to go down and try to catch him. He sure was a smart one, though.”

  Charlie picked up a stone, aimed, and threw it. It made a splashing sound when it hit the water, and the bass disappeared suddenly. “Shoot, he’s gone!” Charlie said. Then, looking over at Jeff, he asked, “Who’s Leah?”

  “Oh, just a friend of mine that I had back home.”

  “Leah sure is a funny name. Was he one of your best friends?”

  “Leah’s a girl. She grew up on the farm next to mine. I guess she’s the best friend I ever had.”

  Charlie stared at him curiously. “That’s funny—your having a girl for a friend, I mean. Mostly I just either tease girls or stay away from them.”

  Jeff grinned. “I guess I do too with most girls. But Leah was different. Like I said, we grew up together.”

  “Guess you hated to go off and leave her when you joined the army, didn’t you?”

  Jeff hesitated, then told Charlie the whole story of how the two families had been separated. He could hear the far-off muffled sound of drums beating and bugles blowing, and the dust cloud over the camp seemed to grow larger. When he ended, he said, “I expect Leah and her Pa are headed this way along with the Union army.”

  Charlie looked at him thoughtfully, plucked a blade of grass from the ground, chewed on it, and then asked, “Well, you can’t still be friends with her, can you, Jeff? I mean, after all, she’s with the Union army, ain’t she?”

  The thought had troubled Jeff constantly—not so much about Leah but about others of his friends who were approaching in the Union army to do battle. “I don’t know about all that, Charlie. Lots of families have been torn right in two. Why, in some of them the father went to one side, and some of his sons went on the other side.” He sighed. “It’s just a mess, that’s what it is! I wish it was all over.”

  “Well,” Charlie said, “I guess it will be pretty soon. That’s what I hear anyway. We’ll whip the Yankees and run them back to Washington—and then they’ll all give up.” Then he added wistfully, “I wish I was old enough to be a real soldier.”

  Jeff stared at him. “Do you think you could shoot somebody? I mean, after all, killing a man is a real serious thing.”

  “Well, they’re trying to kill us, aren’t they?” Charlie demanded. “A man’s got to shoot back when he gets shot at, don’t he?”

  Jeff had gone over it so often in his mind, and still he was confused. He said nothing for a while and then watched the smaller boy, who had found a hole and was putting a slender piece of grass down into it.

  Charlie waited carefully, then jerked up the grass blade, and cried, “Look, there’s a doodlebug, Jeff. Ain’t he a dandy?”

  Jeff stared at the small bug that had been extracted from the hole. “What are you going to do with him, Charlie? You can’t eat a doodlebug.”

  “I don’t know. Not much use for a doodlebug.” He sat for a while then, watching the cavalry gallop by furiously. “Say Jeff—” he hesitated “—you ever think about … maybe you might get shot?”

  “Could happen. We’ll be right in there with the men when the battle starts. We’ve got to be close enough for them to hear the drums—and a musket shoots a long way.” He looked over at the younger boy. “Are you afraid of getting killed, Charlie?”

  “Who, me? Why, I don’t never think about it.” But there was a troubled light in Charlie’s eye. “I figure if it’s gonna happen, why, it’ll just happen.”

  “Well, maybe—but God gave us sense to get behind a tree when the bullets start to flying. That is,” he added, “if there’s a tree to get behind.”

  “What do you think happens when somebody dies?” Charlie went on. “Do you reckon it’s like the preachers say? The good people go to heaven, and the bad people go to hell?”

  Jeff got to his feet nervously. “I guess so,” he said. The subject disturbed him, and he didn’t want to talk about it. “Come on, let’s go back into camp. We’ll be leaving pretty soon.”

  The two were greeted by Jeff’s father. “We’ll be moving out in thirty minutes. You stay close to me, Jeff.”

  “You think we’ll fight the Yankees today, Lieutenant?” Charlie asked.

  Lieutenant Majors grinned at the small boy. “I don’t think they’re that close, but they’ll be here soon enough. Now get your drums and let’s get this show on the road.”

  * * *

  The march had been hard. Jeff was very tired by the time camp was made that night. The army had come fourteen miles. That didn’t seem like a long way to Jeff. “But,” he said, “it was a long way when you got to carry a knapsack and a drum.” Marching with the drum threw him off balance, he discovered. It pulled him forward. He tried different positions. He slung it over his shoulder, but then the sling choked him or cut into his shoulders.

  The army had moved in a long, serpentine line down the roads and from time to time had to take to the roadside to avoid the guns being pulled by the horses. Time and again a soldier would ride ahead, yelling, “Clear the roads! Clear the roads!” And when the men had moved to the sides, a troop of cavalry would thunder by—raising dust that choked them—or perhaps it was a group of officers, or one of the big cannons.

  They camped that night in a big grove of trees beside a gro
up of farmhouses. Since there were thousands of men, they had to wait in line at the wells, and the officers warned them, “Don’t drink all the wells dry. These people have to live here.”

  Twilight had come, and the pleasing smell of cooking meat came to Jeff. There was no such thing as a single campfire feeding all the men, nor a single cook. The men of each company were assigned to squads of six or seven men. Each squad found its own firewood and cooked its own meals.

  After Jeff had eaten, Sergeant Henry Mapes said, “You fellows get ready. There’s going to be a service tonight.”

  “A service?” Curly Henson looked up at him with surprise. “What kind of a service, Sarge?”

  “Oh, General Jackson’s got a preacher along, so we’re all going to go get preached at,” Mapes said.

  “Not me.” Henson shook his head stubbornly. “I got preached at enough when I was home. My pa always made me go. Count me out, Sarge.”

  “I ain’t counting nobody out, Curly,” the sergeant said sharply. “We’re all going to go hear that preaching. The general wants it, and what General Jackson wants, we’re going to give him.”

  That was the end of the argument. After the dishes were washed and the gear put away, Jeff’s squad joined others walking over to a large clearing where already a large number of men had gathered.

  Jeff saw his father standing beside the general, and he nudged the sergeant. “Look, Sarge. There he is. That’s General Jackson. I met him one time.”

  “Did you now?” the sergeant asked curiously. “Well, I hope he’s better than his reputation.” He looked across to where Jackson was standing upright and said, “Some of the officers call him Tomfool Jackson. He was an instructor at West Point, but I never heard of him doing much fighting except maybe in the Mexican War.”

  “Well, we’ll find out what kind of soldier he is pretty soon, I reckon,” Curly said. He was irritable over being forced to attend the service. “He sure don’t look like much!”