Now, in the last days of June, the renowned aeronaut of the Union army, Professor S. T. C. Lowe, a veteran of seven thousand ascensions, floated in his balloon, Constitution, over the swamps, sending down by wire descriptions of the terrain and the enemy. Townsend rode with him in the swaying car:
“The Chickahominy was visible beyond us, winding like a ribbon of silver through the ridgy landscape. Far and wide stretched the Federal camps.… As we climbed higher … Richmond lay only a little way off … with the James stretching white and sinuous from its feet to the horizon. We could see the streets, the suburbs, the bridges, the outlying roads, nay, the moving masses of people. The Capitol sat white and colossal on Shockoe Hill.… The fortifications were revealed in part only, for they took the hue of the soil, and blended with it.… The Confederates were seen running to the cover of the woods … but we knew the location of their camp fires by the smoke.…
“A panorama so beautiful would have been rare at any time, but this was thrice interesting.… Across these plains the hordes at our feet were either to advance victoriously, or be driven eastward with dusty banners and dripping hands. Those white farmhouses were to be the receptacles for the groaning and the mangled; thousands were to be received beneath the turf of those pasture fields; and no rod of ground, on any side, should not smoke with the blood of the slain.”
Confederate cannon fire drove the balloon from the sky. This was one of the final enemy glimpses of Richmond until the dark months near the end of the war.
The entangled woodland over which the Federal balloonists gazed concealed the first moves in Lee’s huge effort to drive the enemy from Richmond’s gates. To the south of his line before the city, Lee was leaving General Magruder with little more than a token force, to hoodwink McClellan and hold him from the city—while the bulk of Confederate strength, in the divisions of A. P. Hill, Longstreet and D. H. Hill, were passed to the northward, where, at the appearance of Jackson, they would be ready to join the attack from the left flank.
The morning of June twenty-fourth brought little movement by the conquerors from the Valley. Jackson slept through several rainy hours, for he had got less than ten hours’ sleep in the past four days and nights. His command advanced a short distance, but in the front were enemy pickets, and creeks where men had to be put over on logs.
In the thronging of the army getting under way, no one seemed to think it singular that Jackson, worn by unusual service, should be responsible for the pivotal movement which was to launch the attack, though he had the longest route to cover and was, of all Lee’s lieutenants, the least familiar with the country.
On this Tuesday, Jackson had to place his trust in new guides, one of whom was Captain C. W. Dabney, brother of the ailing reverend; another was Lincoln Sydnor, a native of the region, who rode with Ewell’s portion of the Jackson column. Jackson was to miss Hotchkiss nonetheless, for despite the intensive training of his mind over the years, he had never been able to envision the full possibilities of a military landscape until he had seen it himself. And all Confederates had reason to complain of their maps this week. D. H. Hill remembered bitterly: “The map furnished me (and I suppose the six other major generals had no better) was very full in regard to everything in our own lines; but a red line on the east side of the Chickahominy and nearly parallel to it, without any points marked on it, was our only guide to the route.”
General Taylor, though he was to make most of the coming marches in an ambulance, could complain as well: “Confederate commanders knew no more about the topography of the country, the whole of it within a day’s march of the city of Richmond, than they did about Central Africa … we were profoundly ignorant … without maps, and … nearly … helpless.”
When Jackson got out of bed on June twenty-fourth, his men were leaving Beaver Dam Station, with almost forty miles to go before reaching their objective on the Federal flank—this a precise spot on the map, Hundley’s Corner, a village south of Totopotomoy Creek. The men were already learning in the rain-swept morning that the Valley marches had not held such terrors after all. They went through blind thickets at the roadside, with soft soil sucking at their boots; there were Yankees, insects, and, despite the rain, exhausting heat. Even Lincoln Sydnor was at a loss, for the enemy had cut so many new roads in the tangle that he lost his landmarks and led the column out of its way.
