The storm of battle was now rolling swiftly to the west—its roar growing fainter with each cannon's throb.
The President, sitting his horse with erect tense figure, dashed up the hill to General Johnston:
"How goes the battle, General?"
"We have won, sir," was the sharp curt answer.
"'We have won, sir!' was the short, curt answer."
The President wheeled his horse and rode rapidly into the front lines until stopped by the captain of a command of cavalry.
"You are too near the front, sir, without an escort—"
The President rode beside the captain and watched him form his men for their last charge on the enemy. He inspected the field with growing amazement. For miles the earth was strewn with the wreck of the Northern army—guns, knapsacks, blankets, canteens—and Brooklyn-made handcuffs!
Their defeat had been so sudden, so complete, so overwhelming, it was impossible at first to grasp its meaning.