Bull Run, that once unknown name, is marked with great crimson letters upon the scroll of time! Tears wrung from the anguished soul, tears hot and blinding, still fall at the mere mention of its ill-omened name. A nation’s miserere has been tolled from uncounted steeples over its dead, and a whole nation put on weeds of mourning when its battle cloud spread slowly over the land, filling it with gloom.

With bayonets for pens, and precious human blood for ink, the record of this first great battle of the Union War should be written in the history of the world;—the ensanguined page illuminated with iron hail and leaden sleet—with hissing shot—whirlwinds of death-missiles, and the fire-belching portals of masked batteries. O, day of doom, day of sad errors and illustrious deeds, when blood was poured forth like water, until the reeking earth shuddered as it drank in the crimson deluge! Generations shall hereafter look back on thee with painful wonder, for they will remember that the first pitched battle in which Americans met Americans in mortal strife, was fought on thy soil, beneath “the bloody sun at noon.”

On the morning of the 21st, McDowell’s forces were encamped in and around Centreville. The divisions were under orders to march at half-past two o’clock, that they might reach the ground early and avoid the heat. Before this time the encampments were in motion; but the troops were not yet sufficiently disciplined for the exigencies of a prompt march, and some delay arose with the first division in getting out of camp. Thus the road was obstructed, and other divisions thrown two hours out of time. But there was no lack of energy or zeal; the very want of discipline which caused delay rendered the scenes in the various encampments more grand and imposing. It was indeed a beautiful spectacle. A lovely moonlight flooded the whole country. Soft mists lay in the valleys—the hill-tops were studded for miles around by the camp-fires which thirty regiments had left, kindling the landscape with their star-like gleams. In the hollows, along the level grounds, and among the trees, thousands on thousands of armed men moved athwart the fires, harnessing horses to artillery, getting out army wagons, preparing ambulances and filling haversacks with the three days’ rations ordered for their subsistence. No man of all that vast host was idle—want of order there might have been, but no lack of energy.

Now, thirty thousand men, horses, ordnance and wagons, were all in place, ready for a march through the beautiful night, and under that serene moon, which many of them would never look upon again.

McDowell and his staff moved with the first—Tyler’s—central column, and the advance commenced. The picturesque encampments were soon left behind; the fires grew paler and twinkled out in a glow of mist; the tents dwindled into littleness, till they seemed more like great flocks of white-plumaged birds, nestled in the foliage, than the paraphernalia of war. Nothing could be more quiet and peaceful than the country the troops had left—nothing more solemnly grand than the advance. It was an army of Americans, marching through the still night to meet Americans for the first time in a great pitched battle. Nothing but holy patriotism and a stern sense of duty could have led these men into the field. They marched on, with thousands of bayonets gleaming in the moonlight, and casting long-pointed shadows over the path; staff officers formed imposing groups as they moved forward in the moonlight, casting pictures upon the earth that were like broken battle scenes.

In the ranks there was something more than stern courage; generous enthusiasm and honest emulation were eloquent there. Comrade greeted comrade, for the coming danger made friends brothers; and common acquaintances fell into affectionate intimacy. Many a touching message was exchanged between men who had never met out of the ranks, for while they panted for victory, each man prepared to earn it with his life.

These men knew that a terrible day’s fighting lay before them; but the previous defeat of Thursday rankled in their proud hearts, and each man felt it as an individual reproach which must be swept away. From the central column to the rear, this feeling prevailed among the men.

The troops of the old Bay State, of Rhode Island, Connecticut, and New York, entered into a spirit of generous rivalry. Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota entered the list with true Western fervor, while the rich Celtic humor rose in fun and pathos from the Irish troops.

The officers shared this enthusiasm with their men. Tyler moved on, burning to atone for his noble rashness at Blackburn’s Ford—Burnside, Corcoran, Keyes, Spidel, Meagher, and many another noble fellow, thought exultingly of the laurels to be gathered on the morrow. General McDowell’s carriage halted at the two roads, a spot that he deemed most convenient for receiving despatches from the various points of the battle-field.

Here the column of General Hunter diverged from the main body and went away through the moonlit country on its assigned duty, which led him around the enemy’s flank by a long and harassing route. With him went Heintzelman, Porter, Burnside and Sprague with their valiant Rhode Islanders, and Wilcox, that bravest of young men and most brilliant author, who met a fate almost worse than death in the hottest of the coming battle. There, too, was Slocum, Haggerty, and many another valiant fellow, marching forward to a glorious death. Each and all of these, with their regiments or brigades, swept to the right, to meet their comrades again in the hottest of the battle.

A mile from the Cross Roads, and the dawn of a bright July day broke pleasantly on the moving troops—a morning cool with dew, fresh with verdure, and tranquil and peaceful, save for the armed men that made the earth tremble under their solid tread as they moved over it. The mists of a dewy night were slowly uplifted, and beautiful reaches of the country were revealed. On the left was the station assigned to Richardson and Davies; beyond it, the valley which one unfortunate conflict had so lately stained with blood.

When Tyler’s division came to the edge of a wooded hill overlooking these scenes, the sun arose, flooding them with rosy splendor. The soldiers knew, but could not realize that this scene, so beautiful and tranquil, had been a field of carnage, and would, before that sun went down, be red with the blood of many a brave heart beating among them then. They knew well that in a brief time the pure atmosphere, which it was now a joy to breathe, would be heavy with stifling smoke; that the noble forests whose leaves trembled so pleasantly in the newborn sunshine, were but a concealment for masked batteries—fearful engines of destruction, and men more ravenous for their lives than the wild animals that civilization had driven away from them.

From the point of view just described, where the road falls gently down to a ravine, the enemy first appeared. A line of infantry was drawn up in a distant meadow, close upon a back-ground of woods.

The second and third regiments of Tyler’s brigade, under Schenck, was at once formed into line in the woods on either side, the First Ohio, Second Wisconsin, Seventy-ninth, Thirteenth, and Sixty-ninth New York regiments succeeding each other on the right, and the Second Ohio and Second New York being similarly placed on the left, while the artillery came down the road between.

A great 32-pound rifled Parrott gun—the only one of its calibre in the field service—was brought forward, and made to bear on the point where the bayonets of the enemy had suddenly disappeared in the woods, and a shell was fired at fifteen minutes past six A. M., which burst in the air; but the report of the piece awoke the country for leagues around to a sense of what that awful day would prove. The reverberation was tremendous, and the roar of the revolving shell indescribable. Throughout the battle that gun, whenever it was fired, seemed to hush and overpower everything else. No answering salute came back, so the 32-pounder sent a second shell at a hill-top, two miles off, where it was suspected that a battery had been planted by the rebels.

