Rebels at the Gate: Lee and McClellan on the Front Line of a Nation Divided (44 page)

“Some of our boys goes a sparking,” wrote another, “married or not.” Love was in the air. Fearing that hometown sweethearts would marry someone else while they were away, heartsick soldiers carried on pen-pal courtships. Little Billy Davis, for one, had his eye on a certain Miss Jennie of Hopewell, Indiana. It started innocently with the trading of letters—until the last line of Miss Jennie's latest offered a shocking confession.

“I had never before received a letter of that kind,” Billy confessed to his journal, “but I became deeply interested at once; and fully responsive in sentiment.” Billy's heart raced as he read her dazzling confession over and over. Ten days of “delightful dreams” and “puzzling questions” passed before he mustered the courage to respond. Once more, Billy savored the magical line of Miss Jennie's letter: “
But I must close lest I love you to[o] much.
” Then he stopped cold—for the word viewed so many times as “love” properly leaped from the page as…“bore”! “I sat dumb,” recalled Billy, “while the air castles which I had built, tumbled into one heap and vanished.”
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An Ohio soldier in Western Virginia mailed the following verse to his distant “Valentine”:

O, Suzie, don't get married to those that stay at home; But rather take a soldier, just wait till I get home… So keep your spirits up, and don't you be afraid, Because I'm in the army, that you'll be an old maid. But if you will get married, you needn't wait for me; There's just as good fish swimming as ever swam the sea.
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A Union telegraph operator named George W. Printz found himself badly smitten by Cupid's arrow. The subject was a Beverly lass named Harriett Crawford. Miss Harriett was fetching and high-spirited. Unfortunately for Printz, she was also a die-hard Rebel.

Printz was hopelessly in love, but Harriett could not bring herself to marry a “Yankee.” Inspired by the “mightiest power under heaven,” Printz deserted to the Confederate army and returned after the war to marry Miss Harriett.
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One day in June of 1861, mail for the Seventh Ohio Infantry arrived in the village of Weston, Lewis County, Virginia. Soldiers crowded around to take in all the news.

“My folks are sending me some shoes,” declared one Charles Johns as he slipped an envelope into his pocket. “They think we are in for a first-class war.”

Turning, he saw John Wood, the regiment's normally cheerful orderly, holding a letter of his own. Wood's look was tense; his face was pale and drawn.

“What's wrong, fellow? Sick?”

“Nothing at all,” snapped Wood, as he disappeared into a tent.

The guard was ordered to be on full alert that night. There were rumors of Confederates about. No one was to pass, not even those Weston girls riding out for social calls.

Guard number ten paced his beat near a covered bridge outside of town. Nothing unusual was observed as night came on. All was peaceful and quiet.

Suddenly, a figure appeared in the gloomy approach to the bridge.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

No answer, only the thump of feet upon wood. A second challenge was offered. No response. And then the sentinel's gun flashed.

A shrill cry, “You can't shoot a rebel,” another flash, and all was still.

The anxious sentinel explained the situation to his relief. Fashioning a searchlight, they moved cautiously toward the bridge. Nothing was found.

“Yes, he is seriously wounded. I wish you would send for Dr. Camden,” said the physician as he examined John Wood, who lay unconscious at headquarters. Turning to the commanding officer, the physician held up a shattered daguerreotype image. He had found it in a pocket of the wounded man's clothing.

“This no doubt saved his life, if he lives; I wonder who it is. On the back it says ‘ To John from Evelyn.’ But tell me what happened.”

“Well, it was like this, replied the officer; the sentry was ordered to shoot and he shot. The second guard after search thought him joking, but when morning came they found blood on the east end of the flooring of the bridge. Further examination showed smears on the top beams of the upper side. All along the great roof beam could be seen the imprint of human hands as though dipped in paint. Lying on it in a precarious situation, fifteen feet above the floor, at the end toward town, was Wood. A detachment of the guard got him down and here he is. I don't know why he did it, for of all persons he knew the orders and that it meant death.”

“Well, some things are beyond me,” said the physician as he fingered Wood's clothing. “Look, here is a letter. Perhaps it will shed some light on it.” Unfolding the paper he read:

Elmira, Ohio, June 23, 1861

Dear John: You know all my people are down in Virginia. I simply cannot let you go on making war against many of my loved ones. You have made your choice and I have made mine. Our engagement is to be considered ended.

