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.