Gods' War

By Russell Glenn

One man, one decision, and the course of a nation is forever changed. The man is Robert E. Lee. The decision: accept President Abraham Lincoln's April 18, 1861 offer to lead a Union army. Lee assumes command of the Army of the Potomac. He fights its battles on the ground and dates where and when they were actually fought…but herein they are contested in ways found in no history book.
In Lee, Lincoln gets the general that eluded him in the opening years of the American Civil War: a highly competent leader, though not an invincible one. Lee soon finds himself plagued by too many subordinates' political ambitions even as he seeks to put others better qualified in command positions. Vainglorious and inept Nathaniel Banks; cocksure former senator and presidential candidate John C. Fremont; grizzled yet lion-hearted Samuel Heintzelman; Thomas Francis Meagher, a convicted seditionist who escapes Tasmania and crosses an ocean to lead the legendary Irish Brigade; and hardened veteran of fighting in the American West John Buford: these are among Lee's generals bad, good, and great. Jefferson Davis's choice to lead his Army of Northern Virginia finds his challenges are much the same.
Yet this is not a tale of generals alone. Kind if eccentric Walt Whitman nurses the wounded as he did over a century and a half ago. Stonewall Jackson's talented New Yorker-turned-Confederate mapmaker Jedediah Hotchkiss wields his exceptional skills on the South's behalf. Whitman and Hotchkiss are among the many who bear witness to the remarkable courage and suffering experienced by the men at the sharp edge of combat, men whose families at home come to know the anguish of hunger, disease, and fathers, husbands, and brothers lost. It is a war that could have been but for the decision of a single man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Innovative Defense Research
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987244609

Russell Glenn

Dr. Russell W. Glenn spent over twenty-five years with the U.S. Army, later serving sixteen years as a senior analyst in the think tank community before joining the faculty of the Strategic and Defence Studies Centre, the Australian National University. He and his wife live in Williamsburg, Virginia. Those interested can find other of his publications at www.innovativedefenseresearch.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Lee

Thursday, April 18, 1861

Washington, D.C.

The path was scarred by the violence of the previous night’s rains but already dry under the spring sun’s harsh morning heat. Only when horse and rider passed beneath the flowering boughs of black cherry trees did they find a surface still wet beneath cooler air moist with blossoms’ fragrance. 

Virginia’s fine scent and birdsong surrendered to a cacophony of rattling equipment, animal grunts, and human shouts as the horse bore left on stepping off Long Bridge. Hudson and rider negotiated Washington’s tangle of wagons, carriages, carts, men, horses, cows, pigs, dogs, and the occasional feral cat. The White House with its South Lawn loomed closer before disappearing behind the Treasury Department building. A second left and the White House appeared once more, now in northern exposure. The destination this afternoon was the office of the Union Army’s commander, General Winfield Scott. Colonel Robert E. Lee brought Hudson to a halt before the War Department’s entrance and dismounted, handing the reins to a waiting soldier.

Lee climbed the several entry steps and stomped the dust free from his boots. Two soldiers flanking the entryway stood to attention and saluted as he passed midway between six immense white pillars. A major stepped forward and rendered a third salute as Lee stepped through the tall doorway.

This way, colonel. General Scott will see you immediately.

The major escorted his trust through a traffic of soldiers and civilians moving in every direction with indeterminate purpose. He rendered a single knock before opening the door, moving aside as Lee stepped into the cavernous enclosure. It was a full six strides to the center front of the massive paper-cluttered desk behind which Scott sat. He was a man whose physical stature dwarfed the desk despite its gargantuan size. Lee raised his right arm in a salute.

Colonel Lee reporting as ordered, sir.

Lieutenant General Winfield Scott—veteran of the War of 1812, victorious general in Mexico, and now leader of an army in yet another conflict—remained seated, gesturing with what served as both a return of the salutation and signal to sit in the chair before which Lee stood. Twin beams of sunlight flanked the two men, curtains on the wall behind the new arrival partially drawn in a compromise that shielded Scott’s eyes from the worst of the glare while banishing the room’s darkness. Office air held the pungent tang of sweat-damped wool, old wood, and muffled clatter of the busy street from which Lee had just come. Scott pushed back from the desk, eyes on his visitor’s. 

Colonel, I must ask for a decision given the loss of Fort Sumter. I pray you have chosen to accept President Lincoln’s offer over that of the Confederates. 

Lee’s visage was inscrutable. Younger than himself yet no longer young, Lee had changed but little in the years since he served Scott as a staff captain during the Mexican War. Gray flecks had invaded a neatly trimmed beard and a full head of otherwise dark chestnut hair. Shallow trenches radiated from eyes where before there had been none, a meager reflection of the man’s fifty-four years. The face was otherwise the same as that of the officer who so often visited Scott’s tent as the army advanced on Mexico City. The flawless bearing was still that of the soldier who had performed reconnaissance so ably those ten plus years ago. Lee’s blue uniform jacket was a faded blue, result of months in the harsh Texas sun during recent service with the 2nd Cavalry. The eagles on its buttons had been polished to near extinction. Such was not the case with the birds perched on each shoulder strap. The president had signed Lee’s colonelcy only three weeks before. 

Scott accepted that his own days of field command were past. Rising from this desk was a challenge, climbing steps a labor. Mounting a horse had for years required assistance. Little matter. His place was now the corridors of Congress, the office of the man in the adjacent building, and this desk. The three had replaced Cerro Gordo, Contreras, and Churubusco as his battlegrounds. He accepted his role in the coming conflict would be as champion for his field commanders, that and as mentor for the new occupant of that building next door, a man surely in need of guidance when it came to military affairs. Few of the previous six Presidents he had served entered office with less military experience, experience that by Lincoln’s own admission saw him fighting more mosquitoes than warriors during the Blackhawk War. Nor was the White House occupant expert in the capital’s political skirmishing, a scant and rather distant two years in the House of Representatives his only training for engagements to come. Thankfully the man listened.