The bomb burst close at the intended point, but no answer came. General Tyler ordered Carlisle to cease firing, and bring the rest of his battery to the front of the woods and get the column ready for instant action.

Tyler’s position was before the valley of Bull Run, but the descent was gradual, and surrounded by thick woods down almost to the ravine through which the stream flows. The enemy, on the contrary, had cleared away all the obstructing foliage, and bared the earth in every direction over which they could bring their artillery upon the Union forces. Clumps of trees and bushes remained wherever their earthworks and other concealed defences could be advantageously planted among them. The ground on their side was vastly superior to that of the assailants. It rose in gradual slopes to great heights, but was broken into hills and terraces in many places, upon which strong earthworks were planted, some openly, but the greater portion concealed. Nature had supplied positions of defence which needed but little labor to render them desperately formidable. How thoroughly these advantages had been improved was established by the almost superhuman efforts which were required to dislodge their troops, and by the obstinate opposition which they displayed before retiring from one strong point to another. It was now about seven o’clock—for an hour everything was silent. At eight, the deep sullen boom of Richardson’s and Davies’ batteries at Blackburn’s Ford broke the stillness, and from that quarter constant cannonading was kept up for some time.

By this time scouts reported the enemy in some force on the left. Two or three Ohio skirmishers had been killed. Carlisle’s battery was sent to the front of the woods on the right, where it could be brought to play when needed. A few shells were thrown into the opposite thicket, and then the Second Ohio and Second New York marched down to rout the enemy from their hiding places. As they rushed toward a thickly-covered abatis on the banks of the Run, the rebels came swarming out like bees, and fled to the next fortification beyond.

General Schenck’s brigade was moved forward to the left, but half way to the Run met the full fire of a masked battery effectually concealed by the bushes.

A few dead and wounded began to be brought in, and the battle of Manassas had commenced. Carlisle’s howitzers and the great rifled gun were opened in the direction of the battery, which answered promptly, and a brief but terrific cannonading ensued. In less than half an hour the enemy’s guns were silenced, two of Carlisle’s howitzers advancing through the woods to gain a closer position, and Schenck’s brigade retired to its first lines.

At eleven o’clock, the artillery, which resounded from every portion of the field, extending from Davies and Richardson’s position on the extreme left, to the right near Sudley, gave startling evidence that Hunter was making his way around the enemy. The roll and thunder was incessant—great volumes of smoke surged over the vast field, impaling it in the distance, and making the air around the near batteries thick with smoke.

It was true, Hunter’s and Heintzelman’s columns had taken the field on the extreme right.

McDowell in his plan of battle had calculated that the marching colunm should diverge from the turnpike by early daylight (a night march being deemed imprudent), and reach Sudley Ford by six or seven, A. M. The Stone Bridge division did not clear the road over which both, for a certain distance, had to pass, so that the column could take up its march, until after the time. The route to Sudley proved far longer and more difficult than was anticipated. The column did not reach the Sudley Ford till near half-past nine, three or four hours “behind time.” When it reached the ford, the heads of the enemy’s columns were visible on the march to meet it.

The ground between the stream and the road, leading from Sudley south, was for about a mile thickly wooded; on the right, for the same distance, divided between fields and timber. A mile from the ford the country on both sides of the road is open, and for a mile further large, irregular fields extend to the turnpike, which, after crossing Bull Run at the “Stone Bridge,” passes what became the field of battle, through the valley of a small tributary of the Run.

But, notwithstanding a fearful march over broken grounds in the hot sun, with his men suffering from heat and thirst, Hunter had reached his point of operation, late it is true, but from no fault of his. The weary soldiers uttered exclamations of joy when they saw the limpid waters of the Run, and plunging into its current bathed their hot hands and burning faces as they waded through, and came out on the other side greatly invigorated. While his thirty men were refreshing themselves with cool draughts of water, Hunter sent a courier to General McDowell, reporting that he had safely crossed the Run.

The General was lying on the ground, having been ill during the night, but at once mounted his horse and rode on to join the column on which so much depended.

The halt had not lasted two minutes when Col. Burnside led his different regiments into their position on the field. The Second Rhode Island entered first to the extreme right; then the Rhode Island battery of six pieces, and two howitzers of the Seventy-first, and after it on the left, the First Rhode Island and the Second New Hampshire, all formed in line of battle on the top of the hill.

Shortly after the leading regiment of the first brigade reached the open space, and whilst others and the second brigade were crossing to the front and right, the enemy opened his fire, beginning with artillery, and following it up with infantry. The leading brigade (Burnside’s) had to sustain this shock for a short time without support, and met it bravely. Gov. Sprague himself directed the movements of the Rhode Island brigade, and was conspicuous through the day for gallantry. The enemy were found in heavy numbers opposite this noble brigade of our army, and greeted it with shell and long volleys of battalion firing as it advanced. But on it went, and a fierce conflict now commenced.

The enemy clung to the protecting wood with tenacity, and the Rhode Island battery became so much endangered as to impel the commander of the second brigade to call for the assistance of the battalion of regulars. At this time news ran through the lines that Colonel Hunter was seriously wounded. Porter took command of his division; and, in reply to the urgent request of Colonel Burnside, detached the battalion of regulars to his assistance, followed shortly afterwards by the New Hampshire regiments. Shortly afterward the other corps of Porter’s brigade, and a regiment detached from Heintzelman’s division to the left, emerged from the timber, where some hasty disposition of skirmishers had been made at the head of the column, in which Colonel Slocum, of the Second Rhode Island regiment, distinguished himself for great activity.

The rattle of musketry and crash of round shot through the leaves and branches, had warned them when the action commenced, and the column moved forward before these preliminaries were completed, eager for a share in the fight.

The head of Porter’s brigade was immediately turned a little to the right, in order to gain time and room for deployment on the right of the second brigade. Griffin’s battery found its way through the timber to the fields beyond, followed promptly by the marines, while the Twenty-Seventh took direction more to the left, and the Fourteenth followed upon the trail of the battery—all moving up at a double-quick step. At this time General McDowell with his staff rode through the lines and was loudly cheered as they passed within six hundred feet of the enemy’s line.

The enemy appeared drawn up in a long line, extending along the Warrenton turnpike, from a house and haystack upon their extreme right, to a house beyond the left of the division. Behind that house there was a heavy masked battery, which, with three others along his line, on the heights beyond, covered the ground through which the troops were advancing with all sorts of projectiles. A grove, in front of Porter’s right wing, afforded it shelter and protection, while the underbrush along the road in the fences, screened to some extent his left wing.

