Читать книгу Pale Blue Light - Skip Tucker - Страница 14

Stonewall Jackson reclined against a pile of lichen-covered rocks that in some prior day was part of a fence or perhaps a fortification. He leaned back against, well, a stone wall, thought Canon.

A year had passed since Jackson earned his war name on the plains of Manassas. Since then, his fame and that of the Stonewall Brigade, as the Virginians were now known, increased in direct proportion to the number of battles they fought. The battles had been many and Jackson’s name was great.

It was only seven A.M., but even this cool shade high on Cedar Mountain could not dispel the certainty of brutal heat later that day in Shenandoah Valley. By nine, the early August heat would be a visible shimmering wave like the clouds of rolling dust that marked General John Pope’s retreating Union soldiers.

Pope, with sixty-two thousand men, had come to the Shenandoah Valley to lure Lee and his army out of Richmond. When the battle joined, General George McClellan was to close on Lee from the opposite direction with eighty-seven thousand more Federals, catching Lee in a pincer movement.

On paper, the plan looked flawless. But when Abraham Lincoln learned of it, he immediately issued an order for the Union Army to reunite quickly as possible. From what he had seen of past performances, he feared Lee would come out of Richmond, whip one army then hurry on to whip the other. He ordered a recall.

Too late.

Lee sent out Stonewall Jackson and his twenty-five thousand men with orders to hold Pope while Lee took the remaining forty thousand men to confront McClellan. Canon knew little of these machinations. He only knew that yesterday morning, August 9, 1862, Stonewall’s Virginians had whaled into the left flank of Pope’s army and whipped hell out of the entire outfit. By last evening, they had driven Pope back twenty miles into a defensive position on the banks of the Rappahannock. This morning, Jackson’s wiretappers had intercepted panicked cables from Pope to McClellan that Pope’s army was badly outnumbered and faced annihilation if McClellan did not hurry to the rescue.

And now Jackson watched as Pope’s rear guard retreated to join the Union commander on the Rappahannock. Jackson, his left side in profile as spots of the shaded sun filtered down on him, had lain in quiet thought for an hour.

Canon had decided Jackson was quite mystic. He had become the bane of Northern troops, two steps ahead of any Yankee general’s plans. More dread even than Lee, Jackson was known throughout the civilized world.

The cause of Pope’s plight serenely sucked on a lemon and gazed thoughtfully at roiling dust produced by a fleeing army. Canon wasn’t sure what was going on beneath the kepi forage cap Jackson wore. But he was sure of one thing. Whatever was going on would not translate into good news for John Pope.

In the quiet of the morning, Canon considered the rising of Stonewall Jackson’s star. Six months after the battle of Bull Run, Jackson made major general and was given command of the Shenandoah Valley. And to his gratification and delight, Canon was made colonel and permanently attached to the Stonewall Army.

Since then, Jackson had literally become the new Napoleon. In its first three months of operation, the Stonewall Army had marched more than two thousand miles, whipped three separate Union armies and had taken twenty thousand prisoners. Since May, Stonewall Jackson had won seven consecutive victories, including the one yesterday. And at no time had Jackson’s army numbered more than twenty-five thousand men, though Yankee reports often credited him with three times the number.

Here’s the strange thing, Canon thought: Although Stonewall Jackson was presently responsible for the death and capture of more American soldiers than any other man in history, he was fawned over by the Northern press. Every Yankee, from Abraham Lincoln to the lowest private, spoke of him in terms of respect and admiration, even awe. In the South, the admiration bordered on worship. Whenever Jackson rode into a town, guards had to be posted for his horse, Fancy, or that little sorrel would not have had a hair left in mane or tail.

Yet the man seemed genuinely unaffected by this, except for an occasional display of unfeigned embarrassment. Jackson truly shunned publicity, normally the sweetest of sops to generals. He fled from interviews as if they were Yankee interrogations and adoring crowds caused him to blush and stammer.

Nor was Jackson’s heralded piety any sort of affectation. Jackson had always been devout and was neither more nor less so than when Canon first met him. He announced each victory to Richmond with a telegram which opened with the same laconic line—God had once again blessed the Southern cause. Jackson’s piety, Canon suspected, helped him deal with the fame.

Jackson’s uniforms were almost as tattered as those of his troops. His uniforms were clean, just awfully ragged. Although correct to the button, Jackson’s uniforms usually looked as if he had been caught in a shell burst, a direct hit that somehow had penetrated only his clothing.

