Barrycdog
Major
- Joined
- Jan 6, 2013
- Location
- Buford, Georgia
AUG 30th 1862 - Capt. James Hardeman Stuart gives his life for his country. John Estes Cooke, a member of Maj. Gen JEB Stuart's staff tells of meeting Capt. Stuart (probably on the evening of Aug 29th when Capt. Stuart was still with the 16th Miss.) Cooke is mistaken about Stuart going into battle with his 'old company' which would have been the 18th Miss, who were not present at the 2nd battle of Manassas. Other accounts say Capt. Stuart went into battle on the evening of the 30th with the 4th or 5th Texas (most likely the 4th)
From "The Wearing of the Gray" by Cooke:
Going back in memory to that time, I recall with melancholy interest the little trifling details of this my last meeting and "last greeting" with Hardeman Stuart. I was riding, about noon, to the front of Longstreet's line in search of General Stuart. Under a tree, immediately in rear of his front line, General Longstreet had just dismounted, and was taking off a brown linen overall, the face of the "old war horse" composed, good-natured, but "full of fight." Learning from him that General Stuart was "just on the right of his line," I rode in that direction along the front of the infantry drawn up for battle; the men kneeling on the left knee; the bayonets bristling above; finger on trigger; eyes fixed intently on the crest in front over which the advancing enemy were about to appear.
I went on, and in crossing a fallow of considerable extent, passed one of those small wooden houses which dot the region around Manassas. Often as I beheld such spectacles, this melancholy mansion attracted my attention. It was torn and dismantled — the huge besom of war seemed to have swept over it, sparing its very existence only from a sense of its insignificance. In the broken-down porch were some frightened young women, and crowds of soldiers had straggled up to cool their parched lips from a well in the yard. There were swarms of these crowding around the nearly exhausted well, and others basked in the sun with a careless air, which indicated natures callous to the coming battle.
All this was taken in at a single glance, and I was galloping on, when suddenly I heard a voice which uttered my name.I drew up and turned around. As I did so, a form detached itself from the rest, came running toward me with the gay exclamation, "How d'ye, Captain!" and I recognized Hardeman Stuart.
But what a change! He had always been the neatest person imaginable in his dress and appearance. His brown hair had always been carefully parted and brushed, his boots as polished as assiduous rubbing could make them, and his new uniform coat, with its gay new braid, had been almost too nice and unwrinkled for a soldier.His appearance was in vivid contrast with all this. He was coatless, unwashed, his boots covered with dust and his clothes had the dingy look of the real soldier, who is so often compelled to lie upon the ground, and to sleep in his apparel. His hair was unbrushed, and hung disordered around his face, and the gallant young captain of the Signal Corps had the appearance of a sapper and miner.
But the face was unchanged — that was the same; gay, ardent, joyous, as he held out his hand, and grasped mine with the same old friendly manner. The young captain was the image of martial energy and abandon. The bright smile broke forth from his face like sunshine, and his cheerful voice as he greeted me was full of the old kindly music.He was evidently overjoyed to see a familiar face among all the strange ones around him, where the eye met only alien glances; to press a friendly hand where none seemed ready to stretch forth and greet him.
I can see the bright face now, as he turned it up and smiled; hear the voice with its tones of boyish music as he related his misfortunes. He had posted himself upon a ridge with his detachment, and from his station was signalling the movements of the enemy, when a strong force surprised him, and compelled him to retire precipitately.So sudden was the attack that he was very nearly captured. His horse had been tied near; the young officer's uniform coat, which he had taken off, from the heat of the weather, strapped behind the saddle-and there was no time to mount. He escaped in the woods with his men minus horse and coat; but seemed to regard the whole affair as an excellent jest, and only the ordinary "fortune of war."
His gay laughter followed the narrative, and I remember the ardent light of the blue eyes looking out from the tangled curls of the brave boy.
"Well, Hardeman, you have had bad luck," I said, "but get another horse and come on.""I intend to; tell the General I'll soon be there."
"Yes."
"Good-bye."
I shook the brave hand and rode on. I was never more to touch it.
I have scarcely the heart to continue my narrative and relate the sequel. Something affects the throat as you think of these dead comrades whose hands you have clasped, whose voices you have heard. Some of the sunshine left the world when they went, and life grows dull. Poor Hardeman! But how can I call him poor? Rich, rather, beyond the wealth of kingdoms; for he died in the bloom of youth, before sorrow touched him, fighting for his native land.
He did not succeed in procuring a horse, which is always difficult just before a battle; and his brave young soul revolted from inaction at that moment. He must take his part in the action, in one capacity if not in another; if not as captain, then as private; and this resolution was speedily carried out. Procuring a musket and cartridge-box-old friends of his before his promotion-he sought for his old Mississippi company, entered its ranks, charged with them, and fell, shot through the heart.
He died where he fell, and sleeps in the weird path of Manassas. God rest his soul!
Such was the fate of Hardeman Stuart — an event which brought the tears to many eyes, albeit unused to the melting mood-and here my sketch might end. I will add, however, a somewhat curious incident which occurred a day or two after the battle:
General Stuart followed the enemy on Sunday, and coming up with his rear at the bridge over Cub Run, had a slight artillery engagement, and took many prisoners. The bridge was destroyed and the cavalry turned to the left, and making a circuit came into the Little River turnpike, at the mouth of the Frying Pan road. Proceeding down the turnpike in the direction of Germantown, a squadron captured a company of the enemy's cavalry; and advancing further to a small tavern on the roadside, took prisoners another company who were feeding their horses in fancied security at the place. This cavalry formed a portion of that which had operated in the battles around Groveton; and in possession of one of the men was found Hardeman Stuart's coat, captured with his horse and accoutrements on the mountain.