Scott knew he was far from alone in believing the officer opposite would be the coming war’s finest field commander. Lee had proven his physical mettle in Mexico, at one point lying tight against stony roadside ground for hours when enemy soldiers had by chance chosen to halt but a few yards away. Lee had brains to accompany the physical courage. Scott had ensured he received the superintendency at West Point despite his being only a colonel, the only officer of so junior a rank to hold that position since the legendary Sylvanus Thayer a generation before. Lee had only nineteen months ago commanded the party that captured the abolitionist John Brown at Harper’s Ferry. Good officers saved soldiers’ lives in battle. The best saved many more by winning battles that shortened wars.

But would Lee’s morale courage match that physical? Though he too was Virginian by birth, Scott retained no especial bond to his original state. For him the country had long ceased to be an assembly of separate authorities. That would be less so for the officer opposite. Lees were Virginia gentry by birthright and marriage. The man’s father, Light Horse Harry Lee, had been a Revolutionary deity, serving at Washington’s side before abandoning his family to escape business failure and debt. Mary, Robert’s wife, was great-granddaughter to Martha Washington. Lee and his family were as close to nobility as America possessed. But it was Virginia nobility. The resignations of so many officers in recent weeks made it only too clear that the Potomac River marked a social divide as wide as was the Atlantic Ocean a physical one. 

This, Lee’s second visit to Scott’s office in a month, was the day of decision.

I know you have prayed fervently for guidance since receiving Mr. Lincoln’s offer of command. I hope no less ardently that you will continue to serve our country as you have so dutifully for many years. The President and I are both sympathetic to your request for command in the East. The resistance he faces in Congress—and from no few in his cabinet I am sorry to say—makes that impractical. Irrational though it is, there are those who doubt your loyalty and proclaim the Confederacy’s offer of a command as evidence in that regard. Mr. Lincoln believes a command more distant from Washington is politically acceptable. I cannot promise a return East in the aftermath of accomplishments elsewhere, but that is the private wish of both the President and I.

Scott had browbeaten several of those no few in the cabinet to ensure any remaining resistance to Lee’s appointment of a major command came from numbers too few to make a difference. Several members of Congress had fallen in line after a bit of Lincoln’s cajoling and agreement to appoint various political favorites to generalships. The man was nothing if not pragmatic. Yet with but weeks in office, the appointment of Lee to command the army primarily responsible for Washington’s defense remained a battle too far. 

Do you accept the President’s offer of Union command?

The man before him was more a father than Light Horse Harry Lee had ever been. Lee was born the year Scott entered the army. The army’s commanding general had asked him to serve as his military secretary in 1859. Scott had not begrudged the desire to seek the more rapid advancement coming with field service when the offer was declined. Lee was not at all sure a refusal on this occasion would be met with the same understanding.

The older officer had aged even since their meeting two weeks ago. Little wonder. America was undergoing its greatest trial since the Revolution, and this time the country was led by a man with little political experience and even less knowledge in the way of war. Thankfully Lincoln would have Winfield Scott at his side. Politicians and bureaucrats came and went in two years, four, or six. Scott remained, a capital constant. President Buchanan’s weakness in his last months as chief executive, threats to Lincoln’s personal safety since his winning office, and Southern state secessions were taking their toll even on a man who had seen much in twenty years commanding the United States Army. Secession was eroding Winfield Scott’s soul as had the years his body.

Few were the men Winfield Scott’s six-foot, five-inch frame and matching girth did not physically dominate. His garb magnified the effect. Gold braid epaulets the size of dinner plates rested on wide shoulders. Brass buttons shone in brilliant contrast to the rich blue hue of the tailored uniform jacket on which further gilt adorned collar and sleeves. Physique, dress, and impressive mane of snow-white hair nearly made moot the pallid skin sagging over a stiff collar. The body had atrophied, but congressman, senator, cabinet member—even president—beware. The mind had lost nothing of its tone, temper, or intolerance for fools. It was a mind the equal of any other in Washington and one far superior to most. Only George Washington ranked higher in Americans’ estimation of the country’s military heroes. 

Scott was right in thinking the past two weeks had allowed Lee little sleep. He had paced miles on Arlington’s porch, journeys in solitary prayer taking him late into every evening, lights of the capital below contrasting with the Potomac’s pitch dark. Scott was also correct in noting Jefferson Davis had offered Lee a position of considerable importance, but it too was not command in the East. That position had gone to Joseph Johnston, an officer Lee thought too haunted by the phantom of failure to seize what opportunities boldness offered. 

The prayers had failed to provide the guidance he sought. God may not have interceded directly, but those hours of pacing provided ample considerations for the most difficult decision of his life. Emotion was a foundation of sand that wisdom washed away. Logic was firmer stuff. The first contest of the soon-to-be-war had gone to the South with the fall of Fort Sumter, but only those willing to delude themselves could deny the Northern states held great advantage in the resources from which victory was made. Economic wealth, industrial might, a population that would provide many more fighting men: these would over time wear away the Confederacy’s ability to resist as does a grindstone even the finest blade. Northern victory was by no means assured. Chance ever asserted its prerogative during war. But the lessons of history time and again demonstrated that God favored those better blessed with the resources of war when combatants summed the final tally of battles won and lost. It was the South that would know war’s punishments more greatly. Proximity and geography destined that Virginia would be the state most to suffer its ravages. The best Virginians could hope for was a short war to soften their inevitable miseries. Those hours of pacing had eventually made evident a painful paradox: a quick Confederate defeat would better serve Virginia than a victory more years in coming, a victory at best faintly possible and then only after so great a duration that the North became exhausted of death and suffering. Only by commanding Union forces could he spare Virginia the greater misery. But that command had to be in the decisive eastern theater. It was there the war would be decided.

General Scott, I would be obliged were you to inform the President that I will not serve those who have violated their oath. Yet neither can I serve the Union if denied the position in which I can best relieve Virginian suffering. You will have my letter of resignation by week’s end.

Chapter 2

Battle

Sunday, July 21, 1861

Blackburns Ford, Virginia

Brigadier General Samuel Heintzelman took his watch from its pocket, turning in his saddle the better to catch moonlight. 3:07 AM. 

