The Rhode Island Artillery at the First Battle of Bull Run — Context and Discussion
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The catalog record for The Rhode Island Artillery at the First Battle of Bull Run — Context and Discussion provides practical reading context through 8,566 words, 38 min estimated reading time, and 1 detected text section.
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Harrisburg was not reached until the next morning, and it was not until the following morning that the train arrived in Washington.
Although the journey was a long one, and tiresome, many incidents transpired to relieve the tedium of the trip. At Baltimore, which was passed through in the evening, every man was on the _qui vive_, with nerves strung to the tension, so great was the fear that an attack might be made upon us. Every one who had a revolver carried it cocked. A corporal, who is now a commissioned officer in the regular army, remarked to me that he never was in such danger in his life, though nothing had occurred to awaken a sense of danger, except that a small pebble was thrown, probably by some boys, that hit one of the gun carriages on the flat car, upon which he and I were riding. The next day rebel flags, in imagination, were frequently discovered while passing through Maryland.
On our arrival at Washington, the morning of the twenty-second, we were cordially greeted by Captain Tompkins of the three months battery, and he and his men lent us every assistance in their power. The company went into camp in Gale's woods, with the Second Regiment Rhode Island Infantry, and adjoining were the camps of the three months organizations--the First Regiment Rhode Island Detached Militia and the First Battery. The ground occupied by the three months men was already known as "Camp Sprague;" the ground occupied by the Second Battery and the Second Regiment was named "Camp Clark," in honor of Bishop Thomas M. Clark, who had taken a great interest in the raising and the organization of troops in Rhode Island.
Affairs went along more smoothly than could reasonably have been expected from men just taken from the pursuits of civil life. Captain Reynolds, with rare tact, won the confidence of all his men and officers. Section and battery drills took place daily, in the morning, and the afternoons were generally spent at standing gun drill.
On the ninth of July, while at section drill, a sad accident occurred, by which Corporal Morse (Nathan T.) and private Bourne (William E.) lost their lives, and private Freeman (Edward R.) was very seriously injured. From some unaccountable cause the limber chest upon which they were mounted exploded, almost instantly killing Morse and Bourne and severely injuring Freeman. The remains of Morse and Bourne were escorted to the depot by the company, and there was extended to them a marked tribute of respect upon their arrival and burial at home.
On the sixteenth of July the battery left Camp Clark at half past one o'clock in the morning, with the First and Second Rhode Island Regiments, but it was broad daylight before the command got fairly away from the vicinity of the camp. Under the lead of Colonel Ambrose E. Burnside, who had command of the Second New Hampshire, Seventy-first New York, First and Second Rhode Island Regiments and the battery, as a brigade, the company marched over Long Bridge to a point about ten miles from Washington, where the whole brigade bivouacked for the night. The next morning the march was resumed at day-break, and Fairfax Court House was reached about half past one in the afternoon. The battery was parked and the company went into camp near the Court House, on the ground and near the residence of a Mr. Stephenson, an English gentleman with a large and interesting family, every member of which appeared to do their utmost to promote our comfort. Early the next morning, Thursday the eighteenth, the advance again began and continued with numerous delays until near night-fall, when camp was established near Centreville, on the plantation of a Mr. Utteback.
On the morning of Sunday the twenty-first the brigade broke camp and commenced the march towards Manassas. The march was a tedious and lonely one until daybreak. The morning broke as clear and lovely as any that ever opened upon Virginia soil. In the early daylight it seemed to dawn upon the minds of both officers and men, that they were there for a fixed purpose, and that the actual business of their vocation was to commence. Previously, nearly all had thought that upon the approach of the United States troops, with their splendid equipment and the vast resources behind them, the "rebel mob," as it was deemed, but which we afterwards learned to respect as the rebel forces, would flee from their position and disperse.
J. Albert Monroe’s narrative, originally read before the Rhode Island Soldiers and Sailors Historical Society in 1878, opens not on the battlefield but in a Providence armory. The account traces the rapid formation of a new artillery company after the Marine Artillery departed for Washington in April 1861. Monroe describes enrolling “some three hundred names” within days and assuming drill duties “by general consent, rather than by appointment or election.” This emphasis on voluntary, improvised organization sets the tone for a memoir that repeatedly examines how order emerges—and collapses—under pressure.
From Armory to Battlefield: The Making of a Battery
Monroe devotes considerable space to the early weeks of recruitment and training, offering a granular view of how a civilian militia transformed into a military unit. He notes that the initial three-month call-up shaped expectations: many assumed “seventy-five thousand men would be amply sufficient” to quell the rebellion. When the three-year call came, “those whose private business was of such importance” withdrew, leaving a core of committed volunteers. Monroe’s own role as de facto drillmaster—neither elected nor appointed—underscores the ad-hoc nature of the process. The narrative conveys the atmosphere of a city armory where “every man whose name was enrolled seemed to take the greatest interest,” yet also hints at the fragility of such enthusiasm when faced with prolonged service.
The Retreat and the Question of Panic
The account’s most vivid passages describe the chaotic retreat toward Cub Run. Monroe challenges the widely reported “perfect panic,” arguing instead for “that confusion which of necessity must arise from the sudden breaking up of organization.” He details the physical obstacles: a bridge “rendered impassable by the wrecks of several baggage wagons,” an overturned siege gun blocking a ford, and a column that became “a jumbled heap of horses, limbers, caissons and gun carriages.” Amid this, men “set to work taking the horses from their harnesses” and rode off “doublets and some triplets.” Monroe’s distinction between panic and disorganization is a key interpretive claim, grounded in his own experience of the retreat.
A Daughter’s Flask: Civilians in the Narrative
Monroe includes a striking domestic detail: after the retreat, he was given a bed at the house of Mr. Utteback in Centreville. Woken at two in the morning with orders to leave, he was handed a flask of wine by one of Utteback’s daughters, who whispered, “Don’t, for Heaven’s sake, tell anybody of it.” This small act of kindness—a civilian gesture in a military disaster—stands out in a narrative otherwise focused on troop movements and command. Monroe’s inclusion of the episode suggests an awareness that the war’s human texture includes such moments, even as he notes his own injury from “the recoil of a piece.” The anecdote also hints at the permeability of military and civilian spheres in northern Virginia during the campaign.
Monroe’s memoir is valuable less for tactical detail than for its perspective on organizational breakdown and individual perception. Readers should note that the excerpts cover only the first part of the narrative; the full text may extend beyond the retreat. The account’s strength lies in its specific, unheroic observations—the jumbled column, the officer’s futile coaxing, the daughter’s flask—that resist the sweeping language of later histories.
That rainy afternoon, Monroe's account of Bull Run lingered less on the battle itself than on the strange quiet spaces between orders—the waiting, the confusion, the small human stitching of a retreat. Afterwards, thumbing through my shelf, I landed somewhere else entirely: Art and Pleasure: "Painting with Needles" New Uses of Dexter Cotton Warp — Reading Companion. Both books, I realized, are really about how we hold things together when the pattern goes loose.
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