MCDOWELL’S ADVANCE TO BULL RUN.
193
as the men pleased away from the scene of action. There was no pur-suit, and the march from Centreville was as barren of opportunities for therear-guard as the withdrawal from the field of battle had been.\ WhenMcDowell reached Fairfax Court House in the night, he was in communica-tion with Washington and exchanged telegrams with General Scott, in one ofwhich the old hero said, “We are not discouraged”; but that dispatch didnot lighten the gloom in which it was received. McDowell was so tired thatwhile sitting on the ground writing a dispatch he fell asleep, pencil in hand,in the middle of a sentence. His adjutant-general aroused him; the dispatchwas finished, and the weary ride to the Potomac resumed. When the unfortu-nate commander dismounted at Arlington next forenoon in a soaking rain,after 32 hours in the saddle, his disastrous campaign of 6 days was closed.
The first martial effervescence of the country was over. The three-months men went home, and the three-months chapter of the war ended —with the South triumphant and confident; the North disappointed butdetermined.
\ The revised losses are as follows: Federal,16 officers and 444 enlisted men killed; 78 offi-cers and 1046 enlisted men wounded ; 50 officersand 1262 enlisted men missing; 25 pieces of artil-
* The scene in Washington after the battle hasbeen graphically described by Walt Whitman , fromwhose “ Specimen Bays and Collect” (Philadelphia :Rees, Welch & Co.) we make these extracts :
“ The defeated troops commenced, pouring into Wash-ington over the Long Bridge at daylight on Monday,22 d—day drizzling all through with rain. The Saturdayand Sunday of the battle {20th, 21st) had been parchedand hot to an extreme — the dust, the grime and smoke,in layers, sweated in, follow’d by other layers againsweated in, absorb’d by those excited souls—theirclothes all saturated with the clay-powder filling theair — stirr’d up everywhere on the dry roads and trod-den fields by the regiments, swarming wagons, artillery,etc.— all the men with this coating of murk and sweatand rain, now recoiling back, pouring over the LongBridge—a horrible march of twenty miles, returning toWashington baffled, humiliated, panic-struck. Whereare the vaunts and the proud boasts with which youwent forth? Where are your banners, and your bandsof music, and your ropes to bring back your prisoners ?Well, there isn’t a band playing — and there isn’t a flagbut clings ashamed and lank to its staff.
“ The sun rises, but shines not. The men appear, atfirst sparsely and shame-faced enough, then thicker, inthe streets of Washington — appear in PennsylvaniaAvenue, and on the steps and basement entrances. Theycome along in disorderly mobs, some in squads, strag-glers, companies. Occasionally, a rare regiment, in per-fect order, with its officers (some gaps, dead, the truebraves), marching in silence, with lowering faces, stern,weary to sinking, all black and dirty, but every manwith his musket, and stepping alive; hut these are theexceptions. Sidewalks of Pennsylvania Avenue, Four-teenth street, etc., crowded, jainm’d with citizens, dar-kies, clerks, everybody, lookers-on; women in the win-dows, curious expressions from faces, as those swarmsof dirt-cover’d return’d soldiers there (Will they neverend?) move by; but nothing said, no comments; (halfour lookers-on ' secesli,’ of the most venomous kind —
lery and a large quantity of small arms. Confeder-ate, 25 officers and 362 enlisted men killed; 63officers and 1519 enlisted men wounded; 1 officerand 12 enlisted men missing.—J. B. F.
they say nothing; hut the devil snickers in their faces).During the forenoon, Washington gets all over motleywith these defeated soldiers—queer-looking objects,strange eyes and faces, drench’d (the steady rain drizzleson all day) and fearfully worn, hungry, haggard, blister’din the feet. Good people (but not over-many of themeither) hurry up something for their grub. They putwash-kettles on the fire, for soup, for coffee. They settables on the sidewalks—wagon-loads of bread are pur-chas’d, swiftly cut in stout chunks. Here are two agedladies, beautiful, the first in the city for culture andcharm, they stand with store of eating and drink at animprovis’d table of rough plank, and give food, and havethe store replenish’d from their house every half-hourall that day; and there in the rain they stand, active,silent, white-hair’d, and give food, though the tearsstream down their cheeks, almost without intermission,the whole time. Amid the deep excitement, crowds andmotion, and desperate eagerness, it seems strange to seemany, very many, of the soldiers sleeping—iu the midstof all, sleeping sound. They drop down anywhere, onthe steps of houses, up close by the basements or fences,on the sidewalk, aside on some vacant lot, and deeplysleep. A poor seventeen or eighteen year old boy liesthere, on the stoop of a grand house,'; he sleeps so calmly,so profoundly. Some clutch their muskets firmly even insleep. Some in squads; comrades, brothers, close to-gether—and on them, as they lay, sulkily drips therain. . . .
‘‘But the hour, the day, the night pass’d, and what-ever returns, an hour, a day, a night like that can neveragain return. The President, recovering himself, beginsthat very night — sternly, rapidly sets about the task ofreorganizing his forces, and placing himself in positionsfor future and surer work. If there were nothing else ofAbraham Lincoln for history to stamp him with, it isenough to send him with his wreath to the memory of allfuture time, that he endured that hour, that day, bittererthan gall—indeed a crucifixion day—that it did notconquer him—that he unflinchingly stemm’d it, andresolv’d to lift himself and the Union out of it.”
VOL. I. 13