35 The Heralds of Lee

I sought again, but as before without success, to obtain news of Elinor, and Paul Warner told me that he too had failed repeatedly. I prepared for another effort to secure a transfer, but all such attempts were set at naught suddenly by a great piece of news.

The Army of Northern Virginia was advancing, and the forces of Lee were invading the North. The South, instead of fighting on the defensive, instead of seeking to protect her own borders, was striking straight at the heart of the North, and striking with all the might of a strong arm. The invaded had become the invader. The march of Lee would cut the East from the West, and he would threaten in turn the great cities of Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York. The peril was sudden and great, and whatever Grant might do in the West would be of no avail if Lee won. That was the palpable and terrible issue which the North must face.

Both fact and rumour were the heralds of Lee. The Army of Northern Virginia that he led seemed invincible. It stood in the record of its victories with the armies of Frederick the Great and Napoleon. A leader of genius, surrounded by brilliant lieutenants, led brave, skilful, and enduring men—men who had grown up in the open air, tall, big-boned, broad-chested men, whom no hardship could kill or even disable. They were Southerners only because their States lay farther south than those of the North, not real Southerners like the Spaniards or Italians, but men who were accustomed to a long and severe winter, and all the extremes of heat and cold.

Sure and terrible evidences of Lee’s advance had come already. The army of Milroy, in the Valley of Virginia, was attacked suddenly by an overwhelming Southern division and cut to pieces, annihilated at a blow; the few fugitives who escaped from the field spread the alarm throughout the North, even to Philadelphia and New York. No man could doubt, in the face of such evidence.

Cavalry fighting between the Army of Northern Virginia and the Army of the Potomac had been going on for some time, and the clash of sabres came over the hills, but none knew Lee’s precise intentions. There were many points at which he could strike, but neither our generals nor our Government at Washington could guess his choice, and they must wait in suspense. The cavalry combats continued, and then it became known suddenly that Lee had slipped away from Hooker, that the Army of Northern Virginia, larger and better equipped than ever before in its history, and more able to deliver a decisive blow, was marching straight into the North, with the Army of the Potomac behind it, and no barrier in front. Rumour and fact together gave the numbers of Lee’s army: rumour said that he led one hundred and fifty thousand men; fact put it at eighty thousand, veterans all.

Fact, too, brought to Washington a singular and striking incident, in which many people saw a deep significance, at a time when the mind naturally turned to omens and forecasts. Before beginning the northward march, the gray and silent commander of the Southern army had yielded to the request of his brilliant cavalry leader, Stuart, to review his command. The spectacle was held in a wide plain in Virginia, and Lee and his staff sat on their horses under the shade of an oak tree, while the ten thousand horsemen, born to the saddle and incomparable riders long before the war began, led by Stuart himself, galloped before him, wheeling, charging, retreating, and executing all the movements of battle. Nor were the noise and flash of real war absent, for cannon thundered, rifles rattled, and the blaze and smoke of burned gunpowder ran over the plain. Through this smoke and blaze, and to the song of the guns, galloped the ten thousand wild horsemen.

Men saw in this mimic battle a surplus of energy, an overflow of enthusiasm and spirits, which would now be turned in full flood upon the North.

It was an age of telegraphs, and knowledge was quick. All saw that the crisis of the republic had come. It was said at first that Washington itself was about to be attacked, but this fear soon passed. The capital was safe within its ring of one hundred and fifty forts and fifteen hundred guns. Thirty-six thousand good troops stood behind these works, and fifteen thousand more were within call. No army in existence could force such ramparts, so defended.

I saw that my private affairs were likely to suffer at such a time, but a soldier must turn his whole mind to his duty, and with Shaftoe I sought again for active service. We were accepted promptly, and were sent northwestward with some Pennsylvania cavalry to look for the Army of Northern Virginia.

As we rode, the whole nation was in an agony of apprehension. The Army of Northern Virginia, that terrible sword wielded by the hand of the terrible swordsman Lee, had suddenly reproduced itself in many places. It was no longer one army, but three, four, five. It had cut to pieces the Union forces in the Valley of Virginia; it was marching through the defiles of the mountains; it had been seen in Maryland; it was already among the hills of Pennsylvania; public report put it everywhere, and could give it a definite place nowhere. Then the question became, “Where, in fact, is the Army of Northern Virginia?” The report that Lee was advancing, but now definite and confirmed again and again, and was about to strike his greatest blow, was carried instantly to all the myriad points reached by the electric wire, and from these were passed on by word of mouth to every farmhouse, however remote; the wires clicked it off in New York and Boston and St. Louis and Chicago; the smaller cities heard it a minute afterward, and the next day they were talking of it in the towns and villages; and a week later couriers were carrying it over the great plains and into the valleys of the Rocky Mountains.

