The dry leaves in the woods had taken fire from a
shell and the blaze was nearing the wounded men. The Westerner coolly
leaped from his position behind a tree, walked out in a hail of lead,
picked up his wounded Commander, and carried him safely to the rear. He
had just stepped back to take his stand in line by John's side when a
flying piece of shrapnel tore a hole in his side. He dropped to his
knees, sank lower to his elbow, turned his blue eyes to the darkening
sky and slowly muttered as if to himself:
"Poor--little--wife--and--babies!"
The night was drawing her merciful veil over the scene at last. Jackson
having crushed and mangled Hooker's right wing and rolled it back in red
defeat over five miles in two hours, was slowly feeling his way on his
last reconnaissance for the day to make his plans for the next. Through
a fatal misunderstanding he was fired on by his own men and borne from
the field fatally wounded.
A shiver of horror thrilled the Southerners when the news of Jackson's
fall was whispered through the darkness.
At midnight Sickles led his division back into the dense woods and for
three terrible hours the men on both sides fought as demons in the
shadows. The long lines of blazing muskets in the darkness looked like
the onward rush of a forest fire. At times two solid walls of flame
seemed to leap through the tree tops into the starlit heavens.
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