Instead, the time had been well past noon before the army had gotten started. There was confusion over the order of march, and confusion over which articles of gear to bring along and what to leave behind in the camps at Alexandria. And there was the inevitable accordion effect suffered by green troops whose columns would stretch out on the road and then contract with every halt. The dust and the heat had prompted many of the men to drain their canteens, and though Grant demanded the utmost exertion from his officers the men could not be kept from straggling. They had been given months of drill and training in a soldier’s daily life, but they had no experience of war – no appreciation for the necessity of keeping together, in good order, and of making a rapid march. Instead the movement down the turnpike which had been intended to take a single day, stretched into two. Then it was discovered the men had pillaged the rations in their knapsacks, which were intended to have lasted them five days. Another day was lost while rations were offloaded from the trains in Centreville and distributed.
For Grant, whose brigade had taken the lead of Porter’s division and thus of the army, it seemed inevitable that surprise had long since been lost. His men had sparred with Confederate cavalry on the outskirts of Centreville, and the loss of a day while rations were distributed only confirmed to him that the Confederates under Joe Johnston would have had ample time to see to their defenses. That march along the turnpike had been memorable, for McDowell’s instructions had cautioned his officers against advancing too rashly into an ambush by masked artillery. Grant had felt his stomach tighten on the rise up each rolling hill, scarcely easing when the crest revealed no enemy more powerful than the occasional disgruntled farmer. The final approach to the little market town had been nerve-wrenching; only the certainty of ridicule and humiliation had kept him from giving the order to halt. But as his lead regiment advanced past the abandoned remains of an enemy camp, Grant had realized something profound: the enemy had been at least as frightened of him as he had been of them. With that had come a release of tension that made him almost giddy. Never again, he swore, would he allow himself to fear what an enemy might do.
McDowell used the enforced delay to reconnoiter up and down the Bull Run, a steep-banked creek passable at the stone bridge of the Warrenton Turnpike, which ran roughly northeast to southwest, and at several small fords to the left and right of the bridge. The Manassas ‘Line’ so vaunted in Southern newspapers seemed to consist of no more than a few earthworks for the scattered detachments covering those crossings. McDowell rejected outright the idea of forcing a way across at one of the fortified points, which reduced his options to two. Either he could cross miles above the bridge at Sudley Springs, or miles below it at the Orange and Alexandria Railroad bridge. Despite the difficult prospect of moving men and horses across the railway bridge, McDowell – an artilleryman himself – opted for that plan. Crossing the creek lower down would, he reasoned, place his army between the rebels and their base at Richmond, compelling Johnston to fight at a disadvantage of numbers or retreat.
Franklin’s division would demonstrate against the stone bridge, Balls Ford and Blackburn’s Ford lower down while Anderson’s remained in reserve along the Warrenton Pike. Porter’s division and two others would make their way by rough local roads to Yates Ford and the railroad bridge, a distance of about six miles. Once across the creek the three divisions would form line and sweep north, driving the rebels in detail and uncovering the fords to the stone bridge. To limit the fatigue of the march, the approach to the railroad bridge would be done in darkness and the heavy fighting concluded by noon. McDowell explained these orders to his commanders at the evening meal. There were no questions; the maneuver was clearly understood and its execution seemed well within the army’s capabilities.
The night march was more difficult than they had supposed. Units lost their way on farm roads no better than trails; artillery and ammunition wagons balked at tiny streams a man might hop across. Without accurate maps, or experienced guides, whole regiments went blundering through unmarked crossroads, leading to lengthy delays as the men were halted while scouts ranged ahead. More than once, units had to reverse themselves, generating even more confusion as they attempted to regain position on dirt tracks already crammed with men and horses.