But none yet knew where Lee would strike. He was steadily marching northward, drawing in his long lines and concentrating his army; now he was in Maryland, passing over the old field of Antietam, and Ewell, with his vanguard, had been seen among the Pennsylvania towns. The Southern army trod for the first time the soil of a free State.

The Army of the Potomac knew its enemy, and, beaten army though it had been so often, moved on again to the conflict, courage unshaken and hope flaming anew, detaching three corps to cover Washington, and marching with the other seven on a line almost parallel with its foe. The two armies were now passing down the sides of a triangle, with some point as yet unknown to be their place of meeting. The Northern army crossed the Potomac on bridges of boats and marched on, now but forty miles from its Southern enemy, watchful, its scouts everywhere, and preparing itself daily for the struggle that it knew must be. The time was the close of June and rainy, heavy storms coming now and then and deluging the earth. The roads were deep in mud, warm vapours hung over the land, and the air was close and sultry. The vegetation, thriving under the rain, was thick and heavy, and the earth put on its deepest green. But through storms and over green grass alike the two foes marched, watching, silent, defiant, two hundred thousand men expecting battle, and eager for it; now one, now the other disappearing from the knowledge of those who followed so eagerly their movements. Swarms of cavalry and skirmishers hung upon the flanks of each, meeting in frequent combats, always fierce, and sometimes rising in numbers to the dignity of important battles. The cavalry of the North held its own for the first time with the lifelong riders of the South, and the tales of these sanguinary struggles, as the wires clicked them off, prepared the minds of men for the final test by the two armies that marched on and seemed not to regard the incessant side play of the wild horsemen who clung on their skirts like a fringe.

But I was not thinking so much of the waiting nation, as I galloped northward with my new commander, as I was of Elinor in Bichmond, and those whose life touched mine. The memory of a woman’s face, and that long, happy ride over the mountains, were oftenest with me. One can rarely sink one’s own personal hopes and fears into those of the nation.

We were approaching Pennsylvania, and soon we entered this State of a comfortable population. I noticed with deep interest the signs of thrift and wealth: the rich soil, the solid houses, the huge barns, the fat cattle; a country hitherto sheltered, men going on with their work as if there were no war, everything so different from the battle-worn and battle-torn South, nearly every square mile of which had already felt the tramp of armies. I appreciated more than ever the difference in resources and the gigantic character of the task that the South, with so little thought of its magnitude, had set herself.

The alarm of the people increased as we rode farther north. Beyond a doubt the Southern troops were in Pennsylvania, for now we met men who had seen them, who told of their squadrons, their passage through this or that town, how they crossed rivers and mountains, and had yet found nothing to oppose them. We rode at last into Harrisburg, the capital of the State, where we found excitement and confusion supreme, and, looking at the opposite shore of the river, I saw there horsemen, whose easy swing and graceful seat betokened the cavalry of the South.

“It’s Ewell’s command,” said Shaftoe. “We’ll have an argument with ’em—but later, not here.”

Ewell’s men contented themselves with a look at Harrisburg, and then turned back to the south to join the main army under Lee, apparently content to return and take the city at their leisure.

The command to which we belonged also turned southward.

“I take it that we’re scouts and skirmishers on a large scale,” said the regular.

“It suits me well enough,” I replied.

“Me too,” said Shaftoe.

We entered the next day a country of deep, rich soil, broken by steep, high, and rocky ridges, and great masses of rock that looked like ruined castles or fantastic pyramids; at the foot of these stone upheavals flowed small, swift streams of clear water, and in the valleys were wheat fields turning golden under the sun. The natural fortresses and the rich fields below formed a striking contrast, the fertility and sternness of Nature showing side by side. But it was a neat and thrifty land of brick houses and stone fences and prosperous farmer people, all built on the square and solid plan.

The day was more pleasant than usual; the rain was not falling and the ground was drying up; a west wind blew the vapours away, and the soldiers felt brisk and strong. We rode to the summit of one of the lower ridges, and I saw a fine little town outspread below—a town of red-brick houses, with a dome or a cupola shining here and there in the sun, and wheat fields on its outskirts. Great, gaunt crags of gray stone rose up more than two hundred feet from some of the hills about, and a stream near by flowed between steep banks, in places almost as high; in the side of one hill frowned a huge gash like a lion’s mouth.

“What town is that?” I asked of the man by my side, a Pennsylvanian.

“Gettysburg.”

“Gettysburg! I never heard of it.”

