Beauregard, eager sabreur, whose heart was…

Beauregard, eager sabreur, whose heart was a French Print of a sabretasche-War with “La Gloire” written under it, Lovable, fiery, bizarre, picturesque as his name, Galloped toward Mitchell’s Ford with bald, quiet Joe Johnston, The little precise Scotch-dominie of a general, Stubborn as flint, in advance not always so lucky, In retreat more dangerous than a running wolf— Slant shadow, sniffing the traps and the poisoned meat, And going on to pause and slash at the first Unwary dogs before the hunters came up. Grant said of him once, “I was always anxious with Joe Johnston in front of me, I was never half so anxious in front of Lee.” He kissed his friends in the Nelson-way we’ve forgotten, He could make men cheer him after six-weeks retreating. Another man said of him, after the war was done, Still with that puzzled comparison we find When Lee, the reticent sword, comes into the question, “Yes, Lee was a great general, a good man; But I never wanted to put my arms round his neck As I used to want to with Johnston.” The two sayings Make a good epitaph for so Scotch a ghost, Or would if they were all. They are not quite all, He had to write his reminiscences, too, And tell what he would have done if it had not been For Davis and chance and a dozen turns of the wheel. That was the thistle in him—the other strain— But he was older then. I’d like to have seen him That day as he galloped along beside Beauregard, Sabreur and dominie planning the battle-lines. They’d ordered Jackson up to the threatened left But Beauregard was sure that the main assault Would come on the right. He’d planned it so—a good plan— But once the blocks start moving, they keep on moving.

The hands of the scuffed brown clock in the kitchen of the Henry House point to nine-forty-five. Judith Henry does not hear the clock, she hears in the sky a vast dim roar like piles of heavy lumber crashingly falling. They are carrying her in her bed to a ravine below the Sudley Road, maybe she will be safe there, maybe the battle will go by and leave her alive. The crows have been scared from their nests by the strange crashing, they circle in the sky like a flight of blackened leaves, wheeling and calling.

Back at Centerville, there are three-months’-men, A Pennsylvania regiment, a New York Battery. They hear the spent wave of the roar of the opening guns, But they are three-months’ men, their time is up today. They would have fought yesterday or a week ago, But then they were still enlisted—today they are not— Their time is up, and there can’t be much use or sense In fighting longer than you’ve promised to fight. They pack up their things and decide they’d better go home, And quietly march away from that gathering roar.

Luke Breckinridge, crouched by the Warrentown pike, Saw stuffed dolls in blue coats and baggy trousers Go down like squirrels under the rifle-cracks. His eyes glowed as a bullet ripped his sleeve And he felt well. Armies weren’t such a much Too damn many orders, too damn much saluting, Too many damn officers you weren’t allowed To shoot when they talked mean to you because They were your officers, which didn’t make sense. But this was something he could understand, Except for those dirty stinkers of big guns, It wasn’t right to shoot you with big guns But it was a good scrap except for that— Carried a little high, then … change it … good … Though men were hard to miss when you were used To squirrels. His eyes were narrow. He hardly heard The officer’s voice. The woods in front of him Were full of Kelceys he was going to kill, Blue-coated Kelcey dolls in baggy trousers. It was a beautiful and sufficing sight.