General Ewell cursed Sydnor so vehemently that Jackson, riding up, was forced to calm him. Ewell had threatened hanging for the guide because the heavy guns had to be wheeled about into the proper path, with long, hard labor. During the day, perhaps at the home of Henry Carter, where he stopped with some staff officers, Jackson read a memorandum of Lee’s order describing how the forces of Jackson, the Hills and Longstreet would move toward the enemy. He had this reduction, in writing, of the decision of the council of war:
Maj Gen Jackson to be in position on Wednesday night on the Hanover Ct. Ho. Road, or near that road, about half way between Half Sink Bridge, and Hanover Ct. Ho.…
Gen Jackson will commence his movement, precisely at 3 o’clock Thursday morning, and the moment he moves, send messengers to Gen Branch, who will immediately move himself.…
The order continued to specify how passage of word from Jackson to Branch to A. P. Hill would set the army in motion, and how the units, joining in the vicinity of Mechanicsville, would make the line of the enemy untenable. In the council of war, and in Lee’s headquarters, these precautions must have seemed substantial safeguards against failure of the scheme of attack. But by now Jackson, far out in the jungle country, could see that the timetable would be difficult to meet. Lee brought a slight complication with an order to Jackson during the night which gave him a somewhat longer route. Old Jack was still depended upon to turn Beaver Dam Creek and pry the Federals from their forbidding rifle pits so that a bloody frontal assault would not be necessary. No one knew just when Jackson was expected to reach the creek. Despite mounting difficulties, it was yet impossible to foresee that the army, split into awkward divisions, would fail its first great test in co-ordination, and that the resulting breakdown in command would exact heavy penalties.
General Taylor, riding near Jackson, was complaining of swamp fever: “I suffered from severe pains in the head and loins, and … found it impossible to mount my horse; so the brigade marched under the senior colonel.… I had scarce consciousness to comprehend messages.” But if Jackson felt any such illness as was claiming hundreds in each army, he made no complaint.
The next morning, Jackson looked out into more rain, though by now just a drizzle, and the roads seemed to be better. The men were sleepy and slow, however. The Reverend Dabney thought the officers incompetent slugabeds, dulled by “julep-drinking.” He recalled: “The brigade commanders would not or could not get rations cooked, their own breakfasts and their men under order earlier than an hour after sunrise.” Yet Jackson’s column somehow made more than twenty miles on this day, and by nightfall, weary and wet, camped at Ashland. Jackson was late and had seven miles to go before crossing the Virginia Central Railroad, but he saw he could not push farther tonight and let the men fall out of ranks. At sunset, he was joined by Stuart.
The cavalry chief was to cover the flank of the advance with two thousand troopers and a battery of guns. Old Jack was pleased to see Stuart, and as the two consulted at the roadside, the passing Valley troops cheered. The picture of the unkempt Jackson conversing with the knightly Stuart was striking to several observers; and the contrast between Sorrel and his dusty rider and the cavaliers of cavalry officers in gray, with cocked hats, black plumes and high boots, made an impression to outlast battle memories.
There had been faint uneasiness at Lee’s headquarters during the day, which passed without word from Jackson. All else was well. The Hills and Longstreet were nearing their objectives, having stolen away from the front lines with elaborate ruses to lull McClellan.
McClellan’s position of this day was not due to his carelessness alone.
He had as many troops as seemed likely to perform well in such country, but he had been complaining to Washington that Secretary of War Stanton had willfully withheld the troops of General McDowell from him. McClellan thus thought that he lacked the proper reinforcements. Tonight the Federal general sent out a command instructing his officers that the “true field of battle” was the Union trenches. In short, he had no idea of attacking the Confederates, though this possibility was a matter of some concern at Lee’s headquarters on this day. The day passed without alarm on the part of the enemy.
At Ashland, Jackson was in a testy mood by the end of the day. Union cavalrymen had driven in Stuart’s pickets; telegraph lines from the town had been cut; the corps was still short of its objective. General Winder got the full benefit of Jackson’s temper when he came with other brigadiers to report.
“You must have your men cook and be ready to start at dawn,” Old Jack said.
“Impossible,” Winder said. “My baggage train is far back.”
“General Winder, it must be done,” Jackson barked, and even the Reverend Dabney thought the commander “scarcely courteous.”