It lay below us, asleep in the sunshine, without a history, and content.

But I gazed little at this unknown town of Gettysburg, which looked to me like so many of its fellows in Pennsylvania, and not worthy of special attention at this time. No feature of it was impressed upon me, and it was not in my thoughts that I would ever see it again. A few minutes later our commander turned once more to the south, mid-morning not yet having come. But our long ride and scout ended an hour afterward, when we met an advance guard of more than four thousand Northern troops, under Buford, marching toward Gettysburg.

“They’ll take us with them,” said Shaftoe, with sure instinct or judgment.

And so they did; the little command was merged at once into the larger, and we returned on our own trail toward the forgotten little town that we had left an hour ago.

“I’m thinking that we may have a skirmish if we march far enough—that is, if the Johnny Rebs will wait for us,” said Shaftoe reflectively, and then he added, “They’ve a habit of waiting for us when they’re wanted.”

The sun shone in splendour, gilding stony crags and dark oak forests, and falling like golden gauze across the green of meadow and foliage; the last vapour disappeared, the dews of recent rains dried up, and the grass nodded to the gentle west wind. My spirits were high; the old Kentucky blood in my veins was singing; I liked this swift campaigning, the ride over hill and through forest, with the air rushing past. We would reach Gettysburg before noon, rest and eat there, and then we would ride on in search of the main body of the Army of Northern Virginia, with a great battle to follow, somewhere within a week or two.

The advance was without talk. I noted this fact. I noted, too, how different in manner the soldiers were from those who had marched to Shiloh; these men had become veterans, making few complaints, enduring their hardships in silence because they knew that war was not a parade; a rugged, big-boned, brown-faced, lean-bodied division of four thousand or more, the counterpart of many other divisions that now marched and fought for North and South, dusty and bedraggled, but wonderfully bold and skilful at their trade.

Shaftoe caught my eye as it ran over the brigade of silent men, and he understood.

“Yes, Henry,” he said, “they are soldiers now. There ought to be some pretty work when the Army of the Potomac and the Army of Northern Virginia meet.”

I was sure that the death roll would be large enough.

The sun beat down on the toiling brigade, and the air grew close and heavy once more, but no murmur arose. I heard only the clank of arms, the straining of gear, the beat of horses’ hoofs, and the breathing of four thousand men. The road was deep in mud and hard for travel. Yet there was no murmur.

We were approaching Gettysburg again, and through the clefts between the hills we saw the spires and cupolas of the town shining in the sun. Shaftoe, on my right, was examining the ground with a practised eye; the veteran’s gaze passed over the rugged slopes of Little Round Top, Cemetery Hill and Seminary Ridge; followed the steep and lofty banks of Rock Creek; all a little wilderness of hill and valley, of gray-stone fortresses built by Nature, darkened here and there with patches of knotty oaks, while farther on the gold of the wheat fields refreshed the eye. Yet it looked peaceful then; the sombre hills, upon which the shadows lay despite the risen sun, the oak groves hanging like black patches on the slopes, and the town beyond glittering redly in the brilliant day. There was majesty in those silent hills, the creek flowing silently in its deep ravine, and the quiet old town enjoying another day in its monotonous and unknown existence.

A scout on horseback galloped up, a trumpet blew, arms rattled, and our four thousand formed in closer rank. Some one else was approaching the town, coming from the other side, and seeking its hospitality, though not likely to be so welcome. It was a body of Southern troops, scouting or foraging, and one of those chance meetings of cavalry now so frequent seemed about to occur.

I was sorry; it disturbed the morning of a beautiful day, and I wished to continue the search for the Army of Northern Virginia.

The sound of two or three distant rifle shots came vaguely, and then an officer announced that there would be no fight, the Southerners, who were inferior in force, having retired. We resumed our march and entered Gettysburg.

The townspeople, a solid, strong race, received us with joy, having been somewhat surprised at the approach of rival guests from opposite sides, but disposed to give due credit for courtesy to the Southerners who had reached their suburbs in a search for shoes, so it was now said, which would indicate that these same men were expecting long marches. There was nothing picturesque in their projected invasion of Gettysburg; it was merely a commercial affair; the shoes were to he paid for, and that, no doubt, would have been the end of it, had not chance brought Buford and his men before the bargain could be begun—an historical interruption.

But these people of Gettysburg were intensely loyal to the Union and glad to see their own, whom they made welcome by both word and deed, offering to us what the town afforded. There the division lingered, much to my surprise, as I could see no reason why so much time should be passed in such an unimportant town, when the weather was good for marching, and the Army of Northern Virginia was to be found.

