The Confederacy’s last offensive in West Virginia: Inside the Battle of Bulltown

BULLTOWN, W.Va. — On a quiet October morning in 1863—the year Abraham Lincoln declared slaves free—the hills above the Little Kanawha River erupted in gunfire.

Col. William L. “Mudwall” Jackson and his troops launched what they hoped would be a decisive strike against a Union fort on a knoll above the bridge.

What followed was a half-day clash that ended not in a Confederate triumph, but in a stubborn Union standoff. Remembered today as the "Battle of Bulltown," it was the last important battle in the new state of West Virginia.

Dr. Phillip Hatfield, a historian who has spent decades studying the battle, said it wasn't a large-scale battle, but it was significant in terms of controlling a crucial area.

“It was a small fight compared to Gettysburg or Antietam," Hatfield said, "but strategically it meant the Union would maintain control of the Weston and Gauley Bridge Turnpike—in particular its bridge over the Little Kanawha, which prevented the rebels from cutting off communication lines with the Kanawha Valley.”

And yet, too few people know about the battle or battlefield park—or the legend of “Mudwall” Jackson.

A Village with a Violent Past

Bulltown was little more than a dot on a map when the battle was fought, but its history stretches back nearly 100 years to 1765, when Lenape leader "Captain Bull" and his people settled along the Little Kanawha.

At first, they coexisted peacefully with white settlers. But after the 1772 murder of a white family at Stroud’s Creek, vigilantes believed the Lenape, also known as the Delaware, were to blame. Some historians believe they massacred the village in retaliation and that the atrocity helped spark Lord Dunmore’s War in 1774. Others believe the villagers were harassed and moved to the Ohio Country.

By the early 1800s, the white settlement, now named for Captain Bull, had grown into a small industrial center, featuring gristmills, saltworks, and a tannery. Its fortunes rose in the early 19th century when the Weston and Gauley Bridge Turnpike opened, linking the commerce of the Kanawha and Monongahela rivers.

“This was not some backwoods hamlet,” Hatfield said. “Bulltown was strategically placed, and the turnpike made it a lifeline for both armies.”

Fortifying the Bulltown Hill

Recognizing the town's importance along the turnpike, Union forces built a line of earthworks atop a hill overlooking the Little Kanawha in 1861, the first year of the four-year American Civil War. Its defenses — trenches, blockhouses, and rifle pits — gave the Union a commanding view of the covered bridge that carried the turnpike across the river.

Two years later, in May 1863, the fort was tested during the Jones-Imboden Raid, when Mudwall and Confederate brigadier John D. Imboden briefly captured and torched it. But the Federals returned, rebuilding and strengthening.

By October, the fort at Bulltown was garrisoned by a mixed force. Companies G and I of the 6th West Virginia Infantry were under the command of Capt. William H. Mattingly. Companies C, F, and H of the 11th West Virginia Infantry, and the local Unionist militia, were under Capt. James L. Simpson.

Sources differ on the number of soldiers who held the post, ranging from 144 to 226 men. Confederate cavalryman Pvt. Andrew Jones estimated 250. “Whatever the number, it was the smallest Union force Bulltown had seen,” Hatfield said.

Enter “Mudwall” Jackson

Leading the Confederate attack was Col. William Lowther “Mudwall” Jackson, cousin of famed Lt. Gen. Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson. Unlike his better-known relative, "Mudwall" earned a reputation for bluster and failure.

Born nearby in Clarksburg in 1825, he rose from county attorney and lieutenant governor of Virginia to Confederate colonel. Wounded in the Valley Campaign of 1862, he later commanded cavalry units notorious for raiding western Virginia.

“He was tall, imposing, and well-connected,” Hatfield said. “But where Stonewall was brilliant, Mudwall was erratic. His men didn’t always respect him, and Bulltown shows why.”

Jackson’s force numbered perhaps 700–800 men, which included members of the 19th and 20th Virginia Cavalry, six independent companies, and a two-gun artillery section derisively called the “Jackass Battery” because its mules hauled the cannons.

On October 12, 1863, he marched his soldiers from the south along the Elk River, crossed the lower Holly River, and bivouacked at Falls Mill on the Little Kanawha three miles from Bulltown.

His plan was bold. He would divide his men into two wings, attack at dawn from both sides, and crush the garrison before reinforcements could arrive.

A Premature Attack

Before dawn on October 13, Jackson’s men crept into position. But the plan unraveled—quickly.

On the right above the fort, Maj. Joseph Kessler and the 19th Virginia Cavalry crossed Millstone Run and prepared to strike. But on the left, Jackson and Lt. Col. William P. Thompson were struggling to get their artillery across the Little Kanawha.

