Chantel asked, “Do you have anyone here with you, Miss Redmond?”
“My mother—she is upstairs napping. I’ll go up to her….”
Chantel looked at Clay, and he nodded. “May the good God be with you, Miss Redmond,” she said, rising.
Clay said, “General Stuart sends his regrets and asked me to tell you that you have his prayers.”
When they got outside in the clear sunlight, Clay murmured sadly, “He was a good man, Chantel. He had a whole wonderful life ahead of him, with her. And now he’s dead.”
Chantel had had trouble forgetting her resentment toward Clay ever since he had attempted to kiss her back in those first days, but now she saw something else in him. He had a bad reputation and he had done evil things, but she saw now that he was a man of great compassion, and this counted for much.
She entwined her arm with his, the first time she had touched him with any familiar gesture since that night. “Come with me, Clay. We will go talk to Grandpere. He will comfort us. He and the good God will comfort us.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Abraham Lincoln sat in his office in Washington, and Jefferson Davis, one hundred miles away, occupied the office of the presidency of the Confederate States of America. The two men were in precarious positions politically, for both the South and the North were clamoring for battle to settle the question of slavery. Both the North and the South had visions that the war would be short. The South expected that the North would be beaten decisively and would allow them to go their own way, with the Confederacy a permanent political entity. The North, on the other hand, was equally convinced that they must crush the Confederacy and maintain the Union.
Abraham Lincoln had been chosen to lead the people of the North, but he was by no means a unanimous choice. Now as he sat in his office and looked around his cabinet, he saw doubt and even disdain on the faces of some of the men he had chosen to help him lead the Union in the battle that was to come. His face was drawn, already lined, even though his presidency was in its infancy. He listened quietly to these men who were entrusted with the union of the United States of America.
Lincoln kept his eye on the ranking general of the North, the hero of the Mexican War, General Winfield Scott. Scott was old and overweight and exhausted from a lifetime of serving his country, but Lincoln could see that he was stirred and determined. Scott had already proposed his plan of crushing the Southern forces. It was called the Anaconda Plan, and it was simple. Winfield said it would be necessary to throw a ring around the Confederacy and crush it slowly, as a boa constrictor crushes its prey.
Lincoln’s glance went around the room, and he listened as man after man insisted that Scott’s plan was too slow. Most of them saw Scott as being outdated and not a fit man to lead the nation in this tremendous endeavor. They were all in favor of immediate action and continued arguing with the old general.
Finally, Secretary of State William Seward, who felt himself more able to govern than Lincoln, said, “Mr. President, we must take the quick road. We have a fine army, and we must use it at once. Our armies are more numerous, our equipment is better, and they have nothing but a group of individuals.”
“They have Robert E. Lee,” General Scott said loudly. “He is the South’s greatest military asset, and he can out-general any man we put against him.”
Immediately the rest of the cabinet took exception to Scott’s statement, and finally Lincoln, sensing which way the wind was blowing, broke in saying, “Gentlemen, I see great value in General Scott’s plan, and I feel we must pursue it…in the long run. In the meanwhile, the people are protesting that we are doing nothing. They forget that our army is composed mostly of volunteers for the term of three months. That is not time to train an army, as we all well know.”
“The very reason why we shouldn’t fight right now,” Scott spoke up.
“I wish that it were possible to wait, General. I know you are right and our men are green, but the men of the South are fighting forces that are green, also. I’ve made the decision that we will throw the Army of the Potomac into action against the South.”
“Who will be the commander?” Seward demanded at once.
Lincoln knew that everyone in the room expected him to name George McClellan, who had experienced some success in minor actions. Lincoln, however, felt differently. He said plainly, “I am appointing Irvin McDowell as the commander of the Union armies.” He saw the arguments rising and cut them off short. “General McDowell will be the commanding officer. My mind is made up. I will instruct him to attack the Southern forces at once.”