We ate dinner, waited through all the afternoon, asking no questions, but waiting. The shadows came in the west and the sun went down, dyeing the sombre hills and crags a deep red as it went, and then leaving them in darkness. The pickets were set around the town and along all the roads that centred there. Scouting parties were sent out to watch the retreating Southerners, for one could never tell what those amazing gentlemen might do. A strong detachment was posted in the country north of the town, another to the west, and those of the division not actually on duty were free to seek their rest. Nearly all were untroubled, save the uneasy general, whose uneasiness was wisdom.

But the people of the town stayed up late that night; it had not been a habit with them to entertain armies. Moreover, their guests would probably depart the next day, and therefore should be treated well during their brief stay, as if welcome—as they truly were. It was the small part in the war that Gettysburg owed, and she would discharge the debt, throwing in as much as she could for good count and interest.

That same night the garrulous wires were clicking. Two armies were lost, and the man who could find them would be great among his fellows. Lee was near a little Pennsylvania town called Gettysburg, and the Army of the Potomac, under Meade, who had suddenly replaced Hooker, after the Northern fashion of changing generals at a critical moment, was scattered somewhere to the south and east of that town. But these were merely vague statements. People wanted more exact information. There was a great hunting up and examination of old maps, from New York and Philadelphia to villages in Maine and Minnesota, and as the seekers traced roads with forefingers, some inquired about this little town of Gettysburg, of which they had heard for the first time. Still it attracted only trifling interest, and the few who noticed it merely put it down as one of those quiet places which achieve a twelve hours’ fame as a way station of an army, and then are forgotten.

These maps, which could tell them nothing, were shut up in disgust long before the night was over, and though the wires still clicked volubly, carrying questions and unsatisfactory answers, the wiser concluded that it was time to go to bed and wait for another day’s reports of skirmishes and cavalry combats, indecisive and signifying nothing, hoping that some time or other definite news would come out of this cloudland.

Shaftoe and I were not on duty, and soldierly wisdom told us that the proper thing to do after a long day’s work was to sleep the sleep of the tired; but neither of us felt like closing his eyes. I found fault with my wakefulness, but it was in the air and I could not help it. The night was close and hot, and we wandered through the little city, watching the lights that burned in nearly every window. The solid, sober population, still appreciating the visit, kept awake to see its guests.

Camp fires shone redly on three sides of the town, but the hills were unlighted. I looked up at the sombre ridges, the masses of craggy gray stone, and the dwarfed and gnarled oak groves. The moonlight fell upon them presently and traced fantastic shapes over rock and tree, earth and stream. The likeness of the hills to ancient castles grew stronger, and a moonbeam across some streak of reddish stone shone like a light at a window.

“This is the North,” I said.

“Yes, Henry,” replied Shaftoe, “and it’s a long way from here to Shiloh. The war swings over a wide circuit.”

We entered presently a little hotel, in which several men of the town were deciding the location and fate of the battle that was to be, gravely assisting their deliberations with smoke and something to drink. We sat down at one side and took no part in the talk, listening with the amusement and vast superiority that soldiers feel in the presence of civilians who discuss soldierly matters. One civilian, for the honour of the army, offered the two soldiers beer, a liquid which I had seldom tasted, thinking it bitter and bad. But I drank a little to show that there was good feeling, and then I leaned back with my head against the wall.

“I tell you the battle will be fought there at Harrisburg,” said a fat citizen, smiting the capital with a long forefinger.

“Why?”

“It’s the capital of the State, and of course the rebels will try to take it—moral effect, you know. We defend, and there is a battle.”

“Nonsense! Why should the rebels waste themselves on a little place like Harrisburg? Lee is too smart for that; Philadelphia is his size. The big battle will be fought there, sure.”

The military campaign across the old map became spirited and soon rose to the dignity of pins. A big, black-headed pin represented Lee and another Meade, but wherever they were stuck there they abode but little, moving on to new places and performing strange evolutions not described in the technical books. Each had his opinion as to the place of battle, all selecting a spot, and all different, but never a one chose Gettysburg. Failing to agree, they appealed at last to us for a decision, but we said we did not know, and rising, walked out again into the air.

“It is time for us to go home,” said some of the men following us.

I vaguely heard them making plans for to-morrow’s work when the soldiers were gone; one on a stone fence, another on a barn, and a third on something else.

“How quiet it is to-night!” I said at length.

“Yes,” replied Shaftoe; “sleepy town, sleepy night. Everybody is going to sleep that can, and those that can’t, wish they could. As we can, it’s not worth while to waste more time awake.”

I looked up once more at the hills now turning to silver in the moonlight, and then went away with Shaftoe to our quarters, where I slept well.

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