He shouldn't like to come on his brother's body
dead or wounded after the battle--the young dare-devil fool!
Promptly at two o'clock the sharp orders rang from the regimental
commander:
"Forward march!"
The lines swung carelessly into the powdered dust of the road and moved
forward into the fading moonlight, talking, laughing, chatting, joking.
War was yet a joke and the contagious fire of patriotism had flung its
halo even over this night's work. Except here and there a veteran of the
Mexican War, not one of these men had ever seen a battle or had the
remotest idea what it was like.
John was marching with Sherman's brigade of Tyler's division. At six
o'clock they reached the stone bridge which crossed Bull Run. On the
hills beyond stretched a straggling line of grey figures. It couldn't be
an army. Only a few skirmishers thrown out to warn off an attempt to
cross the bridge. A white puff of smoke flashed on a hill toward the
South, and the deep boom of a Confederate cannon echoed over the valley.
Tyler's guns answered in grim chorus. The men gripped their muskets and
waited the word of command. John's brigade was deployed along the edge
of a piece of woods on the right of the Warrenton turnpike and stood for
hours. A rumble of disgust swept the lines:
"What t'ell are we waitin' for?"
"Why don't we get at 'em?"
"And this is war!"
And no breakfast either.
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