The soldiers marched well despite the hour and heat. A moon being one day short of full and clear skies surely helped, but that stragglers had been few was nonetheless commendable in men who had yet to see the elephant. Loose equipment rattled dully in the humid air. Thousands of feet provided a rhythmless rumble in accompaniment, kicking up light dust that clung to every nearby surface. Rivulets of sweat washed pale gullies through dirt on marchers’ faces, effect ghoulish in the half light. This was Colonel Theodore Runyan’s division. With eight regiments, it was the army’s smallest. Seven hailed from New Jersey, the eighth from New York. Theirs were the southern-most positions along the Federal front. 

The noises bothered Heintzelman not at all. He had directed Runyan to silence the men’s voices but do nothing to quiet their loads. Too little noise and the force might be underestimated. Too much and the ruse would fail for its obviousness. Unbeknownst to all but Runyan and a select few of his leaders, these men threatened to cross Bull Run at Mitchell’s and Blackburns Fords not to fight but rather convince Confederate General Pierre G. T. Beauregard that the Union main attack would strike far from its actual location, well downstream of the much larger force soon to make upstream crossings. The four regiments here formed half of the deception designed by Winfield Scott. An equal number farther south at McLeans Ford and Union Mills Bridge were to make their presence known for the same purpose. Together the eight regiments were also to block any enemy force that might try to cross and threaten the Union left flank. Two critical tasks for too few men, but assuming risk here meant more men available for the killing blow in the north.

Heintzelman stroked his mare’s neck, horse nodding its head in appreciation. Runyan was only temporarily under his command. Heintzelman’s own division would cross Bull Run farther north and move westward to anchor the right of the Federal line responsible for repelling any Confederate counterattack before the rest of Brigadier General Irvin McDowell’s army came together to form the fist that would ultimately defeat Beauregard’s force. 

Runyan’s men would be the first to make enemy contact. They had led the force departing Fairfax Courthouse five days before. Heintzelman’s own division had been immediately behind, but it had continued along Warrenton Turnpike after Runyan’s vanguard division turned south off the primary line of march. As Heintzelman was his forwardmost general, McDowell subordinated Runyan to Heintzelman for the march and deception. Now, with Runyan all but in place, Heintzelman would soon depart north to where the lead regiments of his three brigades should already be starting to cross the waterway. McDowell might himself have chosen to oversee the deception here before joining the bulk of his force for the main attack, but the army commander was a large man not overly adroit in the saddle. Tall, blue-eyed, bearded, McDowell was thought

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by some to look the part of a general, a sharp contrast to Heintzelman’s own aged visage. The army commander certainly fully filled his uniform. Polite company described the 42-year-old McDowell as a large man. It was said that he could single-handedly consume a watermelon after a meal that no three of his staff could manage. Heintzelman was not alone in believing the army commander possessed self-confidence in proportion to his girth but less so to his ability. This was the younger man’s first experience of commanding a unit of any size in war. He owed his position to political connections. So too did too many others to Heintzelman’s thinking. Time would tell how well they faired.

Heintzelman was surprised Runyan’s men had not been detected until lead elements first arrived at Bull Run an hour ago. Most of the pre-war army’s cavalrymen had been Southerners. McDowell’s army of 35,000 had in contrast only seven companies of horsemen. Several of the army’s leaders had encouraged him to employ the scarce resource as a screen for the march on Bull Run to deny Beauregard knowledge of Union dispositions. Heintzelman instead agreed with Winfield Scott’s decision to send the too few Federal riders west to monitor passes through the Blue Ridge Mountains. General Joseph Johnston and some 10,000 men faced Union General Robert Patterson on the other side of that gentle range. Patterson’s was the task to ensure Johnston could not send units to reinforce Beauregard. Patterson and Scott were contemporaries and among the US Army’s oldest officers. Rumor had it that Scott’s mission for the cavalry was a precaution should his aged colleague prove not up to the task. Regardless, the army here had moved toward its enemy all but blind.

The risk proved worth taking in retrospect. Reports told of only occasional and distant sightings of enemy cavalry. Beauregard would know the army was coming but he was unlikely to have determined details of its intentions. On the other hand, initial Union cavalry reports told of a Confederate brigade moving east through Ashby’s Gap, that as of yesterday morning. The force had turnedsouth toward the Manassas Gap rail line after clearing the Blue Ridge Mountains. Shadowing Union riders reported that it loaded onto railcars, thereafter departing eastward toward Manassas Junction. It was known that only a single train ran on the line, one capable of but very slow speeds due to the locomotive’s condition. Slow or not, it was unwelcome news. McDowell had immediately designated a force to march on the point where the Manassas Gap Railroad crossed Warrenton Turnpike to block the reinforcements. Its units were the lead elements of the division that should now be approaching Stone Bridge, the army’s northern-most crossing point. 

Later reports told of additional units crossing the Blue Ridge. Any other than the unit traveling by rail would arrive too late to influence fighting today but posed a danger should the battle take longer. Victory now meant not only persevering here, but also later turning and defeating additional units coming from the west. The result would see Beauregard beaten and Johnston’s Shenandoah force weak and divided. It would be a resounding blow against the South and open the road to Richmond. It was too much to hope the war would end before year’s end, but Heintzelman was far from alone in praying it might be so. 

Heintzelman wiped his handkerchief across a damp forehead. The linen came away black in the moonlight. He gently tightened his leg muscles, mare responding to walk down the gentle slope alongside the roadway full of Runyan’s ranks of shadowy silhouettes continuing toward the ford. Telltale movements of the division commander’s headquarters group caught Heintzelman’s eye: riders arriving and departing like bees around a hive, one man ever the center of attention. He waited for a break between two wagons carrying musket ammunition before urging his mount through the gap. One of the group’s dark forms pointed in his direction on approach. The center of attention separated itself and walked his horse several steps to intercept the new arrival, raising his right hand in a salute that Heintzelman returned. 

Runyan sat his horse bareheaded. Dark curly hair fell over his ears. One of the army’s most impressive mustaches drooped below the chin. Heintzelman knew little of the man other than that he was a Yale graduate and well-connected New Jersey lawyer from that state’s militia. 

