Rebels at the Gate: Lee and McClellan on the Front Line of a Nation Divided (23 page)

The eight riders soon galloped into view. By crossing at the ford rather than the bridge, they might discover the nimrods' hideout if allowed to continue. Hunting rifles slowly came to bear as the cavalry reined in at midstream. The riders conversed in soft tones as their horses drank. Overhead, the hidden marksmen each selected a man. One of the troopers finally drew his reins to start across—the signal those woodsmen had been awaiting.

Rifles cracked. Helpless Federals toppled from their saddles into the cool stream. The mountaineers watched them thrash in mortal agony. One dying trooper grasped a horse's mane to stay above the water. Another reeled forward when shot, desperately hugging his mount. A comrade reached for him just as a fatal bullet likewise struck him. The two handsome cavaliers died arm in arm, their blood mingling in the current. A lone survivor frantically whipped his horse across the river and dashed away.

The woodsmen had already vanished, disbanding by mutual consent. There would be more hunting in the days ahead. Guerrilla warfare had come to the Alleghenies.
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Despite the danger, scouting was a passion for the Federals. Many an outpost picket was infatuated with the idea of scaling the rugged peaks on every side, of exploring deep and mysterious valleys and ravines. The regular scouts were looked on in reverence. It was little wonder that rumors of an expedition would crowd headquarters with anxious volunteers.

A few hard crackers and a slice of ham or bacon were all the provision needed for these details. Receiving their instructions, scouts plunged into the wilderness, singly or in small groups. Their orders were usually to avoid human contact. Some doubtlessly sought a cozy retreat to pass the time, but the majority were anxious to win distinction. They scaled moss-covered peaks by day and slept under the stars at night, enduring great privation in hope of a simple reward—the sight of an enemy camp, or the discovery of an unguarded path. Nothing would be heard of them for days, until, one by one, they emerged from the thickets to relate their discoveries to the commandant.

Federal soldiers were not alone in their wanderings. Both armies played a deadly game of hide and seek in those mountains. Confederate General Henry Jackson hand picked a rifle corps of eighty men from the local militia as scouts. This band was ordered to watch the turnpikes and to “annoy the enemy from the hills and bushes.” Jackson informed the Confederate War Department of his plan: “ To me, it is altogether obvious that the only way to hold this country at all is by adopting the guerrilla system.” It was strange candor from a diplomat. No reply was forthcoming from General Lee, a man known to have a “pious horror of guerrillas.” Jackson would regret the decision.
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The mountains were soon infested with guerrillas. Hardy mountaineers, long accustomed to unfettered freedom, cursed the intrusion of armies. Protected by a conspiracy of silence among those who gave them food and shelter, angry natives struck back.
Soldiers were an easy mark for these cold-blooded killers—known derisively as “bushwhackers.”

Adjutant Charles Ross of the Thirteenth Indiana described them as “bloodthirsty, moccasin-wearing cut throats (expert woodsmen and mountaineers), crack shots with the rifle…too cowardly to fight in the open.” Bushwhackers concealed themselves behind rocks or laurel thickets and picked off soldiers at will. Recalled Ross, “It was no uncommon thing to find a dead picket, or a soldier lying by the roadside, shot through the back, his pockets turned inside out, and invariably some part of his clothing gone.”

Regular troops looked upon the bushwhackers with unbridled horror. “Imagine a stolid, vicious-looking countenance, an ungainly figure, and an awkward if not ungraceful, spinal curve in the dorsal region, acquired by laziness and indifference to posture,” wrote one Federal, “a garb of the coarsest texture of homespun linen or linsey-woolsey, tattered and torn, and so covered with dirt as not to enable one to guess its original color; dilapidated, rimless hat or cap of some wild animal covering his head, which had not been combed for months; his feet covered with moccasins, and a rifle by his side, a powder-horn and shot-pouch slung around his neck, and you have the beau ideal of a Western Virginia bushwhacker.”

Thus equipped, the bushwhacker sallied forth with the stealth of a panther to lay in wait for his victim. He killed “for the sake of killing,” and plundered “for the sake of gain.” Avowed Charles Ross, “Bushwhackers and rattlesnakes! Of the two I prefer the latter for they at least give notice of attack.”
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Guerrilla bands inaugurated a rein of terror. “Every man's hand was raised against his neighbor,” recalled one observer, “until a spirit of armed resistance to all law largely prevailed.” It was a time to settle old scores, often more personal than political. “Persecutions are common, killings not rare, robberies an everyday occurrence,” reported Major Rutherford B. Hayes of the Twenty-third Ohio Infantry from the mountains of Western Virginia.