Jackson sought to help make up lost time by changing the hour of start from 3 A.M. to 2:30 A.M., and told his brigadiers to have rations cooked overnight. He sent Lee a note on his planned time of departure and added that high streams and burned bridges had delayed him. He had hardly sent this message when he had one from Lee, suggesting that Jackson divide his forces for tomorrow’s march so that one of his columns might more quickly join General Branch.
Late at night, generals Ewell and Whiting went to Jackson’s quarters, asking permission to change their routes for the march.
“Let me think over it,” Jackson said, and as he compared their suggestion with the latest order from Lee, the officers left him. Outside, Ewell squealed:
“Don’t you know why Old Jackson wouldn’t tell us right off? He’s going to pray over it first.”
A few moments later, when he returned for a forgotten sword, Ewell saw his prophecy borne out. He opened the door to find Jackson on his knees at the bedside.
Prayers failed to bring an early start for the army; long after sunrise on Thursday, Jackson’s men were still in lines about the wells of Ashland, where water was scarce. The sun already blazed on the steaming countryside.
At eight o’clock the column was in motion on the Ashcake Road, and an hour and a half later—some six hours behind schedule—Jackson crossed the Virginia Central Railroad. He obeyed orders by sending a note to Branch, far down on the right flank, advising him of the crossing. Enemy scouts now appeared in the front, a portent of heavy resistance.
There was no frenzy of haste. Men marched under a cloudless sky, straggling to roadside springs and wells. Jackson, riding with Kyd Douglas, passed the birthplace of Henry Clay, and made some brief admiring comments on the statesman of the Old South. The next stop was in the home of a Dr. Shelton, on the route, where Jackson and Stuart talked over the country ahead.
In the middle of the day, their exact positions and progress unknown to Jackson, the big divisions to the south neared their assigned positions. In their order of proximity to Jackson they were: Branch, then A. P. Hill’s main force, D. H. Hill and Longstreet.
A. P. Hill, at this hour still cautious, had warned Branch: “Wait for Jackson’s notification before you move unless I send you further orders.”
From heights near Mechanicsville, some five miles to the southwest of Jackson’s goal, Lee had set up headquarters. Here the commander in chief waited for the far-flung and intricate operation to move to its climax.
At 3 P.M., Jackson crossed Totopotomoy Creek, drove off enemy cavalry, put out flames on a burning bridge and engaged a Federal battery. Jackson strove to keep the Union guns quiet, evidently to avoid launching the other divisions into premature attack. He found Bradley Johnson of the Marylanders near the stream.
“What’s that firing, Colonel?”
“It’s the enemy, with guns and skirmishers in the thicket.”
“Why don’t you stop them?”
“We can’t do it, without charging or shelling.”
“Well, sir, you must stop that firing. Make them keep quiet.”
Johnson brought up the Baltimore Artillery, or a couple of its guns, and drove off the Federals.
It was from this moment, which seemed so inconsequential, that the “fog of war” was to roll over the day’s fighting, obscuring the exact sequence of events and making impossible the assignment of blame for the lack of precision in Confederate movements.
Jackson and Branch came into contact without Stonewall’s knowledge. Ewell’s advance saw the North Carolina troops of Branch approach in new uniforms, so well-dressed that they appeared to be Yankees, and almost fired on them. But when the regiments joined, sadly for Lee’s plan of assault, neither Branch nor Ewell reported the fact, and thus headquarters was not informed.
Perhaps in this moment of midafternoon, the attack on the Federal line was already blighted. Perhaps Lee’s plan was too unwieldy; perhaps Jackson had been given more than he could accomplish; perhaps poor maps and ignorance of terrain was fatal; perhaps Jackson was just now slow-witted from a touch of fever or lack of sleep.
There was no such conjecture this day. There was fighting on a widely separated front. Ewell sent men toward Beaver Dam Creek in a skirmish line, and they engaged the enemy. Jackson’s column had come to its objective.
At three o’clock, while Jackson was dealing with Federal guns at Totopotomoy, A. P. Hill’s patience snapped. He ordered his men over the Chickahominy, which they passed with ease, and into Mechanicsville. His men trotted into zones of Federal fire in violation of Lee’s orders, for Hill was to move only when he heard Jackson’s guns. Hill later said blandly that he had rushed forward “rather than hazard the failure of the whole plan by longer deferring it.” In recriminations to come, the youthful redhead, notoriously impatient, was to draw bitter criticism for this afternoon’s work.