Colonel Runyan, my complements to your command. The men march well. 

They do, sir. The deception seems to be succeeding. Enemy pickets pulled back from both fords with little return fire.

Ensure your men do not venture far beyond the waterway where their small numbers would be evident as dawn makes itself known. Let those who cross deploy as if awaiting a larger force. Any artillery you can bring up in support would further convince there are greater numbers to come.

There is room for eight guns at each ford just short of the water. I have ordered the move.

Any attempt to flank you from farther south or east?

None as of last report, general. That was perhaps 15 minutes ago.

Heintzelman’s mount startled as the first cannon released a round. The gun’s mates joined seconds later, soon followed by further reports from those farther south. The morning reverberated with the flash, concussion, and roar of cannon firing cannister across the waterway. 

General Heintzelman?

One of General McDowell’s couriers, Lieutenant Kittim Myers, waited six yards away, close enough to allow the general to recognize a desire to speak but sufficiently distant not to interrupt the two senior officers.

Come forward, Lieutenant Myers.

Myers closed the distance. Locks of what Heintzelman knew was crimson hair hung in curls from beneath the service cap, framing a pale visage that shone with perspiration. The Pittsburgh native offered a piece of rolled paper. Heintzelman held up his hand in refusal. 

Even my glasses would not allow me to read in this light. What news do you have for me?

Sir, I come from General Tyler. He wishes to inform you that the lead brigade of his division began crossing Cub Run thirty minutes ago and will soon close on Bull Run just to your north as planned. He confirms your own division preceded him and has successfully crossed in its entirety thanks to finding Balls Ford unguarded and having routed the secesh at Lewis Ford.

Good news. May God grant that it continues.

Heintzelman turned to Runyan 

I bid you and your men good luck, colonel. You will be kind enough to directly inform General McDowell with your reports from here on. It is time I rejoin my division.

Runyan’s hand rose to his cap.

The army’s southern flank is secure, sir. We will ensure it remains so. Journey safely.

Brigadier General Thomas J. Jackson sat slouched against the side of the rail car. Sliding doors on both sides of the car were open, allowing him to see forward as the train crawled eastward toward Manassas Junction. The aroma of straw rested comfortably in his nostrils, the gentle breeze caused by the train’s motion occasionally pulling a stray piece free to escape before settling anew. The train’s pace was less to his liking, no better than four miles per hour. Such was little different than his infantry’s marching pace. Frustrating, but most of the First Virginia Brigade would arrive rested rather than fatigued by heat and humidity. Whether that arrival came in time was in His hands. 

A battered blue cap sat low on his forehead as the Virginia countryside passed in graying light. Jacket and trousers matched the cap in hue. It was the same uniform he had worn as instructor at the Virginia Military Institute. His chestnut beard and crow’s feet made Jackson appear a decade older than his 37 years, an impression reinforced by what was by the man’s invariably stern expression. VMI cadets had quickly learned not to ask questions during a Jackson lecture. Their query would be answered readily enough. Jackson would then return to the very beginning of his notes and repeat verbatim the entirety of what he had already covered before moving on. The major, as both students and wife addressed him, was as unbending in his habits as he was in his expectations of others. Being even a few seconds late for the afternoon prayer session in the couple’s home meant anyone—wife Anna included—remained in the hallway to listen through the closed second floor door. 

It had been nearly thirty hours since Jackson and these four regiments departed the Shenandoah Valley. The march to rail line had been uneventful aside from distant sightings of Union cavalry through the morning fog. The riders never approached within musket range, but the enemy commander surely knew forces moved to reinforce Beauregard. 

Jackson pulled the cap even lower, blocking the growing light, chin dipping to his breast as the warm morning air and rocking car carried him into unconsciousness. 

McDowell leaned forward, impatient with the delay. This was the army’s northernmost crossing point. First across were the units that were to block Johnston’s reinforcements from the west. Trailing behind along the Warrenton Turnpike was the force that would exploit any Union main attack success by units crossing a bit to the south. 

Such was the plan anyway. Ground and air boiled with men, churning dust and smoke as those lead regiments attacked into a wicked fire from the far end of Stone Bridge and opposite bank to the span’s right and left. Union cannon sat to either side of the turnpike, trading fire with what appeared to be roughly equal numbers. Each discharge turned the surrounding air from sandy brown to filthy gray, roiling waves of smoke reaching out at the enemy before dissipating short of their goal. Lesser billows darted from both sides of the narrow stream, musket signatures signaling each round. McDowell impatiently clenched his right fist. A breeze cleared his vision, revealing Colonel Tom Davies at the center of a confused turmoil a hundred yards distant. Davies repeatedly whipped his hat forward as if he could push his men onward despite the holes tearing their ranks. Davies was one of the army’s older regulars, a West Point classmate of Robert Lee’s who, unlike Lee, had left the army after two years, first serving as a civil engineer during the building of an aqueduct to supply New York City with water and later becoming a merchant there. He commanded one of the division’s two brigades. McDowell had taken command of the unit in addition to that of the army when the division commander fell ill the day before the army’s departure. He saw himself eventually leading the exploitation that would chase Beauregard’s Rebels from the field, a feat that would hold great value in support of his post-war political aspirations. Unfortunately, the threat of Johnston’s forces from the west meant the exploitation force would be smaller than planned. Davies and his fellow brigade commander, the Hessen revolutionary Colonel Ludwig Blenker, would instead continue to the rail crossing and  block Johnston’s reinforcements, leaving only a single division to support the main attack by Tyler and Heintzelman’s divisions.

Whoever commanded the enemy’s artillery knew his business. Rounds came in flat and low, bounding off the hard road surface to bowl into the advancing columns of blue, splashing through soft bodies or splintering carriage wood. Equine and human screams of agony mixed with sounds of cannon and rifle fire. Only the obscuration kept the toll from being worse along the quarter mile of gently sloping open ground before the bridge.

The men show great courage in their first battle, General McDowell.