Griffin advanced to within one thousand yards, and opened a deadly fire upon these batteries, which were soon silenced or driven away.

The right was rapidly developed by the marines, Twenty-Seventh, Fourteenth, and Eighth, with the cavalry in rear of the right; the enemy retreating in more precipitation than order as the line advanced. The second brigade (Burnside’s) was at this time attacking the enemy’s right with great vigor.

The rebels soon came flying from the woods toward the right, and the Twenty-Seventh completed their rout by charging directly upon their centre in face of a scorching fire, while the Fourteenth and Eighth moved down the turnpike to cut off the retiring foe, and to support the Twenty-Seventh, which had lost its gallant Colonel, but was standing the brunt of the action, though its ranks were terribly thinned in the dreadful fire. Now the resistance of the enemy’s left was so obstinate that the beaten right retired in safety.

The head of Heintzelman’s column at this moment appeared upon the field, and the Eleventh and Fifth Massachusetts regiments moved forward to support the centre, while staff officers could be seen galloping rapidly in every direction, endeavoring to rally the broken Eighth, but with little success.

The Fourteenth, though it had broken, was soon rallied in rear of Griffin’s battery, which took up a position further to the front and right, from which his fire was delivered with such precision and rapidity as to compel the batteries of the enemy to retire in consternation far behind the brow of the hill in front.

At this time Porter’s brigade occupied a line considerably in advance of that first occupied by the left wing of the rebels. The battery was pouring its withering fire into the batteries and columns of the enemy wherever they exposed themselves. The cavalry were engaged in feeling the left flank of the enemy’s position, in doing which some important captures were made, one by Sergeant Socks, of the Second Dragoons, of a General George Stewart, of Baltimore. The cavalry also did brave service.

General Tyler’s division was engaged with the enemy’s right. The Twenty-Seventh was resting on the edge of the woods in the centre, covered by a hill upon which lay the Eleventh and Fifth Massachusetts, occasionally delivering a scattering fire. The Fourteenth was moving to the right flank, the Eighth had lost its organization, the marines were moving up in fine style in the rear of the Fourteenth, and Captain Arnold was occupying a height in the middle ground with his battery. At this juncture there was a temporary lull in the firing from the rebels, who appeared only now and then on the heights in irregular masses, but to serve as marks for Griffin’s guns. The prestige of success had thus far attended the efforts of the inexperienced but gallant Union troops. The lines of the enemy had been forcibly shifted nearly a mile to their left and rear. The flags of eight regiments, though borne somewhat wearily, now pointed toward the hill from which disordered masses of the rebels had been seen hastily retiring.

Rickett’s battery, together with Griffith’s battery, on the side of the hill, had been objects of the special attention of the enemy, who had succeeded in disabling Rickett’s battery, and then attempted to take it. Three times was he repulsed by different corps in succession, and driven back, and the guns taken by hand, the horses being killed, and pulled away. The third time the repulse seemed to be final, for he was driven entirely from the hill, and so far beyond it as not to be in sight. He had before this been driven nearly a mile and a half, and was beyond the Warrenton road, which was entirely in Federal possession, from the Stone Bridge westward. The engineers were just completing the removal of the abatis across the road, to allow reinforcements (Schenck’s brigade and Ayers’ battery) to join in. The enemy was evidently disheartened and broken.

But at this moment, when everything pointed to a speedy victory, orders came through Major Barry of the Fifth artillery, for Griffin’s battery to move from the hill upon which the house stood, to the top of a hill on the right, with the “Fire Zouaves” and marines, while the Fourteenth entered the skirt of wood on their right, to protect that flank, and a column, composed of the Twenty-seventh New York, Eleventh and Fifth Massachusetts, Second Minnesota, and Sixty-Ninth New York, moved up toward the left batteries. It had taken position, but before the flanking supports had reached theirs, a murderous fire of musketry and rifles opened at pistol range, cutting down every cannonier, and a large number of horses. The fire came from some infantry of the enemy, which had been mistaken for Union forces; an officer in the field having stated that it was a regiment sent by Colonel Heintzelman to support the batteries.

As soon as the Zouaves came up, they were led forward against an Alabama regiment, partly concealed in a clump of small pines in an old field.

After a severe fire they broke, and the greatest portion of them fell to the rear, keeping up a desultory firing over the heads of their comrades in front; at the same moment they were charged by a company of rebel cavalry on their rear, who came by a road through two strips of woods on the extreme right. The fire of the Zouaves dispersed them. The discomfiture of this cavalry was completed by a fire from Captain Colburn’s company of United States cavalry, which killed and wounded several men. Colonel Farnham, with some of his officers and men, behaved gallantly, and many of his men did good service as skirmishers later in the day. General Heintzelman then led up the Minnesota regiment, which was also repulsed, but retired in tolerably good order. It did good service in the woods on the right flank, and was among the last to retire, moving off the field with the Third United States infantry. Next was led forward the First Michigan, which was also repulsed, and retired in considerable confusion. They were rallied, and helped to hold the woods on the right. The Brooklyn Fourteenth then appeared on the ground, coming forward in gallant style. They were led forward to the left, where the Alabama regiment had been posted in the early part of the action, but had now disappeared, and soon came in sight of the line of the enemy drawn up beyond the clump of trees. Soon after the firing commenced, the regiment broke and retired. It was useless to attempt a rally. The want of discipline in these regiments was so great that the most of the men would run from fifty to several hundred yards in the rear, and continue to fire, compelling those in front to retreat.

During this time Rickett’s battery had been captured and retaken three times by Heintzelman’s forces, but was finally lost, most of the horses having been killed—Captain Ricketts being wounded, and First Lieutenant D. Ramsay killed. Lieutenant Kirby behaved gallantly, and succeeded in carrying off one caisson. Before this time, heavy reinforcements of the enemy were distinctly seen approaching by two roads, extending and outflanking Heintzelman on the right. General Howard’s brigade came on the field at this time, having been detained by the General as a reserve. It took post on a hill on Heintzelman’s right and rear, and for some time gallantly held the enemy in check. One company of cavalry attached to Heintzelman’s division, was joined, during the engagement, by the cavalry of Colonel Hunter’s division, under the command of Major Palmer.

Colonel W. B. Franklin commanded the first brigade of Heintzelman’s division. A portion of that brigade rendered distinguished service, and received official commendation from the commanding general.

General Tyler, who kept his position at the Stone Bridge, to menace that point, and at the proper moment to carry it and unite with the turning column, had sent forward the right wing of his command to co-operate with Hunter as soon as he was discovered making his way on the flank.

