The Sword (33 page)

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 care 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.

Jeb and his men rode on, shouting madly, into the thick of battle.

The Federals watched as, time after time, the Rebel line had formed, hardened, and had run through the Union lines, capturing artillery and overrunning and capturing their supply wagons. Thomas Jackson had stood like a “stone wall,” and they had smashed themselves against his infantry time and time again. The Black Horse, with the larger-than-life Jeb Stuart at the head of the column, slashed through the blue lines, here and there, wherever it seemed the Yankees stood firm.

“Where are our reserves?” the men demanded. They were wearied by thirteen hours of marching on the road, they were angry and disheartened, and finally men began to cry, “We’ve been sold out!” The rumor spread, and the Union troops faltered and then panicked. They turned and fled past officers on horseback, who were flailing with their sabers, urging them to stand. But the
men were now afraid, and fear spread like a plague among them. They ran.