McDowell turned at the unexpected voice. The speaker was Brigadier General David Hunter, commander of the army’s reserve division, that which would now be the sole exploitation force.

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My division is a quarter-hour distant, general. I came forward to confirm you have no change in orders for us.

None as of yet, though you may need to cross to the south if we cannot take this bridge. The men’s bravery here is most commendable, a damn sight better than some of their leaders deserve. Colonel Davies marched directly at the bridge in full view of the enemy when but a few hundred yards back he could have paused on a reverse slope to form for the attack. Thankfully Colonel Blenker showed more sense. He has been moving through the concealment offered on the turnpike’s right while Davies men are being butchered. Those are Blenker’s men that you see approaching the span now. I’ve told Davies to find what concealment his men might find on their left and support Blenker’s approach with their fire.

Hunter spotted Blenker well forward on the opposite side of the pike. Blenker had proven a strict but able trainer after raising a regiment largely based on his reputation in the failed 1848 German revolution after which he fled to Switzerland. That now showed as regiments flowed into a cornfield, crisp lines of musket barrels protruding above the green despite the Confederate guns now redirecting their fire against the newly spotted threat. 

McDowell pointed toward the Confederate positions left of the bridge on the opposite bank of Bull Run.

The Confederates prepared well here. They cleared fields of fire for both artillery and infantry. Our guns arrived only a few minutes ago, blocked as they were by the infantry on the road ahead of them. The Rebels will now begin to feel the heat....

McDowell hefted his bulk and stood in his stirrups.

Damn it, man, no! Can you not read, you damned fool!

Hunter followed McDowell’s gaze. Davies had moved to the front of his brigade, hat still waving. His words could not be heard above the din of the fight, but the intention was perfectly clear. Lee’s classmate launched himself toward the bridge, men roaring as they broke ranks and streamed after him. The brigade’s broad front funneled to a point, a shaft thrust toward the near end of the span, cutting off Blenker’s marchers and causing his guns to cease fire lest they fell their own. 

Artillery fire from the far side of the run paused. 

The heavens be damned.

Nine paces wide and sixty-eight long, red sandstone walls half a man tall bordered the sand roadway of the bridge. It would have taken an unhurried man half a minute to cross in peaceful times. Davies and his lead infantry were a quarter of the way across when four Confederate cannon at its far end fired simultaneously. Davies, his mount, and the men in trail were flung rearward, rag dolls lifted in mid-stride. The enemy’s gunners had changed from the large, single spheres of solid shot to canisters filled with smaller rounds. These fanned out from the cannon muzzles to harvest the attackers far more effectively. Two volleys of musketry followed in quick order as Union infantry struggled to bypass their maimed comrades while Southern gunners reloaded. Another score of soldiers flew rearward as the artillery dealt a second blow. Those not immediately killed thrashed like fish out of water. The few survivors at the front of the attack turned to flee, colliding with others still surging forward. A color bearer holding the Stars and Stripes aloft spiraled groundward, flag disappearing into the mass of bodies below. Blue-clad bodies misted pink as Confederate fire reached a steady roar. 

Captain Yorkston. To me, please.

McDowell’s blond-haired aide walked his horse forward.

"Captain, ride south to General Heintzelman. Direct him to attack north immediately with one brigade on the far side of the run to clear this crossing of enemy.

Speed is essential."

Yorkston spurred away as the army commander returned his attention to the slaughter at the bridge. 

Jackson awoke at the sudden darkening. A soldier stood, leaning against the left of the nearer doorframe, urinating onto the passing ground, shadow falling across the no longer slumbering brigade commander. The man finished his task, buttoning his fly and wiping his hands on his trousers before stepping away from the opening. Jackson squinted as the morning sunlight again struck him in full force. He pulled out his watch: a few minutes past 9:00. He felt refreshed despite having slept only three hours. The engineer had estimated the trip to Manassas Junction would take eight. The march to Beauregard’s battlefield should take little more than an hour from the unloading point. Jackson dipped his chin, asking that God grant his men a chance to fight this day.

It took only a few seconds before McDowell turned to Hunter, a newly delivered message in hand.

About damned time for some good news. Colonel Blenker’s men have found a ford half a mile upstream. A regiment began crossing 15 minutes ago with orders to attack...

New musket fire from the upstream side of the waterway drew the generals’ attention. Gray smoke drifted from the trees 70 yards to the right of the bridge. Breaks in the foliage provided glimpses of blue-uniformed soldiers moving forward in loose ranks, pausing to fire and reload as the rank behind stepped through that to their front to begin the sequence anew. Blenker’s infantry had moved quickly after finding the crossing. Men in lighter hued uniforms fled left. Here and there one fell, the enemy now caught in a crossfire from both sides of Bull Run. Led by an officer McDowell didn’t recognize, remnants of Davies’ brigade dashed across the now uncontested bridge, hounds after a fleeing fox. 

McDowell bellowed obscenities as those crossing became intermingled with Blenker’s men who had renewed their approach from the cornfield, the former disrupting the latter’s more disciplined advance. Union gunfire became sporadic as confusion again reigned, surviving Confederate infantry and guns escaping unmolested other than for the occasional unlucky or too slow. Any chance of the two now scattered brigades reaching the Manassas Gap rail line in time to block reinforcements from the Shenandoah evaporated. McDowell looked back up Warrenton Turnpike. The first ranks of Hunter’s reserve division began cresting the elevation a half-mile distant.

General Hunter. Yours is no longer the reserve division. You are to advance as rapidly as possible across Stone Bridge and block any Confederate reinforcements coming from the west along the Manassas Gap Railroad. Take this division’s wagons carrying equipment needed to break the line. I am to be told immediately of any contact with the enemy.

Hunter saluted and departed up the turnpike to rejoin his command. McDowell recognized that the loss of control here put the entire day in jeopardy. The disarray and Heintzelman’s loss of a brigade sent north meant the main attack would be short a brigade and the army would be without an exploitation force until the remnants of this division could reassemble, at task that at best would take several hours. The army would be fortunate were Beauregard not to recognize the deception in the south was just that after the ruckus here. Best laid plans indeed.

