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. In vain the regular army, with splendid discipline, formed a rear guard to effect an orderly retreat. The crack of their guns only made the men run faster.
The wildest rumors flew from parched tongue to throbbing ear.
An army of a hundred thousand fresh troops had fallen on their tired, bloody ranks. They were led by Jeb Stuart at the head of four thousand Black Horse Cavalry. If a single man escaped alive it would be for one reason, only they could outrun them. It was a crime for officers to try to round them up for a massacre. That's all it was--a massacre! With each mad thought of the rushing mob the panic grew. They cut the traces of horses from guns and left them on the field. The frantic mob engulfed the buggies and carriages of the Congressmen and picnickers from Washington who had come out to see the Rebellion put down at a single blow. The road became a mass of neighing, plunging horses, broken and tangled wagons, ambulances and riderless artillery teams. Horses neighed in terror more abject than that which filled the hearts of men. Men once had reason--the poor horse had never claimed it. The blockades on the road formed no barrier to the flying men on foot. They streamed around and overflowed into the woods and fields and pressed on with new terror. God in Heaven! They pitied the poor fools engulfed in those masses of maddened plunging brutes and smashing wagons. It was only a question of a few minutes when Stuart's sabres would split every skull.