There was no trouble at all in identifying the coat. In the breast pocket was his captain's commission.
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From "The Wearing of the Gray" by Cooke:
Going back in memory to that time, I recall with melancholy interest the little trifling details of this my last meeting and "last greeting" with Hardeman Stuart. I was riding, about noon, to the front of Longstreet's line in search of General Stuart. Under a tree, immediately in rear of his front line, General Longstreet had just dismounted, and was taking off a brown linen overall, the face of the "old war horse" composed, good-natured, but "full of fight." Learning from him that General Stuart was "just on the right of his line," I rode in that direction along the front of the infantry drawn up for battle; the men kneeling on the left knee; the bayonets bristling above; finger on trigger; eyes fixed intently on the crest in front over which the advancing enemy were about to appear.
I went on, and in crossing a fallow of considerable extent, passed one of those small wooden houses which dot the region around Manassas. Often as I beheld such spectacles, this melancholy mansion attracted my attention. It was torn and dismantled — the huge besom of war seemed to have swept over it, sparing its very existence only from a sense of its insignificance. In the broken-down porch were some frightened young women, and crowds of soldiers had straggled up to cool their parched lips from a well in the yard. There were swarms of these crowding around the nearly exhausted well, and others basked in the sun with a careless air, which indicated natures callous to the coming battle.
All this was taken in at a single glance, and I was galloping on, when suddenly I heard a voice which uttered my name.I drew up and turned around. As I did so, a form detached itself from the rest, came running toward me with the gay exclamation, "How d'ye, Captain!" and I recognized Hardeman Stuart.
But what a change! He had always been the neatest person imaginable in his dress and appearance. His brown hair had always been carefully parted and brushed, his boots as polished as assiduous rubbing could make them, and his new uniform coat, with its gay new braid, had been almost too nice and unwrinkled for a soldier.His appearance was in vivid contrast with all this. He was coatless, unwashed, his boots covered with dust and his clothes had the dingy look of the real soldier, who is so often compelled to lie upon the ground, and to sleep in his apparel. His hair was unbrushed, and hung disordered around his face, and the gallant young captain of the Signal Corps had the appearance of a sapper and miner.
But the face was unchanged — that was the same; gay, ardent, joyous, as he held out his hand, and grasped mine with the same old friendly manner. The young captain was the image of martial energy and abandon. The bright smile broke forth from his face like sunshine, and his cheerful voice as he greeted me was full of the old kindly music.He was evidently overjoyed to see a familiar face among all the strange ones around him, where the eye met only alien glances; to press a friendly hand where none seemed ready to stretch forth and greet him.
I can see the bright face now, as he turned it up and smiled; hear the voice with its tones of boyish music as he related his misfortunes. He had posted himself upon a ridge with his detachment, and from his station was signalling the movements of the enemy, when a strong force surprised him, and compelled him to retire precipitately.So sudden was the attack that he was very nearly captured. His horse had been tied near; the young officer's uniform coat, which he had taken off, from the heat of the weather, strapped behind the saddle-and there was no time to mount. He escaped in the woods with his men minus horse and coat; but seemed to regard the whole affair as an excellent jest, and only the ordinary "fortune of war."
His gay laughter followed the narrative, and I remember the ardent light of the blue eyes looking out from the tangled curls of the brave boy.
"Well, Hardeman, you have had bad luck," I said, "but get another horse and come on.""I intend to; tell the General I'll soon be there."
"Yes."
"Good-bye."
I shook the brave hand and rode on. I was never more to touch it.
I have scarcely the heart to continue my narrative and relate the sequel. Something affects the throat as you think of these dead comrades whose hands you have clasped, whose voices you have heard. Some of the sunshine left the world when they went, and life grows dull. Poor Hardeman! But how can I call him poor? Rich, rather, beyond the wealth of kingdoms; for he died in the bloom of youth, before sorrow touched him, fighting for his native land.
He did not succeed in procuring a horse, which is always difficult just before a battle; and his brave young soul revolted from inaction at that moment. He must take his part in the action, in one capacity if not in another; if not as captain, then as private; and this resolution was speedily carried out. Procuring a musket and cartridge-box-old friends of his before his promotion-he sought for his old Mississippi company, entered its ranks, charged with them, and fell, shot through the heart.
He died where he fell, and sleeps in the weird path of Manassas. God rest his soul!
Such was the fate of Hardeman Stuart — an event which brought the tears to many eyes, albeit unused to the melting mood-and here my sketch might end. I will add, however, a somewhat curious incident which occurred a day or two after the battle:
General Stuart followed the enemy on Sunday, and coming up with his rear at the bridge over Cub Run, had a slight artillery engagement, and took many prisoners. The bridge was destroyed and the cavalry turned to the left, and making a circuit came into the Little River turnpike, at the mouth of the Frying Pan road. Proceeding down the turnpike in the direction of Germantown, a squadron captured a company of the enemy's cavalry; and advancing further to a small tavern on the roadside, took prisoners another company who were feeding their horses in fancied security at the place. This cavalry formed a portion of that which had operated in the battles around Groveton; and in possession of one of the men was found Hardeman Stuart's coat, captured with his horse and accoutrements on the mountain.
There was no trouble at all in identifying the coat. In the breast pocket was his captain's commission.
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Bringing the