Head down, Mr. Greco. We’ll show ourselves when it suits us, not before.

Thomas Greco, the tallest man in the company at well over six feet, stooped immediately in response to the sharp order from Captain William Beardsley. Only the company commander stood erect, his five-foot, four-inch frame not showing above the gently waving stalks. He slowly hoisted himself up on the forward bank every few minutes to monitor the enemy’s approach. The captain’s head was bare, he figuring his sandy hair was little different in color from the grass and therefore less likely to attract attention than a dark blue uniform cap. The rest of his company half-knelt with one knee braced on the forward bank or leaned on its crest. Loaded muskets rested to their front. Occasionally an infantryman dipped a drained canteen into the foot-deep water, lifting it to wash a throat parched by fear or heat that had reached 80 degrees under the unblocked sun. Beardsley had often done the same, the filthy liquid leaving a coating of grit on his teeth.

Beardsley leaned down and immersed his cap. He poured the contents over his head, water flowing down his face and back of his neck. It was Company A, 79th New York Volunteer Infantry’s ill-fate to be positioned in one of three breaks where Greenleaf Branch was bare of the trees that otherwise shaded its waters along General Tyler’s division line. The right of Beardsley’s line ended where trees picked up once again. A narrow length of woods touching the waterway marked his left boundary, a spot where a smaller stream entered the itself none-too-large Greenleaf Branch. A bit beyond was a farm track that entered and exited Greenleaf where the north and south banks were less steep. Beardsley had ordered his soldiers to lower themselves into the stream bed given an otherwise complete lack of protection from enemy fire. The wisdom of the decision was now evident. Confederate artillery rounds targeting Union guns on the slope behind the New Yorkers sailed harmlessly overhead.

Wiping his eyes, Beardsley gently rose, glancing south again. Long ranks of men in uniforms of brown or gray had stepped off and approached steadily. The lack of other cover here meant the company line was only one man deep. Beardsley glanced at the approaching enemy again. He looked down. His heart throbbed so violently he was sure its pulsing must be visible through his uniform jacket. He swallowed, his throat sandpaper. The regimental commander had earlier passed instructions that each company commander would give his own command to open fire. The moment for the order was near. He ran a thick tongue over cracked lips, not sure his voice would serve when the time came.

A third look revealed details on individual faces, mouths agape in some, facial hair seen less among those in the ranks than the officers marching before or beside their men. Most of the Rebels were looking to their right rather than in Company A’s direction. Beardsley realized that just as details were now apparent to him, the enemy were close enough to detect the Union infantry standing in the shade of trees where  loading and firing would be easier. The Confederates seemed unaware of the New Yorkers directly to their front. 

Beardsley took a short pull from his canteen. His throat was no wetter for the liquid’s passage.

A Company!

The voice was steadier than expected. 

Keep your heads down. Take up your weapons. 

It wasn’t an order from any drill manual, but no author offered a manual of arms for a company in mud. His nearest soldiers reached out and clasped sun-warmed stocks, lifting their weapons. Others farther right and left did so as company officers, sergeants, and corporals passed the order.

Stand!

His men rose, those shorter using a step dug into the bank to allow them a view over the tall grasses. A few slipped, cursing, before straightening a second time. The Confederate commander’s head jerked forward as the wall of blue-topped heads sprouted from the previously virgin field before him.

Ready! 

Metallic clicks snapped along the line as thumbs pulled hammers back. 

Aim! 

Muskets locked into shoulders. The Southern officer’s mouth opened to shout an order. Beardsley heard only his own voice. 

Fire!

Blue-gray smoke fogged Beardsley’s vision before the slight breeze carried it rightward. Only a few holes appeared in the now nearer ranks. The gaps disappeared in an instant as Confederates behind filled in, halting as had the rest of the unit in response to the Rebel officer’s command. 

Reload, Highlanders!... Fire at will! Aim low. Their legs are your target!

The Confederate commander had moved to the flank of his riflemen. This time his commands were clear.

Ready!

Oh, Jesus. Please, Jesus.

Three men distant, Private Rogers frantically ran his hand through the muck at his feet, arm shaking as he tried to find a dropped ramrod. Seizing it, the young solider wiped the steel shaft along his trouser leg. Beardsley stepped over and put his hand on the man’s shoulder, surprised by his own calm.

"Take your time, Peter. We’ve practiced this a thousand times. Do a better job of getting the mud off the rod or you’ll foul your barrel.

Aim!

Beardsley fought the urge to duck beneath the lip of the streambed. He grasped the butt of the pistol at his side as men up and down the muddy trench struggled to complete reloading. 

Fire!

Two of his men jerked backward, striking the rear bank before slipping to the gully bottom. Neither made a sound. Neither ever realized death was at hand, the backs of their skulls gone. The same grasses that caused his soldiers to fire high caused the enemy to do the same. With only New Yorker heads and upper bodies exposed, most wounds suffered would be to the head. 

His quicker men loosed their second shots, again to little effect. Beardsley shouted, voice impatient.

Aim low, Highlanders, unless you want the Rebs in our trench. Shoot them in the legs. Fire along the top of the grass, no higher.

He worked his way down the line, mud sucking at his boots. Again and again he repeated the instructions, pausing here and there to give a word of praise, make a correction, or help a soldier cage his panic. He knew each soldier by name, knew his hometown and something of troubles or particular happiness. The weeks of dry run firing showed themselves, men tearing a cartridge with their teeth, pouring powder down the long barrel, pushing the wadding-wrapped ball into the muzzle, ramming it home, replacing the ramrod, half-cocking the hammer, flipping the old cap from its place and fixing one new, aiming, and firing. 

Well done, Tom. Just as we trained.

No need to rush, Noah. Leave some Rebs for the rest of the company.

Barrel down, Corporal Adamson! You’re putting holes in the sky.

Sergeants and lieutenants joined Beardsley in calming the too anxious or praising a telling shot. Confederate and Yankee marksmanship alike gradually improved, the former’s volley fire steady from fifty yards distance, the latter’s a scattering of separate but constant discharges. The advantage of the trench began to tell, fewer New Yorkers than Southerners falling. Those enemy shot seemed sucked into the grass as though snatched from below by the Devil himself. 

