They were so completely scattered and demoralized by their
marvellous and overwhelming victory that any systematic pursuit of their
foe was impossible.
The strange silent figure on the little sorrel horse turned his blue
eyes toward Washington from the last hilltop as darkness fell, lifted
his head suddenly toward the sky, and cried:
"Ten thousand fresh troops and I'd be in Washington to-morrow night!"
The troops were not to be had, and Stonewall Jackson ordered his men to
bivouac for the night and sent out his details to bury the dead and care
for the wounded of both armies.
Monday morning dawned black and lowering and before the sun rose the
rain poured in steady torrents. Through every hour of this desolate
sickening day the weary, terror-stricken stragglers trailed through the
streets of Washington--their gorgeous plumes soaked and drooping, the
Scotch bonnets dripping the rain straight down their necks and across
their dirty foreheads, the Garibaldi shirts, the blue and grey, the
black and yellow and gold and blazing Zouave uniforms rain-soaked and
mud-smeared.
Betty Winter bought out a peddler's cake and lemonade stand on the main
line of this ghastly procession and through every bitter hour from
sunrise until dark stood there cheering and serving the men without
money and without price, while the tears slowly rolled down her flushed
cheeks.
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