Two brigades (Sherman’s and Keyes’) of that division had passed the Run. Colonel Sherman joined himself to the divisions of Hunter and Heintzelman, and was soon engaged in the hottest part of the action.

The famous Irish regiment, 1,600 strong, who have had so much of the hard digging to perform, claimed the honor of a share in the hard fighting, and led the van of Tyler’s attack, followed by the Seventy-ninth (Highlanders), and Thirteenth New York, and the Second Wisconsin.

It was a brave sight—that rush of the Sixty-ninth into the death-struggle—with such cheers as proved a hearty love of the work before them! With a quick step at first, and then a double-quick, and at last a run, they dashed forward and along the edge of the extended forest. Coats and knapsacks were thrown to either side, that nothing might impede their work. It was certain that no guns would slip from the hands of those determined fellows, even if dying agonies were needed to close them with a firmer grasp. As the line swept along, Meagher galloped toward the head, crying, “Come on, boys! you’ve got your chance at last!”

Sherman’s brigade thus moved forward for half a mile, describing quite one-fourth of a circle on the right, Colonel Quimby’s regiment in front, the other regiments following in line of battle—the Wisconsin Second, New York Seventy-ninth, and New York Sixty-ninth in succession. Quimby’s regiment advanced steadily up the hill and opened fire on the enemy, who had made a stand. The regiment continued advancing as the enemy gave way, till the head of his column reached the point where Rickett’s battery had been cut up. The other regiments followed under a fearful cannonading. At the point where the road crossed the ridge to the left, the ground was swept by a fire of artillery, rifles, and musketry. Regiment after regiment were driven from it, following the Zouaves and a battalion of marines.

When the Wisconsin Second was abreast of the enemy, it was ordered to leave the roadway and attack him. This regiment ascended the hill, was met with a sharp fire, returned it gallantly, and advanced, delivering its fire. But the response was terrific, and the regiment fled in confusion toward the road. It rallied again, passed the brow of the hill a second time, and was again repulsed in disorder. By this time the New York Seventy-ninth had closed up. It was impossible to get a good view of the ground. In it there was one battery of artillery, which poured an incessant fire upon the advancing column, and the ground was irregular, with small clusters of pines, which afforded shelter to the enemy. The fire of rifles and musketry grew hotter and hotter. The Seventy-ninth, headed by Colonel Cameron, charged across the hill, and for a short time the contest was terrible. They rallied several times under fire, but finally broke and gained the cover of the hill.

This left the field open to the New York Sixty-ninth, Colonel Corcoran, who, in his turn, led his regiment over the crest, and had in full open view the ground so severely contested. The firing was terrific, the roar of cannon, musketry, and rifles, incessant. The enemy was here in immense force. The Sixty-ninth held the ground for some time with desperate courage, but finally fell back in disorder.

At this time Quimby’s regiment occupied another ridge to the left, overlooking the same field, fiercely engaged. Colonel Keyes, from Tyler’s division, had formed in line with Sherman’s brigade, and came into conflict on its right with the enemy’s cavalry and infantry, which he drove back. The further march of the brigade was arrested by a severe fire of artillery and infantry, sheltered by Robinson’s house, standing on the heights above the road leading to Bull Run. The charge was here ordered, and the Second Maine and Third Connecticut regiments pressed forward to the top of the hill, reached the buildings which were held by the enemy, drove them out, and for a moment had them in possession. At this point, finding the brigade under the fire of a strong force behind breastworks, the order was given to march by the left flank, with a view to turn the battery which the enemy had placed on the hill below the point at which the Warrenton turnpike crosses Bull Run. The march was conducted for a considerable distance below the Stone Bridge, causing the enemy to retire, and giving Captain Alexander an opportunity to pass the bridge, cut out the abatis which had been placed there, and prepare the way for Schenck’s brigade and the two batteries to pass over. Before this movement could be made on the enemy’s battery, it was placed in a new position; but Colonel Keyes carried his brigade, by a flank movement, around the base of the hill, and was on the point of ascending it in time to get at the battery, when he discovered that the troops were on the retreat, and that, unless a rapid movement to the rear was made, he would be cut off. At this moment, the abatis near the Stone Bridge had been cleared away by Captain Alexander, of the engineers, and Schenck’s brigade (the third of Tyler’s division) was about to pass over and join Keyes.

But one rash movement had decided the day—that movement the last change of position given to Griffin’s battery, throwing it helpless into a murderous fire, which no protecting force could encounter.

When the Zouaves broke on that fatal hill, the Union cause for that day wavered. When hordes of fresh troops poured in upon the Union battalions, beating back as brave regiments as ever trod the battle-field, one after another, overwhelming them with numbers, and driving them headlong into utter confusion, the battle was lost; and after this any description of it must be wild and turbulent as the scene itself—in no other way can a true picture of the tumultuous fighting and more tumultuous retreat be truly given.

THE CLIMAX AND THE RETREAT.

We have described the battle of Manassas, Stone Bridge, or Bull Run, as it is variously called, in its plain details, giving each regiment, so far as possible, its share in the glorious fight; for up to mid-day and after, no braver fighting was ever done than the Union troops performed on that 21st of July. Now a wilder, more difficult, and very painful effort taxes the pen. The heat, turmoil and terrible storm of death rolls up in a tumultuous picture—troops in masses—stormy action—the confused rush of men—all these things have no detail, but hurl the writer forward, excited and unrestrained as the scene to be described.

At high noon the battle raged in its widest circumference. The batteries on the distant hills began to pour their volleys on the Union troops with terrible effect. Carlisle’s and Sherman’s batteries answered with tremendous emphasis, while the great 32-pounder hurled its iron thunderbolts first into one of the enemy’s defences, then into another, tearing up everything as they went. The noise of the cannonading grew deafening, and kept up one incessant roll. Compared to it the sharp volleys of riflemen were like the rattle of hail amid the loud bursts of a thunder tempest. The people of Centreville, Fairfax, Alexandria, and even Washington, heard the fearful reverberations, and trembled at the sound.

Five powerful batteries were in operation at once, joined to the hiss and hurtle of twenty thousand small arms! No wonder the sky turned black, impaled with death-smoke—no wonder the sun shone fierce and red upon the pools of warm human blood that began to gather around those batteries, where the slain were lying in heaps and winrows!