The smaller waterway ran south to north between the two Confederate regiments, sloping gently into Greenleaf Branch. A few stooped low and slipped toward the shelter as Yankee artillery and muskets felled more in their ranks. At first only a trickle of the fearful slinked away, the volume matching the trickle at their feet once they jumped into the shallow depression. Numbers increased as more saw comrades flee to safety and officers’ attention remained fixed to the front. Arrivals dipped hands or hats into the ooze to quench thirsts while dodging the hurtling bodies of new arrivals. 

Refuge was short-lived. Several sergeants caught sight of the flight. Some joined the wayward with intentions quite different than the first arrivals. Others grabbed those trying to follow, roughly pushing them back into ranks. A burly Georgia sergeant, jumped in amongst the fleeing. Bent at the waist, he moved from the rear of the cringing soldiers toward their front, cuffing privates and grabbing the jacket shoulder of the occasional more senior rank while harshly issuing instructions. A trail of bayonets being fastened to muskets trailed his progress. The sergeant from Uvalda recognized that fortune had offered a covered approach into the Yankee lines, one shielding attackers from both enemy eyes and deadly fire. There would be no time to reload once a first shot was fired. The sergeant cupped his large hand around the back of the forwardmost man’s neck, pulling his face within a few inches.

Stillwell, I would have expected more from one of my corporals. You jest bought yourself the honor of being the second Georgian to break the Yankees’ line. Stay on me like a fly on shit.

The sergeant pulled his own bayonet from its scabbard, looking back one more time before hunching forward and beginning his descent. Corporal Stillwell rolled his neck and followed him down the gully. Better the fly, he thought, though the words never reached his lips.

Leaders behind drove the rest forward. The human stream moved sluggishly at first, then began coursing down the channel as men were caught up in the momentum. Bent at the waist for concealment, the yard of gully’s depth and foot or more of grass to either side kept them concealed for the full minute before the two lead Georgians stepped into the deeper water of Greenleaf Branch. A corporal from Hartford choked on his shout of warning, six inches of blood-slicked blade protruding from the back of his throat. The lead Confederate moved on, others trailing him left or moving right. Point-blank shots and thrusts of pointed steel felled men in blue. The New Yorkers turned against the new threat as comrades shouted a warning. The few fortunate enough to have a bullet loaded loosed it before hacking at the arrivals with musket stocks, thrust of barrel, or bare hands when their weapon proved too slow in coming to bear in the tangle of dirt banks and struggling bodies. Some managed to pull bayonets from belts and affix them, greeting arriving Rebels with thrusts into uniform cloth that struck bone or wedged in gristle. The Georgia sergeant struggled to pull his blade from the gut of a Yankee private, collapsing as a short captain fired a round into his chest. Stillwell cracked the captain’s skull with the butt of his musket before a tall infantryman pressed a muzzle to his chest and pulled the trigger. It clicked shut on an empty chamber. Stillwell knocked the barrel away as the bigger man grabbed him by the hair. The Confederate’s jaw opened in shocked surprise, blood spewing as a ramrod drove into his left eye. Confederates behind rushed on, stepping on or over the dead and wounded of both sides, the twisting course of Greenleaf Branch and battle’s uninterrupted clamor ensuring that the deadly tide went undetected until it washed around each successive bend. 

Rarely do the gods of war bestow their favor on the outnumbered for long. The higher ground gave the Union artillery commander behind Beardsley’s 79th New Yorkers a fine view of the enemy opposite. He watched, curious, as enemy soldiers below and to his left front moved toward a seam in the grass and disappeared from view. The mystery held until Confederates spilled into Greenleaf Branch. 

Number 3 and number 4 guns! Limber and follow me. Numbers 1 and 2 maintain your fire.

Chiefs of gun on 3 and 4 took their cue, shouting orders that would propel their weapons to wherever the captain dictated. Crew members turned about, returning rounds to their gun’s caisson. Others ran to bring horses forward. The animals arrived to trails already lifted from the ground for connection. Four minutes later the guns were being unlimbered 90 yards to the left. 

The battery commander pulled his watch from just beneath the flap of his jacket as his chiefs of gun turned to him for instruction. 

Lay your guns to engage the secesh coming down that creek. Solid shot. Show ‘em we know our business.

He glanced down at the timepiece as the two corporals started the drill, carrying out the steps that had been drilled into them until they filled even sleeping hours. It took but seconds before gunners were ramming home powder and shot. Crew chiefs checked the lay a final time. An error of a tube being a fraction low, a hair’s breadth too far left or right, and it would be friend rather than foe who suffered. Satisfied, each stepped back and looked to the captain. 

Gun number 3...Fire!

The first round was long and offline, a fountain of dirt erupting upward 35 yards beyond Greenleaf Branch and several yards left of the smaller waterway. Its corporal immediately stepped forward to make the adjustment.

Gun number 4.... Fire!

The second sphere tore a segment out of the smaller stream’s wall midway between the strike of the first round and where it spilled onto the larger waterway. Two Southerners hurtled rearward, though whether due to the round itself or the soil spewed on impact the captain could not tell.

Gun number 3...Fire!

Confederates five yards upstream came apart as Gun 3’s second round ran true along the smaller trench. A fourth round killed a pair more and took the legs off a third. Attackers’ shouts turned into bellows of agony. Survivors, skidded, slipped, and clawed themselves to a halt, scrambling to exit over the gully banks where they were once again targets for Federal infantry. Two more rounds of solid shot and only the dead or dying remained in the smaller creek bed. Below, the New Yorkers dispatched the remaining Rebels with ruthless brutality. 

Cease fire!

The gunners cast glances at their captain as he returned the timepiece to his jacket. 

Adequately done.

No need to praise too greatly. They were regulars after all. 

But he saw the smiles. They knew him no less well than he them. Truth be told, he had never started the watch.

The squeal of steel on steel woke Jackson, his cap tumbling across the railcar floor as his body lurched forward. Jumping to his feet, he snatched the wayward cover and leaned out of the open door, eyes scanning the ground forward of the halted engine.