The sun peeked over the horizon and climbed through the dusty trees, and Grant’s brigade – still in the lead – was still a mile or more from its desired position at the railroad bridge. Rolling peals of thunder made the tramping men peer apprehensively over their shoulders, but the dark clouds they saw were from artillery fire, not from rainy thunderheads. McDowell had massed a grand battery of more than twenty pieces at the stone bridge and posted another two batteries at Blackburn’s Ford, not in expectation of forcing a crossing there but to fix the enemy’s attention in anticipation of an assault that would never come.
More than an hour passed before the trail left the trees for the last open patch of farmland before the creek. In the near distance the railroad embankment etched a line across the meadow pasturage, vaulting itself through the screen of trees and brush on the creek bank. The regiments had to be halted while engineers, pioneers and skirmishers worked their way up to the creek bank, and despite their officers best efforts the men broke ranks. Some threw down their packs and slept, others ate up the rations that were intended to last them the rest of the day and on through tomorrow. Once the bridge and ford were pronounced deserted, men broke ranks again to refill the canteens they had already emptied, and the roiling of hundreds of feet quickly turned the water muddy.
Despite the interruptions, it was easy to get the men moving again. Despite their fatigue and sore feet, they knew they were approaching the moment of contact with the enemy, and so turned to with a will. Some felled trees, others tore the planking from the railroad bridge, still others ran lines to the far bank. In a moment, it seemed, a rough but serviceable bridge thundered to the iron-shod wheels of the artillery while its builders retrieved their rifles and set out also, oblivious to sodden pants and squelching shoes. In the meadows on the other side of the stream, Grant set his officers to deploying the brigade by regiments, from the 7th Ohio on the left to the shrunken 4th Minnesota on the right, where the last man’s sleeve would almost trail in the water. As each brigade crossed the makeshift bridge it would march behind the deployed troops and extend the line to the south. In the interim, General Porter rode up and conferred with Grant, agreeing that the division’s last brigade would form a reserve behind Grant’s brigade. They agreed that the road ahead most likely ran northwest to Blackburn’s Ford, while the left arm of the crossroads must angle southwest to Manassas Station.
A rattling of shots followed shouts from the broken ground on the horizon. Federal skirmishers moving up the road had likely encountered Confederates who had come to see what the motion in the trees was about. General Porter looked to Grant, who shrugged and nodded. The General flourished his sword. “The Division will advance!” he cried, and the orders echoed down from Captains to Lieutenants and, more profanely, to Sergeants. The line shivered, then steadied into motion as the drums took up the cadence. Their fellow divisions were just crossing the stream, but no matter: “Forward the Second!” was the cry, and as the flags slanted forward the regiments stepped out across the rolling pasture.
Grant galloped to the left, urging a company of the 7th Ohio be held back to provide a flank guard. The lines were less orderly now; the meadow was no parade ground, and despite the dry autumn weather the ground was soft and riddled with burrows. Forward they went, Grant trotting back to the road as General Porter galloped off to see to the 12th Brigade, just now dressing its lines to their far left. Another scattering of shots from the trees that hid the road’s rise to the higher ground beyond, few enough a man could have counted them had he so desired. Federal skirmishers were clinging to the verge of the woods, reluctant to retreat out into the open land beyond. Grant had a glimpse of men in rough clothes, staring down the road at the oncoming Federals, eyes wide and mouths agape. Then O’Connor bawled his way over the drums, halting the Minnesotans and swinging their muskets down to the level. Grant thought the range a little long, and made a note to say so to O’Connor later – if there was a later.
The roar of five hundred muskets was like a blow to the stomach, and despite her training Grant’s mare danced under his seat. The Confederates who had been in the road were gone, but whether they were wounded or flushed like rabbits Grant did not ever expect to know. The Minnesotans went through the reloading drill, or most did – here a man capered, while another clutched a shoulder bruised by the recoil. O’Connor got them moving again, but the brief halt had put the Minnesotans behind the rest of the line.
With a roar his New York regiment went up the road at a run, leaving the rest of the brigade to come on as they might through brush, trees and an unexpected fence at the base of the slope. Grant spurred his mount up the slope after them, arriving in time to hear the popping of rebel fire and watch the New Yorkers discharge a useless volley in return.