Still amid this roar and carnage, the Federal forces were making sure headway, and driving the enemy before them. Except one brigade of Tyler’s division, the entire force of eighteen thousand men was in fierce action. As the Union forces pressed upon the enemy, approaching each moment to the completion of their plan of battle, the rebels grew desperate. The batteries on the western hills poured forth their iron tempest with accumulated fury. The Union guns answered them with fiercer thunder. The roar of the cannonading was deafening, drowning the volleys of riflemen, and sweeping off in one overpowering sound the rattle and crash of musketry. The clamor of the guns was appalling—the rush and tumult of action more appalling still. The whole valley was like a vast volcano, boiling over with dust and smoke. Through this turbid atmosphere battalions charged each other and batteries poured their hot breath on the air, making it denser than before. Now and then the dust would roll away from the plain, and the smoke float off from the hills, revealing a dash of cavalry across some open space, or a charge of infantry up to a fortified point where the struggle, success, or repulse, was lost or vaguely seen through volumes of rolling smoke—columns of ruddy dust trailed after the infantry, broken now and then by the fiery track of a battery masked in foliage. A sullen report, and horrid gaps appeared in what a moment before was a living wall of men. A curl of blue vapor rose gracefully from the trees, and it was only the dead bodies blackening the ground that made the sight so awful.

But the fight gathered fiercest on the westward hill, from which the booming thunder rolled in long incessant peals. Its sides swarmed with armed men, changing positions, charging and retreating. Curtains of smoke, swayed by the wind, revealed the horses around a battery, rearing, plunging and falling headlong, dozens together, in one hideous death. Then in mercy the smoke drifted over the hill again. The enemy were giving ground at every point. The Mississippians had fled in dismay from the batteries, and desperately taken to the field in wavering columns. Other regiments were actually fleeing before the Union troops, but they were generally moving with sullen steadiness to the rear. The entire line which arrayed itself against Tyler in the morning had been relinquished, except one fortified elevation. Still their peculiar mode of warfare was kept up. Masked batteries were constantly opening in unexpected places, leaving heaps of slain in the track of their fiery hail.

On the uplands whole regiments, seen from the distance, seemed to drive against or drift by each other, leaving beautiful curls and clouds of smoke behind; but under this smoke lay so many dead bodies that the soul grew faint in counting them.

Through all this the Federal troops progressed toward a union of their attacking columns. Tyler had already spoken to McDowell, and the two forces were drawing nearer and nearer together. Victory appeared so certain that nothing but a junction of the two columns was wanting to a glorious result, and this now seemed inevitable.

The clamor of the artillery was checked for a little time on both sides. Red-handed death cannot rush panting on the track forever. Black-mouthed guns will get too foul for belching fire, and the swarthy men who feed them must have breathing time. As the fight flagged, and the men paused to draw breath, their terrible suffering was apparent in the parched lips that had tasted water but once through all that hot day, and the bloodshot eyes with which each man seemed to beseech his comrade for drink which no one had to give. Still, with dry lips and throats full of dust, they talked over a thousand details of valor performed on the field. They spoke sadly of the loss of brave Cameron, the wounding of Hunter, the fall of Haggerty and Slocum, the doubtful fate of noble young Wilcox. They discussed the impetuous dash and resolute stand of the Irishmen, the murderous shock sustained by the Rhode Island regiments, how the Hignlanders had done justice to their own warlike traditions, and the Connecticut Third had crowned its State with honors. They told how Heintzelman had stooped down from his war-horse to have his wounded wrist bound up, refusing to dismount—of the intrepid Burnside, and of Sprague, the patriotic young Governor, who led on the forces his generosity had raised, to one victorious charge after another, till with his own hands he spiked the Rhode Island guns when compelled to leave them to the enemy.

So tranquil was the field during this short period of rest, that the soldiers who had foreborne to throw their rations away in the march, unslung their haversacks and sat down upon the grass to share the contents with their less prudent companions; those who had been fortunate enough to pick up the enemy’s haversacks, cast off in retreat, added their contents to the scanty store.

While a few thus snatched a mouthful of food, others climbed up the tall trees and took a triumphant view of the vast battle-field their valor had conquered. The scene of carnage which it presented was awful. Dead and dying men heaped together on the red earth, crippled horses struggling desperately in their death-throes, wounded men lying helplessly on the grass to which they had been dragged from under the hoofs of the war-chargers—all this grouped where the angry waves of battle had rolled down the beautiful valley, with its back-ground of mountains, looking immovable and grandly tranquil against the sky, was a picture which no man who saw it will ever forget.

The army, far advanced within the enemy’s defensive lines, believing itself victorious, was thus falling into quiet. The great struggle of the contending forces, each to outflank the other, had ceased. The prestige of success belonged to the Union, whose stars and stripes shone out triumphantly as the smoke which had engulfed the combatants rolled away.

All at once those in the tree-tops saw a commotion in the far distance. Columns of troops were moving toward them with flashing bayonets, and Southern banners, unfurling the stars and bars to the sun. On they came—rank after rank, column after column, one continuous stream of armed men, pouring down upon the battle-field with bursts of music and wild shouts of enthusiasm.

It was Johnston’s reinforcements, marching up from the railroad. On they rushed, fresh, vigorous, and burning with ardor, through masses of wounded soldiers that lay by the road. The infantry broke from the double-quick to a swift run—the cavalry rode in on a sharp gallop—the artillery wagons were encircled with men eager to get their ordnance in place against the thrice-exhausted Union troops. In a continuous stream these columns swarmed into the woods, the greater force centering around the hill about which the storm of battle had raged fiercest.

In an instant the whole battle commenced again. The officers sprang to their guns, anxious but not appalled. The men fell into rank ready for a new onset, tired as they were.

Then it was that Griffin’s battery changed position, and the Fire Zouaves coming up under a terrible fire, broke and scattered down the hill-side, but rallied again in broken masses to rescue Rickett’s battery, dragging the guns off with their own hands from amid the pile of dying horses that lay around them. Then it was that the Sixty-ninth and Seventy-ninth New York swept through the meadows from the north across the road, and charged up the hill with such daring courage, resisting the shock of battle fifteen minutes, and breaking only when mortal valor could withstand the storm of bullets no longer.

Then the bold Connecticut regiments charged up the hill. Thousands of the impetuous enemy fell upon them, but in spite of all they planted the star-spangled banner and sent its folds sweeping out from the crest of the hill. Not till this was done, and a long last shout sent ringing after the banner, were these heroic regiments driven from their position. But beaten back at last, they retired step by step, fighting as they went.

Then the Zouaves broke into the fight once more, scattered on the ground, some prostrate on their faces, others with limbs huddled together as if dead—while many stood with their eyes to the sun, waiting the onset of the Black Horse cavalry that came galloping upon them from the woods. A few of these eccentric warriors were making a feint of defending themselves while the cavalry stood hesitating on the margin of the wood, but the rest seemed to have been cut down by the sweep of some deadly cannonade, and lay in the grass like a flock of partridge shot down in full flight.

