From the car window he saw rising an ominous cloud of dust rapidly
approaching the Junction. To his trained eye it could mean but one
thing--retreat.
He sprang from the car and asked its meaning of a pale trembling youth
in disheveled, torn gray uniform.
Billy Barton turned his bloodshot eyes on the President. His teeth were
chattering.
"M-m-eaning of w-what?" he stammered.
"That cloud of dust coming toward the station?"
Billy stared in the direction the President pointed.
"Why, that's the--the--w-w-wagoners--they're trying to save the pieces I
reckon--"
"The army has been pushed back?" the President asked.
"No, sir--they--they never p-p-ushed 'em back! They--they just jumped
right on top of 'em and made hash out of 'em where they stood! Thank God
a few of us got away."
The President turned with a gesture of impatience to an older man,
dust-covered and smoke-smeared.
"Can you direct me to General Beauregard's headquarters?"
"Beauregard's dead!" he shouted, rushing toward the train to board it
for home. "Johnston's dead. Bee's dead. Bartow's dead. They're all
dead--piled in heaps--fur ez ye eye kin see. Take my advice and get out
of here quick."
Without waiting for an answer he scrambled into the coach from which the
President had alighted.
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