Doubt was as thick as a night fog in the room, but there was no arguing with Abraham Lincoln when he spoke this firmly. So the cabinet began to make plans for an immediate attack on the South.
General Irvin McDowell was a large man, six feet tall and heavyset, with dark brown hair and a grizzled beard. His manner was modest, and only from time to time was he dogmatic in his conversations. He had a strong will along certain lines, for instance, in his belief that alcohol was an evil. Once he had suffered an accident in a fall from a horse that had rendered him unconscious. The surgeon who tried to administer some brandy found General McDowell’s teeth so tightly clenched together that he could not administer it. McDowell was determined—apparently even when unconscious—not to take liquor.
Now he was prodded into motion by a civilian president who could only identify the seriousness of the battle to come by saying that both armies were equally green and untrained. McDowell saw clearly that Lincoln did not take into consideration that the Northern army would be on the attack while the Southerners would defend. McDowell was not a military genius, but he knew that defense was simpler than attack.
But orders were orders, and he set out at once to put the army into motion. He reissued ammunition and saw to it that food for the entire campaign was ordered and would be in place when the men needed it and made certain that his supply line was well established. Then he gave orders for the army to move toward Virginia. He knew that the South was already thrown into a battle line around a small town called Manassas. A creek called Bull Run flowed by that town, and it was there McDowell knew that the action would take place.
Lincoln’s counterpart, Jefferson Davis, had been chosen over fire-eaters in the South with the hope that he might be able to obtain a peaceful solution. Davis had been a military hero during the Mexican War and a powerful member of Congress for years. The Southern people were charmed by the music of his oratory, the handsomeness of his clear-cut features, and the dignity of his manner.
As he sat in his office preparing for the battle that he was being forced to order, Davis was troubled by the superior forces that the North would assuredly throw against the Confederacy. Davis had taken what steps he could to provide for defense.
The main line of advance from Washington was blocked at Manassas Junction, and Davis had chosen General P. G. T. Beauregard, the hero of Fort Sumter, with twenty-two thousand men and a smaller army of twelve thousand men under General Joe Johnston, to meet McDowell. Davis was well aware of the greenness of the Confederate troops, and he was also aware that the men of the South would be outnumbered by the Northern troops. He had done all he humanly could, and then he prayed.
This was the setting for the first battle of the war, called Bull Run by the South and Manassas by the North. It was fought on Sunday, July 21, 1861. As that day approached, the two armies left their homes and prepared for the largest battle thus far in the Civil War.
“This is not what I thought war would be like, no,” Chantel said as she and Jacob made their way down the crowded streets of town. They were following all of the companies stationed in Richmond as they marched to Manassas. Townspeople crowded the streets, tossing flowers to them and cheering them.
Jacob glanced around and shook his head. “It won’t be like this after the battle.”
“What do you mean, Grandpere?”
“You see these men? These soldiers that are laug
hing now, and drinking and singing? Many of them will be dead. Others will have lost arms or legs or been wounded terribly. But they haven’t seen war yet. They don’t realize. God give them strength, for they will.”
Indeed, there was a carnival-like atmosphere throughout the South. The saying had become commonplace: one Confederate could beat three Union soldiers. Sometimes that was even amended to say that one Confederate could beat ten Union soldiers. No one knew exactly why or how this equation had been decided, but the men of the South believed it firmly.
Chantel heard her name called and turned to see Armand-Pierre Latane shouldering his way through the crowd, smiling as he approached. A captain in Major Roberdeau Wheat’s Louisiana Tigers, he had come to Jacob’s wagon one day to purchase some new handkerchiefs, for he was something of a dandy, from New Orleans. He had been delighted to find Chantel, a beautiful young Cajun girl, in the camp. He stopped by the wagon often, ostensibly to buy buttons or tinned oysters or bootblack, but mostly to talk to Chantel.
He came to walk beside them. He looked trim and neat in his dress uniform, a gray frock coat with gold trim, light blue breeches with the navy blue infantry stripe down the side, and a long, gold-handled sword in a silver sheath. “Good day, Mr. Steiner. Hello, cherie,” he said. “So you’ve come to join the fun.”