Evelyn

“That explains it all, but I hope he will get well anyway. Let Dr. Camden examine him when he comes and leave Johns with him.” The physician shook his head and departed.

Wood soon regained consciousness. A few days of careful nursing assured his recovery.

Once again, a courier rode up with the mail. “A letter for you, Wood,” he exclaimed. “Brace up, boy, I'll bet its good news.”

“Well, give it to Johns and let him read it to me.”

With mixed feelings, the letter was opened and its contents read aloud:

Elmira, Ohio, June 27, 1861

Dear John: No one will ever know the agony I have gone through since writing a note a few days ago. I know now you were only doing your duty. If you still care and feel unworthy I will be waiting for you. Every day I shall pray that God will spare you, and every moment now I shall look forward to your reply.

Your own ungrateful, Evelyn
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Time has not revealed their fate.

“
With our people the Union and the New State are
convertible terms. Crush the one and you, as certain
as death, in my opinion, crush the other.”

—Archibald Campbell

Spring comes slowly to the Alleghenies. The year 1862 was no exception; snows lingered on the mountain crests even as flowers blossomed in sequestered coves. The season for active campaigning was at hand.

On March 11 of that year, President Lincoln included Western Virginia, parts of Kentucky, and Tennessee in a new “Mountain Department.” General Rosecrans, politically out of favor in Washington because of a sharp tongue and blunt honesty, was relieved of command. His replacement was Major General John Charles Frémont, “the Pathfinder,” a flamboyant explorer, and the 1856 Republican candidate for president. On March 29, 1862, Frémont took command at Wheeling.
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General Robert Milroy, commanding the Cheat Mountain District, promptly begged him for orders to march on Staunton. Developments in the lower Shenandoah Valley left the Confederates at Camp Allegheny exposed. On the second of April
1862, General “Allegheny” Johnson reluctantly abandoned that mountaintop post. “All the soldiers are in good spirits,” reported native son James Hall as the Confederates marched east, “but Western Virginians think it looks but little like getting home.”

At long last, on April 6, General Milroy planted his banner upon the breastworks of Camp Allegheny. Ed Johnson was gone, but the Storm King remained defiant—pummeling Milroy's brigade with a tempest of rain and sleet. Federal soldiers packed into the former Confederate cabins. “But for the shelter they gave us,” swore one grateful Unionist, “many would have perished in the storm that prevailed all night.”

Dawn unveiled an extraordinary scene. Every surface was coated with a thick layer of glassy ice. As clouds dispersed, the rising sun glittered off millions of frozen crystals—sparkling like the waves of a dazzling silver sea. One of Milroy's soldiers wrote, “The turnpike, after leaving the camp, passed through a dense mountain forest, and as the rain fell upon the trees, freezing as it fell, the tall pines had become freighted with their load of crystal ice, the weight of which inclined them together, forming an arch of fantastic design, under which for miles and miles we marched.” Haunting winds emitted “flute-like sounds that contained every note in the scale.” Swaying trees creaked and groaned, snapping with a loud report. The percussive crash of falling timber accompanied a “weird, awe-inspiring” serenade to the departing Federals. Ahead lay the Shenandoah Valley and General Stonewall Jackson.
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On April 3, the date General Milroy received orders to advance, citizens of the proposed State of West Virginia ratified their new constitution. Governor Frank Pierpont reconvened the General Assembly on May 6 at Wheeling. Pierpont instructed the delegates: “The Constitution of the United States provides that no new State shall be formed or erected within the jurisdiction of any
other State, without the consent of the Legislature of the State concerned, as well as of the Congress.” Pierpont's Restored Government of Virginia consummated its role on May 13 by including forty-eight counties within the new state border. Certified copies of the West Virginia statehood act and constitution were proudly forwarded to Washington.
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Congress was then preoccupied with General McClellan's Army of the Potomac. The general's 135,000-man force had been shipped to the Virginia Peninsula by April 4, but its overland march to Richmond was delayed. The advance had barely commenced when McClellan's juggernaut stalled before an inferior Rebel force at Yorktown. Once again, the general vastly overestimated enemy numbers—thanks in part to Confederate troops that repeatedly marched in circles before his eyes. Badly fooled, the wary McClellan prepared to lay siege. General Joseph Johnston's outmanned Confederates then drew back to within seven miles of Richmond. Again McClellan followed and cautiously laid siege. He was close enough to hear church bells in the Southern capital—bells that might have tolled a death knell for the Confederacy.