Homes were sacked and burned. Citizens dangled limply from ropes in the woods. John Beatty wrote of a man found “with his head cut off and entrails ripped out, probably a Union man who had been hounded down and killed.” One ferocious guerrilla leader stuck the head of a Federal soldier on a pole by the roadside as fair warning to all. “Some bloody deeds are done in these hills,” observed Major Hayes, “but not all on one side.”
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The soldiers adapted to this strange mode of warfare with a reckless, devil-may-care contempt of danger. “Went out a Skouting yesterday,” wrote one Hoosier lad to his father. “We got To one House where there was Five Secessionest And they broke and Run and Arch…holoed out to Shoot the ornery Suns of Bitches…[and we] all let go…at them.…Thay may Say what they please, but godamit pa It is Fun.”
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When guerrillas gunned down Federal scouts near Cheat Mountain on consecutive days in early August, Colonel Nathan Kimball garnered reinforcements and rushed to the scene. Two prisoners were taken into custody, a sulky, dull-looking pair who called themselves “Mountain Rangers.” The angry colonel questioned them, demanding the number and whereabouts of their gang. But they said nothing, a right given to all prisoners of war except bushwhackers. These men were looked upon as outlaws—assassins caught in the act of murder.

Colonel Kimball became increasingly animated as he tried to loosen their tongues. Finally—exasperated beyond control—Kimball drew his pistol and shot one of the bushwhackers. The horrified prisoner began to speak freely, after which his wound was attended to. Such captives were routinely sent to Ohio prisons to await trial until the Virginia courts were reorganized.
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Guerrilla warfare hardened regular soldiers to the plight of civilians. Despite rules to the contrary, Federal troops routinely looted farms. Many a mess on Cheat Mountain had veal, new potatoes, and maple syrup after a scouting foray. Entire harvests were stolen or destroyed. A sympathetic Confederate wrote of dwellings “that had Bin Rob & plunderd Killing hogs Cattle sheep poltery of all Kinds [besides] Taking out the huney & Busting them all to peaces [and] Tearing Down fences.” The Confederates were no less active. “We foraged rather extensively,” admitted a Tennessean near Huntersville, “and fat mountain pigs, young chickens, and potatoes and green corn, all made up a pretty good living for soldiers, as long as they lasted.”
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There was little compassion for the natives. An Indiana soldier declared, “The people out here are very ignorant and the farther we go the more ignorant they are. You scarcely ever find one that was ever out of the state.…They are ignorant beyond…imagination.” A mountaineer who had lived thirty years on one farm was asked the name of his county by some scouts. “Virginny!” he answered, positively unaware of any subdivisions of the state. He seemed as informed as his neighbors, one of whom admonished that her family was neither Unionists nor Secessionists—they were Baptists.

As viewed through the eyes of civilized soldiers, these isolated mountain folk lived in log dwellings that more resembled woodpiles. Newspapers were a curiosity to them, books a sealed mystery, the locomotive an “unimaginable monster.” Fair-minded observers noted a “sprinkling of loyal, intelligent people,” but adventures like that of a Federal scout near Elkwater were more amusing to relate.

Spying a little log hut tucked in a dark ravine, the scout rode to the front door—no doubt anticipating a hearty meal. Greeting an old woman “with a face like a pig's,” he dismounted and asked for some dinner. “What! Wittles?” exclaimed the horrible-looking creature. “Whar did you come from, and what be a sojer doin’ here?”

“Well, I came from Indianapolis, and be after something to eat,” he replied. “Are there any secesh in these parts?”

“Any what?”

“Secesh.”

“Why, gracious, what's them?”

“Are you and your folks for the Union?”

Scouts, Spies, and Bushwhackers
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“Why sartin. That's the old man, neow.”

Just then appeared a “gaunt-eyed, slim-livered, carnivorous, yellow-skinned, mountain Virginian—no doubt one of the first families.”

“Look heah,” the old woman said, “This ‘ere sojer wants to know if you be Union.”

The old fellow looked more astonished than the woman. As their parley continued, the soldier inquired what the old man thought of the war.

“What war?” exclaimed the mountaineer. “The Revolution?”

“Yes, the rebellion, we call it.”

“Oh, why, we gin the Britishers fits, didn't we?”

That old couple knew nothing of the conflict in their mountains.
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During one scouting foray, Federals halted a wagon bearing a lone Confederate under flag of truce. He proved to be Lt. James Dorset of the Twentieth Virginia Infantry, captured during the Battle of Rich Mountain. Dorset had escorted the body of Captain William Skipwith home to Richmond for burial, pledging to return as a prisoner of war. The chivalrous lieutenant made the long journey back to honor his word. Adjutant Charles Ross claimed this incident was the only one of its kind during the war.
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Another remarkable figure was nabbed by Federal pickets in the woods near Elkwater on August 14. His clothing was badly ripped by briers; his hands and face were bleeding. Toting a shoulder bag and walking staff, he professed to be a farmhand out looking for a strayed steer. He had removed his boots to relieve swollen feet and was carrying them when apprehended.

Imitating the rough language and manner of a mountaineer, he asked if the sentinel “had seed anything of a red steer.”

The sentinel had not.

“Well, I must be a goin',” the herder said. “It is a gettin’ late, and I am durned feared I won't git back to the farm afore night. Good day.”

“Hold on,” barked the sentinel. “Better go and see the Captain.”

“Oh, no, don't want to trouble him, it is not likely he has seed the steer, and it's a gettin’ late.”