McClellan was fully prepared to meet Hill’s attack, coming as it did with no flank support, and the scene at Mechanicsville became confused, with many Confederates falling. The men of D. H. Hill and Longstreet now crowded in. No one could tell, in the growing thunder of musketry and cannon fire, just what had gone astray. Lee rode into the front but could make out little. There was no sign of Jackson. And it was about 6 P.M. before Branch, the connecting link, fought his way into Mechanicsville.
Lee could do little to mend affairs on the front. He sent T. W. Sydnor, a cavalry lieutenant, to A. P. Hill, to direct Hill not to launch another forward movement. Hill evidently thought Lee’s order left to his discretion the wisdom of a flank attack. And now, in the twilight, into veritable walls of flame, went the brigades of General Ripley and General Dorsey Pender. Their moments in the open seemed hours, for the lines of rifle pits took a heavy toll.
D. H. Hill saw “a bloody and disastrous repulse … we were lavish of blood in those days.” Nearly every officer in the storming units went down; one Georgia regiment was all but annihilated. Almost two thousand men fell here; a Union officer thought they lay “like flies in a bowl of sugar” on the exposed slope. The butchery was over at nine o’clock.
The enemy had not been shaken along the line of Beaver Dam Creek, and the Army of Northern Virginia had passed its first day of offensive without the aid of Jackson, who was to have led the way. If Old Jack had turned the northern end of the Union line, the Federals could not have held the stream. Perhaps more to the point—if A. P. Hill had obeyed orders, the great losses would not have been incurred.
Lee tried to discover the flaws, and questioned A. P. Hill and Sydnor and other officers, but there was little time, and much to be done for tomorrow. The ranks were torn, but the strength of the army was intact. While wagons groaned into Richmond with the cargoes of wounded, the army prepared for battle once more.
Jackson had reached his designated position at the height of the Mechanicsville storm,
and he heard clearly the guns of Hill. It is likely that he thought they signaled nothing more daring than a crossing of the Chickahominy. Old Jack had waited, in any event. It was late, and in his position, with darkness approaching, he could have done little or nothing to save the casualties of A. P. Hill.
D. H. Hill, somewhat petulantly defending Jackson’s role of the day, was to say that “the hooded falcon cannot strike the quarry,” intimating that the Valley chieftain could fight only when independent of superiors. Jackson was to refute that in the coming campaigns. Tonight, the best that could be determined in Lee’s headquarters was that the Valley troops, for some reason, had not accomplished the miracles they had made so commonplace in the western fighting, and that the Federal flank yet held firm.
At daylight on June twenty-seventh, Lee hurled forward his whole army, intending to crush the twenty-five-thousand-odd of Fitz John Porter’s Fifth Corps; there were lingering hopes that McClellan might yet be destroyed.
A. P. Hill’s skirmishers discovered the enemy had gone from Beaver Dam Creek. The Federals had stealthily removed most of the big guns and marched to the rear. The enemy had undoubtedly found Old Jack on their flank in the night—as perhaps Jackson had foreseen—and had abandoned a position thus made useless. Lee pursued into the heavily wooded swamplands. His plan for the chase was to use roads running roughly parallel to the Chickahominy, with Longstreet nearest the river, A. P. Hill next, then D. H. Hill. In the rear of the latter, Jackson was to follow.
Near noon, Jackson’s column collided with that of D. H. Hill; and in the confusion of a sudden meeting, there was firing, with a few casualties.
Stuart and his troopers soon met the Pennsylvania Lancers, a well-tailored enemy regiment known as “the finest body of troops in the world.” Captain William W. Blackford, one of Stuart’s captains, would not forget the clash:
“I felt a little creeping of the flesh when I saw this splendid looking body of men, about seven hundred strong, drawn up in line of battle in a large open field … armed with long poles with glittering steel points … a tall forest of lances held erect and at the end of each, just below the head, a red pennant fluttering in the breeze.
They Called Him Stonewall Page 23
