"God have mercy on them!" Ned exclaimed.
It was nearly six o'clock before Jackson's men had all slipped silently into position behind the dense woods on this little slope—in two long grim battle lines, one behind the other, with columns in support, his horse artillery with their big guns shotted and ready.
Ned saw a slight stir in the doomed camp of blue. The men were standing up now and looking curiously toward those dense woods. A startled flock of quail had swept over their heads flying straight down from the lull crest. A rabbit came scurrying from the same direction—and then another. And then another flock of quail swirled past and pitched among the camp fires, running and darting in terror on the ground.
An officer drew his revolver and potted one for his supper.
The men glanced uneasily toward the woods but could see nothing.
"What'ell ye reckon that means?"
"What ails the poor birds?"
"And the rabbits?"
They were not long in doubt. The sudden shrill note of a bugle rang from the woods and Jackson's yelling grey lines of death swept down on their unprotected rear.
The first regiments in sight were blown into atoms and driven as chaff before a whirlwind. Behind them lay twenty regiments in their trenches pointed the wrong way. The men leaped to their guns and fought desperately to stay the rushing torrent. Beyond them was a ragged gap of a whole mile without a man, left bare by the chase of Sickles' division now ten miles away. Without support the shattered lines were crushed and crumpled and rolled back in confusion. Every regiment was cut to pieces and pushed on top of one another, men, horses, mules, cattle, guns, in a tangled mass of blood and death.