As far as the eye could reach the glittering
bayonets of the Union infantry could be seen sweeping steadily through
field and wood flanked by its cavalry. Beauregard watched the cordon of
steel draw around his hard-pressed men and planted his regiments with
desperate determination to hurl them back.
Far off in the distance rose a new cloud of dust in the direction of the
Manassas railroad. At their head was lifted a flag whose folds drooped
in the hot, blistering July air. They were moving directly on the rear
of McDowell's circling right wing.
If they were Union reserves the day was lost.
The Southerner lifted his field glasses and watched the drooping flag
now shrouded in dust--now emerging in the blazing sun. His glasses were
not strong enough. He could not make out its colors.
Beauregard turned to Colonel Evans, whose little regiment had fought
with sullen desperation since sunrise.
"I can't make out that flag. If it's Patterson's army from the
valley--God help us--"
"It may be Elzey and Kirby Smith's regiments," Evans replied. "They're
lost somewhere along the road from Winchester."
Again Beauregard strained his eyes on the steadily advancing flag. It
was a moment of crushing agony.
"I'm afraid it's Patterson's men.
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