July 21.
Under this running order Colonel Davies assumed command of all that was left of the army in Centreville, and marched them in good order to Alexandria and Washington, Blenker’s division being the last to leave the field. This gallant officer had been among the bravest and most resolute in protecting the retreat, and had by his firmness held the enemy in check during the afternoon and evening.
THE BATTLE-FIELD AT NIGHT.
At night the calm air, the gently falling dew, visited that blasted earth sweetly as they had done the night before, when the valley was fresh with verdure and beautiful with thrifty crops. But the scene it presented was O, how different! In mercy the deep shadows cast by the woods concealed its worst features, and the smoke had risen so densely between earth and sky that the moon looked down upon it mournfully, through a veil. The battle-field was still, save when the solemn shiver of the leaves came like a painful and mighty sigh, or the troubled waves of the Run continued it in hoarser murmurs. If human moans broke the stillness, they were lost on that vast field, and only heard by the pitying angels.
But solitary lights wandered over the field, like stars dropped by a merciful heaven to light the departing souls through the valley and shadow of death. They were indeed heavenly rays, for all that is divine in human mercy sent them forth. Kind men, and more than one heroic woman carried them from point to point over that dreary battle-field, searching among the dead for those who, breathing yet, might suffer for water or Christian comfort.
There was a house on the hill-top where Griffin’s battery had stood, and where the Connecticut troops had planted the stars and stripes in their last desperate charge. Through all the fight, a helpless and frightened family had found precarious shelter in their own dwelling. The household was composed of a son, a daughter, and the mother, a gentle Christian woman, who had been confined to her bed for years. There was no hopes of flight for her, poor soul, and neither son nor daughter would abandon her when the storm of battle was at their threshold. Hoping to find a place of safety, the devoted children carried her to a neighboring ravine, sheltering her with their own persons.
But this spot became at last more dangerous than the house. So the harassed children took their parent back to her home, and placing her in bed again, stood to screen her from the bullets that broke like hail through the walls and windows. While her house was riddled with cannon balls and musket shot, and the missiles of death plunged through her chamber and into her bed, three bullets pierced her frail person. Still she outlived the battle tempest that raged around her, a tempest that she had not even dreamed of approaching her dwelling when that fatal day dawned upon it. When the night came on she died peacefully, and the troubled moon looked down on a mournful scene here also. Within the riddled walls and under the torn roof, this gentle woman lay, in a quieter sleep than she had known for many a long night, and by her bed knelt the bereaved children who had dared so much, weeping that a life so peaceful should have met that violent ending. Painful as this was, there lay many poor soldiers on the field that hour, whose children would never have the privilege of weeping over them.
In an orchard of young trees, just forming their fruit, lay many a prostrate Southron, sent to his long account; for the enemy had suffered terribly there. The northern verge of the field was blackened by a fine grove in which a Georgia regiment had fought, and under its black shadows the dead lay thick and numerous. Here Lamar had fallen, and many a brave Northman slept side by side with the foe he had sent into eternity but a moment in advance of himself. The fatal hill, scorched and blackened in every tree and blade of grass, was strewn with the dead of both sections, among them some of the bravest leaders that the enemy boasted.
There have been rumors of great cruelty on the battle-field after the fight was over—of men prowling like fiends among the dead, and murdering the wounded; but these things should be thrice proven before we believe them of American citizens. Rumor is always triple-tongued, and human nature does not become demoniac in a single hour. One thing is certain, many an act of merciful kindness was performed that night, which an honest pen should prefer to record. Certain it is that Southern soldiers in many instances shared their water—the most precious thing they had—with the wounded Union men. A soldier passing over the field found two wounded combatants lying together—one was a New Yorker, the other a Georgian. The poor wounded fellow from New York cried out piteously for water, and the Georgian, gathering up his strength, called out: “For God’s sake give him drink; for I called on a New York man for water when his column was in retreat, and he ran to the trench at the risk of his life and brought it to me!”
One brave young enemy lost his life after passing through all the perils of the battle, in attempting to procure drink for his wounded foes.