clouds billowed. 'Good God, what's this?' he said as Union troops, marching toward Washington, forced vehicles, including the barouche, over to the shoulder.
'Who are you?' George yelled at a corporal driving a high-piled baggage cart.
'Fourth Pennsylvania.'
'Is the battle over?'
'Don't know, but we're going home. Our enlistments ran out yesterday.'
The corporal drove on, followed by clots of ambling volunteers who laughed a lot and handled their shoulder weapons as if they were toys. Purple berry stains ringed the mouth of more than one young soldier. Wild flowers stuck from the muzzle of more than one musket. The Pennsylvanians straggled through the fields on either side of the road, picking flowers, pissing, doing whatever they pleased, while the guns grumbled in the south.
Past Fairfax, the Washington picnickers pressed on toward a thin blue haze drifting above ridge lines still miles distant. The boom of artillery grew louder. About noon, George began to hear the crackling of small arms, too.
The countryside here was rolling and wooded, though it had open stretches as well. They drove through Centreville and down the Warrenton Turnpike until they came upon great numbers of carriages and horses lined up on high ground on both sides of the road. An army courier galloping to the rear shouted that they had better go no farther.
'I can't see anything, Pa,' William complained as George turned the horses left, behind the line of spectators with their picnic blankets and baskets spread among the trees. In front of them a hillside sloped to a creek called Cub Run, with smoke-muddied fields and woods beyond.
Hunting an open spot, George noticed enough foreign uniforms and heard enough different languages to furnish at least one diplomatic ball. He continued to see Washingtonians, too, including Senator Trumbull, of Illinois, present with a large party.
He winced when he came upon a familiar group. 'Good morning, Stanley,' he called, driving on. He was thankful there was no room on either side of Stanley's phaeton.
'Three hampers and a champagne bucket — what wretched excess,' Constance said as William directed his protest to her:
'I can't see anything.'
'That may be, but we're going no closer,' George said. 'Here's a place.' He pulled into vacant space at the end of the line of vehicles, tired and hot. His watch showed ten past one. Their view of the battle consisted of a panorama of distant clouds of thick smoke.
'They're not firing.' Constance sounded relieved as she unfolded and spread their blanket. Could it be over already? George said he would try to get some information. He set off on foot toward the turnpike.
Courtesy forced him to stop a moment with his brother's family. The twins were busy bashing each other behind a tree. Sweaty Stanley looked cross-eyed from champagne. Isabel declared that the artillery fire had been 'fearsome' until a few minutes ago and that the rebs certainly must be on the run to Richmond. George touched his hat brim and left in search of more reliable sources.
He passed several loud groups and found himself irked by their jollity — maybe because he had a grasp of what was probably happening beneath and behind the smoke. He reached the turnpike and scanned it for anyone who appeared trustworthy. In three or four minutes, a gig came rattling up the hill from the suspension bridge spanning Cub Run.
The gig pulled off the opposite side of the road. A portly civilian, well dressed, put on eyeglasses hanging from a chain. From under the seat he took a hard-backed writing pad and pencil. George crossed the road.
'Are you a reporter?'
'That's correct, sir.' The proper British accent startled George. 'Russell's the name.' He awaited a reaction and was cooler when he had to add, 'The
'Yes, of course — I've seen your dispatches. Have you been forward?'
'As far as prudence allows.'
'What's the situation?'
'Impossible to be sure, but the Federals appear to be carrying the day. The troops on both sides are spirited. One Confederate general distinguished himself in a hot contest around a farmhouse close by the Sudley Road. A Union action vedette gave me particulars, and the chap's name —' he leafed back two pages—'Jackson.'
'Thomas Jackson? Is he a Virginian?'
'Can't say, old fellow. Really — I must get on here. Both sides are resting and regrouping. There'll be more soon, I don't doubt.' He dismissed his questioner by bending over his pad to write.
George felt sure the hero of the farmhouse must be his old friend and West Point classmate; the strange, driven Virginian with whom he had shared study hours and hashes and conversation in sunny cantinas after Mexico City fell. Jackson had been teaching at some military school before the war, and it was logical that he would join up and stand out. Even back at the Academy, there had been two distinct opinions about Tom Jackson: he was brilliant, and he was crazy.
George tramped back to his family. Around two, while they ate, the lull ended. Ground-shaking cannonading began, exciting William and terrifying Patricia. Hundreds of spectators peered through spyglasses, but little could be seen except occasional fiery glares in the roiling blue clouds. An hour went by. Another. The rattle of small arms never stopped. Since the best soldier couldn't fire a muzzleloader much faster than four times a minute, George knew that continuous fire meant great numbers of men were volleying.
Suddenly horses burst from the murk hanging over the turnpike. One wagon emerged, followed by two more. All sped toward the Cub Run bridge — too rapidly; the spectators heard unseen wounded screaming at every jolt.
Constance leaned near. 'George, there's something vile about all this. Must we stay?'
'Definitely not. We've seen enough.'
That was confirmed when a carriageload of officers with horse tails on their elaborate helmets pulled out of line, heading for the turnpike. One officer stood, swayed drunkenly, and fell out. The carriage stopped. As his comrades helped him back in, he vomited on them.
'Yes, definitely this isn't —'
A commotion interrupted George. He turned and followed the pointing fingers of people nearby. A private in blue came running along the turnpike, heading for the bridge. Then another. Then more than a dozen. George heard the first man screaming unintelligibly. Those behind were throwing away kepis, haversacks — God almighty — even their muskets.
And then George understood the cry of the boy on the bridge.
'We're whipped.
George's stomach spasmed. 'Constance, get in the carriage. Children, you too. Forget the food.' He slipped the nose bags off the horses; he had wanted to water them in the creek, but now there was no time. He smelled something vague and terrible in the powder-laden air. He shoved his son and daughter. 'Hurry.'
His tone alarmed them. Down the line, two horsemen were mounting, but no one else acted concerned. George maneuvered the barouche into the open and started toward the road, aware of soldiers running up the hill while more poured from the smoky woods beyond Cub Run on a steadily widening front. One youngster in blue shrieked, 'Black Horse Cavalry. Black Horse Cavalry right behind us!'
George had heard about that feared regiment from Fauquier County. He shook the reins to speed the stable plugs, passing Stanley and Isabel, who seemed puzzled by his haste. 'I'd get going if you don't want to be caught in —'
The whine of a shell muffled the rest of the warning. Craning, George watched another ambulance reach the suspension bridge just before the shell hit. The horses tore against leather, the wagon rolled over — the bridge was blocked.
More vehicles and men appeared on the Warrenton Turnpike and in the flanking woods. Geysers of smoke and dirt erupted as projectiles fired by distant artillery struck the slope and creek banks. The Union volunteers were fleeing; the bridge was impassable; ambulance and supply wagons piled up in the smoky vale behind; and quick as brush fire, the terror spread to the spectators.
A civilian leaped into the barouche and tried to grab the reins. His nails raked the back of George's hand, drawing blood. George squirmed sideways and booted the man in the groin. He fell off.