Nothing seemed amiss, though the assistant engineer was running in his direction. Jackson leapt to the ground. The man stopped and rendered a salute despite his not being a soldier.

Genr’l Jackson, sir. Messenger from Genr’l Beauregard! Engineer’s talk’n to him now. Says he needs to see you right away.

Thank you, son. Pass word that regimental commanders are to come forward immediately. All others are to remain in their cars.

Jackson strode toward the engine. A single rider dressed in gray looked up from his conversation with the engineer as the brigade commander approached. 

Colonel Jackson?

It is I.

Sir, I am Major Atkinson. General Beauregard wishes to inform you that the Yankees are across Bull Run in force. We are heavily engaged north of Manassas Gap Junction. I am to also inform you that there is a force moving along the Warrenton Turnpike in this direction. He directed me to guide you to your position on the battlefield once you arrive.

Very well, major. Put your horse in the second car, then join me in the first.

Chapter 3

Battle

Sunday, July 21, 1861

On the Manassas Gap Railroad, Virginia

C aptain, can you hear me?

Beardsley slowly realized the question was meant for him. He opened his eyes and nodded, skull throbbing. 

The speaker was the company’s first sergeant—what was his name?—who hooked his arm under his commander’s and eased him to his feet. Beardsley leaned against the waterway’s rear bank. Not a gun fired. Not a musket could be heard. 

He leaned over the bank and vomited into the grass. His head throbbed, each heartbeat bringing a wave of pain. The first sergeant stood by, unspeaking, as Beardsley leaned against the back wall, breathing slowly, deeply, until the pain gave way to a constant ache. Parent. That was his name. From Tarrytown. Sergeant Parent. Beardsley raised his hand, fingers finding a soft spot beneath the hair on the left side of his skull though the skin was unbroken. He looked up at Parent.

The situation, first sergeant?

The first sergeant summarized the Confederate attack into the trench, the brutal fighting, and the Union artillery’s halting the flow of enemy from the small gully than ran into the New York lines.

The secesh turned about and retreated after that, sir. Our artillery hurt ‘em something fierce, both those in ranks and the others coming down the creek bed. Not sure we could have held without the gunners. Same happened elsewhere along General Tyler’s line. You took a musket blow to the head. Been out roundabouts five minutes. We cleared out the secesh that were here in the trench but lost eleven killed. Another five are hurt, two pretty bad. We’re tend’n to ‘em now. 

Beardsley weakly raised a hand in thanks and began working his way along the line, first sergeant in tow. He staggered slightly, reaching out to the forward bank to steady himself. Dizzy. Must have been a pretty good knock though he remembered nothing of it. A few more deep breaths and he resumed walking upstream, hand moving along the top of the trench for stability. Greenleaf Branch held a mix of blue, gray, and butternut-clad bodies. Most of the first stood. Others lay alongside the flowing water; fellow soldiers attending them. Too many were motionless, as were all in enemy colors. There must have been no quarter given. Those standing rested on whatever surface was nearby, any desire to see over the now shredded and crushed grasses forgotten in their exhaustion. Mouths hung slack-jawed, lips black with gunpowder. The tall soldier— Greco—cradled a fallen comrade in his lap. Beardsley recognized him too: Jeff Predmore. Brooklyn boy. Father a printer. Greco and Predmore had been fast friends, inevitably seen together about camp. Predmore was not much taller than Beardsley; he had been Douglas to Greco’s inevitable Abe in soldiers’ jokes. 

Stand tall, A Company.

Beardsley’s order, spoken loudly, renewed the throbbing. He paused until it again subsided, then spoke more quietly.

All helping the wounded carry on. The rest of you pick up the dead and lay them on the rear bank, Reb and friend alike. You fought well, men. Now take care of the less fortunate.

He turned to Parent.

First sergeant, please see that my orders are followed all along the line. I am going to speak to the gunners behind us.

Beardsley hoisted himself over the rear bank, briefly taking a knee as the sudden movement shot sparks across his vision. Rising slowly, he began walking upslope where Union artillerymen rested against caissons or sat with backs against gun wheels looking no less tired than did his own men. Captain Jonathan Crause waved as Beardsley approached. The two officers had met during training in Washington and later spent many evenings walking the capital’s dirt or muddy streets admiring the fantastic buildings. Though most in the 79th New York were from the city by the same name, Beardsley’s was a farming family, like Jonathan’s. Neither had seen anything like Washington before.

That’s a mean looking lump, Will. You okay?

Beardsley gave Crause a weak smile.

Been better, Jon. I’m luckier than many. Guess it take more than a secesh musket stock to put me away, but I don’t remember anything after the Rebs first got into our trench.

We saw it all from up here. Your New Yorkers gave better’n they got and then some. You sent the secesh scrambl’n.

Beardsley raised his voice, partly so that Crause’s men could hear and in part because it sounded so distant to his own noise-dulled hearing.

I understand that’s greatly thanks to you. Your men saved the day, Jon. I thought we were done for a minute there.

Crause pointed southward. 

Every Reb skedaddled.... Every one that could skedaddle, that is.

No regrets for that. Too many of ours are dead.

Beardsley stepped closer, dropping his voice. 

Got to tell you, Jon. Never been so scared in my life as I was before the battle. Fine after it started though.

Same here, Will. Wasn’t near as bad as I thought it would be. Our men did us both proud.

That they did.

Twenty-five yards distant, Private DeBold leaned against a wheel of Crause’s number 4 gun, watching the two officers talk. Bespeckled and fair-haired, his cap perched back to reveal a white forehead over a face grayed by smoke residue. A filthy hand ran a stalk of grass back and forth through a gap in his teeth. He spit the soggy stem from between his lips and was leaning down to get another when movement caught his eye. Squares of marching men strode with purposeful cadence from behind a hillock well to the other side of Greentree Branch. 

Capt’n.

Crause chuckled at something, not hearing. DeBold’s second call was a shout.

Capt’n!

Crause looked up sharply, as did the rest of the battery given the