Out from the woody cover the Black Hawks thundered on, their arms flashing and the jetty necks of their horses flinging off the sunshine. The handful of Zouaves now flocked together in front of their prostrate comrades, seeming doubtful whether to fight or flee. On the black chargers came, champing the bit and tossing their heads angrily, the riders ready to trample the scattered Zouaves under hoof, as too easy a conquest for their flashing swords. A sudden, sharp ringing yell, and the dead Zouaves sprang to life, confronting the horsemen in a wall of bristling steel. A sharp volley—the horses reared, plunged, and ran back upon each other, some falling dead with quivering limbs as the fatal bullets rent their vitals, and gushes of blood crimsoned their coal-black chests; others staggering from a dozen wounds, rushed madly through the broken ranks of the terrified cavalry.

Before the chargers could again be brought into line, the Zouaves flung away their rifles, and sprang like tigers upon them. Seizing them by the bit, they wound themselves up over their arched necks—a flash of bowie-knives gleamed like chain-lightning across the ranks, and many a wild black horse plunged on riderless with burning eyes, streaming mane, and ringing empty stirrups, headlong through the already half-disorganized ranks, and scouring over the battle-field, scattering dismay as they went.

A last struggle now ensued, with desperate men and broken forces—then a retreat, so wild, so impetuous and reckless, that all organization was given up. Regiments lost their officers, broke, mingled into others, and rushed across the field a headlong torrent, which no human power could arrest. On they went, plunging through the sea of carnage that surrounded the hill—the surging, angry broken waves of a brave army hurrying tumultuously from what had been a victorious field but an hour before.

Down from the hills, broken into frightened masses, pallid, reeling with exhaustion, they swept onward like a whirlwind, bearing the protesting officers with them, or trampling them under foot; for human life was nothing to them in that hot, mad race. The contagion of retreat spread like a prairie fire, from one point of the battle-field to another, scattering the army in wild confusion.

Still it was not quite a panic; two regiments, the Seventy-first New York and Second Rhode Island, kept their ranks in all this confusion, and were led in order from the field, over the road they had passed in the morning. Other regiments were led off in a wild, scattered way, but most of the great army was broken up, battalions and regiments surging together, and dashing through each other, till they became one mighty scene of confusion.

The enemy pursued them in a broken, hesitating way, like men astonished at their own success; wanting confidence, they did not venture in force to follow the retreating army, but captured many of the scattered bands dispersed over the wide field of conflict. One detachment of cavalry charged on a helpless crowd of wounded, who were gathered near a hospital building; when a handful of unorganized men, mostly civilians, seized upon the first weapons at hand, and repelled it bravely.

Up to this time Schenck’s brigade had kept its position at Stone Bridge. Captain Alexander, with his sappers and miners, had just cut through the abatis by the side of the mined bridge, that Schenck might lead his forces after those of Sherman and Keyes, when the torrent of retreat rolled toward him; his protecting battery was taken, and a force of cavalry and infantry came pouring into the road at the very spot where the battle of the morning commenced.

The first battery attacked that day had been silenced, but not taken; and there, in the woods which protected it, four hundred South Carolinians had been concealed during the entire battle, to swarm out now and fall upon the Union infantry in this most critical moment. A sudden swoop of cavalry completed that unhappy day’s work. The Union infantry broke ranks, and plunging into the woods fled up the hill. A crowd of ambulances and army wagons had concentrated close to this spot, and civilians, led to the field by curiosity, blocked up the ground. The panic which had swept the battle-field seized on them. Kellogg of Michigan, Washburne of Illinois, and it is said, Lovejoy of Illinois, flung themselves in the midst of the fugitives, and entreated them to make a stand. Ely, of New York, was taken prisoner in a rash effort to restore confidence to the panic-stricken masses of men. But the maddened crowd plunged on. The teamsters urged their frightened horses into a headlong rush for the road; everything and everybody, brave or craven, were swept forward by the irresistible human torrent. It was a stampede which no power could check or resist. From the branch road the trains attached to Hunter’s division had caught the contagion, and rushed into the staggering masses, creating fresh dismay and wilder confusion.

It was a frightful scene, more terrible by far than the horrors of the battle-field. Broken regiments, without leaders, filled the road, the open fields, and skirted the fences, in one wild panic. Army wagons, sutler’s teams and artillery caissons rushed together, running each other down, and leaving the wrecks upon the road. Hacks were crushed between heavy wagon wheels and their occupants flung to the ground. Horses, wild with fright and maddened with wounds, galloped fiercely through the crowd, rearing and plunging when the worn-out fugitives attempted to seize them and save themselves from the destruction that was threatened at every step.

Wounded men, who had found strength to stagger off the battle-field, fell by the wayside, begging piteously to be taken up. Now and then a kind fellow would mount a wounded soldier behind him, and give the horse he had caught a double load; most of the poor fellows were brought forward in this way. Sometimes a wounded man would be picked up by two passing companions, and carried tenderly forward—for the sweet impulses of humanity were not all lost in that wild retreat.

Then came the artillery—for much was saved—thundering through the panic-stricken crowd, crushing everything as it went, dragged recklessly along by horses wild as the men that urged them on. Rifles, bayonets, pistols, blankets, haversacks and knapsacks were flung singly or in heaps along the way. Devoured by intense thirst, black with powder, famished and halting, these stricken men plunged into the fields, searching for water. If a muddy pool presented itself, they staggered to its brink with a pitiful laugh, and lying down on their faces, drank greedily, then arose with tears in their eyes, thanking God for the great luxury.

As they passed by the few houses on the road, women—God bless them!—would come out, some with curt, but genuine hospitality, others with tears streaming down their cheeks, and gave drink and food to the wounded men as they halted by. Those who fell upon the wayside were taken in and tended kindly till the next day. Boys came from the wells, bearing pailsful of water, which their little sisters distributed to the jaded men in their own tin cups.

But this panic, like all others, was of brief duration. When the fugitives reached Centreville, they found Blenker’s brigade stretched across the road ready to guard the retreat. Some of the fugitives rallied and formed into line, but they had flung away their arms, and the highway from Stone Bridge to Centreville was literally covered with these cast-off weapons and munitions of war, hurled from the army wagons by reckless teamsters. In places the road was blocked up by the wagons themselves, from which the drivers had cut their teams loose and fled on the relieved horses.