Canon had seen Yankees, captured in large lots by the Stonewall Army, literally fight for position in the front ranks just to get a glimpse of Jackson riding by. One story had it that two Yankees in a captured throng saw Jackson ride past in his tattered uniform.

“Don’t look like much, do he?” said one. “No, he don’t,” said the other, “but if he was ours we wouldn’t be captured, neither.”

Canon captured a Yankee colonel who asked to have the honor to surrender himself personally to Stonewall Jackson. Canon had obliged.

The tattered uniforms, Canon thought, might be Jackson’s sole affectation, and, if that, it was only in order to identify himself with his ragged soldiers. That identification with his men, apart from Jackson’s military skills, was another facet of the Stonewall genius. He does not hold himself above his men, as do so many generals, Canon thought.

General officers usually sought out the most comfortable houses for their headquarters. Jackson often slept in his tent, as did Lee, even if comfortable houses were near. Canon recalled a particularly stormy night, with Jackson suffering a minor cough, when the general had decided to sleep indoors and had taken his entire staff inside. It was not unusual for two or even three fully uniformed soldiers to occupy one mattress.

Canon and a scouting party arrived at the house at three A.M., having spent twelve hours in the saddle without rest. Jackson got up from his bed and threw members of his personal staff out of their beds so they could be given to the Black Horse.

On another of the rare occasions when he stayed inside, Jackson had been asleep in bed when a messenger, who had ridden almost all night, came into the house. Seeing only one man on the bed, and not knowing the man was Jackson, the exhausted captain crawled in beside the general and was soon asleep. Next morning the horrified captain learned he had not only thrown himself down next to Stonewall Jackson, but had pulled all the bedcovers to himself. He sought out Jackson to apologize, but before he could begin, Jackson fixed him a baleful glare.

“Captain,” said Jackson, “if that ever happens again I must insist that you remove your spurs before retiring for the evening.”

Remembering the episode, Canon also recalled the first nickname given Jackson by the raw Rebel recruits at Harper’s Ferry. They called him Fool Tom. They had despised Jackson’s penchant for secrecy and the endless training marches that now stood them in such good stead. Fool Tom cum Stonewall. How they hated Fool Tom Jackson. How they love Stonewall Jackson. Shaking himself from reverie, Canon looked over at Fool Tom.

Horrible! Horrible! Jackson still reclined in the same position, but his eyes were closed and his face was pale as chalk. And his left coat sleeve, Jackson’s entire left side was drenched with blood. So much blood! How could it have happened? Canon had heard no shot, and no one could have sneaked that close with a knife.

“General!” called Canon, hurrying to him.

Jackson stirred, stretched. The blood danced about on his sleeve, then disappeared.

Canon saw to his relief that it had been simply shade from an oak branch, falling on Jackson’s left side.

“Forgive me, Colonel,” said Jackson, sitting up. “I decided what we must do, and fell asleep in the planning of it.” Rising to his feet, Jackson tossed into the grass the spent lemon he still had held.

Noticing the strange look on Canon’s face, Jackson said, “Rabe, all you all right?”

Canon could not quite shake the effects of the apparition, but he nodded.

“I guess so, General,” he said. “But the shade struck on you very strangely. I thought for a moment that you had been wounded somehow and I have to admit it gave me a turn.

“I didn’t notice you dropping off and you seemed awfully still, and pale as, uh . . .,” Canon trailed off the sentence in embarrassment.

“As death,” finished Jackson. “Don’t be afraid of the word, or of the event, for my sake. The Lord has already fixed the time and place of my death. I assure you that it does not bother me one bit.”

Canon nodded again. But a chill shook him all the same.

Riding across the ridge back to headquarters, Canon asked Jackson what he had decided to do. Jackson’s secrecy, especially with his own leaders, could be infuriating. Sometimes he would answer a question like Canon’s; usually he pretended not to hear.

Obstinately, Canon decided that he had to have an answer.

“What are we going to do, General?” he prodded Jackson.

“Very well, I will tell you,” said Jackson, as the horses stepped along side by side. “I will suggest to General Lee that he remain in Richmond for the time being. I believe that we have John Pope and his men under cower. If they are cowed as I believe they are, then we are blessed with a strategic opportunity which General Lee will grasp and appreciate.

