Waves of white curling smoke rose above the tree-tops and hung in dense
clouds over the field lighted by the red glare of the sinking sun.
The relief corps could be seen dashing on, with stretchers and
ambulances following in the wake of the victorious army.
The hum and roar of the vast field of carnage came now on the ears of
the listener--the groans of the wounded and the despairing cry of the
dying. And still the living waves of gray-tipped steel rolled on in
relentless sweep.
Again the fleeing Federal soldiers choked the waters of Bull Run. Masses
of struggling fugitives were pushed from the banks into the water and
pressed down. Here and there a wounded man clung to the branch of an
overhanging tree until exhausted and sank to rise no more.
The meadows were trampled and red. Hundreds of weak and tired men were
ridden down by cavalry and crushed by artillery. On and on rushed the
remorseless machine of the Confederacy, crushing, killing, scarring,
piling the dead in heaps.
It was ten o'clock that night before the army of Lee halted and Pope's
exhausted lines fell into the trenches around Centreville for a few
hours' respite. At dawn Jackson was struggling with his tired victorious
division to again turn Pope's flank, get into his rear and cut off his
retreat.
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