Hundreds of gray soldiers became
intoxicated. While scenes of the wildest revelry and disorder were being
enacted around the camp fires, Buell's army was silently crossing the
river under cover of the night and forming in line of battle for
to-morrow's baptism of blood.
Albert Sidney Johnston's body lay cold in death--and the army of the
victorious South had no head. Better had there been no second general of
full rank in the field. Either of Johnston's division commanders, Bragg,
Hardee, Polk or Breckinridge, would have driven Grant's panic-stricken
mob into the river within an hour if let alone.
But the little hero of Bull Run of the flower-decked tent halted his men
to rest for the night at the very hour of the day when Napoleon ordered
his first charge on one of his immortal battlefields.
Beauregard gave his foe ample time for breakfast next morning. The sun
was an hour high in the heavens before the battle was joined.
The genius of Johnston had surprised Grant and rolled his army back on
the river--never pausing for a moment to give him time to rally his
broken ranks.
But when Beauregard leisurely led his disorganized army next morning
against Grant's new lines, there was no shock, no surprise--the line was
ready.
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