“Pope will not move until help from McClellan arrives. But that help will be almighty slow in coming. Little Mac has little love for the man who has replaced him as commanding general of the Army of the Potomac.

“So we will gesture and demonstrate against Pope for a couple of weeks until we are sure he is convinced we plan to assault him full scale. When that happens, we will leave enough men here to keep him occupied and the rest of us will have a game of fox and hounds with the Union Army.”

“And we will be the sly fox?” suggested Canon.

“We had better be,” said Jackson, “or we shall be the dead fox.”

“Where will this fox find a hiding hole?” persisted Canon.

“Colonel, can you keep a secret?” said Jackson.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. So can I,” said Jackson, and spurred his horse.

The morning of August 26 dawned dark and drear. A soft rain drummed lightly on tin roofed warehouses stretched across the plains of Manassas. The area looked far different from a year ago when the plain had hosted the war’s first battle.

Soon after the victorious Southern troops had withdrawn, the Union had fortified the railhead there and created one of the largest supply depots in the world.

Lincoln wanted the supply depot impregnable and the army worked to make it so. It lay in the middle of a triangle of Union armies. Seventy-file miles to the left was McClellan with eighty-seven thousand troops, behind Manassas lay Washington with its home guard of fifty thousand. To the right was the beleaguered Pope and his entrenched army of sixty-two thousand.

Here at Manassas, trainload after trainload of materials and supply were dumped, waiting to be waggoned to troops in the field. The railhead was a solid square mile of clustered warehouses and boxcars filled to bursting with everything from cigars to caviar.

Two supply sergeants were sitting in rocking chairs on the front porch of one of the warehouses, cursing the rain and the boredom of army life.

“Believe it’s starting to slack,” said one, speaking tiredly of the rain.

“Naw,” was the laconic reply. “Thunder coming from the South.”

Louder and louder grew the thunder, and with it came wild yells. The two men rose and peered intently up the street. They turned and ran. Inside, the men had barely bolted the door when clattering hoofbeats drowned the sound of rain and all other sound outside.

A little lieutenant came out of his office in a flurry, cursing at the noise and trying to make sense of the jabberings from his sergeants.

All three quieted when a gray rider on a black horse came crashing through the large warehouse window. One of the sergeants panicked and reached for his holster before the young lieutenant had time to surrender. He fell with a bullet in his brain. Surrender was quickly tendered.

Almost in a panic himself, the lieutenant had trouble forming words.

“Wh-wh-who are you?” he said.

Canon pointed to the dual patch on his gray sleeve. “We are the Black Horse Cavalry of the Stonewall Brigade,” he said, keeping a tight rein on a quivering Scratch. “And sitting right up at the top of the hill outside is Stonewall Jackson.”

Only three days earlier, the lieutenant had seen an official dispatch which assured Washington that Jackson and his army were a hundred miles away, whipping the pants off John Pope each time he tried to lift his head.

“Just what is there to your Stonewall Goddamn Jackson,” cried the perplexed lieutenant, “and do his men have wheels or wings?” It was a question which echoed across the North, when reports of the capture of the Union supply depot spread. One year earlier, it had taken Irwin McDowell four days to march the Federal army fifty miles. Stonewall Jackson had marched his army sixty-two miles in forty-eight hours. It was an accomplishment unheard of at the time.

“The feat of the feet” earned yet another nickname for the Stonewall Army: “Jackson’s Foot Cavalry.”

Two hours after Canon crashed through the warehouse window, twenty thousand tattered and bone-weary rebel soldiers streamed into a foretaste of paradise. Jackson had captured what amounted to the world’s largest general store.

A starving, shoeless, half naked mob found itself surrounded by literally tons of things that had filled the hungry dreams of each of its members.

Shoes during the march practically melted off the feet of those few who had shoes. Never mind. Here are boxcars full of boots! Cigars were scarce in the Southern army. Here are crates full of Havanas!

Sugar and coffee had been nonexistent. Just open the door to this warehouse! Have a fifty-pound sack of each. Only the liquor is forbidden. Have hams, smoked oysters, all the fresh fruit you want.

Fresh fruit!

Stonewall Jackson sat on the steps of a warehouse porch, an orange in each hand. Forage cap low over his eyes to deflect the setting sun, knee high brown cavalry boots crossed leg over leg, stained gray coat open to the evening breeze, Jackson held his left hand high to better balance his internal organs.

