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.