At 4:30 a.m., Kessler launched his assault early, without waiting for Jackson’s signal. Accounts suggest a nervous officer under Kessler's command fired his pistol and shouted “Charge!” prematurely, sending dismounted cavalry up the hill in a ragged rush.

Inside the fort, the Union soldiers were just waking. Lt. James Neill of the 6th West Virginia later recalled stumbling out of bed with only one shoe. Capt. Mattingly, realizing the danger, ordered his skirmishers to fall back into the trenches.

“The timing was disastrous for the Confederates,” Hatfield explained. “They attacked half-prepared, in the dark, uphill against earthworks. Once the Union men got their rifles loaded, they tore them apart.”

The Federals waited until the enemy was within 25 yards, then unleashed volley after volley. Kessler’s rebels broke and fell back down the slope, leaving nine dead inside the Union lines.

“Come and take us!”

By 8 a.m., Jackson’s artillery was, finally, in position across the river. The mules brayed, the cannons boomed, but from 300 yards across the valley, the rounds did little more than kick up dirt.

Recognizing the futility of his attack plan, Jackson sent a flag of truce. A lieutenant carried his message into the Union works. The Confederates, however, claimed superior numbers and demanded the fort's immediate surrender.

Mattingly, in pain, already wounded in the thigh, gathered his officers. Their answer was unanimous. He scribbled his reply through the pain: “Come and take us.”

“It’s one of the great defiant moments by Union troops during the war in West Virginia,” Hatfield said. “Mattingly had every reason to surrender. Instead, he humiliated Jackson and shut down the last real effort to gain control of the turnpike.”

The battle raged all morning. Confederate gunners drew Union fire but achieved little. By midday, a second truce allowed the rebels to bury their dead, during which former neighbors and even brothers shook hands across the lines.

“That’s the tragic side of Bulltown,” Hatfield noted. “This was true brother-against-brother combat. Men from Lewis County found their relatives in Confederate ranks. They fought at dawn and reminisced at noon.”

A Stubborn Defense

With Mattingly incapacitated, Capt. James Simpson of the 11th West Virginia assumed command. When Jackson sent a second demand for surrender, Simpson’s reply was as blunt as Mattingly’s. He would not yield “until hell froze over.”

The battle dragged into the afternoon, musket fire and artillery echoing through the valley. Union troops, firing from cover, picked off Confederate cannoneers with ease. One soldier later bragged that Southern boasts of “one grayback to five bluecoats” were shattered at Bulltown.

By 3 p.m., Jackson conceded defeat. His men retreated south toward Salt Lick Bridge, skirmished by pursuing Union cavalry. They would never again mount a major offensive in West Virginia.

Casualties and Confusion

Union records listed one man killed, two officers wounded — including Mattingly — and nine captured. Confederate losses are murkier.

Reports range widely. The Union estimated 100 casualties. Confederate newspapers claimed that just eight were killed and 12 were wounded. Postwar research suggests three were killed, four were wounded, and nine were captured.

“The truth is probably closer to the Confederate accounts,” Hatfield said. “Union officers had every reason to inflate the numbers.”

Rumors spread that Jackson’s men had been drunk during the attack, having raided a distillery en route. One cavalryman wrote bitterly that “through drunkenness and mismanagement, the 250 Yanks gave him a complete thrashing.”

Whether alcohol played a role or not, Jackson’s leadership was widely questioned.

Legacy of Bulltown

Though small compared to epic battles elsewhere, Bulltown’s consequences were clear. The Union maintained control of the Weston and Gauley Bridge Turnpike, preserving its vital supply line and ensuring that Confederate raiders could not threaten Ohio.

“Bulltown was the Confederacy’s last throw of the dice in central West Virginia,” Hatfield said. “When they failed, all that remained in that region were guerrilla raids and small skirmishes until the end of the war, but the Union army maintained control.”

Today, the battlefield is located within the Bulltown Historic Area near Burnsville Lake, which is managed by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. Visitors can walk the surviving earthworks and rifle pits, stark reminders of that October day when a few hundred men determined the fate of West Virginia.

“Stand on that hill,” Hatfield said, “and you can still imagine the musket balls hissing past and the cannons booming. Bulltown is quiet now, but its echoes shaped history.”

Read also: Stonewall Jackson's cousin "Mudwall" led a failed attack on a fort in W.Va.

Dr. Philip Hatfield is a member of the Company of Military Historians, and has written five books and numerous articles related to the Civil War in West Virginia, and has also written two books related to the Civil War in NorthCarolina. He is a native of the Mountain State and a veteran of the U.S. Air Force, with service in Iraq during Operation Iraqi Freedom and in rescue operations following Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. His son, Philip R. Hatfield, is a history major at Marshall University and often accompanies him on research excursions across the state, assisting in the compilation of research data.