Canon and two or three other officers were stretched out on the porch. Canon had made a sandwich which required a loaf of bread and most of a small ham. One of the officers lounging near him remarked that just a photograph of the sandwich would weigh a pound, at least. Canon smiled and continued to munch happily.

Feasting continued far into the night.

Next morning, latrine lines were long as rich, plentiful food took its toll on bodies used to privation. Between visits to the line, men were filling knapsacks with sugar and coffee and still gorging themselves with delicacies. Departure, when it came time, would be rapid, yet Jackson waved away any worries brought to him concerning their precarious position.

Finally, one of his staff said, “General, we are in grave danger. What are we to do?”

For once, Jackson was expansive: “Danger? On the contrary, sir. We presently control the board. In fact, we dictate Northern strategy.

“They won’t send Washington troops after us because they justifiably fear we would flank them and fall on the city. We have whipped Pope, so they cannot send him after us alone.

“McClellan must be worried to find he is between our army and that of General Lee.”

“No. We are in no danger. At least no immediate danger. Generals McClellan and Pope will try to unite and seek us, but they are a couple of days away. We have yet this day of rest and feast.

“Tonight we will have a bonfire. Tomorrow, be ready to move at first light.”

It was a slow, bitter day for John Pope as his men trudged warily toward Manassas.

Toward evening, Pope saw the first huge billows of smoke rise from the supply depot yet ten miles away. Millions of dollars worth of supplies were going up with the smoke as the world’s largest general store burned and burned and burned.

Next morning, a fuming Pope neared Manassas. His scouts had told him that Jackson, like the supply depot, was gone. It was hot, dusty and dry on the Groveton Road. Pope lifted his canteen to his mouth, rinsed, spat. He wished he could rid the bitter taste of humiliation from his mouth as easily as he could rid the dust.

Jackson had whipped him, eluded him, made him a laughingstock. To make it worse, Union soldiers Jackson had paroled reported that Jackson had but thirty thousand men with him. If only I had known that, thought Pope. If only I could catch him. Earnestly, Pope prayed for the opportunity to redeem himself.

Someone far wiser than Pope had many years ago warned that people should be careful about what they pray for, because they might get it. Rifle fire rattled out of the wooded hillside, cutting into the leading Union ranks. The Federals returned fire and began to dig in, preparing for the screaming Rebel attack. But to Pope’s surprise, Jackson was already falling back.

It set the pattern for the entire day. The Rebels would stand, fire, fall back in ordered retreat. By late evening, Confederate forces had been driven almost five miles and were entrenched along an abandoned railroad cut on the plains of Manassas.

Pope was exultant. Jackson had backed himself into a trap from which there was no way out. The Rebels had no further room for retreat and Pope’s humiliated army was in front of them, thirsty for revenge. Here was far more than a chance for redemption. Jackson would surrender or die. The Union commander should have paused to wonder why Jackson, who had never made a military blunder, should so cheaply reveal his position and then dig himself so deeply into a hole. But Pope was too intent on destroying Jackson to let doubt enter his mind.

On the morning of August 29, Pope hurled sixty-two thousand men at the Rebel line. The charge was met by a withering fire which broke the Union attack. But the Federals charged again and again. Each attack was beaten back, but each drove nearer and nearer to the thin gray line. By early afternoon, it was clear to Pope that Jackson could never hold. He sent a gleeful telegram to Washington that Jackson was bottled up and weakening.

If McClellan would join forces with him now, promised Pope, the Union would have Stonewall Jackson’s head on a platter soon. As Union forces threw the day’s final assault at the exhausted Rebel line, Pope received a telegram which he knew signaled Jackson’s end. McClellan was on the march and would join him early next morning.

Jackson’s line still held, but each repulse of a Federal charge had grown feebler. Satisfied, Pope pulled back to await the arrival of McClellan’s troops. Jackson was trapped. Escape was impossible. Pope had planned for every contingency. Except one. Intent on destroying Jackson, Pope had forgotten Robert E. Lee, who was on the march toward him. During the night, Lee arrived with his other lieutenant general, James Longstreet, and thirty thousand fresh Confederates.

Silent as stalking gray wolves, Longstreet’s men moved masked cannon within two hundred yards of the Union left flank. And ever so quietly, thirty thousand men in gray moved into position for a flank attack.

