March 23 — This morning we ate breakfast at four o’clock, and daylight found us on the march for Kernstown. We arrived at Bartonsville by sunrise and remained there about two hours; then went within half a mile of Kernstown and halted. From there one gun went still a little farther on toward the town. Just a little south of town, and where the pike makes a little turn, stands a small brick house on the west side of the road. In front of that house our first gun went in position, and fired the first and opening shot of the battle of Kernstown.
The Federal artillery was in position on a range of hills northwest of the town and replied to our opening shot with a vim which at once bespoke that they meant business. In the meantime a body of sharpshooters and two pieces of artillery advanced on our position from the east side of town and a little to right of our front. When the sharpshooters opened on us with their long-range rifles, and the two pieces of artillery commenced firing on us, we abandoned our position and retired under fire. We fell back about half a mile.
The first shell they fired at us from the battery on our right was a twelve-pounder, and I saw it flying in its graceful curve through the air, coming directly toward the spot where I was standing. I watched it until it struck the ground about fifteen feet in front of me. I was so interested in the sky ball, in its harmless appearance, and surprised that a shell could be so plainly seen during its flight, that I for a moment forgot that danger lurked in the black speck that was descending to the earth before me like a schoolboy’s innocent plaything. It proved to have been a percussion shell, and when it struck the ground it exploded and scattered itself in every direction around me, and threw up dirt and gravel like a young volcano. Some of the gravel struck me on the arm. Then I left that place instantly, as I did not have any inclination whatever to watch any more shell just then, and my gun had already retired.
Soon after we fell back from our first position the cannonading became general. The Yankee batteries on the hills west of town opened fire on our cavalry, and one four-gun battery came up the pike and planted its guns east of the road and not far from where we fired the first shot this morning.
We opened fire on it when it entered the field, and it wheeled in battery under our fire. The Yanks were expeditious and lively in getting ready, and in a very few moments they briskly returned our fire with all four of their guns at close range. We had only three pieces — two near the pike and one about two hundred yards farther to the right, all on the east of the road.
The artillery fire now became terrific. Hundreds of shell went just over our heads, howling and shrieking in the air like demons on their way to deal death and destruction to Rebels. Some of their shell exploded over our heads and sowed their fragments and leaden hail in the sod around us. Others exploded close in our rear and thundered like batteries in the air where the furies of battle were fiendishly hissing the weird dirge of death and destruction. Just then I was ready to run without further notice.
Our twelve-pound howitzer shell exploded right among their guns, and eventually, unable to endure our fire any longer, the Yankee battery left the field. I was just about as glad as a raw recruit can possibly expect to be on a day like this, and under like circumstances, when I saw the Yankee battery limber up and leave the field. About midday Jackson’s troops began to arrive on the field. His infantry and artillery went to the left of our position and on the range of hills west of the pike. His men were not in first-class condition to take their places in line of battle, which they were required to do almost immediately after their arrival on the field, from the fact that they were weary and tired, and almost broken down with over-fatigue from hard marching. Since yesterday morning they marched from three miles south of Mount Jackson, which is about forty miles from Kernstown.
The hills west of Kernstown were blue with Yankee infantry. When Jackson began to form his line a regiment of the Yankee infantry double-quicked from Kernstown across the fields toward our left. They had a large and conspicuous flag. When Colonel Ashby saw it he came riding rapidly up to the battery and cried, “Fire on that flag.” In a moment we sent a shell through the center of the regiment. We fired at it some four or five times. About half of the regiment bowed humbly to the ground every time we fired, and to say that they double-quicked after we fired the first shell does not begin to express the movement of that regiment until it disappeared behind a low ridge.
It was a little after four o’clock when the principal battle between the infantry commenced in earnest. The musketry was fearful. One continued roll raged fiercely for two hours, with now and then a slight lull which for variety was broken with the deep thunder of artillery. When the musketry opened so suddenly along the line one of our boys, almost in despair, exclaimed: “My God, just listen to the musketry! There will be no fighting between these armies after to-day, for they will all be killed on both sides this evening.”
But it is utterly astonishing and wholly incomprehensible, especially to a tyro, how men standing in line, firing at each other incessantly for hours like they did to-day, can escape with so few killed and wounded, for when Jackson’s infantry emerged from the sulphurous bank of battle smoke that hung along the line the regiments appeared as complete as they were before the fight.
It was nearly dusk when the firing ceased, and Jackson gave up the field, repulsed but not vanquished, defeated but not routed nor demoralized, for his troops are camped for the night around Newtown, not more than three or four miles from the battle-field.
To-day was the first time that I experienced the realities of an actual battle-field, and am willing to admit that to see two armies in battle array is an imposing sight. The glittering flash of burnished arms, the numerous battle flags floating over the forming lines, the infantry marching with measured step in close order taking their places in the growing battle line, with here and there a group of artillery in position, is so inspiring as to almost fascinate even a timid freshman as he stands ready to take his place for the first time in the human shambles. The enchantment act transpired before the battle opened, but when the firing commenced and they began in earnest to pass the bullets, shot, and shell around promiscuously, the fascination and all its kindred suddenly took flight from me faster than forty suns can rout the most delicate morning mist. Mother, Home, Heaven are all sweet words, but the grandest sentence I ever heard from mortal lips was uttered this evening by Captain Chew when he said, “Boys, the battle is over.” We are camped this evening on the first hill south of Newtown.