Blenker, of Miles’ division, whose duty up to this time had been one of inaction at Centreville, now did good service at his important post. With three regiments he kept the road, expecting every moment to be assailed by an overpowering and victorious enemy, eager to complete his fatal work. As the darkness increased, the peril of his position became imminent. At eleven o’clock the attack came upon the advance company of Colonel Stahel’s rifles, from a body of the enemy’s cavalry, which was, however, driven back, and did not return. At this time Richardson and Davies were both in Centreville with their brigades, which composed the entire left wing, all well organized and under perfect command. These troops were put under the command of Colonel Davies, who led them off the field—Blenker’s brigade being the last to leave the town it had done so much to protect.

The cause of this stupendous stampede no one ever has or can explain. Cowardice it certainly was not. Those men had fought too bravely, and suffered too patiently for that charge to be brought against them. They were in fact victorious soldiers, for the rout of a single half hour, disastrous as it proved, should have no power to blot out the deeds of heroism that had marked the entire day. Was it excitement, acting on an exhausted frame?

Let those answer who bore the flag of our Union through the long hours of that July day, carried it under the hot sun through the fierce fight, the dust and smoke and carnage, when the sky was one mosaic of flame, and the earth groaned under the vibrations of artillery. They had marched twelve miles fasting, and with but one draught of water; marched without pause straight on to the battle field, and for nearly five hours fought bravely as men ever fought on earth. Many who had food found no time to eat it till the battle was at its close, but in the rash eagerness for the field, these men, new to the necessities of war, had flung their rations away, restive under the weight. They had started not far from midnight, from camps in a tumult of preparation, and therefore lacked sleep as well as food.

To all this was added THIRST—that hot, withering thirst, which burns like lava in the throat, and drives a man mad with craving. Panting for drink, their parched lips were blackened with gunpowder; and exhausted nature, when she clamored for food, was answered by the bitter saltness of cartridges ground between the soldiers’ teeth.

Think of these men, famished, sleepless, drinkless, after fighting through the fiery noon of a hot day, suddenly overwhelmed in the midst of a positive victory—called upon to fight another battle, while every breath came pantingly, from thirst, and every nerve quivered with the overtax of its natural strength. Think of them under the hoofs of the Black Horse cavalry, and swept down by the very batteries that had been their protection. Think of all this, and if men of military standing can condemn them, war is a cruel master, and warriors hard critics.

It is very easy for civilians, who sit in luxurious parlors and sip cool ices under the protection of the old flag, to sneer at this panic of Bull Run, but many a brave man—braver than their critics, or they would not have been in the ranks—was found even in the midst of that stampede.

What if all along the road were the marks of hurried flight—abandoned teams, dead horses, wasted ammunition, coats, blankets? Were there not dead and dying men there also? brave and hardy spirits, noble, generous souls, crushed beneath the iron hoof of war—sacrificed and dying bravely in retreat, as they had fought in the advance?

Never on this earth did the proud old American valor burn fiercer or swell higher than on that day and field. And a reproach to the heroes who left the impress of bravery, and gave up their lives on that red valley, should never come from any true American heart.

THE BATTLE ON THE LEFT WING.

On the morning of the 21st, according to McDowell’s plan of battle, the left wing, composed of Colonel Miles’ division, was stationed at Centreville and at Blackburn’s Ford, the scene of Tyler’s disaster on the 18th. Thus during the heat and struggle of that awful day the greater portion of the left wing was six miles from the centre of action. But notwithstanding, no better service was rendered to the country on that day than that of this comparatively small handful of men. The first brigade of this command, under Colonel Blenker, occupied the heights of Centreville.

The second brigade, under Colonel Thomas A. Davies, of New York, and Richardson’s brigade, were ordered by Colonel Miles to take position before the batteries at Blackburn’s Ford, near the battle-ground of the 18th, to make demonstrations of attack. In pursuance of General McDowell’s order, Colonel Davies, being ranking officer, took command of Richardson’s brigade.

On his route from Centreville in the morning, when about half way to Blackburn’s Ford, Colonel Davies, while conversing with the guide who rode by him, saw a country road, apparently little used, leading through the woods to the left. “That road,” said the guide, a fine, intelligent fellow, “will give position farther left and nearer the enemy, for it runs directly to Beauregard’s headquarters.”

Colonel Davies, who had graduated at West Point and served in the Mexican war, was prompt to recognize the importance of a point which might enable the enemy to move upon his rear. He ordered a halt, and detailed the Thirty-first New York regiment, Colonel Pratt, and the Thirty-second, Colonel Mathewson, with a detachment of artillery, to guard the road at its junction, and deployed another regiment with a section of artillery on the road, which was shaded and hedged in on both sides by a heavy growth of timber.

This duty performed, the troops continued their march. Davies took his position in a wheat field with what was left of his brigade, leaving Richardson to make his own arrangements to defend the position in front of the enemy’s batteries at Blackburn’s Ford, the battle-ground of the 18th. Richardson posted his command in this place, on the road from Centreville heights to Blackburn’s Ford.

The wheat field which Davies occupied contained a hill which overlooked a ravine, thickly wooded, on the opposite slope. On this hill Hunt’s battery, commanded by Lieutenant Edwards, was placed, having been exchanged from force of circumstances for Green’s battery, which belonged to Davies’ command, but was now with Richardson. The battery was supported by Davies’ own regiment, the Sixteenth New York, and the Eighteenth, Colonel Jackson. This hill commanded a broad view of the country on every side. The battle-ground of the right wing, six miles off, was in full sight. Opposite his position, across the stream, was the road which led from Bull Run to Manassas, and also to Beauregard’s extreme right. Parallel with the river to his extreme left, it was plainly traced, except where groves and clumps of trees concealed it. This road, with all the high grounds sloping from Manassas, covered with broken ridges, rich pasture lands and splendid groves, lay before the men as they placed their battery.

On their rear the Centreville road stretched along a beautiful tract of country, hidden by a waving sea of luxuriant foliage. Indeed all the converging roads that threaded the vast battle-field were plainly visible from that point.

Posted in this commanding position, Davies opened his demonstration with two twenty-pound rifle guns from Hunt’s battery. The first shot hurled a shell into Beauregard’s headquarters, which sent the rebels scattering in every direction. Richardson also commenced firing across the Run, producing the desired effect of keeping the enemy at their defences in the neighborhood.

At ten o’clock Colonel Miles visited the command. Finding the two regiments and artillery posted at the country road, he ordered the regiments to move forward one-fourth of a mile, and the artillery to join Davies’ command, leaving the road exposed. He then sent two companies to reconnoitre the enemy’s position. They had a skirmish on the stream, at Blackburn’s Ford, and came back with little damage.

The moment Miles rode back to Centreville, Davies ordered out his brigade pioneer corps, all sturdy lumbermen of the North, with orders to fell trees and block up the country road thus left exposed.