In the railroad cut, with midnight long past, Canon summoned his will to fight off exhaustion. He tried, too, to think of words of encouragement he could give to his men as he rode along the half-mile long defensive position. It had been the worst day of fighting he had known. The Black Horse fought dismounted this day, in the thick of it, and he had seen death wrought on a scale he had thought impossible. Southern casualties must be fifteen percent, he thought, and the Yankee number of dead and wounded must be three times as great. And still they kept coming. The final Union charge of the day almost broke them. The attackers finally gained the trench. Hand to hand fighting lasted almost a half-hour before the Yankees were driven back.

Worse, a Union trooper discovered a breach in the wall of the trench where a run-off stream had washed a deep ditch into the earth. Jackson had given defense of the ditch to the Stonewall Brigade and the Black Horse, and had placed Canon in charge. Now it would bear the brunt of the next attack.

Both of Canon’s back-up commanders in the Black Horse had gone down in the fight, though one would likely recover. And Canon had felt bullets tear his clothing twice, one at his right sleeve and another at his right shoulder. He was unsure how many times he heard the dark hum of bullets past his head. Five? Six?

No matter. He was alive and there was work to do.

The night following a battle was worse than the battle itself. During the heat of the fight, there was no time for the mind to grasp the wicked wet whooshing sound made by a man who takes a bullet in the guts. In war, night is the time for pity. Out in the night, dying men were calling for water and comfort. Some, delirious, called for their father or mother. But even if someone braved the risk of sniper bullets in the dark field, chances were slim that the wounded man could be found amidst all the bodies—hundreds upon hundreds—that lay in the field like crumpled scarecrows.

It was almost two A.M. Men slept on their rifles, and would awake to fresh horrors of the new morning on the field of battle. Those who could waken. But a few small campfires burned in the cut where a soldier or two could not sleep. Canon saw one of the fires in the near distance, approached it with dread.

“Any word, suh? Any word from Genrul Lee?” said one of the two men. In the feeble light, Canon could make out feeble features. Both men were ragged, dirty, with scraggly beards. Feeling at the dirt caked on his face, and checking his uniform in the firelight, Canon realized that he must look much the same as the two men. They were boiling coffee in a coffeepot that wasn’t new at Manassas a year ago.

“Still enjoying that Yankee coffee from the supply depot, eh?” said Canon.

“Yessuh,” said the bold one, while the other looked into the fire, either angry or embarrassed to have an officer at their fire. “Me and Billy here wouldn’t mind stopping by another one like that after we get through with these here Yanks, would we, Billy?”

Billy finally looked at Canon, smiled a shy smile and shook his head. Canon doubted the boy was sixteen. “Would ye jine us in a cup, Colonel?” mumbled Billy, looking back at the fire.

“Have to ride on down to the flank right now, fellows, but I’ll be back this way directly,” said Canon. “If I’m back this way in time and the offer holds, I’d be much obliged.” Canon realized he wanted a cup of hot coffee more than he could remember wanting anything, and he wanted the companionship of these two men who managed to be cordial in the midst of horror.

“And word from Genrul Lee, suh?” said the first, again.

“Help is on the way,” said Canon, convincingly as possible.

“Yessuh. Good to hear it,” said the man, totally unconvinced.

Canon touched his cap in return to their salutes, rode on. How could he tell them that there was indeed word from General Lee, and that the word meant death? Canon was returning from a midnight meeting at Jackson’s headquarters. Lee, Longstreet and Jackson agreed the Yankees must not be made aware of Lee’s arrival, and therefore the Confederates in the cut must not be told. Because they could not be reinforced.

“Pope and McClellan must be totally convinced that we are helpless,” said Jackson. “General Longstreet will wait until McClellan has committed all reserves to the battle. We must hold until that time.”

The atmosphere in the tent was grim as the news.

But here, Canon understood, was an opportunity that must be exploited, regardless of cost. The Confederate Army of Northern Virginia, fifty thousand men under Robert E. Lee, now had a real chance to completely destroy the Union Army of the Potomac, one hundred fifty thousand men under John Pope.

But the Stonewall Army would be at sacrifice. “We must make sure that Pope and McClellan have committed their entire force before we counterattack,” reiterated the plump, intellectual Longstreet, fingers twining his long brown beard. Jackson nodded. Lee looked unhappy. Canon still couldn’t believe his ears.