Chantel said, “I didn’t think it would be like this, Armand. You’re going to fight in a battle, not on your way to a party. Aren’t you afraid, you?”
“Afraid? No, not me. Somebody else may get shot but not Armand Latane.”
Jacob saw that the man was being deliberately obtuse and asked gently, “I trust your heart is right with God, Captain. You should know that there is a chance that you may be wounded or even die.”
Armand’s face grew more serious, but he shrugged carelessly. He was a handsome man with well-shaped features and jet-black hair. “Even if we were afraid, no man would show it. We each try to outdo the other in audacity, you may say.”
“Where are we going, exactly?” Chantel asked. “And when will the battle start?”
“It’s not far to Bull Run. We have word that troops have already left Washington and are headed this way. Our men are ready for them. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after, we will fight.”
The soldiers were not keeping very good parade line; they mingled with the crowds, stopped for drinks at the saloons, wandered here and there to say good-bye to friends. Now a company of cavalry, trotting in close order, shouldered the crowds aside. Chantel saw that Clay was leading the column. He looked toward the wagon, obviously seeing if it was Jacob’s, then pulled Lightning out of the formation with a muttered order to the corporal riding beside him.
He saluted Latane smartly, and Armand gave him a crisp salute back. “Lieutenant Tremayne, you and your men look like you’re ready for a fight.”
Clay smiled briefly. “General Stuart’s always ready for a fight. And I know that Major Wheat and you Tigers will give a good account of yourselves, too, Armand.”
“C’est ca,” Armand said, shrugging carelessly. “The Tigers will taste blood tonight, Clay.”
Clay said, “Good morning, Chantel, Mr. Steiner. So, you’re following us to Bull Run?”
“Oh yes,” Jacob said eagerly. “I’ve never been so sure of God’s will for me. And I am blessed to have Chantel with me. She is so courageous and strong, she follows this hard path with me.”
“Yes,” Clay agreed, smiling at Chantel, “we are all blessed to have you both. Chantel, soon you won’t just be my angel and your grandfather’s angel. I know you’ll be an angel of the battlefield.”
Chantel blushed a little then asked, “Can you ride with us, Clay?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. But you have a true gentlemanly escort here in Captain Latane. I have to go. I’m on an errand for Colonel Stuart. Look after them, Armand,” he finished.
“It will be my honor,” Armand said formally.
Clay spurred Lightning, and he trotted ahead, but after a few steps, he turned and looked at Jacob, his eyes dark and brooding. “Pray for me,” he said, then turned and galloped away.
General Irvin McDowell was unhappy. His blunt features twisted into a scowl as he said to Colonel James South, “Look at them, South. They act like they’re going to a picnic.”
South turned his gaze upon the marching columns of soldiers, and indeed they were in a strange mood. Many of them had plucked flowers and had shoved them down in their muskets. Even as he watched, a group left the line of march and went over to pick berries beside the road.
“Look at them picking berries! How are we supposed to win a battle with berry pickers, South?”
“They’ll be all right once the firing starts.”
“I’m not sure at all about that. In any case, do the best you can to sober them up. They won’t be thinking about picking berries tomorrow. Many of them won’t be thinking anything, for they’ll be dead.”
South said steadily, “I think we have a sound battle plan for whipping the Rebels, sir.”
“I think we’d better have. We’ll be fighting on their grounds. So we’ll hit them in the middle, South, as we decided. Then you will take your troops around to our right and close in on their left flank. They won’t be expecting that.”
“No, and we’ll succeed, General. You’ll see.”
Senator Monroe Collins and his wife left Washington in a buggy. The senator told his wife, “We’ll enjoy watching the Rebels take a pounding.”
“But won’t it be dangerous?” Minnie Collins asked. She was a rather shy woman, and the very thought of getting close to a battle frightened her.