“Too high! Too high!” Grant called to their commander, a Hudson Valley Dutchman like the rest of his men.
“Glorious! Yes, glorious!” the other man shouted, forcing Grant to ride closer to make himself understood. But the firing had become general, and the smoke was too thick to see if the enemy had suffered any damage, or indeed if there were any longer any enemy to their front. By the time they got the men settled down, Pennybaker’s battery of 6-pounders had come up the road. Grant put them to the left of the road and had them deploy while the smoke cleared.
Ahead, the road sloped down to a draw that ran off to the right. That must be Blackburn’s Ford. Confederates were moving quickly, trying to change their facing from north-east to confront the unexpected enemy to their south. Grant’s quick count of flags gave him four regiments, more or less, with what he thought might be a few artillery pieces covering the ford itself. With Grant’s approval the 6-pounders opened with shell. Though the range was a little long he wanted to maximize the enemy’s confusion, perhaps induce them to retreat and uncover the ford. Instead, the Confederate commander left a thin screen to hold the ford against Franklin’s cannonade and sent his regiments surging uphill.
The seconds seemed to drag past with exquisite slowness, but every detail of the valley was as clear and bright as he had ever seen. A New Yorker fired – too high, again – and this time a sergeant wrenched his weapon away, berating him harshly before thrusting the gun back into the hapless private’s arms. A motion behind made him turn; here came the Pennsylvanians, and not a minute too soon. The New Yorkers stood – leveled – men were pitching forward, struck, others dancing from foot to foot in excitement – then the volley as the tips of the rebel flags came over the edge of the hill. Men went down in confusion, some wounded, others thrown back by stampeding fellows. This first rebel regiment was streaming back down the slope, men dragging the dead and wounded, some marching backwards to show their courage. The regiment to their right paused, a most peculiar shiver running through their ranks. Grant realized they were leveling their muskets and had only a half-second to ready himself before Pennybaker’s 6-pounders roared and the Confederates loosed their volley. Then he was fully occupied with getting his terrified mount under control – and no wonder, for a ball had gouged her flank with a raw, red lash. The Pennsylvanians got off a ragged volley in response, and that was enough to send the second enemy regiment off in pursuit of their fellows. The third… he had lost the third…
No, they had swung around the end of the hill and were just now roaring up it with bayonets fixed, ready to hit the Pennsylvanians in the flank. But the Ohioans fired – it must be the 7th, unless Porter had gotten the 12th Brigade up faster than… no, that was the Ohio flag surging up the hill, sure enough, and Grant was glad to see it. Down the hill went the third enemy regiment, moving too quickly to stop for any wounded comrades this time, and the men on the hilltop began to swing their hats and cheer.
“Stop that, now!” Grant bellowed, and the other officers took up the cry until order was restored. “You’ve done well, men!” Grant proclaimed, “But we have another hill to go, or maybe more, before this day is done! Look to your weapons, and to your fellows, and ready yourselves to go forward!” That brought another cheer, and this time Grant let them halloo a bit. He’d need a few minutes to get his brigade aligned, and it wouldn’t hurt to let the 12th come up on his open flank. In the little valley below the Confederates had dragged away two cannon and abandoned a third, and the blue coats of Franklin’s men were splashing across the ford.
“Runner! Need a runner here!” The brigade colors and his adjutant had come trotting up, and with them was a mounted messenger. “Ride down to the ford and tell those men we’re holding this hill, and we’ll advance in… say, a quarter-hour.” The rider saluted and rode off, and for the first time Grant noticed the smells: gunpowder, sweat, horse manure, and over that the bright coppery stench of blood. His gorge rose, but he controlled it.
“Call the regimental officers to me, now. And get a message back to the General: this hill is ours.”
I assume Price thought it was necessary to strike before the North increased in strength so was it an act of desperation or was he just itching for a fight? Great writing as always sir. 