General A. P. Hill, who commanded one wing of Jackson’s infantry, said incredulously, “Sir, we probably have no more than fifteen thousand effectives fighting in the cut. We will be outnumbered ten to one. What do you expect us to do?”

“You will hold, sir,” said Jackson. “At all cost.”

“We will try, General Jackson,” replied Hill, stiffly, “but it might interest the generals to know that we are also almost out of ammunition. Right now, we have men out removing cartridge boxes from the dead. But we are almost out of bullets.”

“Then, sir,” said Jackson, “give them the bayonet.”

Canon, riding to the Black Horse encampment, understood the situation perfectly. Even if Pope and McClellan held only a quarter of their men in reserve, they would still have superior numbers to drop on Longstreet’s counterattack. Canon knew it was all or nothing. What he didn’t know was how to explain it to soldiers like the two he had left at the campfire.

He didn’t know how to tell these men that help had arrived but, whoops—we’re sorry, it’s unavailable at the moment. Didn’t know how to tell them that yes, there’s plenty of ammunition just back up the road a piece, but there’s only so much time to get the men in position for a counterattack, you see, and so only a few crates of ammunition can be gotten here tonight. Reinforcements? Sure. You’ll be reinforced just prior to the counterattack, which will come whenever Pope and McClellan send Union Soldier Number One Hundred Fifty Thousand at you. You’ll get help, just exactly when it’s too late.

Back at the breach in the cut, Canon found most men asleep. Exhausted sentries challenged him in the dark. As he unsaddled Hammer, Canon tried to be hearty with the small group who clustered around him seeking news. Yes, Canon said, yes, help is on the way. Drained soldiers had searched out every stone in the area to try to fortify the forty-yard wide ravine. Corpses in blue and in gray lay where they had fallen. The men had put what remained of their exhausted energies in attempts to make the position defensible. The living tried to take care of the living. There was no time for the dead.

Canon called an aide to take Hammer back to the horse line and return with Scratch. Removing holster, pistols and saber, Canon used them for a pillow as he stretched out on the ground. Just before sleep took him, Canon recalled a story from ancient Greece, from the time of the warrior Spartans.

Defending their border at Thermopylae against an imminent invasion, the Spartans sent one small band under Leonides from the main force to guard a hidden gap in the hilly terrain. It was unlikely the gap would be discovered, they were told. But if so, they must hold at all cost. Through luck or treachery, the invaders learned of the gap and threw the brunt of their force against it.

The little band held, but the fighting was so fierce that even the survivors died from their wounds. The Spartan commander was found at the foot of a rocky wall. On it, he had chalked a final message: “Traveler, go tell the Spartans that here, in accordance to their rules, we lie.”

Canon awoke after two hours of sleep. He expected an attack at dawn and was accordingly up and moving, readying the forces. All along the line, commanders were rallying the men for the fray. Jackson commanded the right, Hill the middle, Canon the left.

Adrenaline began to pump through the worn bodies as the gray line braced for the assault. Nothing happened. Hour after hour passed, but no shells rained on them, no infantry rushed.

In the Union camp, men on the staffs of McClellan and Pope listened as the two men railed at each other. Pope wanted an all out assault. The ever cautious Little Mac was holding out a quarter of his men. Little heed had been given a scouting report that Confederate reinforcements had arrived.

Noon approached, arrived, passed. Finally, agreement was reached. McClellan would withhold twenty thousand men through the first assault. If it failed, and there was no Rebel counterattack, then the full army would be thrown against Jackson.

Movement was detected in the Union camp at one P.M. Word raced up and down the trench. Get ready! Here they come!

At two P.M., Pope renewed his attack, driving against Jackson with a line two miles long. But it was a thousand yards down the ridge from the Union camp, then another five hundred across the open plain to the railroad cut.

In the Rebel line, battle was a welcome relief from the tension which had steadily increased since dawn. At the ravine, Canon led a foray out to meet the onrushing Union troops. They were to absorb the shock, then fall back to a perimeter set up around the edges of the ravine. Grunts, shouts and shots rang around Canon as the fever of battle gripped him.

Face flushed from heat, eyes red from smoke and strain and lack of sleep, Canon used a pistol with his right hand, the saber with his left. He hacked and stabbed and shot and slew.

