Long before this advance guard could be seen in the distance the old
flag of the Union had been flung from the top of the house on Church
Hill. Foreseeing the fall of the city Miss Van Lew had sent to the
Federal Commander for a flag. Through his scouts he had sent it. As
Weitzel's two grand divisions swung into Main Street this piece of
bunting eighteen feet long and nine feet wide waved from the Van Lew
mansion on the hill above them.
Stretching from the Exchange Hotel to the slopes of Church Hill, down
the hill, through the valley, and up the ascent swept this gorgeous
array of the triumphant army, its bayonets gleaming in the sunlight,
every standard, battle flag and guidon streaming in the sky, every band
playing, swords flashing, and shout after shout rolling from end to end
of the line.
To the roar of the flames, the throb of drum, the scream of fife, the
crash of martial music, and the shouts of marching hosts, was added now
the deep thunder of exploding shells in the burning arsenals.
A regiment of negro cavalry swept by the Exchange Hotel and as they
turned the corner drew their sabers with a savage shout.
An old Virginian with white locks standing in the doorway of the hotel
gazed on these negro troops a moment, threw his hands on high, and
solemnly cried:
"Blow, Gabriel! Blow your trumpet--for God's sake blow!"
For hours the fire raged unchecked--burned until the entire business
section of the city lay a smoldering heap of ashes.
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