For two hours these sturdy men swung their axes among the heavy timber, answering the distant roar of the battle-field with a wild, crashing music, that broke with a new and more startling expression of war through the familiar roll of cannon. With sharp, crashing groans, the great trees were hurled to the earth, locked their splintered and broken boughs across the road, and covered it with mangled foliage, forming a barricade one-fourth of a mile long, impassable as a thousand cactus hedges. The roar of cannon afar off, and the batteries belching iron close by, failed to drown the groaning rush of these forest monarchs; and when the near guns were silent for a little time, as often happened, the almost human shiver of a tree, in its last poise before it rushed downward with a wail in all its leaves and branches, conveyed an idea of death more thrilling than any noise that battle-field had to give. At twelve o’clock, just after the pioneers had returned to position, a body of the enemy came down this road from Bull Run, intending to march on Centreville and take Miles’ division in the rear. Clouds of red dust rising from the trees betrayed them just as they had discovered the barricade, and a storm of shell and shrapnel hastened their backward march.

About this time the road on the other side of Bull Run was one cloud of flying dust. It was Johnston’s forces, a close line, going up to snatch victory from the brave army at Stone Bridge. The advance of these forces became visible at first in tiny curls of dust rising from the woods. Then it swelled into clouds, through which jaded horses and tired men seemed struggling onward in a continued stream.

At this time the distant cannonading became louder and more continuous; the far-off woods rolled up vast volumes of smoke, and where the battle raged, a black canopy hung suspended in mid-air. How those brave men, chained to their post by inevitable military law, panted to plunge into that hot contest! The inaction forced upon them when a struggle of life and death was going on in the distance, was worse than torture. They suspected the character of those troops moving forward in the red cloud, and followed them with eager, burning eyes. But they soon had work of their own to do!

The firing on the right slackened between three and four o’clock, growing fainter and fainter. About five, Colonel Davies received a line from Richardson, saying: “The army is in full retreat;” but the line was written in the haste and agitation of bad news, and was indistinct. Davies read it: “The enemy is in full retreat.” But for this providential mistake, the battle of that day would have had a darker record than we are making now; for the retreat, disastrous as it was, would have been cut off, and Washington probably taken.

Believing the army victorious, these brave men bore the restraints of their position more patiently, but still panted for a share in the work.

At this time Beauregard’s telegraph, opposite the left of Davies’ position, had been working half an hour; and from lines of dust concentrating there and at Davies’ front, he anticipated an attack, and made disposition accordingly.

At five o’clock, the enemy appeared on the left, as Davies formed in line parallel to Bull Run, and about eight hundred yards distant. Between the hill which he occupied, and the slope down which they came from the road, was the valley or ravine, about four hundred yards from Hunt’s battery.

They filed down the road and formed in the valley, marching four abreast, with their guns at right shoulder shift, shining like a ripple of diamonds in the sunshine, and moving forward in splendid style.

At first Davies viewed them in silence, and standing still; but as the column began to fill the valley, he changed front to the left, and ordered the artillery to withhold its fire till the rear of the enemy’s column presented itself, and directed the infantry to lie down on their faces, and neither fire nor look up without orders. This was done that the enemy might not learn his strength and charge on the battery.

The rear of the column at last presented itself, an officer on horseback bringing it up. Then an order to fire was given, and Lieutenant Benjamin, a brave young fellow from West Point, fired the first shot from a twenty-pound rifled gun.

A cloud of dust, with a horse rearing, and its rider struggling in the midst, was all the result that could be observed. The rear of the enemy’s column then took the double-quick down the valley, and six pieces of artillery opened on them. The effect was terrible; at the distance of only four hundred yards, the enemy took the raking downward fire in all its fury. An awful cry rang up from the valley; the men had been swept down like wheat before a scythe, and their moans filled the air.

This murderous fire was repeated over and over again. There was no waiting to swab the guns, but, fast as powder and ball could be served, the ordnance sent out its volleys. The enemy made a desperate stand, but every shot swept down the men in masses. A vacant space appeared for a moment, then fresh men filed in. Twice they attempted to reform and charge the battery, but the rapidity with which the pieces were served, and the peculiar nature of the ground, rendered every shot effective, and they were swept back, cut down, speedily disorganized, and fled for the woods.

During all this action, Lieutenant-Colonel Marsh, of the Sixteenth, and Colonel Pratt, of the Thirty-first (the former since killed, and the latter wounded before Richmond), controlled their men perfectly. Not an infantry shot was fired during the engagement. Balls from the enemy struck the ground in volleys before the men, filling their eyes with dust. No man gave way; they were compelled to change position three times during the fight. Although so many of the enemy were killed, this spot being named, in the secession reports, as giving the heaviest mortality of the day, only two men of Davies’ command were hurt. One man was wounded, and Lieutenant Craig, a brave young officer from West Point, was killed.

This brilliant engagement, so important in its results, sprang out of a singular series of accidents: first, in the mistake made in reading Richardson’s dispatch, and again in a failure of orders. When the main army began its retreat past Centreville, at four o’clock, Colonel Miles sent his aid, Captain Vincent, to order Davies and his command back to Centreville, but Vincent, instead of coming first to Davies, stopped to give orders to Richardson, and two regiments of Davies’ brigade, stationed to guard his rear. After ordering Richardson back, Vincent came over the ravine to deliver his orders to Davies, when he heard his firing on the extreme left, went back to Centreville, to report, and returned just as the firing ceased, to direct Colonel Davies to retire on Centreville.

Davies, ignorant that Richardson had already fallen back, rode over to order his retreat, but to his astonishment, almost horror, found that the whole brigade, with two regiments of his own forces left to guard his rear, had been gone a full hour. Thus it happened that this important engagement had been fought and won with a single battery and two regiments of infantry, utterly alone and unsupported on the deserted battle-field, against a large body of men, endeavoring to sweep to the rear and cut off the army in its retreat.

It was near six o’clock when this contest terminated—two hours after the main army were in full retreat. If ever delay and accident were providential on this earth, it was here; for brave as these men were, no sane leader would have felt justified in exposing them to such peril upon a deserted battle-field, and in the face of a whole victorious army, after all chance of protection had been withdrawn.

When this band of victorious men reached Centreville, a stream of jaded, wounded and heavy-hearted men were pouring through the village, while General McDowell was making a desperate effort to collect all the troops that still kept a show of organization, under his own command. These troops were principally composed of the left wing, which came off the ground in good order. McDowell, about eight o’clock, left Centreville for Fairfax Court House. Before going Colonel Miles was relieved from his command of the left wing, and the following order, written on the back of a visiting card, was handed to Colonel Davies:

Colonel Davies is consigned to the command of the left wing, as the troops are now formed. By command,