Men in his own command were afraid to get too near Canon when blood lust was on him. They tried to stay close enough to offer some help and protection as he ranged among the blue troops.

The blue army’s vast number had one drawback. The Federals were forced to bunch as they neared the shortened Rebel line. Only the leading units could get a clear shot. And the massed Union attack presented a target that no Confederate would miss. But the weight of numbers was inexorable. Slowly, Canon fell back, shouting and shooting and slashing. Relentlessly the Union troops pushed Canon and his men back to the cut. But the retreat also opened new fields of fire for the Rebel troops on each side of Canon’s men. They poured a galling volley into the advancing blue sea, pushing it back across the plain.

The Federal attack did not break, but fell back and reformed, ready to surge again. McClellan ordered in his reserve. In the respite, Canon checked his pistols. His cartridge belt was empty, as was one of his pistols. He had three loads remaining. Breathing heavily, Canon allowed an orderly to bind a slight bullet wound that furrowed his side. He also bled from a cut to his cheek where a Union bayonet nicked him as Canon sabered its wielder. Another bullet had torn a furrow in his calf.

In the ravine, men were using bodies of the slain to construct a ghastly wall. Brushing aside the orderly, Canon went to lend a hand. He wondered what had happened to the low wall of rocks that had been piled in the ravine during the night. He received the answer from Billy, the young boy he had seen at the campfire during the night.

Standing in the breach with a rock in each hand, Billy handed one to Canon. “Here, Colonel,” Billy said with a grim smile. “Have some ammunition.” Five hundred yards away, a wild shout marked the beginning of the renewed Union attack. This time, it surged into the ravine, up and over the wall of the parapet. “Yanks in the cut! Yanks in the cut!” came cries up and down the writhing battle line. Sensing a movement behind him, Canon ducked, spinning as he reached for his right hand pistol. He heard the deadly hiss of a bullet passing over his head as his answering shot took the Federal soldier in the throat. The man fell on his back, then rolled down the hill, almost reaching Canon’s leg before he stopped. Canon reached for the rifle the man held, even in death, and grabbed for the cartridge box.

Along the wall, all was turmoil. Empty rifles were used as clubs. Bayonets rasped against each other. Rocks rained down on advancing Yankees. Again, Canon ran to the melee. The Federal soldiers finally withdrew, but gaps were torn in the Rebel line. There were no longer enough men to fill them. Frantically, Canon called for the troops to shorten the line, fill the deadly gaps.

We can take one more assault, thought Canon, but not two. The Federal soldiers knew it as well as Canon knew it. They bunched. And here it came, blue men screaming in rage and victory. The Rebel line braced. But the attack never reached it.

From no more than two hundred yards away, Longstreet’s hidden artillery opened on the Federal troops. The cannons were loaded with canister, and the iron balls ripped into the charging Union soldiers with horrible effect. Canon could actually see trails and swaths cut through the blue troops.

Atop the ridge, Pope and McClellan watched in shock as the counterattack shook the Federal onslaught like a rag doll. There were no Union troops left to deal with it. Thirty thousand fresh Confederates crashed into the Union flank and decimated it. When the Federal commanders turned to meet the assault, the Stonewall Army, finally reinforced, charged out of the railroad cut howling for revenge.

Calling for the horses to be brought up, Canon began to gather his cavalry. Just as he was about to mount Scratch, Jackson rode up. “My compliments, Colonel,” said Jackson, saluting him. “The men who held this ravine are heroes, and you may be assured that Richmond will know it. You’re ready to chase the enemy, then? Excellent. Ride on. But tell me, first, how close did they get to the breach?”

“They came within a stone’s throw, sir,” said Canon, with a straight face.

“Yes,” said Jackson. “I see. Very good, Colonel. Very good. Ride on. Ride on.”

It was past four P.M. when Longstreet broke the Union attack. But Southern hopes of destroying the Federal Army of the Potomac were shattered against the Union’s Iron Brigade, which set up, ironically, on Henry House Hill and refused to be dislodged. It was much the same stand that Jackson had made the previous summer, but it failed to turn to the tide of battle as did Jackson. It did serve to save the Army of the Potomac.

The second battle of Manassas/Bull Run was another great victory for Jackson and Lee. When it was over, the North had lost sixteen thousand men, almost twice the number of the South. And the mere mention of Stonewall Jackson’s name made John Pope color with conflicting feelings of envy, rage, dread and shame.