The regiment had been expected since noon. It was
now half past three o'clock. General McDowell, the Union Commander, was
hoping against hope that Patterson's army from the Shenandoah would join
his.
They were not long in doubt. The fresh troops suddenly swung into
position on McDowell's right flank. If they were allies all was well. If
they were foes! Suddenly from this line of battle rose a new cry on the
face of the earth. From two thousand dusty throats came a
heaven-piercing, soul-shivering shout, the cry of the Southern hunter in
sight of his game, a cry that was destined to ring over many a field of
death--the fierce, wild "Rebel Yell."
They charged McDowell's right flank with resistless onslaught. Kirby
Smith fell desperately wounded and Elzey took command. Beckham's battery
unlimbered and poured into the ranks from the rear a storm of shell.
McDowell swung his battle line into a fiery crescent and made his last
desperate stand.
Jubal Early, Elzey's brigade, and Stonewall Jackson charged at the same
signal--and then--pandemonium!
Blind, unreasoning panic seized the army of the North. They broke and
fled. Brave officers cursed and swore in vain. The panic grew. Men
rushed pell mell over one another, white with terror. They threw down
their muskets, their knapsacks, their haversacks and ran for their
lives, every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.
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