“It’ll be all right, Minnie. Our boys will run over them. They’ll be running like rabbits!”
“How can you be sure, Monroe?”
“Why, our army is the best. The Rebels are just a bunch of ragtag farmers and lazy slave owners. Our men are real soldiers. We’ll get to see the Rebels turn and run. It’ll be something to tell our grandchildren about.”
Judith Henry lay dying in her bed. She was an eighty-year-old woman who had been sick for a considerable time. Her daughter hovered over her asking, “How do you feel, Mother?”
“Not well, daughter.”
“You’ll be better soon. We’ve sent for the doctor.”
Judith Henry listened then asked weakly, “What is the noise?”
“Oh, there are some soldiers, but they won’t come near us.”
The Henry house was not important in itself. It was a small whitewashed house not far from Young’s Branch, a small creek only a few miles away from the Centerville Turnpike. It had been a peaceful valley, but on this day an air of doom hung over it.
The dying woman lay as still as if she had already passed, but she still breathed. Suddenly a terrific explosion struck the house, and a shell killed Judith Henry. A moment later her body was riddled with bullets as the house burst into flames.
Henry Settle was proud of his new uniform. He was a young farmer from Pennsylvania who had enlisted for three months against the advice and begging of his mother. Now he was a part of the Union Army that advanced toward Bull Run Creek.
Suddenly ahead there was a tremendous explosion as a cannon went off and muskets began to crackle like firecrackers. Settle looked around and saw that he was not the only one in shock. Many of his friends in the company had slowed down; some had stopped, staring ahead blankly. They had sung songs all the way, marching to Manassas, and had laughed about how they would throw the Rebels back and take over Richmond. Then the war would be over.
On both sides of Settle, men began to drop, and there were cries of agony and screams of fear as the officers pressed the men forward. For the first time, Henry Settle knew that he was in a deadly position. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. Just ahead of him he saw his best friend, Arnie Hunter, shot to bits by musket fire and fall facedown into the new spring grass.
“I can’t get killed,” Settle whispered. “I’ve got to go back and take car
e of Ma.” But even as he uttered this, a cannonball hit him and killed him instantly. He fell, and no one even stopped.
Across Bull Run Creek, the Confederates were holding fast, but there were many casualties. Major Roberdeau Wheat, the tough commander of the Louisiana Tigers, had been shot down. He was carried to a field hospital, and the doctor had said, “I’m sorry, Major Wheat. You have been shot through both lungs. There’s no way you can live.”
Wheat grunted, “I don’t feel like dying yet.”
“No one’s ever lived shot like this.”
“Then I will be the first,” Wheat said. And so it was. Roberdeau Wheat lived. Even as he argued with the doctor, he saw Jeb Stuart’s cavalry riding through the field hospital. Finally, General Beauregard had called them in to hit wherever the firing was hottest.
Clay had gotten into the habit of bringing his company up as close behind Colonel Stuart as he could. He had ridden until he was beside Stuart and his aides as they advanced toward the battle.
Jeb was riding an enormous black gelding, thick in girth but fast. At full gallop they topped a little rise and faced an infantry regiment, scarlet-uniformed Zouaves.
“They may be some of the Louisiana Tigers, sir,” Clay said. “Many of them wear those baggy breeches.”
Jeb spurred forward almost into the midst of them, followed closely by Clay. Stuart shouted, “Don’t run, boys. We’re here.”
At that moment a flag in the midst of the regiment unfurled and snapped in the hot breeze. It was the Stars and Stripes.
Jeb’s eyes widened, but in a flash he drew his sword and yelled, “Charge!”
Clay drew his saber and slashed at the white turbans of the men in blue and scarlet.
The Yankees, a New York Zouave regiment, panicked and scattered in confusion, yelling as they ran, “The Black Horse!” Their cries echoed over the field. They left eleven guns unsupported, and a Virginia infantry regiment hurried forward to turn them back toward the Union lines.
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